Thought for the Day

Let’s not judge each other on what we listen to in the morning. As it goes I often listen to Radio 4 and Today. Inevitably I have to endure “Thought for the Day” from time to time. I say endure – but it’s about the only time I ever engage with the idea of religion and faith so perhaps it’s good for me. Especially when it’s the Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks who is about as much of a dude as anyone I’ve ever heard on the radio. This morning however it was Rev Dr Giles Fraser.

In a nutshell his gambit was this:  some banking firm (let’s call it JRP – why the frig not?!) recently lost 4 billion pounds in risk-taking blahs that went wrong (you don’t understand so don’t expect me to). So far so normal – these are the arseholes that are keeping you poor and your children poor. Yes, I’m sighing, I know they’re bad; they should be put up against a wall (yawn) and shot* – a light ticking off from the Church probably won’t make much difference. But no. Rev was thinking outside the box. “Risk-taking is part of life. If you eliminate risk, you pretty much eliminate life.” Yep – I’m with you there, Rev. “It’s a risk to believe in God or fall in love with someone – the God you worship may in fact turn out not to exist. [I’m paraphrasing here – I can’t be arsed to wait two days for it to turn up on Listen Again and quote Rev faithfully – it’s only a blog – and I really should be doing other things] The person you’ve fallen for may not love you back. And we cannot prove the existence of God – that’s why it’s called faith.” Whoa, you’ve lost me Rev, and that’s before the strangely persuasive argument you’ve just purported that God does not and cannot exist– ah but you’re a Christian and they don’t really believe in God do they? Not really. I live near a mosque and bugger me do those guys look like they believe in Allah. Anyhow, the hapless Rev had attempted to assimilate 3 wholly different types of risk culminating in the conclusion that unconstrained monetarism was synonymous with God. Quite remarkable.

Let’s take the 3 risks: 1) Bankers at JRP lost 4 billion pounds of other people’s money, safe in the knowledge that the business wouldn’t go bust and if it did, they could just go somewhere else and do exactly the same thing, and if, as happened a few years ago, all the banks went bust at the same time  - which might actually pose a threat to them personally in that nobody (including them) would be able to withdraw cash from a cash machine, then the taxpayer (words chosen carefully – I don’t keep my money in an offshore account – do you?) would be on hand keep them in a well-paid job. All things considered, not really a risk. 2) Falling in love. I’m not aware that people choose to do this – it sort of just happens. And normally they fall in love with an actual person, not just an idea that professes to love them eternally but routinely does bugger all to help anyone. Yes I know love dies – but rarely does it wither completely where there are two people committed to inspiring, amusing, challenging, supporting, romancing and caring for each other. Otherwise known as making a fucking effort. I don’t always do enough of this. And I know that if I don’t I’ll lose the love of an amazing woman. But because I live with her and she’s real – she exists – it’s possible she’ll give me an indication that I might need to try a bit harder. Love is something that exists between two people, not something you scream out to sea waiting for a reply that never comes back. Which brings me to 3) Faith in God. At first it bears a similarity to 2) in that it is rarely a case of free will but it differs in two key respects: firstly the majority of believers have been indoctrinated from childhood (a period in life when the process of falling in love – as we commonly understand it – is chemically, psychologically and physically impossible, despite the best efforts of the Catholic church). Secondly, those who do find God in adulthood tend to have self-esteem issues (and in religion find a necessary crutch to help them live) or serial killers (who are putting in the hard hours before explaining themselves in front of the big man). Both groups find it hard to find willing partners to take the “risk” of falling in love with. There is a third sector – those who have to convert to the religion of the person they’ve fallen in love with. But since they can’t help falling in love – let’s give them a break. Besides, they’re just doing it to get laid.

Having established then that Rev’s musing on risk taking is towards the utter bollocks end of the spectrum consider then what it all adds up to. According to Rev, the utter contempt banking firms like JRP or NOB or DIK or whatever they’re called show for the societies that fund them is analogous to our relationship with God: an omnipresent power we seem unable to rid ourselves off despite overwhelming evidence that it does more harm than good; benefits a tiny minority and enslaves an entire planet. Good work Rev. That is what you meant isn’t it?

*This is a joke – I don’t condone the killing of any bankers, nor the calling of any local councillor an obscene term in reference to the large house he lives in.

Blap Blap.

Ever gone “Blap! Blap!” in mock enthusiasm for something? Yes, it’s embarrassing if you think about it. Mortifying if you deliberate on it. Have I? Of course – like everyone else I’m a bit of a nob. Last Tuesday, desperate to catch the last 10 minutes of the Chelsea-Barca game the only place I could find in Easton showing it was The Black Swan. Excellent – massive screen, sound on. And come the final whistle, loads of men shouting “Blap Blap!” in celebration. It wasn’t funny.

My white middle class brethren have long had a strange predilection for aping the idiosyncracies of other cultures in the name of “comedy.” Safely ensconced in their left-liberal “I was against the war in Iraq” cosylifemobile they can confidently claim to be leagues apart from Bernard Manning, Jim Davidson and Roy Chubby Brown. “It’s ironic when I do it – I’m making a fool out of myself: pass me the ipad I want to sign that online petition about how ghastly it is in Syria.” Yes, you are making a fool out of yourself – but perhaps not in the way you think. I mean, you’re not Sasha Baron Cohen – he’s thought about what he’s doing. And he’s funny. You’re not.

Or are you? I’ve lost count of the number of “comedy raps” where a middle aged white guy says “Yo – homie” and (white) people piss themselves laughing. It’s rife. One of the more bum twitchingly excruciating examples was on Radio 4. Some turdboy was chairing what would have been an interesting debate between Keynesian and Friedmanite economists (Keynes: state intervenes and artificially stimulates the economy – Friedman: leave it all to the market). Prescient, no? Except that the cretinous fartman facilitating the event had taken leave of his senses, and in some leprous attempt to make economics “fun” was exhorting the roomful of academics and experts to state their preference by announcing “Yo Keynes!” or “Yo Friedman!” Oh dear.

Has this guy (or his producer more to the point) actually listened to any rap music? I doubt he’s heard Biggie’s first album. Or Mobb Deep’s “Shook Ones.” Bet you he’s heard Eminem, though. The comedy rap can work – see Flight of the Conchords. But the point is they’re actually quite good. It’s funny because they can do it. They wouldn’t be able to do it if they didn’t listen to it – and like it. And so Rhymenocerous and Hip-Hopopotamus are absolutely priceless: it’s affectionate – and accurate. And they’re professional comedians so they’re good at being funny.

Even the terrific Crack Magazine are up to this nonsense, with their problem page being answered by a fictitious African (?) woman Mavis Botswinga. Here it is on issuu – page 13. At first I believed they really did get the sandwich lady from their local eatery to write their problem page which I thought a spectacularly fun and good move on their part. But unless I’m mistaken I think it‘s just bollocks. And unless I’m equally mistaken Mavis is in all likelihood a young white boy with an asymmetrical haircut. “Chill out, mate” Crack might say if they read this (unlikely) and they’d have a point. It hardly warrants getting one’s knickers in a twist, does it? No – in truth, it does not. And for someone throwing stones at people in print media I am standing in a spectacularly glass house. Of course, it’s also possible that this spoof column is being written by someone of African (big place, mind) heritage. In which case – well, it’s fine isn’t it? Otherwise, it’s a bit...I dunno...racist.

“Why do you care, Wayne? Why you so angry? Is it cos you’re short and you’ve just lost your job.” Very likely. I’ll be the first to admit there are few things duller than a left-liberal eggfest about whether people are using the appropriate language and oh my God what has Ricky Gervais done now? But given a) the British white historical track record and b) the fact that we’ve yet to attain a level of multi-cultural nirvana it might be prudent to leave taking the piss out of other cultures alone.    

The Death of Venue

I asked Eugene Byrne, Venue writer 1984 – 2012 what we could do to stop Venue’s “inevitable slide towards death” as he called it. His answer: a) don’t be owned by the Post and b) kill the internet.

OK.

Let’s start with b. Undeniably the tinterhighwaysuperhub made life difficult for listings magazines – given that all information on everything was available immediately. But never in the same place, and never with a single voice telling you what was shite and what was not. In 2012 if you want to plan your week and weekend ahead it’s still harder to find a more efficient way than a using a printed listings mag and a pen. Ironically, these mags are increasingly hard to find.

Venue, you might be surprised to hear, in the mid nineties was one of the first mags to register a url and have its own website (Mr Byrne’s work). Admittedly having stolen a march, it may have lost a little momentum as everyone else followed suit. However, there would have been something distinctly un-Venuey about an interactive multi-platform bells and whistles digital experience. Venue was never cool. It was bright, it was useful, it was funny and it was for everyone. Therefore not cool. Crack magazine is cool. It’s trendy, it’s niche, it’s young, it’s very good and proof that print media can flourish in today’s climate. Check them out: people at Venue have never looked this good No, Venue was for Families, Pissheads, Music fans, Bookish types, Grumpy Old Men and Twenty/Thirty/Fortysomethings. It was for anyone whose DNA prohibited them from voting tory. Not cool, not niche – just Venue.

Optimistically The Observer recently ran a feature about how young bright things are leading a boom in boutique subscription only magazines about different sorts of felt. But that’s not really Venue either, is it? The truth is that readership figures didn’t actually fall that drastically – ad revenue did: and that’s because people started to think Venue had become a bit shit. And that’s because it went weekly. And that’s got bugger all to do with the tinternob. That’s to do with the Post. Which brings me to b.

When Bristol United Press (owned by Northcliffe Media, owned by the Daily Mail Group) who own the Evening Post bought Venue and decided that it should go weekly – to aid listings - things were buggered, simply because there was not enough going on in Bristol and Bath on a weekly basis to keep the level of quality high enough. Constantly having to churn out another issue each week, there was not time to think strategically about how to navigate the tricky print waters of the noughties. Hence the covers featuring barbecued food and girls at festivals. I’ve been through the archive – there is a marked difference between the quality of the fortnightly and weekly Venue: it’s the same writers – it’s not like they suddenly “got a bit shit.” From then on it was a slippery slide. Changing into a monthly freesheet – a survival plan hatched by the staff – was a rather nimble move and presented an opportunity to get back on track. Venue Publishing has a brilliant ads team who are passionate about the magazine and were coaxing old clients from the weekly days back into investing serious sums in the magazine. It was entirely conceivable that with the revenue they were pulling in Venue could have gone fortnightly and separated from Folio. If it was an Indy. Ah.

Northcliffe are routinely hated. I’m hardly a fan – having started as editor seven weeks ago and now finding myself getting the bullet on the eve of Venue’s 30^th birthday, the timing seems uncanny. Did they really only decide this course of action in the last seven weeks? I’ll never know. The truth is they probably didn’t even know I’d been appointed. My boss, Dave Higgitt, by the way, had no idea. He’s a mate – not a twat (though some would argue). But Northcliffe are just doing what they do. We can hardly be surprised. Nor can any of us point the finger at Dougal Templeton, founder of Venue, for flogging the mag to them back in 2000. He made a packet and gave a packet to the staff. I gather it was a sell-to-us-or-we’ll-go-into-competition-with-you affair. Can’t help thinking the maverick, much loved, left-wing, irreverent Venue might have won that competition. Again, we’ll never know. Blaming Dougal for selling the mag is a bit like blaming your parents for your own shortcomings – completely stupid. It is curious however to hear him being interviewed by BBC radio about the demise of Venue. He’s never called me. But then why would he? He’s got nothing to do with Venue Magazine - he sold Venue to the Mail back in 2000.