Posts Tagged ‘telly’

25
Jul

On A Night Like This

Warning: May Contain Mild Sherlock Spoilers.

So tonight – I'm typing this Sunday night – at the cluster we made a "democratic" decision that we would watch Sherlock.

Well, I say democratic…1.

*I* liked it.  Comparisons with "New Biological Formula Doctor Who" are inevitable, given the writers/producers – and they're certainly there; focusing on the "companion" getting to know the "mystery" hero was the big theme here, as indeed it was in "Rose", the first episode of the New Who. Not necessarily a bad thing.

One innovation – is it an innovation? I've not seen it before – is how to get round the pressing problem of "Why isn't TV like real life in that out there everybody's staring zombie-like into their phone?" by having important messages, etc float as words on the screen. It cuts out a lot of the dialogue as normally one character would have to vocalize what they'd just read.

They then used the same trick, though, to "signpost" Sherlock's train of thought; when he came to a conclusion about a character, the word he thought of appeared next to the character on the screen. That was much less satisfactory, I must say.

Top billing, though, goes to Mark Gatiss' Mycroft, a large performance of old-style creepiness – though you're encouraged at first to think villainy – which managed to be both evocative and repellent at the same time [and, as such, makes anyone who enjoyed The League Of Gentlemen smile.]

It's not the most bitchenly amazing piece of television ever, sure. But it kept everyone absorbed and entertained and did its job well.

[I was going to go on to a bad bit of television, which is Family Guy's unusually [for them] pisspoor take on trans- issues from last Sunday which I only just got round to seeing today, but frog it. Complaining about Family Guy just seems wrong; you put yourself on the same side as a bunch of USA morons and nutjobs2. I'm just putting it down to a bad week.]

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Old Bit Of A Film That's Been Stuck In My Head All Day: Repossessed, in which Leslie Nielsen's priest is at the hospital talking to a doctor;

"How's the flu epidemic, Doc?"

"Just as bad. *sighs* We've had three new cases brought in today."

Which is, of course, the cue for a workman to walk across the back of the shot holding a stack of three boxes, all of which have "FLU" stamped on them…

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Anyway, with the "main event" of the evening over, people are starting to drift off elsewhere whilst I type, and it seems so far like nobody will require overnight close supervision3.

This means I can usually just hang around for a few hours to make sure everyone's settled themselves before catching a bit of sleep myself. They know to poke me with a stick should they need me.

Some of this time until I get to sleep will be spent on Drop The Dead Donkey on 4oD – thanks for alerting me to its reappearance, Max; some of it will go on the inevitable paperwork; and quite a lot of it will be standing next to the kettle with a jar of coffee ready to pounce as soon as it goes "click".

I love nights. I just wish they'd put CBeebies on 24 hours a day…

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Today's Big Question: How do you get yourself to stay awake at night when you have to?

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1 Vote was conducted according to principle of "It's not how people vote, it's who does the counting that's important" – Josef Stalin. Ironic that it took a south-eastern part of the USA half a century later to confirm this theory. [Also see footnote 2, tho.]
2 I would like to make it clear that I acknowledge that the USA has no more morons and nutjobs per capita than any other country. It's just that for various reasons we notice them more.
3 Basically: if anyone else is awake, I have to be. Doesn't happen that often, but it's fairly crucial when it does.

 
24
Jun

A Small Eternity

Last night's biopic of John Lennon in his most turbulent period, "Lennon Naked", was an absorbing and productive watch.

From roughly when the Beatles started getting all drugs-and-Maharashi to when he left England for good in 1971, it showed an angry man, a flippant man, as well as a problematic and vulnerable man.

Two things stood out in the production; the first was the brilliance of Christopher Eccleston in the lead, and the "often-mentioned-in-this-blog in a "squee" manner when she was in Torchwood" Naoko Mori as Yoko.

Although when these two actors reprised John and Yoko's famous naked photographs, part of me was going "woooooot!" at Ms Mori, and the other part was going "…hey, am I really looking at the Ninth Doctor's knob?"

[It's lucky I'm not with Butterfly any more. Given her ecstatic - almost orgasmic - reaction at seeing Mr Eccleston's botty in Elizabeth, I can hardly imagine what the sight of his frontal banana would have done to her...]

The second, more serious, issue which the programme certainly didn't shy away from showing was the casual racism which Yoko Ono has always had to deal with from the English psyche.

Yoko's never been "liked" by the media here – not for her art, not for her choice of husband, and certainly not for her defence of what she regards as the legacy of Lennon since his murder. I don't want to go into whether she's right or wrong in what she's done, especially in the past thirty years; just to say that even at the time, at a young age, I picked up the strong impression that racism played an unspoken part in the very strong criticism of her.

It wasn't that she was a woman who was uppity, brittle and screamed a lot; it was that she was uppity, brittle and screamed a lot contrary to English expectations of [East] Asian* women. But – even worse than that – it was that she'd somehow usurped an English "icon" into her clutches, using a [very East Asian, apparently] low cunning.

I've noticed this in a few other things. I noticed it back in 1988 when I went out with a Cantonese-origin woman for a short time; I attracted low-level racist abuse from some acquaintances – though they never actually said anything in her presence; I got the abuse for "choosing" her.

I notice it still on the couple of occasions when someone's clocked a couple who's white man/Asian woman, and said once they're out of earshot "I wonder where he ordered her from?" This from people who would certainly shy away from direct racist abuse, but who see nothing wrong in the facepalm-inducing stereotyping they've just bought into.

It seems to me that they have little problem with people of non-white origin when they're "over there", hanging out with each other, but once they start mingling with the decent white folks and infecting our gene pool [or something], then, well…. It's a form of "soft" racism that still has an underbelly in Western culture. As late as 2009 we've still got interracial marriage being refused

On the other hand: at least, though, the direct racist abuse John and Yoko suffered is much less prominent than it was in those days, certainly much, much less fashionable except amongst the noticeably stupider and badly misspelt end of Facebook groups. We've come a long way since 1971, and programmes like this do a great service in reminding us that "the good old days" were in many, many ways very bad…

Poor Yoko. She's helped change the world for the better, but not necessarily in the way she thought she might….

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* Usage note: "Asian" in the UK primarily refers to people of Indian sub-continent origin, rather than to people from the Pacific rim.

 
4
Jun

Help, I'm A Rock

Before I start today's entry: go and VOTE on Bethany's First Bra [and the other stories if you want] on my Literotica page. You don't need to login or give any details to give it five stars.

Also: FYI, the FAQ over to the right has been revamped.

Also also: what the smeg is going on with the non-existent fridge engineer???

[Landlord called just as I typed the last question mark on that sentence. Engineer out today hopefully.]

Also also also, but important: I have an interview Monday week. I'm not giving details yet because it's a pretty low-publicity project [though one quite germane to recent events further North].

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I had a lovely day yesterday out with the fantasticious Max wandering about bits of North London and eating fabulous [spinach/parmesan/egg1] pizza in a place just off Hampstead Heath. It was a brilliant hot day – perhaps just a little too hot for doing all the walking – and it was the perfect way to leave everything behind for a while. Thank you, gorgeous.

Subjects discussed included: work and future possible work, the Sarah Waters book she got me as a birthday present, journalism, a "rock chick" [no, not in the Lita Ford sense, look it up if you dare], Net meetings, relationship drama, why this bit of North London is so steep [I think the clue is in the names Highgate and Muswell Hill...], gender/sexuality issues [duh, like we ever avoid them :-) ], the de-feminization of women in the former Soviet empire, the recent Anne Lister biopic and why Maxine Peake is so squee, and why "a spoonful of Dairylea helps the medicine go down", as Julie Andrews didn't sing.

The Secret Diaries of Anne Lister2: Ms Peake wonderful but the film just pretty okay. It has established "Do you like Byron?" as a hot chat-up line though.

The only thing at all wrong with the day was having to cope with the usual London traffic on the way to and from. Note to self: I am not Doris Day, and trying to emulate her at full pelt in a traffic jam on the Euston Road will not only get me funny looks, but also mean my voice is reduced to a small croak this morning. Thanks, mp3 player set on random.

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1 Years ago, I took a client to lunch in Norwich to a fancy proper pizzeria; she'd only ever had Pizza Sodding Hut before. That time I also had the Fiorentina – which comes with an egg in the centre. This utterly amazed said woman so much she didn't stop going on about it for a bloody month…
2 There's a long blog post to be written about my immersion in and strong identification with "lesbian culture", though thankfully I've escaped owning any KD Lang albums….

 
29
May

Warm Wet Circles

"Does the paranormal exist? I've noticed there's a definite area of my kitchen that's several degrees colder than the rest of the room. …I called an exorcist, but he said it was just my fridge." [Paul Merton]

The overarching topic of the moment is the broken fridge. After a couple of, how shall I put this, hurried visitations to Mr. Khazi – neither prompted by any of the usual foods which irritate my irritables – I wondered whether there may have been other causes.

Putting two thermometers into the fridge [just in case one wasn't calibrated - what, me, paranoid?] and leaving them there for several hours produced a reading of 10C [50f], when it should be at most 5C [41f].

I turned the knob up to full. Still 10C.

I switched the fridge off, defrosted it fully [which produced a lot of this entry's title], cleaned all the gunk out from underneath, switched it back on, and waited 24 hours for it to get back to working temperature. Which turned out to be 10C.

The fridge is part of the supplied "fixtures" of the flat, so I phoned my landlord's representatives. They sent round Aaron, the local electrician. He took one look, said "yeah, it's buggered, cheaper to get a new one than fix the thermostat" then went away.

Unfortunately here the story has been interrupted by the three-day holiday weekend, so I'm spending it devoid of refrigerated food content. Cue tin cans of everything.

Add to that the problem that come Tuesday it's not just a case of them ordering a new fridge to be delivered to my doorstep – it's an "integrated" fridge, part of a fitted kitchen; it has to be hard-wired in by Aaron – I wouldn't be allowed to touch it even if I wanted to.

So it looks like it may be a few days before I'm able to have a cheese sandwich without having to throw away the 90% of it I won't use afterwards. Okay, with the shops in my little town, the cafe, and some good friends, this is not exactly a disaster – it's totally copeable. It's just a right royal pain in the 'arris, that's all.

Although less of a pain in the 'arris than eating food that's been kept slightly warm for several days.

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Advance notice/warning that there's a new naughty story to be released, which is just getting its second proofread, hopefully as I type. Watch this space.

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Other things running round my brain this Saturday night:

* Not watching the Eurovision Song Contest. When it used to be one crap singing contest a year, it was something special, worth both loving and taking the piss out of. Now we have six sodding thousand "talent contests" on telly, from X-Factor to Britain's Got Embarrassing to Dorothy to Who's The Best At Pretending To Be Bea Arthur On LSD [note: yes, I made that one up, but I've copyrighted it so no nicking the idea, Sky One]. Why celebrate the "bad" when the bad has become the norm?

* Dinner with someone bitchenly amazing, this Thursday. If the sodding fridge saga doesn't intervene.

* Is that really Nicola Bryant, the woman who was Peri [companion to Doctors Fifth and Sixth], fleetingly in the John Lewis advert? [Yes, I found after much frame-by-frame research.]

* On which note… CELERY SQUEE!!! [This is a reference to the latest Who episode, which I won't further explain so that I don't give away spoilers.]

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Today's Big Question: Which household device*, appliance or gadget would you least want to give up? Why?

* note: this does not include "personal entertainment devices in phallic forms".

 
18
May

From The Inside

The history of my profession – specifically the mental health aspect, rather than the social work aspect, is not a glorious one. And there was a programme last night which highlighted a lot of what went wrong -

BBC Four: "Mental: A History of the Madhouse"
[should be available to watch again for UK users in that link until 25 May.
Warning
: contains some disturbing scenes of experimental/harmful surgical procedures.
]

Starting out in the early twentieth century rather than at the beginnings of asylum in "Bedlam" times, it told of the large Victorian institutions which were both the sanctuaries and sole carers, but also the prisons and occasionally torture chambers of those deemed "unfit for society".

It moved from the "Poor Law" age, where asylums were places of incarceration, through the new NHS age in the late forties where they became misguided capitals of psychiatrist power, into the sixties and seventies where they became unfashionable to the eighties and nineties when the last major institutions closed down.¹

In harrowing testimony and archive footage, it told of the injustices of the systems; of people forcibly admitted for "actions against society" [one person in Ipswich I got to know in the early nineties had been admitted and kept for decades for the shame of being a single parent as late as the fifties]; of the institutional abuses carried out in the name of keeping order; of the sheer horror of some of the misguided experimental attempts at providing a surgical "cure" for mental illness; and finally of the system's decline because of its huge running costs, its dismantling, and the ramifications of the mass closures.

For those of us who have a direct interest in the mental health system – and that's just about everybody, unless you're an undiagnosed sociopath – this piece of history is a harrowing watch, but also one with hope; the issues are still red-hot live, but we're not dealing with the same level of abuse, of degradation, of needless suffering as we used to. It's a stage in our acceptance of the past, and hopefully our path to the future.

I urge you, so long as you're not in a place where it'd be bad for you to watch such things, to have a look. It's not only horrible – there are also good stories – but it's also so revealing about the cultural thinking, not only about mental health but about society in general, that was going on at those times.

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There's a couple of aspects I particularly want to mention -

The first, and still germane to our times, is the idea of power without responsibility. The major example of this was where the old institutions were perfect examples of where a government said "here, you deal with this problem, I don't care how, just do it so we don't have to see it". In essence, they were perfect Stanford Experiment models even decades before the experiment actually happened – and the results, sadly, were as predictable even then as they are now in our modern versions of the "total prison".

Below the major abuses, though, was a more subtle expression of power, that of utter primacy of the professionals. The psychiatrists which ran the place did so, I'm sure, through the highest motives originally, but became as institutionalized as the patients; they had come to believe in their own moral superiority.

The credos and dogma they spouted came from rational language, ostensibly miles from the Victorian Xian paternalism of their forefathers, but in reality was as good at shielding itself from the negative effects of its actions as any circular-logic theology.

To take one example; for some time, the dogma was that insulin shock therapy is a good thing; therefore insulin therapy is what we do; and if the patient doesn't respond that's the patient's problem, not the therapy's or the psychiatrist's. It took several decades for the realization that this therapy was actually severely harmful to filter down through to the ivory-towered psychiatrists.

Those days have long gone. Or have they? Consider these days, where "treatment" for anxiety-stress-depression is governed not by the dogmas of Xianity or medical paternalism, but by the constrictions of NICE. They've deemed that the best – by which they mean the most cost-effective as well as backed by the most scientific evidence – treatments are the cheapest SSRI drugs, and cognitive behavioural therapy if need be.² GPs which prescribe more costly treatments will either have to justify doing so or get a right bollocking off their health authority.

It's not quite like before when actively harmful treatments were meted out³; but, like before, we see a situation where mental health problems are treated as if they were physical ones; the "best" treatments must always be applied because the dogma is that the stress-anxiety-depression is separate and distinct from all other issues; so there's no need to take other factors into account when deciding which treatment will work "best". Just dish out the Prozac, put the patient on the [months-long] waiting list for CBT, and shout NEXT!

This doesn't sit well with "patient experience" which always points to a more "holistic" view of their difficulties – each individual having their own particular complex set of problems, therefore needing a particular complex set of solutions – but there's no way a holistic approach is going to get properly funded in the current environment.

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The other aspect of this history I want to mention comes with the closure of the asylums, and the introduction of "Care In The Community".

Nowadays it seems ironic, even perhaps absurd, to think that the first great champion of closing the institutions and freeing the patients within was the grand Conservative politician, then destined for high things but later derailed by being a paranoid racist twat, Enoch Powell.

Nor does it seem quite right that the government which finally bit the bullet and fully implemented the policy was a Thatcherite one at its mid-eighties height.

Were they right to do so? Unquestionably. Anyone who suffers from "asylum nostalgia" has never been near one.

Should they get the credit for doing so? Absolutely, but with this proviso. Powell and Thatcher's instincts were libertarian; they had very little concern for the treatment or "freedom" of any of the asylum inmates – they just wanted the big drain the institutions made on the public finances halted and staunched.

When the inmates were released, few went into situations where they had any proper support or rehabilitation into the "community".

Some thrived – and Powell and Thatcher deserve the credit for allowing them to do so. Some struggled – with housing, money, community stigmatization, and all the other easily predictable problems. Some went straight from asylum to prison and have stayed in and out ever since. Some fell into the "charity sector" – Salvation Army hostels became their new institutions, with no abuse but lots of enforced bible-thumping. And quite a few didn't survive.

The late eighties and the early nineties were marked by a long series of scandals in which patients released with little or no support committed murders and violent crimes; the killing of Jonathan Zito caused the most outcry.

[Another I remember was when a patient in a psychotic state managed to climb into a lion's cage at London Zoo. The joke at the time was that afterwards he received the best tip-top care and round-the-clock therapy - whilst the patient was shoved back on the street with a bottle of pills.]

It took the ousting of the Conservative government in 1997 for reforms to be made which strengthened the obligation for authorities to provide support for vulnerable sufferers in the "community". The libertarian ideal of patients completely free outside of asylums was tempered by new laws such as "medication orders" which forced people to take their pills, and eventually a new Mental Health act. The arguments about the balance between personal freedom and community "safety" are still raging. The problems with "community care" are ongoing, and very rarely spoken of by those in power in public [in case the bill for it frightens the outraged-taxpayer middle Englander].

I take all the above as evidence that although libertarian instincts are in a lot of ways okay, in practice they lead to some pretty shitty outcomes if you've not got the money and personal power to cushion yourself.4

Of course I wouldn't say that the outcomes were worse than the history which preceded them – I can imagine little worse than lifelong incarceration without appeal – but must we really have suffered from the lesser of two evils? Was it necessary to go through the laissez-faire approach of those who were mentally ill and unable to cope with life outside sleeping rough on the streets, frightening or attacking people, and, even still today, filling our prisons – in order to get rid of the old institutions?

To those who are powerless, to those who are in need, giving these people a set of theoretical "freedoms" and "choices" works great for a few, but works very badly for an equal set of few, who'll impact extremely heavily on the rest of society. The lie of Thatcherite libertarianism [and its even scarier American cousin] was – and very much still is – to pretend that others will pick up the pieces, that somehow it'll evolve into its own balanced solution – ultimately, that those negatively impacted can be safely brushed under the carpet where the so-called "hardworking, decent families" beloved of populist politicians won't have to notice them.

By wanting psychiatric patients to "hide away" and not bother anybody, the Thatcherites in the end were guilty of the same crime as the Victorian paternalists.

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1 The programme said they all disappeared – not quite true; Broadmoor, Ashworth, Rampton and Carstairs "high-security hospitals" are still with us.
2 If available, but that's a whole other can of worms.
3 although some, eg Ben Goldacre, maintain that SSRIs have little therapeutic value for a lot of side-effects. My unscientific observation is that they have a lot of value for long-term sufferers, and very little for those who have just temporarily fallen off their metaphorical horse.
4 This sense of "nice theory, pity it won't actually work" is not the only thing libertarianism shares with Marxism; also comparable is the way their followers are unshakeable believers, resolute arguers and utterly annoying as frog.

 
8
May

The Battle For The Trees

So it seems [unless I'm mistaken] that the "Like" button won't reveal your identity unless the liker is on your current FB login identity's friend list. I and "4 others" clicked the button on the last post, but I have no way of finding out who those four were. If they were you, please tell me so I can verify this.

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In the week since last I posted we've had an election which contained three amazing results and 647 disappointing ones – the fallout from which has now got boring [shut up about it and let them do their job working out how to sort it out now], I've had my boiler serviced so I'm not going to die of carbon monoxide poisoning any time soon, there's been "fish from space" to cheer for, I've unwisely eaten some out-of-date Austrian processed cheese and paid the price, and the Family Guy marathon weekend on BBCThree is currently proving that for this show two episodes is the maximum before one sighs and turns off.

Too much of anything, even the best things, in one sitting becomes tiresome. I'd like to thank a Ms R. H********h of Bedford for teaching me this years ago.

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It looks like next weekend I'll be, for the first time in years, camping.

[No, not in the polari sense.]

I've been invited to spend the time at a Wood Festival.

[No, not that kind of "wood".]

Long-time readers will know of my antipathy to camping, based upon several years in which the drop-in I worked at organized a long weekend for staff and clients each summer. During sunny days it was perfect. During rainy days, and during nights in which neither I nor my charges were sleeping [and even when I was trying to sleep, they'd keep sticking their head in my tent and asking if I were awake], it wasn't. At least that won't be a problem this time, although the usual issues of "comfort", "warmth" and "ffs, there's a reason civilization invented houses" will, I'm sure, appear at some point.

Less predictable is my wondering what one actually does at a "wood festival". I'm not sure whether it's kinda tree-hugging, or carving, or maybe even beating each others' bottoms with bits of birch; perhaps I shouldn't bring my car because it's steel and aluminium, and there'll be a tribe of wood-worshippers wanting to smelt it down.

Or maybe, like many other festivals I've been to over the past twenty years, it's just a thinly-veiled excuse for slightly weird but oppressed people to get away from their families and be slightly weird [sometimes with chemical assistance].

I, of course, need no such excuses…