The Dreaming Arm...

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Budapest 4

Budapest 3

Budapest 2

Budapest 1

A change of premises

The Dreaming Arm office has now been relocated to:

http://dreamingarm.wordpress.com

Premier League looks to GAA for ideas

It looks like the furore over the ridiculous commercially exploitative idea of Premiership football matches taking place overseas has died down after FIFA chairman Sepp Blatter effectively said "over my dead body". The Premier League has been accused of an obession with money and commercialisation which has been to the detriment of the football, not to mention the supporters. I broadly agree with this analysis, but contrast this with the attitude of a great non-professional sporting body, which has always prided itself on its amateur ethos, but has come in for some criticism of late because of its increasingly money-driven outlook - namely the GAA. The Premier League must have been inspired by dis great Asso-see-ayshun in coming up with the concept of playing matches abroad. The idea is far from new - and was in fact pioneered by the GAA when they decided to hold the 1947 All Ireland final between Cavan and Kerry in New York!

What next? The FA Cup final to be played in Croke Park?

Stranger things have happened.

Texans in Afghanistan

Having seen the Coen brothers' No Country for Old Men (not a bad effort, but definitely overrated) recently, Charlie Wilson's War is the second film I've seen this year in which the main characters are Texans. Quite appropriate realy as a ral life Texan in a position of power will be out of a job soon!

Set in the 1980s during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, Tom Hanks is the title role, a Texan congressman with a taste for whisky, women and cocaine, the unlikely hero (or antihero perhaps?) whose successful lobbying and diplomacy helps arm the Mujahadin and force the withdrawal of the Soviet military their country.

What ensues is a tangled web of unlikely allies with the Americans, Israelis, Saudis, Egyptians and Pakistanis collaborating to fund a covert war against the Soviets in Afghanistan. Wilson forging an alliance with the then Pakistani president General Zia is one of the more revealing aspects of the story.

There's a strong supporting cast with Julia Roberts as Wilson's part time mistress, a Texan millionaire with sympathies towards the Afghan cause and Philip Seymour Hoffman a CIA operative specialising in Afghanistan.
The arid mountainous landscapes of Morocco successfully resemble Afghanistan, as was the case in a Timothy Dalton James Bond. (Yes, I'm one of those obsessive anoraks who stay behind to read the end credits).

There is effective use of CGI effects in portraying explosions intermingled with actual archive footage from the time of the Soviet occupation. The "bad guys" are clearly the Russians. Scenes of Russian helicopters massacring Afghan civilians by bombing entire towns helps enforce this perception. What the Soviets did in Afghanistan cannot be condoned of course, but the film ignores the fact that the US militaty was doing similar things in Vietnam and Nicaragua. However, one wonders if there is an element of political satire here.

The topicality of the film is omnipresent in that it alludes subtly to the events of present day Afghanistan, not to mention Iraq. It is heavily hinted at towards the finish that the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan is far from the end of trouble in the region. Like a vicious circle the Americans arm the Afghans to fight and defeat the Russians, a scenario which eventually leads to the Taliban coming to power, the events of September 11 2001 and the ongoing "war on terror".

Primeval - a whole new can of worms

After having been in the doldrums up until a few years ago (ie virtually non-existent) British TV science fiction seems to be going through something of a renaissance at the moment. The revitalised Doctor Who is going from strength to strength (even though it's not a patch on the old series - or at least certainly not on a par with the golden age of the show, the Jon Pertwee/early Tom Baker years of the early to mid-1970s) as is its spin-off series Torchwood -not to be confused with Touchwood the toad, Catweazle's familiar. Incidentally Geoffrey Bayldon the actor behind Catweazle (for the unitiated - a wizard from the middle ages who accidentally leaps forward in time to the 1970s - with hilarious consequences) was the apparently the original choice to play Dr Who, and what a fine Doctor he would have made - but I digress.

ITV's Saturday evening sci-fi drama Primevalseems to be their attempt to rival "Who", and a rather feeble attempt at that. It resembles a cross between "Who", The X-Files and Spooks, but its problem is that it takes itself much too seriously. Doctor Who was always primarily a childrens programme with a substantial adult audience. Primeval on the other hand, although transmitted well before the "watershed" is more "adult" in content. Sub plots involve characters copping off with each other with the obligatory sprinkling of sexual tension. "Who", by contrast always had an implied tongue-in-cheek style to the extent that you could enjoy it without taking too seriously.

Primeval is in some ways reminiscent of Jon Pertwee-era Doctor Who - a mixture of earthbound sci-fi and political intrigue, but fails abysmally to match up to Who's standards.

Apart from the ludicrous plot of this particular episode - a bunch of giant prehistoric man-eating worms running amok in a London office block - it never really got off the ground. Inevitably the worms were defeated in the end, but there was no explanation as to how they got there. In some ways it was similar to the 1970s Dr Who story The Green Death which featured giant maggots spawned as a result of pollution by a chemical company run by a megalomaniac computer. The spoof horor film Tremors also springs to mind.

The Dr Who equivalent character in Primeval is a dour Scottish scientist with strawberry blonde hair (and presumably a troubled past) who bears a fleeting resemblance to the tennis player Boris Becker.

The CGI-generated worms were even a disappointment - and not even as effective as the traditional rubber or plastic models of the pre-computer era. Given that Primeval is essentially about prehistoric creatures finding their way into the present day and wreaking havoc, it may well go the way of the dinosaurs if its future episodes are like this one.

A Different Ball Game: The GAA up North

I've written an article on the social and political issues facing the GAA in Northern Ireland for the GAA website "An Fear Rua". It comes in two parts:

A Different Ball Game: Part I

A Different Ball Game: Part II

What does BMW really stand for?

I sometimes tend to be an overcautious driver, especially when turning right. This morning I had indicated to turn right into a side street, but took me time to ensure that the road was clear of oncoming traffic. The motorist behind me who couldn't wait two seconds seemed to think I was taking too long and showed his impatience by beeping his horn at me. I hate this. People like this have no consideration for nervous or inexperienced drivers (not that I count myself in this categoery, having passed my driving test over 16 years ago, but drivers who should be treated with great consideration as they tend to be more careful than the average driver). I've also noticed that the more expensive or flashy the car is the ruder the driver tends to be. I drive a modest Fiat Punto. As it's mostly just myself who travels in the car I have no need for a bigger model.


I also have utter contempt for obnxious pricks with chips on their shoulder like Jeremy Clarkson who see the car they drive as some kind of masturbatory fantasy. Naturally enough I was delighted to see him humiliated recently after giving out his bank account number in the Sun newspaper in a pathetic attempt to disprove the current public hysteria over security of personal data, only to find that a reader had used it to successfully set up a direct debit account with a leading charity. The story has been amply covered within the blogosphere - see Memex and Johnny K for example. Clarkson's latest book is called "Don't Stop Me Now". A highly apropriately title - especially if he was driving over a cliff at the time.

Getting back to the story in hand, the impatient individual behind me was in a spanking new silver BMW. Now, I don't know idea what BMW stands (something in German I presume) and I can't be arsed looking it up on Wikipedia, but in his case it probably stands for "Bastard-faced Motherfucking Wanker".
When it was safe to turn into the side street, just to piss him off I drove as slowly as possible - roughly at the pace of an elderly snail on sedatives.

I briefly glanced towards his already infuriated countenance, and blew him a kiss for good measure. The expression on the bastard's face was absolutley priceless. It made my day.

Greatest Films of the '80s - Part 2

Continuing on from a popular topic of conversation in student union bars up and down the county, here's the remainder of my list:

Company of Wolves - Neil Jordan's post-modernist reinterpretation of Little Red Riding Hood story - atmospheric, surreal and mind-bogglingly captivating

Gandhi - Dickie Attenborough's epic biopic of the man who liberated India, with Ben Kingsley in the title role

Jean de Florette/Manon des Sources - Technically two films, but inextricably linked so I'll count them as one for the purposes of this poll - tales of hardship, tragedy and disputed land ownership among small farmers amidst the breathtaking scenery of rural Provence. With some of the best known names in French cinema including Gerard Depardieu, Yves Montand, Daniel Auteil and Emanuelle Beart. Based on the novels by Marcel Pagnol. Just thinking about it brings back memories of A-level French all those years ago.

Cinema Paradiso - Giuseppe Tornatore's account of a young boy's coming of age in a Sicilian village and his love of the cinema

This is Spinal TapRob Reiner (alias Marin di Bergi's) spoof rock documentary which follows the trials and tribulations of a past-their-sell-by-date rock band their disastrous tour of America. Uncannily accuate it paved the way for the "mockumentary" genre of comedy of which The Office would become one of the most celebrated examples.

Greatest Films of the '80s

A few nights ago (New Year's Eve to be precise, but that's soooo last year) I watched part of a programme on TV which claimed to be a rundown of the greatest films of the 1980s. Except that the films covered were far from "great". A more appropriate title would have been "Biggest Box Office blockbusters of the '80s". Ok, they did pick a few decent films like Dead Poets Society, Good Morning Vietnam, Crocodile Dundee and Rain Man, but such titles didn't fit in well with crap such as Top Gun, Terminator or Breakfast Club. Also on the list was Back to the Future, which I suppose is a great film if you're a 12-year old, (which I was back in 1986 when it was showing at the local cinema), but when you're 34 it doesn't quite have the same appeal.

Rather than getting experts like Mark Cousins, Derek Malcolm or Philip French in to talk about the films, the celebrated luminaries on the show included ex-junkie and desperately unfunny "comedian", the highly irritating Russell Brand. Incidentally, a friend suggested going to see the new St Trinians film which has just come out. When I mentioned to her that Brand was in it, she quickly changed her mind.

So off the top of my head, without thinking to much about it or googling anything, I've come up with my own top 11 films of the '80s. In no particular order:

The Mission - Roland Joffe's moving tale of 18th century Jesuit missionaries living amongst a tribe in Indians in the South American jungles and their battle against the colonial powers of Spain and Portugal, who with the support of the church hierarchy wish to enslave the natives and carve up the territories for their own selfish gains. Bob de Niro, Jeremy Irons and Liam Neeson on top form as Jesuit priests, spectacular location filming in Colombia and Argentina and a haunting soundtrack by one of the world's greatest composers Ennio Morricone.

Cry Freedom - Dickie Attenborough's inspirational account of the life and death of South African political activist Steve Biko (Denzel Washington) and his friendship with white anti-apartheid campaigner Donald Woods (Kevin Kline)

Withnail and I - Paul McGann and Richard E Grant get up to high jinks as two unemployed actors on a mad weekend at a remote country cottage.

The King of Comedy - Bob de Niro as the wannabe comedian who'll do anything to get on TV - one of Martin Scorcese's most underrated films.

Once Upon A Time in America - Master of the spaghetti western Sergio Leone turns his attention to immigrants and gangsterism in New York from prohibition to the present day in a 4-hour epic spanning several decades. Memorable soundtrack by Leone's long time collaborator Ennio Morricone.

OK, that's 5 so far. I don't have time to list the rest, so I'll do them in a future post.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Franco-Italian relations on the up

Guido Fawkes in his blog brings our attention to the relationship between French president Nicholas Sarkozy and the glamorous Italian model Carla Bruni. The idea of one our political leaders in the Hiberno-Britannic archipelago pulling off such a coup would be unimaginable. There is of course the well documented laison between Lib Dem MP Lembit Opik and the cheeky girl, but can one picture the likes of Blair, Brown, Ahern, Salmond, Paisley or McGuinness arm in arm with a supermodel? As Alan Partridgfe would say "backo fthe net!"

Probably not worth blogging about, but a good excuse to print a titillating picture of Signorina Bruni in a pathetic attempt to get more publicity for this blog.

In praise of wee small oranges

I don't like winter, with its cold weather and long dark nights. But one thing I do like about this time of year is the variety of small orange fruits like clementines, satsumas, mandarins and tangerines. Easy to peel, pleasant to the taste and oh so juicy - one of the hibernal season's few redeeming features. Be thankful for small (orange) mercies.

Crap joke about a South American politician
Which South American politician wears a burberry baseball cap, a shell suit and chunky gold jewellery and can be seen walking rottweilers around a council estate?

Hugo Chav-ez.

Cue the usual stoney-faced glares and deathly silence punctuated by the swooshing of tumble weeds and distant clang of a funeral bell.

I hope Yule have a good one

To all readers of the Arm have a wonderful politically incorrect Christmas.

Conrad fades to Black (or any number of similarly crap puns)

Following the sentencing of fraudster Conrad Black to six and a half years, The Daily Telegraph, once owned by Black quotes disgraced former Tory MP, an ex-jailbird himself who served time for perjury and has come out in support of the bad boy from the Black stuff:

“These offences would carry a lower tariff in the United Kingdom and Europe. If I had been on the jury I would have voted to acquit him anyway.”

A case of the blind leading the blind. Dream on, Johnny boy. If we lived in a world where criminals got let off, there would be no justice. Perhaps if the jury had consisted of Aitken along with Jeffrey Archer, Neil and Christine Hamilton, Bertie Ahern, Michael O’Leary, Alisher Usmanov, Roman Abramovitch, Simon Cowell, Sharon Osborne, Louis Walsh and some other lovely person the Black Sheep might have got off on a technicality, but there you go. The hacks at Private Eye will be no doubt having a field day dreaming up satirical headlines and cartoons.

Darwin’s Theory of Evolution (and insurance fraud) made simple

Pretend to die in a canoeing accident, get your wife to claim the life insurance on it, grow a Victorian scientist-type beard and piss off to Central America, then hand yourself to the cops five years later and pretend you’ve lost your memory – and there you have it. Or is that the Creationist theory?

Footballing n-Euro-sis for England fans

Barney Ronay commenting on England’s failure to qualify for the 2008 European Championships summed it up perfectly in The Guardian a few weeks ago:

“Next summer will be notable for the absence of people with painted faces drinking 12 pints of Hoegaarden while watching England play Sweden at the back room of their local Wetherspoons. The ongoing will-they-can-they-should-they-it’s-a-bleeding disgrace dialogue that circulates through every office, train carriage, school, building site and blog in the country, like a gigantic viral Chinese whisper, will be stillborn.”

As far as I know Wetherspoons pubs have a policy of not having televisions (or music or pool tables, etc), but apart from this he’s more or less summed it up.

Ryanair boss O’Leary gets called nasty names by writer in Northern Irish political journal

"Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone
It’s with O’Leary in the grave”
The above quotation from WB Yeats’ poem September 1913 appears to prove the expression what goes around comes around. Although the poem was written
almost a century ago it could quite easily apply to the present day, but the contemporary O’Leary is not in the grave (although many disgruintled former Ryanair passengers may wish he was) and in fact represents the antithesis of Yeats' misty eyed idealised notion of saints and scholars dancing around a circle of standing stones - ie Ireland’s (if not Europe’s) least popular businessman Michael O’Leary, head honcho at Europe’s least popular airline Ryanair.
Anyway, to get to the point, the latest issue of Fortnight, Northern Ireland’s monthly (not fortnightly, despite the title – a potential goldmine for a raft of Irish jokes) political and cultural journal recently arrived on my door mat courtesy of the Arm’s Belfast correspondent. In it there are articles by our occasional contributor, the very same (or should that be “very sane”?) Phil Larkin on the SDLP and our one-off contributor Andrew Charles on Fianna Fáil moving north (remember folks – you saw them here first!), but what caught my eye was a piece on Ryanair’s top man. John O’Farrell (apparently not the same guy who wrote Things Can Only Get Better: Eighteen Miserable Years in the Life of a Labour Supporter) makes it clear from the start that he’s not terribly fond of Michael O’Leary or the socio-economic sub-culture that he comes from. Drawing on material from Alan Ruddock’s book Michael O’Leary: a Life in Full Flight, (which he is similarly unimpressed by) O’Farrell launches into a structured character assassination of “The Man We Love to Hate with the airline We Still Keep Using” and his ilk

One particular paragraph stands out:
“The uncomfortable feeling that returned to me continually was not the horrible thought that the odd time that I bought 20 Rothmans from Kestral Corner might have sent this horrible vacuous man to his present stratospheric heights, but the noise he makes. It sent me back to The Bailey in the early ‘80s, to that braying racket of wannabe rich kids high-fiveing each other over sloppy pints of ‘Heino’, and reminded me that for all my liberal tolerance there is still a group of people on this Earth that reduce me to an almost genocidal rage. I still think they’re c***s. I know that their identical descendants are still festering the same waterholes and adoring the waggery and brass neck of their hero Michael O’Leary.
There. I said it. I wholeheartedly recommend this book if you want a terrifying vision of the future, of an economy dominated by men with not a shred of decency, an ounce of humanity or a spit of morality.”

I'm no fan of O'Leary either, but the reputation of a man who thrives on being despised can only be strengthened by such a diatribe. Romantic Ireland dead and gone indeed.