Working normally

2:13pm

Well, I'm assured that you can now scroll away to your heart's content.. Do let me know if there's still a problem.

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Scrolling

10:34am

Thanks to those of you who have written about the problem scrolling down the page. I'm assured that it's being worked on. I'm as frustrated as you are - it's galling writing posts and no one being able to read them.

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Mr Offensive-Moron and the little Offensive-Morons

5:22pm

I mentioned below that I'd return to the subject of British audiences. Forgive the narcissism, but here's what I had to say in December 2002:

According to the reviews, the performance of Mahler's Sixth Symphony that I went to last week was "transcendent", "emotionally perfect" and "violently good". A friend called me the following morning and told me that it was one of the most powerful experiences of her life.

I wouldn't know. My body was in the concert hall, and my ears are in full working order. But neither were any use to me. The London Symphony Orchestra might as well have been playing "Chopsticks" for all the impact the Mahler had on me. Sitting in the row in front of me, you see, was the family from hell. I don't know their names, but let's call them the Offensive-Morons.

The parents - I assume they were the parents rather than brazen child molesters - spent the entire time stroking and kissing their kids, mock conducting, stretching out their arms across the back of their seats as if they were on the sofa at home and, just for good measure, bobbing their heads up and down in time with the music.

They were cocooned in their own world, with not the slightest concern for anyone around. I doubt that it even crossed their mind that they were doing anything wrong, so unabashed was their behaviour.

Oh yes, I should also have mentioned that Mr Offensive-Moron also seemed to think that the finest expression of his love for his children was to whisper in their ears as the concert wore on and the poor little mites - they were about 10 years old - got bored. When they started getting restless, he didn't whisper to them to sit still, but smiled at them and blew them kisses.

I attempted the tried and tested method of shutting up an annoying neighbour: a well aimed kick in the back of the seat. Nothing. A killer combination of the family's total self-absorption, and the Barbican seat's wooden solidity, meant that the only effect was a painful toe. And Mrs Offensive-Moron made herself fully at home when the mood took her during the quieter passages, snuggling up to her husband and blowing him kisses.

This particular family may have been especially horrific, but they are merely grotesque extensions of the downside of the increasing accessibility of culture. The old formal rules of behaviour at the theatre, concerts and opera - dressing up in black tie and all that, and the feeling that unless you were part of a closed circle then it wasn't your lot to attend - were indeed far too stifling.

The laissez-faire attitude of today may have opened up cultural institutions to millions, but there is a downside. Today, you come as you please, and behave as you please. It's your right. If you want to flick through your programme, fine. If you want to use your programme as a fan - a particular favourite during the summer Proms in the Royal Albert Hall - fine. If you want to cough, fine.

If you want to unwrap sweets, fine. If you want to fidget, fine. If you want to wander off to the loo, fine. If you want to chat, fine. And if you believe some of the stories - I have to confess this is not something I have (yet) witnessed myself - then if you want to have sex, fine. When going out is as easy, and as normal, as staying in, then we behave the same in the theatre, or the concert hall, as we do in the living room. And so we don't have a thought for those around us.

But we are not at home. The very point of the theatre is to be out of the house, and part of a crowd. And being part of a crowd has obligations - not shouting "fire" for devilment, for example, in a crowded room. When I go to White Hart Lane I do not want to hear someone near me shout "come on Arsenal". I behave as is expected of me.

The root of the problem is that we have moved too far from the oppressive rules of old in the other direction. Culture is now too readily accessible. We don't need to make an effort with it.

You wanna hear Beethoven's Ninth? Pop on a CD. Fancy the St Matthew Passion? Which version?

We have forgotten - or, more truthfully, never learned - how to listen. When the St Matthew Passion was written it was heard at Easter, once every very few years. A performance was an event, an event which we had no way of even attempting to recreate. Today, we can record the performance and then listen to it in the bath. We can have its choruses playing as background music while we eat.

When was the last time you sat down in your own home to listen to a full performance of a piece of music, with no other distractions? When, in fact, was the last time you spent an hour focused on any one thing, and that one thing alone?

It's hardly surprising that we take that behaviour, and that attitude, into the concert hall with us. Mr and Mrs Offensive-Moron, and the little Offensive-Morons, might indeed have ruined my concert last week, but one thing is for sure: they are going to ruin quite a few others as they get older.

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One law for Israel, another for Fatah

3:56pm

The standard position on Gaza is that Israel should have dealt with the democratically elected government - Hamas. Let's leave the merits of that aside for a moment. I've yet to hear anyone - Ms Burton-Hill, where are you? - complain about exactly the same stance by President Mahmoud Abbas:

Abbas aide Yasser Abed Rabbo said the new government would be sworn in by Sunday. He also rejected dialogue with Hamas until the group withdraws from former Fatah positions in Gaza and dissolves its militia there. "There will be no dialogue with killers who carried out field executions in Gaza," he said.

So it's fine for the Palestinian President to refuse to negotiate with a terrorist group dedicated to his and his party's destruction. But Israelis must of course do so. For a superb analysis of the situation in Gaza, do read Amir Taheri today:

The immediate cause is the desire by Hamas to bring the security apparatus of Fatah, its rival group in Gaza, under its own control. Months of negotiations with the help of Saudi Arabia failed to persuade Fatah to put its security forces under government (which in practice meant Hamas) command. To Hamas, Fatah’s security machine, led by Muhammad Dahlan, is little better than “the Zionist enemy”. Dahlan, for his part, knew that, without his machine, he would have little chance of making a bid for the presidency when the incumbent, Mahmoud Abbas, is forced out. Dahlan ran a lucrative protection racket in Gaza, set up by the late Yassir Arafat and his family, to bankroll Fatah. Having expelled Fatah, Hamas takes over this protection racket. Despite a $250 million cash gift from Tehran, Hamas has been short of money for almost a year. Thus, seizing control of Arafat’s business empire in Gaza will be a godsend.

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Agent Zigzag

3:16pm

There's a genre of biography which I love: the stories of minor figures who led fascinating lives. By far my favourite is Bernard Wasserstein's simply wonderful biography of Trebitsch Lincoln, which I urge you to read - it's a romp.

In similar vein is Ben Macintyre's biography of Agent Zigzag, Eddie Chapman, It's a fantastic story, very well told. The author has written an afterword for the paperback edition, and extract from which is in today's Times:

An elderly, refined female voice came on the telephone at The Times, and without giving her name declared: “He was an absolute shit, you know. The handsomest man I ever met. But a prize shit.” Then she rang off.

An acquaintance of Chapman’s, the journalist Peter Kinsley, wrote to The Times after Agent Zigzagwas serialised: “Eddie would have loved the publicity. His old friends said he should have worn a T-shirt emblazoned ‘I am a Spy for MI5’. The last time I met him he described how he had missed a fortune in ermine ( used in coronation robes) during a furs robbery, because he thought it was rabbit.

“He also said he successfully convinced a German au pair girl that he was a post office telephone engineer, and robbed the wall safe. He was also once visited by an income tax inspector, and produced a doctor’s certificate that he had a weak heart and could not be ‘caused stress’. Ten minutes later, he drove, in a Rolls-Royce, past the inspector waiting in the rain at a bus stop, and gave him a wave.”

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A perfectly darling little gypsy thingy

2:55pm

I'm sure Deborah Brown is a perfectly lovely lady, but this sentence from today's Times Money is just so horribly...well, you'll either get what I mean or you won't.

DEBORAH BROWN, whose children Antonia, Piers and Frances attend independent schools, was browsing Schoolstrader when she came across an original Gypsy caravan – something she has been seeking for 15 years – priced at £1,500.

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It's not their fault - we made them kill each other

11:09am

An utterly bizarre sentence in Clemency Burton-Hill's utterly bizarre post at the Coffee House yesterday:

For once, on this bleakest of days, I find it hard not to want to blame the Palestinians themselves.

A group of homicidal maniacs engage in murder, beatings, and other savagery and Ms Burton-Hill finds it hard not to want to blame them. As opposed to blaming who? Mickey Mouse? The Nawab of Pataudi? Keith Harris and Orville? Or...here it comes...ISRAEL.

Here's the rest of her paragraph:

The roots of their desperation and grievance may lie in the economic, political and social prison they have been forced into by a combination of Israeli policy and international compliance, but truly, how can this most sickening of internecine wars do anything but damage the legitimacy of their cause?
 
I don't understand. I have met people in Hamas, people in Fatah, and I know they want peace - with each other, and with Israel. My Palestinian friends and acquaintances are some of the most intelligent, reasonable and hopeful people I know. How is this happening? And what can we do about it? What can anyone do about it?

You find it hard not to want to blame the Palestinians. So you don't. Those peace loving folk from Hamas, who want nothing but a quiet life. Let's ignore the irrelevency of their repeated murder of Israelis, let's ignore their expressed desire - indeed, the very purpose of their organisation - to wipe Israel off the map, let's ignore their indoctination of children into suicide bombers. Let's ignore anything they actually say or do, in fact, because clearly the real problem is "Israeli policy and international compliance".

So the terrorists are now doing to each other what they've been to Israelis for years, and the blame lies with Israel. And, oh yes, us: "Maybe, just maybe, if we had not exercised a total embargo on Hamas". We should have welcomed with open arms the election of a terrorist organisation dedicated to the destruction of  Israel and the murder of Israelis. Indeed, we should have dug into our pockets to fund them.

Spare me, Ms Burton-Hill, your warped moral universe.

 

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Brendel and the new Festival Hall

9:57am

I agree with a lot of what Intermezzo has to say about Brendel last night, although I'm a little more upbeat:

The opening Haydn sonata, surprisingly chocker with bum notes even by Brendel's own carefree standards, was otherwise a model of delicacy and restraint.

The Beethoven, again delicately handled, was in interesting contrast to Paul Lewis's performance of the same work a few days back. Where Lewis offered fire and energy, Brendel rounds the edges and lightens the touch. Although Brendel's subtlety seemed a better fit, it was ultimately less engaging.

My idea of an Schubert impromptu is something that sounds improvised, freshly baked - Edwin Fischer's 1938 recording exemplifies this like no other - unfortunately Brendel's though skilfully cooked sounded frozen and reheated.

The closing Mozart sonata was the most completely realised piece of the evening. The extended a piacere in the final movement initiated an explosive coda which Brendel really made his own, the first time in the evening I really felt he was totally engaged at more than an intellectual level.

His swiftly taken encore, the No.2 A flat major Impromptu from Schubert's D.935 set, was equally absorbing, with a far looser, more relaxed feel than his earlier pair. At this point I would have quite happily listened to him for hours more, but sadly despite a load of enthusiastic applause he wasn't up for further encores.

Actually I preferred Brendel's Beethoven to Paul Lewis' (Lewis was, incidentally, a pupil of Brendel). Lewis seemed too impressionistic for me - Brendel last night had a real rigour. The piece seemed almost modern in his hands. As for the Schubert: yes, the encore was by far the best playing of the night - although I'm a sucker for that piece, as it brings back all sorts of nostalgic memories of my uncle playing it to us when I was a kid.

As for the rebuilding, however...

Overall, it seems a job well done. I was surprised at how  familiar everything seemed. At first glance I wondered what all the fuss was about. But that, of course, was a sign of how well it had been done. Keeping the basis of the building but making it work better.

The acoustic seemed good. I was at the back of the stalls (my view, incidentally, was totally obscured by the tower of hair that Lord Gowrie, sitting in front of me, boasts) so am not able to say yet whether the old 'dead' areas are any better.

However, there were some very odd touches. Walking up the stairs, it was clear that they had used the same dreary old carpet. Not the same pattern, mind: the actual carpet. Frayed, stained and dirty. What a bizarre decision to spend millions upon millions on the project but not a few quid on some new carpet.

And the bars were as usesless as ever. In the interval there were two bar staff manning a bar with I would guess over a hundred people pushing around for drinks. The staff were pleasant enough, but useless - they took for ever to open bottles and take money, and when I asked for a tomato juice, the barman looked at me as if I was mad. "We have apple juice", he remarked, about as useful a response as telling me that there's a beach in Hong Kong worth visiting. 

But overall, it seems they've got it right. They just need to tighten things up.

As for the audience, mind...What a rabble. There wasn't a spell of five minutes without someone sneezing as loudly as possible or sharing their hacking cough with the rest of us. Plus the usual mobile phones.

I will return to the subject of British audiences, a topic on which I can bore for Britain.

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E’ come uno che uccide i genitori e poi chiede clemenza ai giudici perché è orfano

2:25pm

  

 
I have a small piece on Tony Blair's 'feral beast' speech in today's Il Foglio. You can read it here (if you speak Italian!).

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The Borathon

2:13pm

No, Clive, it's not just you. I've not even lasted 10 minutes with Dimblebore's borathon. What a total waste of time and money. I've tried two and lost the will to live very early on, for exactly the reasons you mention. 

Contrast it with a programme I happened to catch the other day - Gavin Stamp's Orient Express on Channel Five. I saw only the last one in the series, on Istanbul, but thought it superb - intelligent, enlightening, witty and plain entertaining. An object lesson in architectural programme making.

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