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.

Shoot 'em up: Morecambe and Wise glorifying gun crime?

The papers report the controversy surrounding the poster for the film Shoot'Em Up. The poster has been accused of being in bad taste as it allegedly glorifies gun crime. I suppose the complainants have a point, particularly as the actor depicted, Paul Giamatti bears an uncanny resemblance to the late comedian Eric Morecambe, one half of the celebrated double act Morecambe and Wise. Perhaps the film's publicists should "wise" up and design a more tasteful poster.
Cue deathly, eerie silence punctuated by the swooshing of tumbleweeds in the wind and the distant clanging of a funeral bell…the day job is still intact

On travel writers, comedians and Stuart Maconie

I'm a voracious reader of travel books. There are basically three categories of travel writing. On the one extreme there's the learned erudite works for the discerning reader which really get to grips with the culture and politics of a country, as exemplified by the likes of Dervla Murphy, Paul Theroux or Colin Thubron. On the other extreme there are the whimsical books usually written in tongue-in-cheek style by comedians or other media personalities who embark on a specific task of peculiar proportions such as Tony Hawkes lugging a fridge around Ireland or playing the Moldovans at tennis, or Tim Moore cycling the route of the Tour de France. There's also those who lie somewhere in between, such as Bill Bryson or Michael Palin who do the semi-intellectual stuff, but at the same time you get the impression that they're not taking themselves entirely seriously.

The Independent observes this trend in a brown-nosing and somewhat snooty piece as an additon to its regular Friday book charts round-up:

"For every Pies and Prejudice, in which comedian (sic) Stuart Maconie (above) hangs out in Blackpool and Yorkshire eating fish and chips and geting in touch with his Northern soul, there's a Tony Hawks, trekking around Europe with a fridge/piano/tennis racket; for every Good Pub Guide there's a Tribe. It's a relief when a writer like Michael Palin or Bill Bryson comes along to peer into the world and elucidate the journey with wit and wisdom and no gimmicks. Which is why they're always best-sellers, and why they are national treasures".

Stuart Maconie, a decent writer, despite what's written above may have a smart-arse style which is generally humorous and quite tongue-in-cheek, but to describe him as a "comedian" is stretching it a bit. He's a rock journo by trade, now enjoying the fruits of life as a DJ and prsenter who churns out the odd book, but I suppose he should take the comedian label as a compliment. Unless the Independent writer meant it in a contemptuous sense, as in someone not to be taken seriously. If that's the case then there is a hell of a lot of "comedians" around, including this anonymous Independent journalist.

Schwarznegger and The Simpsons: California Dreamin'?

Quote of the Day:
"Arnold Schwarzenegger is the governor of California. Sometimes I still wake up believing that this only happened in an episode of The Simpsons."

Tim Dowling, The Guardian

Stuart Maconie and the nostalgic north

Having recently read Pies and Prejudice, an excellent semi-tongue-in-cheek travelogue-come-socio-cultural treatise on the North of England by BBC radio DJ Stuart Maconie I've just started reading another of his books Cider with Roadies . This book is a sort of semi-autobiogrpahical account of growing up in Wigan in the 1970s and the cultural influences of the time from Northern Soul to Progressive Rock, which later goes on to describe his bizarre experiences as a music journalist.
This particular paragraph gives a flavour of Maconie’s quirky style:

“I went to and from school, learned about the Anti-Corn Law League and Brownian Motion and tried not to get “strapped” by Brother Ring, the most sadistic of the bullying bog-trotters who taught me – or the Christian Brothers to give them their official name. When not thus engaged, I would be watching Fawlty Towers or Ripping Yarns, smoking furtively in a variety of toilets, parks and bus shelters or engaged, equally furtively, in a kind of amiable hand-to-hand contact with a girl from Orrell called Hilary. In an almost comical piece of good luck, Hilary turned out to be a teenage nympho whose dad owned an off-licence, a semi-mythical creature not normally found outside the fantasies of Sid James.”

As a former Christian Brothers boy myself I can relate to this although to be fair they weren’t all like that.
I haven’t finished the book yet, but so far it's a riveting read.

"Insubstantial Transubstantiation" or "The Communion Winos"

I came across a rather bizarre article on the front page of the Irish Times of Friday 2nd November on what must have been a slow news day – the main front page headline was about figures showing a drop in support for Bertie Ahern and Fianna Fail. I wasn’t sure if it was for real or a very early (or very late) April Fool's joke. It was like one of those news headlines which catches your attention only for you to find out that it's been written by "Loof Lirpa" (read it backwards if you haven't worked it out), but it seems like it is genuine - it was even reported in the (English)Independent the following day. In a story which sounded like something out of Father Ted it was reported that Catholic priests in rural parishes across Ireland are concerned that celebrating two or three masses in the same day could put them over the legal limit for drink driving.
It would be amusing if it wasn’t for the potentially serious implications. But surely if the wine is transformed into the blood of Jesus Christ during the Communion rite (if one is to take the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation at face value - aside from any accusations of vampirism), then priests should have nothing to worry about as the "wine" in their bloodstreams is no longer alcohol, but blood? Or is it that they don't believe in their own beliefs? Perhaps some learned theologians out there can shed some light on the matter.

Anthony Clare 1942-2007

I was shocked to hear about the untimely death at the relatively young age of 64 of the popular psychiatrist and broadcaster Professor Anthony Clare.
Clare was a brilliant mind as well as a colourful character. He would occasionally provide commentary for TV documentaries like the popular science programme QED (including a particularly interesting one on the forensic analysis of the Shroud of Turin broadcast back in the 1980s), mixing erudite views with quirky humour, but is perhaps best known for his Radio 4 show “In the Psychiatrist’s Chair”, a sort of psychiatric version of Desert Island Discs or This is your life, in which he would interview prominent figures and bring out their inner feelings.
When I was researching depression recently I picked up a fascinating book “Depression and how to survive it” which took the form of a series of interviews between Clare and the late comedian Spike Milligan – a meeting of great minds (albeit very different minds) if ever there was one.

A High Ahern-er - Bertie’s even bigger bulging brown envelope

Would you buy a used car off any of these men?





As I’ve remarked before, coverage of Irish (Republic of at least) politics is virtually non-existent in the UK press unless some major scandal or other momentous event has occurred. Yesterday’s Guardian in its pull-out tabloid section has a short article by the distinguished journalist Henry McDonald on “An Taoiseach” Bertie Ahern and his recent pay rise.
Apparently Bertie’s salary increase of 14.6% to £217,000 has made him the “highest paid leader of the world’s richest nations”. As if he hadn’t already accumulated enough in backhanders…allegedly that is.

Crap joke alert: As speculation continues on the possibility of a merger between Fianna Fáil and the SDLP, one important question remains. If FF do merge with the SDLP and set up their northern HQ in Derry will they call themselves Fianna Foyle?
Yes, you’ve guessed it – cue deathly, eerie silence punctuated by the swooshing of tumbleweeds in the wind and the distant clanging of a funeral bell…the day job is still intact.

The Trans-Iberian Express stops yet again in London/Quote of the day
“English football has been struggling to fill the wiry southern European pin-up shaped-hole where football meets the celebrity mainstream, since the departure of Jose Mourinho.
Where Mourinho turned up resembling a recently retired menswear model turned Mafioso power-broker, Ramos looks more like a really tough chip-shop owner. Or, on a bad day, Pat Butcher after an experiment with Grecian 2000.”

Barney Ronay in The Guardian on Tottenham’s new manager Juande Ramos.

Stiff Little Fingers - Ulsterior Motive

I was in the kitchen doing the washing up a few nights ago while listening to the Mark Radcliffe show on BBC Radio 2 when this track came on. I quickly reached for the record button on the stereo and have had the song going through my head ever since. I’ve never been a fan of Stiff Little Fingers or the punk wave as a whole (it was a bit before my time in any case!), and am generally unfamiliar with their work, but this particular song, their acknowledged magnum opus certainly strikes a chord. No pun intended.

The song is fast and furious, capturing the disaffected mindset of a bunch of angry young men growing up in 1970s Belfast. But were they the genuine article? In a series of public spats with another well-known Northern Irish band who emerged from the punk scene of the late ‘70s, The Undertones dismissed them as a bunch of middle class boys from the suburbs who’d never been in a riot in their lives and were basically exploiting the political situation by writing songs about things they knew nothing about. Similar accusations have been levelled at southern bands like U2 and The Cranberries. The Undertones studiously avoided this subject in favour of teenage kicks, mars bars and perfect cousins, but weren’t exactly popular in their home town. There’s the old joke about the three most hated groups in Derry - the RUC, the British army and the Undertones. A classic case of Derry begrudgery perhaps?

Getting back to Stiff Little Fingers (after many hours at this keyboard that could have a quite literal meaning), the fact that Alternative Ulster’s still being played on the radio after almost 30 years must have some significance. With all the heated debate about sports teams and national anthems (just check out the football-related threads over at Slugger O’Toole!), maybe this song should become the official anthem for the Northern Ireland soccer team at Windsor Park. And before anyone raises the old “what about Cavan/Monaghan/Donegal?” issue, be fair – “Alternative Six Counties” or “Alternative two thirds of Ulster” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, now does it?

China Crisis

With a year to go before the eyes of the world are on China as it hosts the 2008 Olympics, the authorities look set to loosen their grip on press freedom. Chinese censorship of blogs and websites which disagree with Chairman Hu Jintao's regime has become notorious (see "The Great Firewall of China" published in this blog last year), but there are ways around this. The international journalists’ human rights group Reporters without Borders has published a revealing report in co-operation with the Chinese Human Rights Defenders into the internet censorship practices employed by the Chinese authorities.

According to a report in last week'sObserver, China no longer enjoys the power of veto in the UN Security Council. It was forced to backtrack in its position on Burma. As the Communist Party of the world's fourth largest economy of an increasingly freer market - but not so free elections or free dissidents -prepares to choose its next leader Will Hutton in the same paper speculates on whether Hu Jintao’s successor will be China’s Gorbachev.

However, a disturbing aspect of the Beijing Olympic story was covered in Channel 4's Unreported World which revealed the story of unscrupulous property developers forcibly removing residents from their homes to make way for luxury apartments and cash in on the Olympic dividend.

If this blog was based in China, it would most likely be censored or shut down and its author harassed by the authorities if not jailed. Isn't freedom of expression a great thing?

True to the old Chinese proverb, it looks like we’re living in interesting times.

The Horny Ornithologists

Keeping up with the wildlife theme (in a manner of speaking), at the request of The Arm's regular contributor, Phil, whose birthday it was recently (belated happy birthday Phil!), here's a vintage comedy clip featuring the comic double act Smith and Jones impersonating another comedy double act, the Two Ronnies - with hilarious consequences.
In response to our regular commenter Lady Fotherington-Smethers who has accused this blog of having become too intellectual and erudite of late - we aim to please. After all we like birds.