Yes, it's that time again. Once every four years, the world puts everything on hold and goes ape over the spectacle of the Olympic Games. Well, almost everything. The business of making money takes a holiday for no-one; indeed, during the Games, it probably even goes into overdrive.
And of course, the megacorps are pulling out all the stops in order to pull our patriotic heartstrings and bleed us dry of our hard-earned. All of a sudden, foreign multinationals are proudly Australian and propping every geriatric in a military uniform they kind find in front of a camera in order to assure us that they, too, share the ANZAC spirit. Naturally, this is all about celebrating the festival of the Games and supporting our guys and gals in Beijing; however, if you could see your way to buying one of their burgers, or patronising one of their shopping centres, or taking off in one of their planes, that would be nice, too.
Not that Australian companies are beyond this cynical artifice, either. Suddenly, every golden-haired glamour girl and pretty boy in a swim suit or track lycra is the quintessential Australian, representative of all our hopes and dreams - and, naturally, we're all behind them because sporting prowess is really the pinnacle of any nation's evolutionary index. So of course we'll buy all their sponsors' products, because doing less would hardly be patriotic, would it?
If you think I'm being overly cynical, watch the television broadcast of the Olympics for even a brief period, and you'll see what I mean. If the patently parochial (and frequently mindless) commentary isn't enough to do your head in, the mushy, saccharine blandishments of the commercials will have you gagging on your vomit even as you reach for the cyanide pills. No kidding, if I see one more ad about how these faceless, exploitative corporations really do care about all the Mums and Dads and kiddies out there, and how they are sooooooo grateful for all our support over the years, I'll throw myself off the top of my stack of large-print Das Kapital editions.
To be fair, it's not all bad. One of the two public broadcasters in Oz has somehow managed to snaffle secondary broadcasting rights to the Games - which is to say they've been assigned all the team and non-swimming, non-track events the commercial broadcaster thought too obscure or insufficiently ratings-friendly to cover. But I quite like this. It means you get to see stuff that otherwise would be ignored, and the level of patriotic hyperbole is kept to a bearable minimum. Except when they, too, have to cut to a commercial break so their "broadcast partners" can flog their overpriced - but eminently Australian - wares.
Oh well, it will be all over in a few days, and then we can get back to business as usual. In the meantime, if you listen very carefully, beneath the roar of the crowds and the screeching platitudes of the sports journalists, you'll notice another sound, a kind of background noise to the whole Games. It's the sound of cash registers ringing.
K'ching!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote of the Day: Capitalism - survival of the fattest. (Anonymous)
Monday, August 11, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
My Life As A Cartoon
Another gem from Wiley... (click on the image to enlargen it)
'Nuff said!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: A satirist is someone who discovers unpleasant things about themselves and then says them about other people. (Peter McArthur)
Sunday, July 20, 2008
It's All About Me
I don't know if it's because I'm becoming old and grouchy, or - and this seems a much more likely reason - because in my charming naivety I've not previously noticed, but I can't get over how astonishingly inconsiderate and selfish people are in their behaviour toward one another. I don't mean the big picture stuff: oddly enough, as far as I can tell, when it comes to responding to an appeal, or helping people in serious trouble, most folks are generous to a fault. Nor do I want to suggest that people are becoming "more" selfish than they used to be, or that selfishness didn't happen in "my day" (whenever that was). Rather, it seems that it's in the arena of the daily that people just don't seem to give a toss, that they live in some kind of insular bubble that says: I'm the most important reality in the world, and screw anyone and anything that's an inconvenience or which stops me going about my day the way I see fit.
Let me give you some recent examples to illustrate my point.
Last week, my Dearly Beloved and I visited Canberra for a week, partly for pleasure and partly for a conference. We were taking a flight on one of those ultra-low-cost airlines, so, not sure if we'd get anything to eat on the flight itself, we decided to grab a bite before boarding the plane. Or, more accurately, my Dearly Beloved decided we'd have McDonalds as opposed to actually eating food. Being the controller of the family purse-strings, she stood in line to place our order and pay, while I found us a table in the cramped and overcrowded eating space. I eventually snaffled a corner table, and while idly awaiting my Dearly Beloved's arrival with our "food" (I always regard this a provisional term when it comes to McDonalds), I noticed a family of people sitting at the table next to me tucking into what seemed to be a ten course meal. There were bags and cartons and paper wrappings and plastic cups everywhere. Eventually, they completed their repast, and as one, got up and left.
Now, you'll notice I said "got up and left", NOT "tidied up their rubbish, put it in the bin, and left". Because I'm not kidding, they left their table strewn with the detritus of their meal; not merely the bags and wrappings and stuff, but half-eaten burgers, spillages of chips, and cups with congealing ice-cream products still clinging to the sides. And what made this laziness all the more astonishing was the fact that they were sitting right next to the rubbish bin! Seriously, they could have literally reached out and dumped their junk in the bin without having to stand. But no, instead of doing the right thing, they decided that either one of the staff or the next person who wanted to use a table could do their cleaning up for them; whatever they were doing, or wherever they were going, was more important than a simple act of courtesy.
This sort of thing really pisses me off. It's one of the reasons I hate eating in junk food restaurants and shopping centre food malls: the crappiness of the food aside, you have to hunt around endlessly for a table because too many lazy, thoughtless cretins have left it strewn with their garbage. Hell, the waiting staff can clean up after me; or, if the staff are too busy, then the next customer can get their hands dirty removing my leftovers. Me, I'm too busy and important to put my rubbish on a tray and take five steps out of my way to the bin.
Don't you just long to grab these people by the shirtfront and introduce them to the concept of extreme retributive violence? Just like the two women my Dearly Beloved and I encountered at the War Memorial in Canberra during our aforementioned visit to the nation's capital. We were on the alcove overlooking a vast hall filled with various fighters and bombers when the PA announced that a brief show about Australian bomber crews in WWII would be displayed on the wall opposite; the alcove on which we were standing was the viewing platform. So we settled down on some nearby seating to wait, accompanied by other people who likewise sat or stood behind the seats or to one side. There was plenty of viewing space, and two screens on the wall opposite: there would be plenty to see, I thought to myself in anticipation, especially given the alcove's safety barrier was made of thick but clear glass that enabled you to view the show.
And then along came these two women. And because they wanted the best view in the house, they came and stood right in front of us! Only two steps to the left, and they would have had a clear view of everything, and left our visual field unimpeded; but no, other people simply didn't enter into their calculations. They wanted to see the show, and screw anyone else inconvenienced in the process. Moreover, had my Dearly Beloved and I stood in order to see the show, we would have blocked the view of the people next to us, and thus set off a chain reaction of inconvenience. As a result, we were stuck with three quarters of one screen, with the other completly blocked.
I don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill, but it's this kind of daily insensitivity and selfishness that I have begun to notice lately. And I've come to the conclusion that it's because it occurs in the realm of the day-to-day that people think that's it's not important, or can't adversely affect others, or that if it does, then the person on the receiving end should just "get over it". In other words, it's a direct consequence of the "whatever" culture in which self-absorption is a virtue and any objection to imposing upon others an unjustifiable assault on the individual's right to do as they please.
And yet this kind of stuff does matter, because it's precisely the kind of thing that can destroy a person's day, or at least annoy them to such an extent that they then become pre-occupied and do something thoughtless themselves, or have an accident, or get into a pointless argument. In other words, each act of selfishness, however trivial, is like a stone dropped into a pond: the ripples spread out from the event, affecting other aspects of life, and meeting and adding to the potency of other ripples from other events. What starts off as a careless, throw-away event come become something much more significant.
So my plea is simple: next time you're in a food court or fast food joint, please, please, please put your rubbish in the bin. Not only will you be making the environment for everyone more pleasant, you'll potentially be saving yourself from the the experience of having your shirtfront gathered up in angry fistfulls, followed shortly thereafter by a good nutting or a knee to the bollocks.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Laziness is riding a bike over cobblestones just to knock the ash off a cigarette. (Les Dawson)
Let me give you some recent examples to illustrate my point.
Last week, my Dearly Beloved and I visited Canberra for a week, partly for pleasure and partly for a conference. We were taking a flight on one of those ultra-low-cost airlines, so, not sure if we'd get anything to eat on the flight itself, we decided to grab a bite before boarding the plane. Or, more accurately, my Dearly Beloved decided we'd have McDonalds as opposed to actually eating food. Being the controller of the family purse-strings, she stood in line to place our order and pay, while I found us a table in the cramped and overcrowded eating space. I eventually snaffled a corner table, and while idly awaiting my Dearly Beloved's arrival with our "food" (I always regard this a provisional term when it comes to McDonalds), I noticed a family of people sitting at the table next to me tucking into what seemed to be a ten course meal. There were bags and cartons and paper wrappings and plastic cups everywhere. Eventually, they completed their repast, and as one, got up and left.
Now, you'll notice I said "got up and left", NOT "tidied up their rubbish, put it in the bin, and left". Because I'm not kidding, they left their table strewn with the detritus of their meal; not merely the bags and wrappings and stuff, but half-eaten burgers, spillages of chips, and cups with congealing ice-cream products still clinging to the sides. And what made this laziness all the more astonishing was the fact that they were sitting right next to the rubbish bin! Seriously, they could have literally reached out and dumped their junk in the bin without having to stand. But no, instead of doing the right thing, they decided that either one of the staff or the next person who wanted to use a table could do their cleaning up for them; whatever they were doing, or wherever they were going, was more important than a simple act of courtesy.
This sort of thing really pisses me off. It's one of the reasons I hate eating in junk food restaurants and shopping centre food malls: the crappiness of the food aside, you have to hunt around endlessly for a table because too many lazy, thoughtless cretins have left it strewn with their garbage. Hell, the waiting staff can clean up after me; or, if the staff are too busy, then the next customer can get their hands dirty removing my leftovers. Me, I'm too busy and important to put my rubbish on a tray and take five steps out of my way to the bin.
Don't you just long to grab these people by the shirtfront and introduce them to the concept of extreme retributive violence? Just like the two women my Dearly Beloved and I encountered at the War Memorial in Canberra during our aforementioned visit to the nation's capital. We were on the alcove overlooking a vast hall filled with various fighters and bombers when the PA announced that a brief show about Australian bomber crews in WWII would be displayed on the wall opposite; the alcove on which we were standing was the viewing platform. So we settled down on some nearby seating to wait, accompanied by other people who likewise sat or stood behind the seats or to one side. There was plenty of viewing space, and two screens on the wall opposite: there would be plenty to see, I thought to myself in anticipation, especially given the alcove's safety barrier was made of thick but clear glass that enabled you to view the show.
And then along came these two women. And because they wanted the best view in the house, they came and stood right in front of us! Only two steps to the left, and they would have had a clear view of everything, and left our visual field unimpeded; but no, other people simply didn't enter into their calculations. They wanted to see the show, and screw anyone else inconvenienced in the process. Moreover, had my Dearly Beloved and I stood in order to see the show, we would have blocked the view of the people next to us, and thus set off a chain reaction of inconvenience. As a result, we were stuck with three quarters of one screen, with the other completly blocked.
I don't want to make a mountain out of a molehill, but it's this kind of daily insensitivity and selfishness that I have begun to notice lately. And I've come to the conclusion that it's because it occurs in the realm of the day-to-day that people think that's it's not important, or can't adversely affect others, or that if it does, then the person on the receiving end should just "get over it". In other words, it's a direct consequence of the "whatever" culture in which self-absorption is a virtue and any objection to imposing upon others an unjustifiable assault on the individual's right to do as they please.
And yet this kind of stuff does matter, because it's precisely the kind of thing that can destroy a person's day, or at least annoy them to such an extent that they then become pre-occupied and do something thoughtless themselves, or have an accident, or get into a pointless argument. In other words, each act of selfishness, however trivial, is like a stone dropped into a pond: the ripples spread out from the event, affecting other aspects of life, and meeting and adding to the potency of other ripples from other events. What starts off as a careless, throw-away event come become something much more significant.
So my plea is simple: next time you're in a food court or fast food joint, please, please, please put your rubbish in the bin. Not only will you be making the environment for everyone more pleasant, you'll potentially be saving yourself from the the experience of having your shirtfront gathered up in angry fistfulls, followed shortly thereafter by a good nutting or a knee to the bollocks.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Laziness is riding a bike over cobblestones just to knock the ash off a cigarette. (Les Dawson)
Saturday, June 14, 2008
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Look, it's 2am, I'm still wired from work, so maybe my responses to this quiz produced a warped outcome...
| You Are a Comma |
 You are open minded and extremely optimistic. You enjoy almost all facets of life. You can find the good in almost anything. You keep yourself busy with tons of friends, activities, and interests. You find it hard to turn down an opportunity, even if you are pressed for time. Your friends find you fascinating, charming, and easy to talk to. (But with so many competing interests, you friends do feel like you hardly have time for them.) You excel in: Inspiring people You get along best with: The Question Mark |
Hey, don't ask me - decide for yourself!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Grammar - the grave of letters. (Elbert Hubbard)
Monday, June 09, 2008
And Just To Prove That I'm NOT Procrastinating...
See, this is important and relevant...
QED: I'm not stuffing about when I should be studying, I'm being abstract and sequential...
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Procrastination: putting off until tomorrow what you put off yesterday until today. (Laurence Peter)
| Your Thinking is Abstract and Sequential |
 You like to do research and collect lots of information. The more facts you have, the easier it is for you to learn. You need to figure things out for yourself and consider all possibilities. You tend to become an expert in the subjects that you study. It's difficult for you to work with people who know less than you do. You aren't a very patient teacher, and you don't like convincing people that you're right. |
QED: I'm not stuffing about when I should be studying, I'm being abstract and sequential...
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Procrastination: putting off until tomorrow what you put off yesterday until today. (Laurence Peter)
The Analysis Continues Unabated....
I told you I wasn't &*!@&!! negative!!!
You Are a Little Negative... |
 You can be negative from time to time, but you rarely go overboard. You have a realistic view of the world, and most people appreciate your honest insights. Like everyone else, you have your darker moods. But when you're feeling super negative, you keep your feelings to yourself. |
And anyway, apophatic theology is good for you!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: A pessimist is merely what an optimist calls a realist. (Anon)
Saturday, June 07, 2008
And Just To Prove To You That I'm NOT A Nutbar...
See, I told you so!
Live long and prosper!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: I don't believe in aliens living on planets as such, but I do believe there's stuff going on in this room that none of us have any idea about. (Barry Sonnenfeld)
There's a 16% Chance You've Been Abducted By Aliens |
 There's virtually no chance you've been abducted by aliens. But there's always hope for the future! |
Live long and prosper!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: I don't believe in aliens living on planets as such, but I do believe there's stuff going on in this room that none of us have any idea about. (Barry Sonnenfeld)
And Just To Show You All That It's A Load Of Bollocks....
Index fingers, take note!
You get the point?
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: One finger in the throat and one finger in the rectum makes for a good diagnostician. (Sir William Osler)
| You Are a Ring Finger |
 You are romantic, expressive, and hopeful. You see the best in everything. You are very artistic, and you see the world as your canvas. You are also drawn to the written word. Inventive and unique, you are often away in your own inner world. You get along well with: The Pinky Stay away from: The Index Finger |
You get the point?
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: One finger in the throat and one finger in the rectum makes for a good diagnostician. (Sir William Osler)
No Oedipal Complexes Here!
Having just taken the Ice Cream Personality Test, I couldn't resist letting ol' Sigmund having a go, either. And, I have to say, Doc Freud is pretty well on the mark!
Naturally, any objections will be noted and ignored in due course!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: A psychiatrist is the only person who goes to a strip show in order to watch the audience. (Mervyn Stockwood)
You Are in the Genital Stage of Development |
 According to Dr. Freud, you've reached the genital stage of development. Whatever issues you may have had in your childhood have been resolved. You don't have any hang ups, and you are able to function as a stable adult. You are the model of being well-adjusted, and you are able to balance your life beautifully. |
Naturally, any objections will be noted and ignored in due course!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: A psychiatrist is the only person who goes to a strip show in order to watch the audience. (Mervyn Stockwood)
The Rum n Raisin Personality Test...
As I have just completed an outstanding task, I thought I'd reward myself by posting one of those blogthing quizzes (and besides, it's been a while since I indulged). And speaking of indulgence, I couldn't go past the Ice Cream Personality Test. And this is what resulted:
Personally, I think it's a tad contradictory in parts. On the other hand, I suspect many of you who know me will think it's spot on!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. (Wallace Stevens)
Your Ice Cream Personality: |
 You are a bit of a bragger. Your personality is larger than life - and you really enjoy showing off. You are incredibly cautious. You rather miss out on something than make a mistake. No one would ever call you wild... but they would call you responsible. You are a somewhat open minded person, but deep down you're fairly conservative. You don't like trying new things very much. And if you do find something new you like, you stick with it. You tend to have a one track mind. You prefer not to multitask. You can be a big dramatic and over the top sometimes. You are bold in every way |
Personally, I think it's a tad contradictory in parts. On the other hand, I suspect many of you who know me will think it's spot on!
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. (Wallace Stevens)
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Knock (Or At Least Ring The Bloody Bell) And Ye Shall Enter!
What is it with people and locked doors?
At the service station where I put in an occasional appearance behind the counter, we have a security policy that requires the front door to be locked for the overnight shifts. This means that customers wishing to enter the store must be admitted by the console operator on duty; and if the operator isn't immediately available, there's a bell the customers can push to attract their attention.
So...picture the scene at night. The door is locked. A customer has just filled up with petrol and is approaching the store to make payment. The operator (Yours Truly) is out of sight stacking the shelves. The customer encounters the locked door. Do they ring the bell to get my attention? Do they read the sign on the door asking them to ring the bell if the door is locked?
I wish! No, upon encountering the locked door and realising that it's locked, customers decide that the best method of getting my attention is to yank harder on the door. And not only do they pull harder on the door in their attempts to open it, they also try to push it open with as much vigour. The result is that my attention is not attracted by the sound of the bell, it's drawn by the screeching of the shop door as its being yanked fairly off its hinges!
So I ask again: what is it with people and locked doors? Why don't they realise that if the door is locked, trying to force it open is not a viable option? And why do they never see the sign on the door asking them to ring the bell if the door is locked? Honestly, it's the architectural equivalent of thinking that speaking IN A SLOW AND LOUD VOICE will magically enable foreigners to understand English!
Mind you, I don't know why I am so surprised, as this is a familiar phenomenon to me. When I worked in the CBD, I was in an office which had locked front doors (partially as a consequence of the nature of the work; partially because of the not infrequent depredations of the local squatters). It also featured a sign (right next to the door handle) asking people to ring the bell to get the attention of staff. But did it make a blind bit of difference? Not likely! People still pushed and pulled the door with all their vim and vigour, as if their lives depended on it!
I sometimes wonder whether or not being in a public place makes the average citizen a complete bonehead. It's like another phenomenon I've observed, especially in cinemas and theatres and the like, wherein people insist on gathering in large, obstructive groups right in the middle of the doorway. Maybe it's some kind of environmental gene that switches on and renders the possessor thereof unable to do anything other than the one thing that will cause maximum inconvenience to others. Likewise with the locked door; maybe some malevolent DNA strand whispers in their biochemical ear and says: Okay, Joe: this is the bit where you leave your brains in the car. That's a locked door up ahead; just ignore the sign asking you to behave rationally, and instead yank on the damned thing like a demented idiot.
Sigh...maybe I should just resign myself to the proposition that it's an inevitable aspect of human psychology that, when confronted by the unexpected, people will insist on trying to make the expected occur, instead of rationally assessing the situation and responding to it on its own terms. Or maybe the simple, brutal fact is that people are idiots.
Except me, of course. Anyone who maintains a blog must have their head screwed on right...
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Logic is the art of getting it wrong with confidence. (Joseph Krutch)
At the service station where I put in an occasional appearance behind the counter, we have a security policy that requires the front door to be locked for the overnight shifts. This means that customers wishing to enter the store must be admitted by the console operator on duty; and if the operator isn't immediately available, there's a bell the customers can push to attract their attention.
So...picture the scene at night. The door is locked. A customer has just filled up with petrol and is approaching the store to make payment. The operator (Yours Truly) is out of sight stacking the shelves. The customer encounters the locked door. Do they ring the bell to get my attention? Do they read the sign on the door asking them to ring the bell if the door is locked?
I wish! No, upon encountering the locked door and realising that it's locked, customers decide that the best method of getting my attention is to yank harder on the door. And not only do they pull harder on the door in their attempts to open it, they also try to push it open with as much vigour. The result is that my attention is not attracted by the sound of the bell, it's drawn by the screeching of the shop door as its being yanked fairly off its hinges!
So I ask again: what is it with people and locked doors? Why don't they realise that if the door is locked, trying to force it open is not a viable option? And why do they never see the sign on the door asking them to ring the bell if the door is locked? Honestly, it's the architectural equivalent of thinking that speaking IN A SLOW AND LOUD VOICE will magically enable foreigners to understand English!
Mind you, I don't know why I am so surprised, as this is a familiar phenomenon to me. When I worked in the CBD, I was in an office which had locked front doors (partially as a consequence of the nature of the work; partially because of the not infrequent depredations of the local squatters). It also featured a sign (right next to the door handle) asking people to ring the bell to get the attention of staff. But did it make a blind bit of difference? Not likely! People still pushed and pulled the door with all their vim and vigour, as if their lives depended on it!
I sometimes wonder whether or not being in a public place makes the average citizen a complete bonehead. It's like another phenomenon I've observed, especially in cinemas and theatres and the like, wherein people insist on gathering in large, obstructive groups right in the middle of the doorway. Maybe it's some kind of environmental gene that switches on and renders the possessor thereof unable to do anything other than the one thing that will cause maximum inconvenience to others. Likewise with the locked door; maybe some malevolent DNA strand whispers in their biochemical ear and says: Okay, Joe: this is the bit where you leave your brains in the car. That's a locked door up ahead; just ignore the sign asking you to behave rationally, and instead yank on the damned thing like a demented idiot.
Sigh...maybe I should just resign myself to the proposition that it's an inevitable aspect of human psychology that, when confronted by the unexpected, people will insist on trying to make the expected occur, instead of rationally assessing the situation and responding to it on its own terms. Or maybe the simple, brutal fact is that people are idiots.
Except me, of course. Anyone who maintains a blog must have their head screwed on right...
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Logic is the art of getting it wrong with confidence. (Joseph Krutch)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
I'm Now A (Self) Published Author!
Yes, that's right - I've decided to self-publish my first novel!
Hunting the Shadows is a psycho-thriller set in contemporary Melbourne, pitched against a backdrop of political machinations and personal corruption. Two damaged police officers have to find a dangerous serial sex offender who is stalking vulnerable women - all the while battling their own demons and trying to avoid the fallout from internal police politics and individual ambition.
I've published the book through Lulu, a well-known self-publishing business. You can purchase your own copy by clicking on the little icon on the right hand side.
So, please - help this struggling author and get the benefit of a great read!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Authors are like uncaptured criminals: they're the only people free from routine. (Eric Linkletter)
Hunting the Shadows is a psycho-thriller set in contemporary Melbourne, pitched against a backdrop of political machinations and personal corruption. Two damaged police officers have to find a dangerous serial sex offender who is stalking vulnerable women - all the while battling their own demons and trying to avoid the fallout from internal police politics and individual ambition.
I've published the book through Lulu, a well-known self-publishing business. You can purchase your own copy by clicking on the little icon on the right hand side.
So, please - help this struggling author and get the benefit of a great read!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Authors are like uncaptured criminals: they're the only people free from routine. (Eric Linkletter)
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Marvellous Manuscripts
My Dearly Beloved and I recently went to the State Library of Victoria to view the Medieval Manuscripts exhibition.
The hall in which the exhibition is staged isn't quite ideal for the purpose - a tad cramped, inclined to be stuffy, and the information signs were frequently too small or badly placed to read - but these minor inconveniences were easily overshadowed by the treasures within.
And what marvels they were! Beautifully rendered manuscripts, many of them illuminated with extraordinary illustrations, and characterised by the most astonishing penmanship. There were breviaries, lectionaries, hymnals, bestiaries, editions of Ptolemy and Livy and the Augustan History...a wonderful variety of precious manuscripts, created with exquisite care and painstaking attention to detail.
But for me, the two most captivating aspects were:
The hall in which the exhibition is staged isn't quite ideal for the purpose - a tad cramped, inclined to be stuffy, and the information signs were frequently too small or badly placed to read - but these minor inconveniences were easily overshadowed by the treasures within.
And what marvels they were! Beautifully rendered manuscripts, many of them illuminated with extraordinary illustrations, and characterised by the most astonishing penmanship. There were breviaries, lectionaries, hymnals, bestiaries, editions of Ptolemy and Livy and the Augustan History...a wonderful variety of precious manuscripts, created with exquisite care and painstaking attention to detail.
But for me, the two most captivating aspects were:
- The miniatures. These were pint-sized books that nonetheless were as embellished and beautiful as their larger counterparts. How extraordinary was the penmanship, line after line of tiny handwriting reproduced with disciplined and unwavering hands. The effort that creating these miniatures must have taken is almost incomprehensible - you can certainly understand how and why more than one scribe went blind creating these marvels.
- The hymnals. What was most intriguing about these were the musical notations: they were different and yet vaguely familiar as well. Certainly, you could identify the origins of the modern musical system, given the notations were set against the familiar five line stave. But the notations themselves lacked stems, meaning they were identifiable through their different shapes and whether or not they were solid or hollow. Also, the elaborate script that accompanied the music must have been hard to read, especially by candle light!
So if you're looking for a diverting hour or so wondering at the industry that produced these manuscripts, and admiring their sheer beauty, get along to the State Library. It's well worth it!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: The library: a sort of harem. (Ralph Waldo Emmerson)
Saturday, April 19, 2008
China Review: The Great Wall
The Great Wall of China has to be seen to be believed.
Unlike other engineering projects of the ancient world, such as the Pyramids of Giza, the Great Wall was not entirely a single construction undertaken at a specific period of time. During the Spring and Autumn and the Warring States periods (8th-3rd centuries BC), China was divided into a number of petty kingdoms constantly at war with one another, and with surrounding peoples. Many of the northern kingdoms built local walls as a defensive measure against their nomadic tribal neighbours. However, after China was unified by the Emperor Qin Qi Huang in 222BC, he decided to create a single defensive wall to protect his northern border.
The result was the Great Wall, which linked the local walls together and created vast new stretches of wall. To be sure, later dynasties carried out their own works on the Wall, extending and strengthening the existing battlements (indeed, the Great Wall as it is seen by most tourists is the product of extensive Ming Dynasty construction); but the Great Wall as it essentially exists was the product of the Qin Dynasty.
It is reported that more than one million Chinese worked on the Wall, and for most of them, being drafted into the workforce was a death sentence - or, at the very least, a decree in effect that they were to be permanently relocated. It is estimated that thousands of labourers died during the Wall's construction from a variety of causes ranging from exposure to the elements, lack of food, construction accidents, and sheer neglect by imperial officials. When you consider that the population of China at this time is estimated to have been about 5 million people, the scale of the project - and the human suffering it engendered - becomes apparent. And simply beggars belief.
We went to the Wall near a place called Simatai, about two hours out of Beijing. Unfortunately, the smog from the city followed us all the way out to the countryside, although it was nowhere near as bad as Beijing itself, and in any event did not spoil the spectacle. The landscape appeared dead and barren, nothing more than dry, brown grass and rocky earth. This was a stark reminder that the land approaching Beijing is an upland plateau, where sparse rain and seasonal cold combine to produce what is essentially tundra. Indeed, the winters are so harsh that the grass is either burned off or falls dormant - which accounts for the brownness of the land.
Simatai itself is a remote valley nestled amid steep mountains. Relatively few tourists go there (which is precisely what attracted us to the location), but there were nevertheless the ubiquitous stalls at the entrance selling all sorts of nik-naks to the tourists. Up until this point, I had managed to avoid playing the tourist, but on this occasion I succumbed and bought a fur-lined army hat with ear flaps and a bright red star at the front. It made me look very silly (or sillier than I normally look, if you insist on absolute accuracy of reporting!); but I can assure you, I was extremely grateful for the ear flaps once we climbed up onto the Wall itself!
Our first glimpse of the Great Wall was both breath-taking and daunting. High above the valley floor, running along a line of razor-back ridges, the Wall lept from precipice to precipice almost like a living creature - no wonder it was often called the Great Dragon. At regular intervals, square towers jutted toward the sky like the remote eyries of some bird of prey. With a sense of foreboding and anticipation, we started the climb toward the Wall.
It was exhausting! The path to the Wall was smooth and well-made, but the land rose in sharp inclines that taxed our stamina - and as most of you will know, I have very little of that to begin with! Once we met the ruined turret where the path met the Wall, we were faced by long, seemingly endless banks of steps to the next watchtower. Needless to say, I only managed a modest amount of climbing before enough was enough. Others of our party, much fitter than Yours Truly, managed to climb to impressive heights. Indeed, Gary, the other adult on the trip, was virtually skipping up the inclines, with a smile on his dial and a song on his lips - much to my annoyance!
Even so, the view from the watchtower where I stopped to rest/have a coronary was extraordinary. The valley of Simatai lay before me, while to either side, the mountains rose to even greater heights. In the distance, the vista consisted of line after line of jagged peaks, much like the serried ranks of approaching warriors. A chill wind whippd across the Wall, forcing me to once more don the jacket I had stripped off during the climb - and making me glad of my furry hat!
It struck me that life for the soldiers garrisoning the Wall must have been pretty miserable; but for those troops stationed along this particular section, their existence must have been especially wretched. Each watchtower looked like it could house between 20 and 50 soldiers, and it would have been their lot to pace the Wall, keeping a lookout for incursions from the wild tribal lands beyond. The conditions in which they did so ranged from freezing cold to blistering heat, and like all frontier troops, they probably suffered from a combination of boredom, exposure, poor supply, and the depradations of a remote, indifferent officialdom.
And the reality is that, impressive an achievement though it undoubtedly is, the Great Wall was relatively ineffective. It was too static a defence to deal with the highly mobile tribal nations of the north, and the troops were spread far too thinly along its great length to be of any use to any particular section that was under attack. Certainly, the Great Wall proved entirely ineffective against Genghis Khan and his Mongols, as well as against the later Manchu invaders who established China's last dynasty, the Qing.
But all of this was of little moment as we contemplated the views, marvelled at the titanic scale of the construction, and pondered the enormous human cost that accompanied the Wall's completion and maintenance. Words do not do justice to the spectacle of the Wall, and pictures can only convey a partial image, at best. The Great Wall really has to be seen to be believed!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Let observation with extensive view, survey mankind, from China to Peru; remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, and watch the busy scenes of crowded life. (Samuel Jonson).
Unlike other engineering projects of the ancient world, such as the Pyramids of Giza, the Great Wall was not entirely a single construction undertaken at a specific period of time. During the Spring and Autumn and the Warring States periods (8th-3rd centuries BC), China was divided into a number of petty kingdoms constantly at war with one another, and with surrounding peoples. Many of the northern kingdoms built local walls as a defensive measure against their nomadic tribal neighbours. However, after China was unified by the Emperor Qin Qi Huang in 222BC, he decided to create a single defensive wall to protect his northern border.
The result was the Great Wall, which linked the local walls together and created vast new stretches of wall. To be sure, later dynasties carried out their own works on the Wall, extending and strengthening the existing battlements (indeed, the Great Wall as it is seen by most tourists is the product of extensive Ming Dynasty construction); but the Great Wall as it essentially exists was the product of the Qin Dynasty.
It is reported that more than one million Chinese worked on the Wall, and for most of them, being drafted into the workforce was a death sentence - or, at the very least, a decree in effect that they were to be permanently relocated. It is estimated that thousands of labourers died during the Wall's construction from a variety of causes ranging from exposure to the elements, lack of food, construction accidents, and sheer neglect by imperial officials. When you consider that the population of China at this time is estimated to have been about 5 million people, the scale of the project - and the human suffering it engendered - becomes apparent. And simply beggars belief.
We went to the Wall near a place called Simatai, about two hours out of Beijing. Unfortunately, the smog from the city followed us all the way out to the countryside, although it was nowhere near as bad as Beijing itself, and in any event did not spoil the spectacle. The landscape appeared dead and barren, nothing more than dry, brown grass and rocky earth. This was a stark reminder that the land approaching Beijing is an upland plateau, where sparse rain and seasonal cold combine to produce what is essentially tundra. Indeed, the winters are so harsh that the grass is either burned off or falls dormant - which accounts for the brownness of the land.
Simatai itself is a remote valley nestled amid steep mountains. Relatively few tourists go there (which is precisely what attracted us to the location), but there were nevertheless the ubiquitous stalls at the entrance selling all sorts of nik-naks to the tourists. Up until this point, I had managed to avoid playing the tourist, but on this occasion I succumbed and bought a fur-lined army hat with ear flaps and a bright red star at the front. It made me look very silly (or sillier than I normally look, if you insist on absolute accuracy of reporting!); but I can assure you, I was extremely grateful for the ear flaps once we climbed up onto the Wall itself!
Our first glimpse of the Great Wall was both breath-taking and daunting. High above the valley floor, running along a line of razor-back ridges, the Wall lept from precipice to precipice almost like a living creature - no wonder it was often called the Great Dragon. At regular intervals, square towers jutted toward the sky like the remote eyries of some bird of prey. With a sense of foreboding and anticipation, we started the climb toward the Wall.
It was exhausting! The path to the Wall was smooth and well-made, but the land rose in sharp inclines that taxed our stamina - and as most of you will know, I have very little of that to begin with! Once we met the ruined turret where the path met the Wall, we were faced by long, seemingly endless banks of steps to the next watchtower. Needless to say, I only managed a modest amount of climbing before enough was enough. Others of our party, much fitter than Yours Truly, managed to climb to impressive heights. Indeed, Gary, the other adult on the trip, was virtually skipping up the inclines, with a smile on his dial and a song on his lips - much to my annoyance!
Even so, the view from the watchtower where I stopped to rest/have a coronary was extraordinary. The valley of Simatai lay before me, while to either side, the mountains rose to even greater heights. In the distance, the vista consisted of line after line of jagged peaks, much like the serried ranks of approaching warriors. A chill wind whippd across the Wall, forcing me to once more don the jacket I had stripped off during the climb - and making me glad of my furry hat!
It struck me that life for the soldiers garrisoning the Wall must have been pretty miserable; but for those troops stationed along this particular section, their existence must have been especially wretched. Each watchtower looked like it could house between 20 and 50 soldiers, and it would have been their lot to pace the Wall, keeping a lookout for incursions from the wild tribal lands beyond. The conditions in which they did so ranged from freezing cold to blistering heat, and like all frontier troops, they probably suffered from a combination of boredom, exposure, poor supply, and the depradations of a remote, indifferent officialdom.
And the reality is that, impressive an achievement though it undoubtedly is, the Great Wall was relatively ineffective. It was too static a defence to deal with the highly mobile tribal nations of the north, and the troops were spread far too thinly along its great length to be of any use to any particular section that was under attack. Certainly, the Great Wall proved entirely ineffective against Genghis Khan and his Mongols, as well as against the later Manchu invaders who established China's last dynasty, the Qing.
But all of this was of little moment as we contemplated the views, marvelled at the titanic scale of the construction, and pondered the enormous human cost that accompanied the Wall's completion and maintenance. Words do not do justice to the spectacle of the Wall, and pictures can only convey a partial image, at best. The Great Wall really has to be seen to be believed!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Let observation with extensive view, survey mankind, from China to Peru; remark each anxious toil, each eager strife, and watch the busy scenes of crowded life. (Samuel Jonson).
Thursday, April 17, 2008
China Review: Beijing
Those of you who follow this blog regularly may (or may not) have noticed that I've been a little quiescent of late. That's because I've only just come back from a three-week trip to China with my Dearly Beloved, Gary, a former colleague of my Dearly Beloved's, and 21 teenagers. (Well, okay, I've been back a week or so -details!).
The reason why this trip was undertaken lies in the fact that my Dearly Beloved teaches Chinese as a Second Language to high school students, as part of which, she has for many years now been taking groups of students on trips to China as part of their language and cultural development. She changed schools at the start of 2008, but this trip was her last task for the old employer; and Yours Truly and Gary were the other "responsible adults" (in my case, "responsible" was utilised in its broadest possible context) taken along to give her a hand.
I have to admit, I was slightly nervous at the prospect. I have never been to China, and despite the fact that I love Chinese history, I was vaguely aware that I was travelling to a country whose way of life and worldview would be entirely different to mine. So there was very much a sense of "the other". On the other hand, I was also quite excited; the prospect of seeing marvels such as the Great Wall and the entombed warriors of Xi'an was a history buff's dream come true. So it was with mixed feelings that I boarded the plane at Tullamarine Airport for the long haul to Beijing (via Sydney and Shanghai).
I won't bore you with the details of the flight. I had intended to keep a diary, and managed to do so for the first week and a bit; but then the constant travelling and the fatigue this induced mitigated against doing so. Thus, I have determined to break my recollection of events into bit-sized chunks following a basic format. Hopefully, this will give you an insight into my thoughts and feelings at the time, as well as the results of post-event processing in what passes for my mind.
Overview
Beijing is an astonishing megalopolis. Just imagine the high-density, built up CBD of an Australian city extending for square mile after square mile, and that is what Beijing looks like. Or, rather, that's what Beijing looks like when you can see through the smog. I kid you not, the smog has to be experienced to be understood; you know you're in a polluted city when you know there's a skyscraper 100 yards away, but it is completely obscured from view by a thick, yellow pall of smoke, dust, and fumes. On the other hand, there are days in Beijing when the sky is blue, the sun is bright, and the air is clear; on these days, you appreciate just how vast a city Beijing is. Beijing is a place of extraordinary contrasts: of extremes of wealth and poverty; of ancient monuments and ultra-modern construction; of hectic pace and serene, contemplative peace. You have to hit the ground running when you land in Beijing, otherwise it can mess with your head!
Highlights
Without a doubt, the historical monuments, many of which have undergone considerable preservation and renovation in recent years, were the highlight. The Summer Palace, the Temple of Heaven, the Forbidden City, and the Yonghe Gong (Lama) Temple were all endlessly fascinating. The first three are monuments to the secluded splendour and majesty in which the Chinese Emperors lived, vast projects involving the construction of palaces and temples, lakes and artificial mountains. It is truly astonishing to think that these seemingly boundless reserves of material and human resources were all at the disposal, and deployed for the enjoyment of, a single individual. The fourth is a precinct of calm and serenity in the midst of Beijing's chaotic sprawl, an operating temple still reverently attended by Buddhist monks where people still come to pray and undertake their religious observances. A lovely complex of gardens and temples and courtyards, it culminates in a colossal (and yet oddly inconspicuous) carving of the Buddha, wrought from a single piece of white sandalwood and standing three stories high!
Beijing also has two lovely gardens, Beihei Park and Jingshan Park, which were once exclusive imperial domains, but are now open to the public. You can stroll through lovely gardens, sit in exquisite pagodas, or contemplate the scenery. On the weekends, the Chinese flock to the parks in droves, making their own entertainment in dance, music, public speaking, or having their photo taken with foreigners. (I declined.)
Lowlights
The smog, the general pushiness of the average Beijinger (precipitated, I suspect, by the fact that life for the average Joe in Beijing is pretty hard), and the presence of snooty ex-pats from all over the world presently resident in Beijing who tend to be arrogant and condescending to both tourists and the locals alike (largely because they're making a fortune from China's economic boom and enjoying a life denied to most Chinese - and even themselves, were they still living in their native country).
The Traffic
The first thing you notice about Beijing is the traffic. There's lots of it, and it is constantly moving. This makes being a pedestrian extremely dangerous, a hazardous condition not helped by the fact that it appears that cars have the right of way. And they come at you from every direction. And yet, oddly, the whole system seems to work, not least because everybody's doing the same thing; but also because the traffic seems to operate on the very Taoist notion of flow and movement - water moving around the rocks, as it were. People just change lanes at will (and are let in); merging traffic just merges on the (correct, as it turns out) assumption that others will make way for them; and pedestrians and bicycles just ease their way through the interstices between vehicles. It's frightening until you get used to it; but once you are, you can appreciate the internal logic. And the thing is, there are hardly any traffic snarls or backlogs in Beijing; by an ironic twist, the only traffic jams we encountered were in Shanghai, which seems to have replicated the West right down to the level of traffic gridlock!
Food
Generally speaking, the food was great. And the reason I enjoyed it was because it was completely unlike the "Chinese" food you get in Australia - this was the real deal! No sweet and sour, no lemon chicken, no banana fritters; just good, honest, north Chinese fare. Ironically, this was the very cause of the teenagers' discontent; they were used to the "Chinese" they'd grown up on in Australia, and couldn't get their heads (or their taste buds) around the genuine article. Sure, there were one or two dishes I wasn't keen on, and I haven't lost my preference for south Asian cuisine; but let me say right now, I discovered a new appreciation for authentic Chinese cooking. Yet the irony is that the culinary highlight wasn't Chinese but Tibetan; the roast yak steak we had at a Tibetan restaurant in Beijing was just sublime, like the best lamb shanks I've ever had - but even better! And the cumin spicing that went with it just added an extra dimension of flavoursomeness, none of which was spoiled by the smooth and hugely enjoyable Tibetan beer. Yum!
Well, that's a snapshot of Beijing. Next: the Great Wall! PS: Why are there no photos - long story, will tell you later!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: May you live in interesting times. (Chinese curse)
The reason why this trip was undertaken lies in the fact that my Dearly Beloved teaches Chinese as a Second Language to high school students, as part of which, she has for many years now been taking groups of students on trips to China as part of their language and cultural development. She changed schools at the start of 2008, but this trip was her last task for the old employer; and Yours Truly and Gary were the other "responsible adults" (in my case, "responsible" was utilised in its broadest possible context) taken along to give her a hand.
I have to admit, I was slightly nervous at the prospect. I have never been to China, and despite the fact that I love Chinese history, I was vaguely aware that I was travelling to a country whose way of life and worldview would be entirely different to mine. So there was very much a sense of "the other". On the other hand, I was also quite excited; the prospect of seeing marvels such as the Great Wall and the entombed warriors of Xi'an was a history buff's dream come true. So it was with mixed feelings that I boarded the plane at Tullamarine Airport for the long haul to Beijing (via Sydney and Shanghai).
I won't bore you with the details of the flight. I had intended to keep a diary, and managed to do so for the first week and a bit; but then the constant travelling and the fatigue this induced mitigated against doing so. Thus, I have determined to break my recollection of events into bit-sized chunks following a basic format. Hopefully, this will give you an insight into my thoughts and feelings at the time, as well as the results of post-event processing in what passes for my mind.
Overview
Beijing is an astonishing megalopolis. Just imagine the high-density, built up CBD of an Australian city extending for square mile after square mile, and that is what Beijing looks like. Or, rather, that's what Beijing looks like when you can see through the smog. I kid you not, the smog has to be experienced to be understood; you know you're in a polluted city when you know there's a skyscraper 100 yards away, but it is completely obscured from view by a thick, yellow pall of smoke, dust, and fumes. On the other hand, there are days in Beijing when the sky is blue, the sun is bright, and the air is clear; on these days, you appreciate just how vast a city Beijing is. Beijing is a place of extraordinary contrasts: of extremes of wealth and poverty; of ancient monuments and ultra-modern construction; of hectic pace and serene, contemplative peace. You have to hit the ground running when you land in Beijing, otherwise it can mess with your head!
Highlights
Without a doubt, the historical monuments, many of which have undergone considerable preservation and renovation in recent years, were the highlight. The Summer Palace, the Temple of Heaven, the Forbidden City, and the Yonghe Gong (Lama) Temple were all endlessly fascinating. The first three are monuments to the secluded splendour and majesty in which the Chinese Emperors lived, vast projects involving the construction of palaces and temples, lakes and artificial mountains. It is truly astonishing to think that these seemingly boundless reserves of material and human resources were all at the disposal, and deployed for the enjoyment of, a single individual. The fourth is a precinct of calm and serenity in the midst of Beijing's chaotic sprawl, an operating temple still reverently attended by Buddhist monks where people still come to pray and undertake their religious observances. A lovely complex of gardens and temples and courtyards, it culminates in a colossal (and yet oddly inconspicuous) carving of the Buddha, wrought from a single piece of white sandalwood and standing three stories high!
Beijing also has two lovely gardens, Beihei Park and Jingshan Park, which were once exclusive imperial domains, but are now open to the public. You can stroll through lovely gardens, sit in exquisite pagodas, or contemplate the scenery. On the weekends, the Chinese flock to the parks in droves, making their own entertainment in dance, music, public speaking, or having their photo taken with foreigners. (I declined.)
Lowlights
The smog, the general pushiness of the average Beijinger (precipitated, I suspect, by the fact that life for the average Joe in Beijing is pretty hard), and the presence of snooty ex-pats from all over the world presently resident in Beijing who tend to be arrogant and condescending to both tourists and the locals alike (largely because they're making a fortune from China's economic boom and enjoying a life denied to most Chinese - and even themselves, were they still living in their native country).
The Traffic
The first thing you notice about Beijing is the traffic. There's lots of it, and it is constantly moving. This makes being a pedestrian extremely dangerous, a hazardous condition not helped by the fact that it appears that cars have the right of way. And they come at you from every direction. And yet, oddly, the whole system seems to work, not least because everybody's doing the same thing; but also because the traffic seems to operate on the very Taoist notion of flow and movement - water moving around the rocks, as it were. People just change lanes at will (and are let in); merging traffic just merges on the (correct, as it turns out) assumption that others will make way for them; and pedestrians and bicycles just ease their way through the interstices between vehicles. It's frightening until you get used to it; but once you are, you can appreciate the internal logic. And the thing is, there are hardly any traffic snarls or backlogs in Beijing; by an ironic twist, the only traffic jams we encountered were in Shanghai, which seems to have replicated the West right down to the level of traffic gridlock!
Food
Generally speaking, the food was great. And the reason I enjoyed it was because it was completely unlike the "Chinese" food you get in Australia - this was the real deal! No sweet and sour, no lemon chicken, no banana fritters; just good, honest, north Chinese fare. Ironically, this was the very cause of the teenagers' discontent; they were used to the "Chinese" they'd grown up on in Australia, and couldn't get their heads (or their taste buds) around the genuine article. Sure, there were one or two dishes I wasn't keen on, and I haven't lost my preference for south Asian cuisine; but let me say right now, I discovered a new appreciation for authentic Chinese cooking. Yet the irony is that the culinary highlight wasn't Chinese but Tibetan; the roast yak steak we had at a Tibetan restaurant in Beijing was just sublime, like the best lamb shanks I've ever had - but even better! And the cumin spicing that went with it just added an extra dimension of flavoursomeness, none of which was spoiled by the smooth and hugely enjoyable Tibetan beer. Yum!
Well, that's a snapshot of Beijing. Next: the Great Wall! PS: Why are there no photos - long story, will tell you later!
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: May you live in interesting times. (Chinese curse)
Friday, February 29, 2008
Redemption and Grace
I recently watched a little film called My House In Umbria. It's a film I first saw at the flicks a couple of years ago, and then my Dearly Beloved bought the DVD, which we've both since re-watched a number of times.
The film stars Dame Maggie Smith, dear old Ronnie Barker (in the last film he made before he died), the noted English comedian Timothy Spall, and Italian actor Giancarlo Gianini (who looks very much like an Italian Ian Turpey!). The plot is simple enough: a group of strangers are travelling on a train in Italy, when a bomb in their carriage explodes, killing some and seriously wounding the others. The survivors end up convalescing at the Umbrian country home of Emma Delahunty (Smith), an English ex-pat with a checkered past who has made a living for herself writing romance novels. They include a retired English major (Barker), a young German political activist named Werner, and an American girl who retreats into silence as a result of being traumatised by the explosion. All three are mourning the loss of loved ones in the bombing; while their hostess, who lives alone (with the exception of her manager and groundsman, played by Spall) mourns a life of dashed hopes and ill-fated romances.
Slowly, the strange group begin to re-awaken a sense of purpose and meaning in life, primarily through a project involving the re-creation of an English cottage garden in Delahunty's sprawling, if ill-kept grounds. But their tranquility is threatened on two fronts: Inspector Giotto (Gianini) is determined to catch those responsible for the bombing, and makes frequent calls in which he asks uncomfortable questions; and the American girl's stiff-necked uncle has arrived to take custody of her, thereby breaking the bond of friendship the group has formed.
I won't tell you how these plot threads play themselves out. Needless to say, it's a simple story beautifully told through a combination of stunning cinematography and sympathetic performances. In particular, the scenes filmed around the small Umbrian hill-town near Delahunty's villa, and those shot in and around Sienna, are just breathtaking. Smith is superb as always, Ronnie Barker gives us a performance that reminds us he was a skilled character actor long before he achieved fame as a comedian, Spall is charming and ironic, and Gianini is urbane and graceful.
However, what most strikes the viewer about this film are the themes of grace and redemption that run like dual threads through the plot. All the characters (with the exception of the little girl, whose flaws are a consequence of her trauma) are broken people in one degree or another, burdened by loss, despair, and regret. But they are able to find redemption in the most unlikely of places: in one another's brokenness. The mutual encounter of their bruised and vulnerable humanity causes them to minister to one another; unconsciously at first, and then with a growing sense of warmth and intimacy as their shared sanctuary and desire to re-create the English cottage garden Delahunty longs for enables them to re-form the bonds of their common humanity. And with that humanity comes recognition of a shared need for human contact and engagement, irrespective of how many times that contact has hurt them in the past.
And herein lies their redemption: their capacity to find their way back to hope, to being able to see forward again, not in denial of the past, but in spite of it, even as they carry that past into the future. Their redemption is their capacity to re-affirm themselves, and one another, in the face of everything that negates their affirmation. It is the very weakness and vulnerability of their humanity, as a shared experience, that enables them to become more than the sum of who they are.
My House in Umbria is a modest film, simply made. It won't make anyone's Top Ten list. But it is an eminently worthwhile film to see, both for its own simple beauty, and because of the moving and affirming portrait of vulnerable humanity which it paints.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Laughter is the closest thing to the grace of God. (Karl Barth)
The film stars Dame Maggie Smith, dear old Ronnie Barker (in the last film he made before he died), the noted English comedian Timothy Spall, and Italian actor Giancarlo Gianini (who looks very much like an Italian Ian Turpey!). The plot is simple enough: a group of strangers are travelling on a train in Italy, when a bomb in their carriage explodes, killing some and seriously wounding the others. The survivors end up convalescing at the Umbrian country home of Emma Delahunty (Smith), an English ex-pat with a checkered past who has made a living for herself writing romance novels. They include a retired English major (Barker), a young German political activist named Werner, and an American girl who retreats into silence as a result of being traumatised by the explosion. All three are mourning the loss of loved ones in the bombing; while their hostess, who lives alone (with the exception of her manager and groundsman, played by Spall) mourns a life of dashed hopes and ill-fated romances.
Slowly, the strange group begin to re-awaken a sense of purpose and meaning in life, primarily through a project involving the re-creation of an English cottage garden in Delahunty's sprawling, if ill-kept grounds. But their tranquility is threatened on two fronts: Inspector Giotto (Gianini) is determined to catch those responsible for the bombing, and makes frequent calls in which he asks uncomfortable questions; and the American girl's stiff-necked uncle has arrived to take custody of her, thereby breaking the bond of friendship the group has formed.
I won't tell you how these plot threads play themselves out. Needless to say, it's a simple story beautifully told through a combination of stunning cinematography and sympathetic performances. In particular, the scenes filmed around the small Umbrian hill-town near Delahunty's villa, and those shot in and around Sienna, are just breathtaking. Smith is superb as always, Ronnie Barker gives us a performance that reminds us he was a skilled character actor long before he achieved fame as a comedian, Spall is charming and ironic, and Gianini is urbane and graceful.
However, what most strikes the viewer about this film are the themes of grace and redemption that run like dual threads through the plot. All the characters (with the exception of the little girl, whose flaws are a consequence of her trauma) are broken people in one degree or another, burdened by loss, despair, and regret. But they are able to find redemption in the most unlikely of places: in one another's brokenness. The mutual encounter of their bruised and vulnerable humanity causes them to minister to one another; unconsciously at first, and then with a growing sense of warmth and intimacy as their shared sanctuary and desire to re-create the English cottage garden Delahunty longs for enables them to re-form the bonds of their common humanity. And with that humanity comes recognition of a shared need for human contact and engagement, irrespective of how many times that contact has hurt them in the past.
And herein lies their redemption: their capacity to find their way back to hope, to being able to see forward again, not in denial of the past, but in spite of it, even as they carry that past into the future. Their redemption is their capacity to re-affirm themselves, and one another, in the face of everything that negates their affirmation. It is the very weakness and vulnerability of their humanity, as a shared experience, that enables them to become more than the sum of who they are.
My House in Umbria is a modest film, simply made. It won't make anyone's Top Ten list. But it is an eminently worthwhile film to see, both for its own simple beauty, and because of the moving and affirming portrait of vulnerable humanity which it paints.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Laughter is the closest thing to the grace of God. (Karl Barth)
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
What's In A Name?
I know I've been a little silent of late, so, inspired by the recent example of my buddy Caro, I thought I'd browse the blogthings site to see if I could post something a little light-hearted to tide over anyone who might happen to be reading this blog on even a quasi-regular basis.
I came across the "quiz" "What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?" I thought it sounded sufficiently innocuous to post on this blog. Here's the result:
I must say, the results surprised me a little, so being the analysis junkie I am, I thought we could explore this outcome a little more. Line by line, as it were.
The first five statements of paragraph one demonstrate immediately that whoever compiled this little "secret hidden meaning" gizmo knows jack shite about Yours Truly. In the words of Edmund Blackadder, I'm about as energetic, spirited, and boisterous as an asthmatic ant with a load of heavy shopping. Who are they talking about? Me, the lumpen proletariat extraordinaire - or some git who exists only in the imagination of an adrenalin junkie hopped to the eyeballs on NoDoze and Red Bull? The only sentence in this para that bears any resemblance to moi is that, yes, on occasion I am wont to get a mite tetchy. Aside from that, however, it's like looking in the mirror and seeing not me but Bruce McAvaney (shudder).
For para two, read as per above, especially the drivel about having a ton of energy. I have about as much energy as a solar panel hidden down a mineshaft. Rebel? Cranky, maybe. Cantankerous, possibly. Curmudgeounly (a word employed often by my Dearly Beloved) probably. But rebellious? Benedict Arnold was more rebellious than I am. I do get into trouble - but that's probably a consequence of the manifold defects of my personality, not as a result of any spirit of rebelliousness. And as for the trouble being "fun" - well, it's clear to me that whoever wrote this blogquiz has the same sense of "fun" as the Maquis de Sade or the Spanish Inquisition...
Para three is interesting only because it largely contradicts the preceeding two paragraphs. I don't know anyone who bounces off walls and thinks parachuting off buildings is fun who is also friendly, charming and warm. From memory, Noel Coward got about in an evening gown, a pipe, and a pair of comfy slippers, not a backpack full of energy bars and a sketchy, second-hand map of the amazon jungle. Get along with anyone - who are they kidding? To me, the word "friend" denotes only two things: one, a word in Tarzan's severly limited vocabulary; and, two, the title of the most overrated show in television history. Sorry, three things: as the old saying goes, a friend in need is someone to be avoided. I try not to rock the boat? Um, doesn't that really contradict the stuff about me being a huge rebel? And my "easy going" attitude clears buildings quicker than you could say "Who's that guy in reception who looks like Osama bin Laden?" Flaky? Irresponsible? They've obviously have mistaken these words as similies for indifferent...
Para four was much closer to the truth. Yes, I am wise. Yes, I understand the world better than most people. That's exactly why most people don't like me. Pure, unrestrained jealousy. And, yes, I am very imaginative. I have imaginary friends. I see them all the time. They talk to me...But then they lost the plot. Paranoid? Me? Listen, buddy, it's true: they are out to get me, and everyone does hate me, okay? Just because I'm unpopular doesn't mean I'm paranoid. And, no, that guy in the pub the other night wasn't just ordering two drinks...he was making a secret signal to all his cohorts in the Ancient Grand Order of Woollen Vests and Sock Suspenders that the Great Day of Apotheosis is nigh...
The next para reckons I'm balanced, ordely, and organised...uh-huh, this is the guy they just described as over-imaginative and paranoid, right? The bloke who gets a tad too upset on occassion and usually needs to be tied into his chair he's so hyperactive? I could have told them if they'd only bothered to consult with me that the only reason I remotely resemble order is because I'm so static. Being able to occupy the same space for a geological age may present the illusion that I'm cool, calm, and collected, but once you look past the encrusting lichen you'll realise that motionlessness is simply - motionlessness. Powerful and competent - in the workplace? I'm not even powerful and competent in my wildest dreams! And can someone please explain to me what the hell work is? Stubborn, headstrong, powerful personality - see, I told you: I'm the literal immoveable object.
And finally, we come to the last para that tells me I'm strong and confident and like the best of everything - isn't perfectionist just a synonym for whinging git? - and that I exude more authority than a fully tooled-up battle group bristling with tactical nukes and a nasty hangover. Again, what happened to paranoid? Or is confidence just paranoia that doesn't recognise itself? And what the bejeezers is a "Type A" personality. I don't even know what my blood type is, let alone my personality "type". For all I know, "Type A" personalities could denote anyone who thinks "The A Team" was the pinnacle of 80s television and that mohawks on aging African-American he-men is an appealing look. And even I'm not that sad. Well, not completely...
Final diagnosis: this thing's a crock. But I guess we already knew that. It provided a laugh, and a forum for me to get a few things off my chest. So if you'll just excuse me, I'm off to talk to my imaginative friends about all the people who hate me. In a calm and authoritive manner, while planning my next crazy escapade around the Andes Mountains.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Mediocrites are people who are always at their best. (Somerset Maugham)
I came across the "quiz" "What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?" I thought it sounded sufficiently innocuous to post on this blog. Here's the result:
| What Brendan Means |
 You are wild, crazy, and a huge rebel. You're always up to something.You have a ton of energy, and most people can't handle you. You're very intense.You definitely are a handful, and you're likely to get in trouble. But your kind of trouble is a lot of fun. You are friendly, charming, and warm. You get along with almost everyone.You work hard not to rock the boat. Your easy going attitude brings people together.At times, you can be a little flaky and irresponsible. But for the important things, you pull it together. You are very intuitive and wise. You understand the world better than most people.You also have a very active imagination. You often get carried away with your thoughts.You are prone to a little paranoia and jealousy. You sometimes go overboard in interpreting signals. You are balanced, orderly, and organized. You like your ducks in a row.You are powerful and competent, especially in the workplace.People can see you as stubborn and headstrong. You definitely have a dominant personality. You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. You have the classic "Type A" personality. |
I must say, the results surprised me a little, so being the analysis junkie I am, I thought we could explore this outcome a little more. Line by line, as it were.
The first five statements of paragraph one demonstrate immediately that whoever compiled this little "secret hidden meaning" gizmo knows jack shite about Yours Truly. In the words of Edmund Blackadder, I'm about as energetic, spirited, and boisterous as an asthmatic ant with a load of heavy shopping. Who are they talking about? Me, the lumpen proletariat extraordinaire - or some git who exists only in the imagination of an adrenalin junkie hopped to the eyeballs on NoDoze and Red Bull? The only sentence in this para that bears any resemblance to moi is that, yes, on occasion I am wont to get a mite tetchy. Aside from that, however, it's like looking in the mirror and seeing not me but Bruce McAvaney (shudder).
For para two, read as per above, especially the drivel about having a ton of energy. I have about as much energy as a solar panel hidden down a mineshaft. Rebel? Cranky, maybe. Cantankerous, possibly. Curmudgeounly (a word employed often by my Dearly Beloved) probably. But rebellious? Benedict Arnold was more rebellious than I am. I do get into trouble - but that's probably a consequence of the manifold defects of my personality, not as a result of any spirit of rebelliousness. And as for the trouble being "fun" - well, it's clear to me that whoever wrote this blogquiz has the same sense of "fun" as the Maquis de Sade or the Spanish Inquisition...
Para three is interesting only because it largely contradicts the preceeding two paragraphs. I don't know anyone who bounces off walls and thinks parachuting off buildings is fun who is also friendly, charming and warm. From memory, Noel Coward got about in an evening gown, a pipe, and a pair of comfy slippers, not a backpack full of energy bars and a sketchy, second-hand map of the amazon jungle. Get along with anyone - who are they kidding? To me, the word "friend" denotes only two things: one, a word in Tarzan's severly limited vocabulary; and, two, the title of the most overrated show in television history. Sorry, three things: as the old saying goes, a friend in need is someone to be avoided. I try not to rock the boat? Um, doesn't that really contradict the stuff about me being a huge rebel? And my "easy going" attitude clears buildings quicker than you could say "Who's that guy in reception who looks like Osama bin Laden?" Flaky? Irresponsible? They've obviously have mistaken these words as similies for indifferent...
Para four was much closer to the truth. Yes, I am wise. Yes, I understand the world better than most people. That's exactly why most people don't like me. Pure, unrestrained jealousy. And, yes, I am very imaginative. I have imaginary friends. I see them all the time. They talk to me...But then they lost the plot. Paranoid? Me? Listen, buddy, it's true: they are out to get me, and everyone does hate me, okay? Just because I'm unpopular doesn't mean I'm paranoid. And, no, that guy in the pub the other night wasn't just ordering two drinks...he was making a secret signal to all his cohorts in the Ancient Grand Order of Woollen Vests and Sock Suspenders that the Great Day of Apotheosis is nigh...
The next para reckons I'm balanced, ordely, and organised...uh-huh, this is the guy they just described as over-imaginative and paranoid, right? The bloke who gets a tad too upset on occassion and usually needs to be tied into his chair he's so hyperactive? I could have told them if they'd only bothered to consult with me that the only reason I remotely resemble order is because I'm so static. Being able to occupy the same space for a geological age may present the illusion that I'm cool, calm, and collected, but once you look past the encrusting lichen you'll realise that motionlessness is simply - motionlessness. Powerful and competent - in the workplace? I'm not even powerful and competent in my wildest dreams! And can someone please explain to me what the hell work is? Stubborn, headstrong, powerful personality - see, I told you: I'm the literal immoveable object.
And finally, we come to the last para that tells me I'm strong and confident and like the best of everything - isn't perfectionist just a synonym for whinging git? - and that I exude more authority than a fully tooled-up battle group bristling with tactical nukes and a nasty hangover. Again, what happened to paranoid? Or is confidence just paranoia that doesn't recognise itself? And what the bejeezers is a "Type A" personality. I don't even know what my blood type is, let alone my personality "type". For all I know, "Type A" personalities could denote anyone who thinks "The A Team" was the pinnacle of 80s television and that mohawks on aging African-American he-men is an appealing look. And even I'm not that sad. Well, not completely...
Final diagnosis: this thing's a crock. But I guess we already knew that. It provided a laugh, and a forum for me to get a few things off my chest. So if you'll just excuse me, I'm off to talk to my imaginative friends about all the people who hate me. In a calm and authoritive manner, while planning my next crazy escapade around the Andes Mountains.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Mediocrites are people who are always at their best. (Somerset Maugham)
Friday, February 01, 2008
Holidays Schmolidays!
I know, strictly speaking, this post is by definition a matter of faith, and therefore should be posted on my other blog, but I thought for general amusement purposes, it would be better suited here.
When my Dearly Beloved and I were affirmed as candidates to the ordained ministry of the Uniting Church in 2007, all the current candidates told us we should enjoy the forthcoming Summer as our last "free" Summer, because every Summer from now on would be occupied with placements and, eventually, ministry.
I should have realised it at the time, but these injunctions to enjoy our last "free" Summer were a harbinger that the Universe's sense of humour was about to swing into action at our expense. For this Summer has been anything but "free", and my Dearly Beloved and I have been kept quite busy with matters ministerial.
This state of affairs has arisen because our much-loved local minister has fallen prey to a severe back condition that requires him to spend extended periods in enforced immobilisation. And that's before the necessary surgery occurs, which will entail further rest and recuperation. So, the church council decided that, given two of its congregation are candidates to the ministry (you know who I'm talking about, don't you?), it would be a terrific idea if they were temporarily appointed as ministerial locums.
Now, before I go any further, I have to say that my Dearly Beloved and I are counting ourselves as extremely fortunate that we are members of a congregation blessed, not only with a brilliant leadership group, but any number of gifted and capable people as well, which means that much of the burden that being a ministerial locum might otherwise involve has been taken off our shoulders. So it's not like we'd want you to believe that we were suddenly presented with the task of looking after a congregation all on our own. Still...
There's been enough to be getting on with. I won't go into all the boring details, except to say that this Summer past has been anything but restful! I can hear the Universe laughing its cosmic head off even as I type. And people keep assuring us that this has all been good experience - and they're right - but I can't avoid the sneaking suspicion that I'm owed a long, lazy Summer before such things vanish into the realms of past experience...
Ah, well, c'est la vie! And I have to admit, there have been some profound and thought-provoking moments in all of this, including some interesting personal insights and an apposite reminder about the need for personal humility. Most importantly, it has reminded me of the needs for grace and sensitivity when dealing with others, that everything we do in faith is an act of ministry - and that ministry exists for purposes that have nothing to do with our own desires and ends.
We're not sure how long the present interim arrangements will last; with the support of the church council and the congregation, we're taking this one day at a time. And most of all, we're praying our minister makes a full recovery and is back on deck as soon as the healing process allows.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
One has to accept life on the same terms as the public baths, or crowds, or travel. Things will get thrown at you and things will hit you. Life's no soft affair. (Seneca)
When my Dearly Beloved and I were affirmed as candidates to the ordained ministry of the Uniting Church in 2007, all the current candidates told us we should enjoy the forthcoming Summer as our last "free" Summer, because every Summer from now on would be occupied with placements and, eventually, ministry.
I should have realised it at the time, but these injunctions to enjoy our last "free" Summer were a harbinger that the Universe's sense of humour was about to swing into action at our expense. For this Summer has been anything but "free", and my Dearly Beloved and I have been kept quite busy with matters ministerial.
This state of affairs has arisen because our much-loved local minister has fallen prey to a severe back condition that requires him to spend extended periods in enforced immobilisation. And that's before the necessary surgery occurs, which will entail further rest and recuperation. So, the church council decided that, given two of its congregation are candidates to the ministry (you know who I'm talking about, don't you?), it would be a terrific idea if they were temporarily appointed as ministerial locums.
Now, before I go any further, I have to say that my Dearly Beloved and I are counting ourselves as extremely fortunate that we are members of a congregation blessed, not only with a brilliant leadership group, but any number of gifted and capable people as well, which means that much of the burden that being a ministerial locum might otherwise involve has been taken off our shoulders. So it's not like we'd want you to believe that we were suddenly presented with the task of looking after a congregation all on our own. Still...
There's been enough to be getting on with. I won't go into all the boring details, except to say that this Summer past has been anything but restful! I can hear the Universe laughing its cosmic head off even as I type. And people keep assuring us that this has all been good experience - and they're right - but I can't avoid the sneaking suspicion that I'm owed a long, lazy Summer before such things vanish into the realms of past experience...
Ah, well, c'est la vie! And I have to admit, there have been some profound and thought-provoking moments in all of this, including some interesting personal insights and an apposite reminder about the need for personal humility. Most importantly, it has reminded me of the needs for grace and sensitivity when dealing with others, that everything we do in faith is an act of ministry - and that ministry exists for purposes that have nothing to do with our own desires and ends.
We're not sure how long the present interim arrangements will last; with the support of the church council and the congregation, we're taking this one day at a time. And most of all, we're praying our minister makes a full recovery and is back on deck as soon as the healing process allows.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
One has to accept life on the same terms as the public baths, or crowds, or travel. Things will get thrown at you and things will hit you. Life's no soft affair. (Seneca)
Sunday, January 20, 2008
A Gentle Reminder...
For those of you who missed my earlier posting on this matter, I now have two blogs. Confessions from a Comfortable Couch will continue to contain my musings and ramblings about life in general.
However, I now have a specific blog for matters of faith - reflections, sermons I've preached, prayers, etc - which now appear on my other blog The Still Circle.
Also, you should catch my Dearly Beloved's blog with some of her latest entries - a sermon she preached recently, as well as some Advent reflections. Great stuff, especially the beautiful pictures that accompany her posts.
Talk to you soon,
BB
However, I now have a specific blog for matters of faith - reflections, sermons I've preached, prayers, etc - which now appear on my other blog The Still Circle.
Also, you should catch my Dearly Beloved's blog with some of her latest entries - a sermon she preached recently, as well as some Advent reflections. Great stuff, especially the beautiful pictures that accompany her posts.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Much Ado About Cricket
When Michael Clarke captured Ishant Sharma's wicket to give Australia an unlikely victory in the Second Test in Sydney, I thought: India didn't deserve that. They had batted gallantly and fought hard to stave off defeat, and had come agonisingly close to succeeding. Then, in five remarkable balls, Clarke took three wickets and snatched victory from the jaws of a draw.
Since then it appears that all hell has broken loose. There are several issues involved, and in the present frenzy, it is difficult to separate them; but it is imperative that this separation occurs, otherwise the dispute will not be resolved, and the damage it is doing to cricket will not be healed.
First, there's the issue of umpiring. There is no question that, in this match, the Indians suffered a number of poor umpiring decisions, at least some of which adversely impacted upon their fortunes. They have a right to feel aggrieved. But it is also true that copping bad decisions is part and parcel of cricket: there isn't a person who has played the game, at whatever level, who hasn't suffered from a bad umpiring decision. But along with the disappointment that naturally results from such incidents, you also - hopefully - learn to accept that umpires are human; and that being human, they from time to time have bad games and make bad decisions. In other words, you learn to swallow your sense of moral outrage, knowing the odds are pretty good that you'll eventually benefit from a bad decision made in your favour.
With all due respect, it appears that the Indian team, and the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) have forgotten this cricketing truism. Feeling aggrieved is one thing; accusing an umpire of incompetence (or is this really a coded accusation of bias?) and demanding the removal of that umpire is something else altogether. For starters, prior to the introduction of the international umpiring panel, touring the sub-continent was proverbial for suffering at the hands of sub-standard umpiring; the Indians are frankly the last people who should be pointing the finger on this score. More importantly, the last three wickets which Michael Clarke captured had nothing to do with bad umpiring; and plenty of Indian wickets fell as a consequence of poor shot selection. More than bad umpiring, the Indians contrived at their own demise.
If this weren't bad enough, the International Cricket Council's (ICC) craven submission to the BCCI's demands that one of the two umpires who officiated in the Syndey Test be removed has only made matters worse. Umpire Steve Bucknor has now been effectively tried and convicted of incompetence, without the benefit of either due process or an appeal - unlike the Indian player accused of racism (see below). For an umpire, who is supposed to be sacrosanct in the respect they are afforded, to be treated in such a shabby manner by the game's administrators, only reinforces the message that if you complain loud and long enough, and if you have the financial muscle to back your complaints, you'll get your way regardless. The ICC might call this pragmatic - I call it gutless.
Next, there is the issue of poor sportsmanship. On this point, the Indians are on much more substantial ground. Frankly, the conduct of the Australian players in the immediate aftermath of their victory was pretty deplorable. Sure, they had every right to be jubilant; but the essence of sportsmanship is being able, in the moment of your victory, to acknowledge the efforts of your opponents and pay them due regard for the competition they provided. The scenes of the Australian players carrying on like drunken teenagers and urging the crowd into transports of triumphalistic ecstasy was distasteful to say the least. If you were coach of a team of 10 year olds who behaved in this fashion, you'd bang their heads together and tell them to behave themselves - I don't see why adults should be exempt from this requirement. Compare this with the grace and dignity with which the English player Andrew Flintoff consoled the Australian players after their narrow loss in the Second Test of the 2005 Ashes series, and the response of the Australians in this latest match was, by contrast, shabby in the extreme.
Then there's the issue of sledging, which also comes under poor sportsmanship. The Australians are notorious sledgers; they are by no means the only ones who sledge, but they are the ones most closely associated with this practice. Let me be clear: sledging is not gamesmanship, the skill of gaining a psychological advantage over your opponent - it is personal abuse, pure and simple. And it seems to me that the Australians long ago forgot the difference between the two. Passing personal remarks and insulting comments is not the same using your skill as a player or adopting a personal approach that intimidates the opposition into surrendering the psychological initiative. Putting opponents off their game by abusing them takes neither skill nor intellect; it's just school-yard bullying transported to the cricket field.
I don't know if the Australians engaged in any sledging in this match (though it seems highly likely that they did), but it does appear that their past habit of doing so at least provided the fuel for the present explosion of indignation and accusation. And when it seemed as though, in their pursuit of victory, the Australians made dubious appeals and claimed wickets that were not theirs to claim, instances of past sledging ignited feelings of grievance and victimisation among the Indian players and officials. I believe that it was these past instances of bad behaviour by the Australians, as much as any instances of sledging in the recent match, which Indian captain Anil Kumble had in mind when he accused the Australians of not playing in the spirit of the game. And I think the Australians need to take a good, long hard look at themselves and realise that victories accomplished, to whatever degree, by sledging are hollow victories indeed.
Finally, there is the spectre of racism. I wasn't on the field when Indian player Harbhajan Singh allegedly called Andrew Symonds a "monkey". I wasn't at the hearing in which match referee Mike Proctor sustained the allegations against Singh and imposed a three match ban. I don't know what evidence was adduced, for and against, the allegation. But at least Singh has had the benefit of a hearing, and will be able to lodge an appeal - which is more courtesy than has been afforded to umpire Bucknor. If Harbhajan called Symonds a "monkey" - the taunt that Indian crowds yelled at him during Australia's recent tour of India -then he deserves to be banned. If he is innocent, the Australians must be examined as to why they lodged the complaint, and made to account accordingly.
Racism must be stamped out of all walks of life. In the past - and the last South African tour of Australia comes to mind - sections of the Australian public racially abused players from other countries. Fortunately, Australia's cricketing and civil authorities have taken steps to prevent this from reoccurring - more than the Indian authorities appear to have done with respect to the racists among their own spectators. And for the BCCI to demand that Harbhajan be cleared or else the present tour will be cancelled is a disgrace; this is a demand that undermines the integrity of the whole process. Granted, the Indians are to an extent entitled to feel miffed that it is one of their players who are among the first to be suspended under the ICC's racism code, especially given the history of racism which Indians, Pakistanis, West Indians, and others have had to endure. But in order for the code to be effective and to have integrity, it must apply to all without exception, regardless of historical injustices; as soon as conditions begin to be placed on the application of the code, it becomes a farce.
So, how does this get resolved? To begin, the captains must take the lead and set the example by their own behaviour. They must be seen to be engaging one another in a spirit of sportsmanship and mutual respect - and not just for show, but genuinely, as part of their integral approach to the game. And the players must follow the example set. And the cricketing boards of the various nations must respect the independence and sanctity of the umpires and disciplinary officials. The "talking" has to be done with bat and ball, and not at press conferences or through the issuing of threats and ultimatums. Any other course simply cheapens the game and makes a mockery of the values which it supposedly represents.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Since then it appears that all hell has broken loose. There are several issues involved, and in the present frenzy, it is difficult to separate them; but it is imperative that this separation occurs, otherwise the dispute will not be resolved, and the damage it is doing to cricket will not be healed.
First, there's the issue of umpiring. There is no question that, in this match, the Indians suffered a number of poor umpiring decisions, at least some of which adversely impacted upon their fortunes. They have a right to feel aggrieved. But it is also true that copping bad decisions is part and parcel of cricket: there isn't a person who has played the game, at whatever level, who hasn't suffered from a bad umpiring decision. But along with the disappointment that naturally results from such incidents, you also - hopefully - learn to accept that umpires are human; and that being human, they from time to time have bad games and make bad decisions. In other words, you learn to swallow your sense of moral outrage, knowing the odds are pretty good that you'll eventually benefit from a bad decision made in your favour.
With all due respect, it appears that the Indian team, and the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) have forgotten this cricketing truism. Feeling aggrieved is one thing; accusing an umpire of incompetence (or is this really a coded accusation of bias?) and demanding the removal of that umpire is something else altogether. For starters, prior to the introduction of the international umpiring panel, touring the sub-continent was proverbial for suffering at the hands of sub-standard umpiring; the Indians are frankly the last people who should be pointing the finger on this score. More importantly, the last three wickets which Michael Clarke captured had nothing to do with bad umpiring; and plenty of Indian wickets fell as a consequence of poor shot selection. More than bad umpiring, the Indians contrived at their own demise.
If this weren't bad enough, the International Cricket Council's (ICC) craven submission to the BCCI's demands that one of the two umpires who officiated in the Syndey Test be removed has only made matters worse. Umpire Steve Bucknor has now been effectively tried and convicted of incompetence, without the benefit of either due process or an appeal - unlike the Indian player accused of racism (see below). For an umpire, who is supposed to be sacrosanct in the respect they are afforded, to be treated in such a shabby manner by the game's administrators, only reinforces the message that if you complain loud and long enough, and if you have the financial muscle to back your complaints, you'll get your way regardless. The ICC might call this pragmatic - I call it gutless.
Next, there is the issue of poor sportsmanship. On this point, the Indians are on much more substantial ground. Frankly, the conduct of the Australian players in the immediate aftermath of their victory was pretty deplorable. Sure, they had every right to be jubilant; but the essence of sportsmanship is being able, in the moment of your victory, to acknowledge the efforts of your opponents and pay them due regard for the competition they provided. The scenes of the Australian players carrying on like drunken teenagers and urging the crowd into transports of triumphalistic ecstasy was distasteful to say the least. If you were coach of a team of 10 year olds who behaved in this fashion, you'd bang their heads together and tell them to behave themselves - I don't see why adults should be exempt from this requirement. Compare this with the grace and dignity with which the English player Andrew Flintoff consoled the Australian players after their narrow loss in the Second Test of the 2005 Ashes series, and the response of the Australians in this latest match was, by contrast, shabby in the extreme.
Then there's the issue of sledging, which also comes under poor sportsmanship. The Australians are notorious sledgers; they are by no means the only ones who sledge, but they are the ones most closely associated with this practice. Let me be clear: sledging is not gamesmanship, the skill of gaining a psychological advantage over your opponent - it is personal abuse, pure and simple. And it seems to me that the Australians long ago forgot the difference between the two. Passing personal remarks and insulting comments is not the same using your skill as a player or adopting a personal approach that intimidates the opposition into surrendering the psychological initiative. Putting opponents off their game by abusing them takes neither skill nor intellect; it's just school-yard bullying transported to the cricket field.
I don't know if the Australians engaged in any sledging in this match (though it seems highly likely that they did), but it does appear that their past habit of doing so at least provided the fuel for the present explosion of indignation and accusation. And when it seemed as though, in their pursuit of victory, the Australians made dubious appeals and claimed wickets that were not theirs to claim, instances of past sledging ignited feelings of grievance and victimisation among the Indian players and officials. I believe that it was these past instances of bad behaviour by the Australians, as much as any instances of sledging in the recent match, which Indian captain Anil Kumble had in mind when he accused the Australians of not playing in the spirit of the game. And I think the Australians need to take a good, long hard look at themselves and realise that victories accomplished, to whatever degree, by sledging are hollow victories indeed.
Finally, there is the spectre of racism. I wasn't on the field when Indian player Harbhajan Singh allegedly called Andrew Symonds a "monkey". I wasn't at the hearing in which match referee Mike Proctor sustained the allegations against Singh and imposed a three match ban. I don't know what evidence was adduced, for and against, the allegation. But at least Singh has had the benefit of a hearing, and will be able to lodge an appeal - which is more courtesy than has been afforded to umpire Bucknor. If Harbhajan called Symonds a "monkey" - the taunt that Indian crowds yelled at him during Australia's recent tour of India -then he deserves to be banned. If he is innocent, the Australians must be examined as to why they lodged the complaint, and made to account accordingly.
Racism must be stamped out of all walks of life. In the past - and the last South African tour of Australia comes to mind - sections of the Australian public racially abused players from other countries. Fortunately, Australia's cricketing and civil authorities have taken steps to prevent this from reoccurring - more than the Indian authorities appear to have done with respect to the racists among their own spectators. And for the BCCI to demand that Harbhajan be cleared or else the present tour will be cancelled is a disgrace; this is a demand that undermines the integrity of the whole process. Granted, the Indians are to an extent entitled to feel miffed that it is one of their players who are among the first to be suspended under the ICC's racism code, especially given the history of racism which Indians, Pakistanis, West Indians, and others have had to endure. But in order for the code to be effective and to have integrity, it must apply to all without exception, regardless of historical injustices; as soon as conditions begin to be placed on the application of the code, it becomes a farce.
So, how does this get resolved? To begin, the captains must take the lead and set the example by their own behaviour. They must be seen to be engaging one another in a spirit of sportsmanship and mutual respect - and not just for show, but genuinely, as part of their integral approach to the game. And the players must follow the example set. And the cricketing boards of the various nations must respect the independence and sanctity of the umpires and disciplinary officials. The "talking" has to be done with bat and ball, and not at press conferences or through the issuing of threats and ultimatums. Any other course simply cheapens the game and makes a mockery of the values which it supposedly represents.
Talk to you soon,
BB
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