The continuing story of the travails of Helen and Rab in Bo’ness.
The continuing story of the travails of Helen and Rab in Bo’ness.
Do to overwhelming
apathy demand I bring you episode three of my life in a Bo’ness Living Room starring my Uncle Helen and Uncle Rab.
Read Amy’s blog post via Education is power
My daughter Amy has set out in life as a nutrition coach. It is exactly the measured thought process you find in this blog that makes her advice hugely valuable. My wife and I have been following her coaching strategy and in three months we have lost 57lbs between is. If that isn’t proof of the pudding I don’t know what is. message me if you’d like details or follow up through her blog.
Clearly this will not appeal to everyone.
As we ride out the early stages of a global viral pandemic it struck me as a good time to read a novel about a global viral pandemic.
This one infected animals so that their meat became poisonus. Consequently a global order was put out to kill ALL animals.
Then there was ‘The Transition.’
In a carnivorous world what meat will carnivores then eat when there is no ‘meat’?
Well, obviously they eat human meat, but not wanting to sound like cannibals the authorities do not allow the citizens to call human meat, ‘human meat’ – that’s punishable by death, and the sale of the resulting cadaver as ‘meat’.
So they are called ‘Heads’, have their vocal chords surgically removed just after birth so that they can’t talk/scream, and are raised to a variety of quality standards.
The hero of our novel is a slaughterhouse manager who is responsible for the buying of Heads and their processing, by way of slaughter.
But his life is complicated.
His beloved Dad is dying, his sister is horrible and leaves him to manage the care of their father, his wife has left him and his young son has died.
He’s lonely, he hates his job, his life and his family.
Then, one day, as a thank you for doing good business with a Head-seller he is given his own young, living, prime-grade female to take home and butcher.
This is an Argentinian novel and is quite heavily stylised, with little or no emotion – that’s left to the reader to take their own views on the proceedings, much of which describes this new, very odd and strangely acceptant society, in dispassionate terms.
It’s short, sharp and to the point and much of it is an allegory for how we consider the meat we consume today. In that respect it’s a great book for vegetarians/vegans to enjoy triumphantly.
The way Bazterrica describes the slaughtering and butchering process is exactly how our animal meat is processed today. Her trick is to anthropomorphize the process and, in so doing, begs the question as to whether this is morally acceptable. “You wouldn’t do it to humans…’ is the central tenet here, if not actually stated.
It’s clever. It’s interestingly, if a little coldly, written and it’s page turning.
It’s a really good political polemic and I found it engrossing. Much is made of societal mores – class, privelege, behaviour, tradition, sexual politics. It’s actually a pretty complex and multi-layered read.
I recommend it. (But only for those of a stout literary constitution.)
That was it. Ten years. Here with my board and executive team at our away day.
I was meant to have a kind of send off but the virus put an end to that.
My Aunt and Uncle live in Borostounness. Known locally and colloquially as Bo’ness.
They have been married 50 years and love each other dearly.
But visiting them is like throwing yourself into a moshpit.
I thought I might at least try to capture some of their fairly unique parlies.
(With, I might add, their blessing.)
By now it’s well known that Boris – a man for whom I hold little in the way of regard – has an almost febrile desire to be considered Churchillian.
Little could he have known that Brexit was not to be his Dunkirk, but that an even greater opportunity lay waiting, just around the corner.
His fight with an invisible enemy would put the ‘Empire’ on a war footing that even he, in his most Winstonesque wet-dreamlike states, could not possibly have imagined.
A legacy waiting to be grasped, as he sets out to tame the greatest threat to have hit peacetime Britannia since 1939, or, as The Donald would call it, ‘ The Chinese Virus’.
This should be his speech to The House before it goes into recess next week.
“Even though large tracts of Britain and many old and famous counties have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Corona and all the odious apparatus of Viral rule, we shall not flag or fail.
We shall go on to the end.
We shall fight in Frome, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be.
We shall fight on the benches, we shall fight on the breeding grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British NHS, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, Donald, fronting the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.”
Perhaps the great unwashed will then forgive him for calling the search for ventilators ‘Operation Last Gasp.’ Or his Dad for responding to Boris’ hopeless attempt to reduce social gatherings by asking our hostelry owners to take on the consequences of shutdown with no hope of insurance support by saying ‘Bugger that, I’m off to the pub.”
But then, you can’t choose your parents.
Odious creeps or otherwise.
Some 20 or so years ago I lay by a pool in the Algarve, Portugal, and read Peter Carey’s source book of the same name for this movie. It had just won the Booker Prize and, if I’m honest, it didn’t blow me away. In fact, judging from the last page corner fold (p266 0f 408) I didn’t even finish it.
I wasn’t exactly blown away by the trailers for the movie either so I approached with extreme caution, not least because IMDB’s reviews were, at best, lukewarm and, at worst, damning.
I’m not even sure why I shelled out – not just for me but for my wife and daughter too.
Anyway, suffice to say, it was a good choice because this is a great movie in the tradition of modern ‘Westerns’ that include the 2007 masterpiece, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.
The trivia link? Nick Cave. His son Earl Cave features in this Australian outback ‘western’ and Cave contributed the soundtrack to ‘Jesse James.’
The main damning criticism of the movie is, in fact, one of its strengths. It’s languid. Many say slow. No s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w.
For me, its pace allows it to breathe. It allows the deep psychological distress, that has shaped Ned Kelly’s life and informed his young adult behaviour, to gestate.
The story concerns Australia’s most notorious outlaw’s life and times. He and his gang assume personas as devotees of a secret society known as the Sons of Sieve, who disguise themselves through cross-dressing in reverence to legendary bushranger Steve Hart.
Their attire of dresses, charcoal face makeup and metal bucket masks, fashioned out of old ploughs, is entirely discombobulating as they are ruthless killers. It makes for an exciting visual impact.
Justin Kurzel (a director new to me) and his sidekick lighting cameraman Adam Arkapaw have conjured up a work of art. And that’s why so many cinema-goers have loathed this film, expecting instead a blood and gore shoot out. These come, but they are limited.
One such scene, towards the end of the movie, when a team of armed police advance on the Kelly Gang at the infamous Glenrowan siege, is electrifying and dazzlingly conceived. Set to discordant music (Jed Kurzel, the director’s brother) the long line of the law are shot, at night, in rain, dressed in long rubber capes that, through a combination of stroboscopic lighting and some sort of weird white light, make them appear as a line of luminous KKK-like ghosts foretelling Kelly’s ultimate demise (at the age of 25). It’s a searingly spectacular scene that literally took my breath away and is worth the admission fee for this alone.
George Mackay, who carries the year’s best movie (1917) almost singlehandedly, performs another excellent, but much more collaborative role here with a bunch of outstanding supporting players, notably his mother (Ellen Kelly) and his would be nemesis Nicholas Hoult (will he ever play a likeable character) as Constable Fitzpatrick. Russell Crowe astounds in my favourite performance of his career, albeit not much more than a cameo, as his early and wholly evil mentor.
This does have blood and guts, but its 18 (R) rating feels unjustified. It’s a beautiful evocative celebration of early Irish immigrant exclusion, prejudice and societal revenge. It’s a portrait of some sort of descent into mental chaos (although more subtly rendered than Joaquin Pheonix’s tour de force in Joker). But mainly, it’s just a damn fine movie.
This is my daughter’s amazing post. Be inspired folks.
I left my job 27 years ago and have never had a job since. This one was in nappies.
Sometimes we stay in, let’s say non ideal, situations for too long. Not because we want to, and not because we don’t want to get out, but because sometimes it is the only thing we really know and it can be hard to break out of that pattern until we find the right thing to go to.
It can be easy to look at a situation objectively and tell someone else what to do. It’s really, really hard to look at your own life, acknowledge a problem and do something about it.
I’ve been in a non ideal situation for a while now. At one point it was the combination of a toxic relationship, combined with a toxic job, and breathing toxic city air. This is just what I thought life was. Of course, I mean this flippantly. I have always understood and appreciated that I am in a privileged…
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I’m a lifelong McEwan fan, but he has been infuriating me in the last decade with his inconsistency.
I’m glad to say that Machines Like Me finds McEwan right back at the top of his game and it’s clear to me that what is making him write his best work these days is moral ambiguity and his adeptness at turning that ambiguity into superb storytelling. It’s at the heart of what makes this book, and The Children Act, so great.
The moral conundrum here is truth.
Humanity allows us to decide the difference between ‘white lies’ and despicable self- serving perjury. But can Artificial Intelligence be expected to compete?
This novel works on many levels. It’s essentially a sci0fi book about Artificial Intelligence yet it’s set in the past.
A fake past.
1982 to be precise.
A 1982, in which Thatcher has just lost the Falklands War, Alan Turing is alive and kicking, Britain is contemplating a form of Brexit, the poll tax disputes are raging and many of today’s political challenges are being reframed as 1982’s. Most notably the rise of an elderly Labour leader (Tony Benn) has swept to power on the back of an adoring youth.
It’s playful and brilliant.
McEwan plays with the value of things like money. Everything seem so cheap: cheaper than the reality of 1982 prices. (The effect of a global recalibration of worth? It’s unexplained.)
Into a 32 year old dropout’s life (Charlie) arrive, almost simultaneously, a stunningly beautiful but enigmatic 21 year old neighbour (Miranda) and a ‘robot’ of almost perfect physical attributes (Adam – one of 25 AI humanoids – 13 male, 12 female).
Charlie’s bought Adam thanks to an inheritance from his mother and the book explores the relationship between the three main protagonists, but throws in a secondary moral dilemma in the form of a four year old abused boy, Mark, who inveigles himself into their lives.
In Miranda’s past an event of monumental emotional significance has consumed her and the repercussions of this form a significant strand of the moral backbone of the story.
So we have fun (made up history) sci-fi (lite but fascinating in the form of a humanoid robot, whom it turns out is capable of great knowledge – Google, before Google existed- but also a form of moral judgement) relationships (tangled) and simply brilliant storytelling.
The science is interesting, the philosophy just light enough to engage dullards like me and the story so compelling as to turn pages lightning fast.
The whole premise throws up so many genuinely interesting questions that it’s like manna to McEwan who feasts on the riches that his great invention feeds him.
I adored this book. One of McEwan’s best ever and leaves only Nutshell, out of his 17 novels, for me to read. It’s a noughties write, so who knows.