Last night, a whole house load of Lawsons, my mum and stepdad, my half-sister and her kids went to Stratford to watch Arabian Nights by the RSC as a pre-Christmas treat.
Arabian Nights is the story of a storytelling Queen, Shahrazad, who will be executed by the King unless she can think up new stories to tell. Like the Canterbury Tales or Decameron, it’s basically a framing story for a disparate collection of folk tales; some are high and courtly like The Knight’s Tale and The Story of the Envious Sisters, others bawdy like The Miller’s Tale and How Abu Hassan Broke Wind.
The latter had such a triumphantly staged megafart that every child in the audience (and juvenile adults) were laughing hysterically for minutes. The cast used puppets, slapstick, and mime to tell the stories in a manner that consistently held our attention (as did the gorgeousness of lead actress Ayesha Dharker).
The show was quite long—over three hours—but it rarely dragged. Perhaps the final story could have been pacier if there had only been one brother to fail in the quest, rather than a second who repeats the first’s failure. Once or twice, some of the dialogue jarred for me; most of the dialogue was in a high narrative style so Shahrazad’s reponse to a request with “I’ll see what I can do” sounded clichéd and lazily written.
But those are small criticisms of an otherwise excellent production.
As sent to their customer service people. Bet I don’t get a reply.
Dear KLM, I travel regularly around Europe for work and our corporate travel agency books me flights with KLM. For leisure I usually fly to Asia, and go by Emirates.
I was sent to work for 2 weeks in Jakarta and was given the choice between KLM and Emirates. I chose KLM. The flight KL810 is the worst flight I’ve taken in a long time (it reminded me of Aeroflot in the 90s).
Firstly, at my seat (39G) the light wouldn’t operate–preventing me from either reading or using my laptop to do some work. I could not watch the in-flight entertainment, as the sound was stuck at maximum volume and was therefore unintelligble and painful to listen to.
I asked the stewardess for another aisle seat (I have a medical condition which means I must get up and walk regularly) but there were none left. I asked to move to business class, but was told that was impossible.
A stewardess apologised, saying that it was an old plane and some things don’t work properly. Travelling at 500 miles per hour, 4 miles above the Bay of Bengal, this was not very reassuring.
So the only thing to for the flight was have some drinks and sleep. Unfortunately, no-one ever responded to my armrest call button (my colleague in a nearby row had the same problem) so I had to get up and search for water in the dark by myself.
Therefore, instead of a relaxing flight that allowed me to do a couple of hours work and then rest, I had 12 hours of extreme boredom, unable to read, work or watch TV and must now work when I get home to catch up with the work I hoped to do on the plane.
My future trips to Jakarta, Bangkok and the like will be by Emirates.
I didn’t have a phone and needed one to demo Opera Mobile and Opera Mini, so decided to get the sexy Samsung Omnia.
I took a while to get hold of; they’d all been sent back to Samsung, one operator said, because of software problems. I perservered, and eventually got one. It costs £35 a month with 600 minutes of talk, 250 texts, free landline calls, and free data (fair-use policy applies). The shop promised me free satnav, but Vodafone then told me that wasn’t the case.
It’s a nice shape; it feels robust and sturdy. The screen is nice and big, responsive to the touch and sound quality is good. But despite its excellent specs, I haven’t been able to get 100% comfortable with using it. I don’t hate it; it’s a very useful and versatile beast, but I can’t get to love it. Elliott Kember (of Carsonified) showed me what the problems were: basically, the problems are down to Windows Mobile.
I’ve never owned a Smartphone before, so Elliott put his iPhone and my Omina next to each other and we compared them. Now, I wouldn’t have an iPhone; the price, the low specs and the fact that I can’t have the browser I want rule it out for me. But it’s undeniably a much better user interface than the Omina.
For example, when entering a new contact, the iPhone switches automatically to the numeric keypad for entering a number, and to the text keypad when you enter a name. This is obviously the correct behaviour, whereas the Omnia defaults to the text keypad, meaning there’s an entirely spurious step of selecting the numeric keypad. What a waste of time.
There’s also the annoyance that when you’re speaking, the keyboard locks and if you need access to the keypad during a conversation (to select a menu item on an automated “triage” phone system, for example) you have two keystrokes to make before you enter your selection. I know that this can be changed using some options, but proper testing with real people would have resulted in better defaults.
Opera is great on the Omnia; it’s responsive and renders perfectly. But the rest of the machine doesn’t feel 100% right to me—and I’m a Windows user.
The user experience of the iPhone is very good, and applications like AirMe, which upload straight from your camera to Flickr are just the way I think software should be (although that one isn’t made by Apple, ironically). But the fact that you can’t choose a wallpaper, a ring tone, a carrier or a browser spoil it.
So there still isn’t a phone perfect for me. Perhaps I should have done as Stuart Langridge suggested and wait for a phone that can run Opera Mini on Android.
Recently, Opera sponsored Geek in The Park 2008 by picking up the tab for audio transcription of the talks. It’s one thing that often gets overlooked by conferences and it’s something that Opera takes very seriously. Equally, you can’t expect speakers and organisers of a grassroots event to pay for it when they’re giving their time for free.
The company I used is called Casting Words, and I want to recommend them to you. After cleaning up the audio, I uploaded it to their site and selected their six-day turnaround service at $1.50 per minute. Four days later the transcripts were returned, with very few errors, particularly when you consider the technical nature of the content. You get them returned as text, RTF and HTML, and the markup is not bad: it’s set out as blockquotes with speakers’ names in cite elements.
The only problem is that multiple paragraphs inside blockquotes are marked up with double br elements rather than wrapped in p elements, so I emailed their support to ask them if it would be possible to amend their publishing system accordingly. Rachel wrote back “Thanks for letting us know about this, we will make that change.”
Now that’s service.
And when a 45 minute conference talk only costs £30 to transcribe, it’s difficult to imagine why organisers of for-profit conferences wouldn’t provide a transcript of their events.
(The transcriptions are being checked by the speakers and will be published when they’re proofed.)
It’s quite a nice machine, but the software that powers it is abominable. On a brand new Vista install, it regularly loses knowledge of the network and has to be reinstalled (a process which takes at least 15 minutes of whirring).
On a clean XP install, the software for one some unwanted Photo Gallery package regularly pops up an error message. The modules aren’t installed a separate programs, so I can’t just delete that module in Control Panel. So now I have to continually get the task manager to nuke the process that pops up this consumer-friendly error message:
System.NullReferenceException: Object reference not set to an instance
of an object.
at HP.CUE.Video.PlaybackControl._ProgressTimer_Tick(Object sender,
at System.Windows.Forms.Timer.OnTick(EventArgs e)
at System.Windows.Forms.Timer.Callback(IntPtr hWnd, Int32 msg,
IntPtr idEvent, IntPtr dwTime)
For all I know, every HP printer uses this software. Buyer beware.
Life’s too short for crap software—particularly dull utility software like printer drivers.
When I go and see a Shakespeare play, it usually takes me between five and ten minutes to get my ear attuned to the language, and a little longer to get accustomed to the non-naturalistic acting. Particularly with the tragedies, there is a possibility for histrionics but David Tennant managed to resist them. In fact, sometimes his acting was so understated it was almost TV acting, with its reliance on close-ups rather than the larger-than-life movements and voices required at the theatre. His was a witty, self-aware Hamlet, driven by anger rather than grief. His reserve only broke in the scene in which he and Gertrude have their showdown in her chamber, when you could have heard a pin drop in the full Stratford house. That was a bravura performance.
The whole cast was very strong. Patrick Stewart played the ghost of Hamlet’s father, and the murdering uncle. His was also an impressive performance, but I find him too theatrical, too self-consciously thespian. Penny Downie was excellent as Gertrude, Mark Hadfield supplied welcome comic relief as the gravedigger, but for me the best supporting actor was Oliver Ford Davis as Polonius, played as a pompous forgetful windbag.
This was a cracking production by Greg Doran, directed with verve and an eye for humour, but it was David Tennant’s show—after all, Hamlet speaks 1,507 of the play’s 4,042 lines. I don’t know whether his will be considered an all-time great Hamlet, but it was energetic and enjoyable and showed that he’s far more than just a sexy TV personality (although he is that too of course). Overheard on the way out: a fourteen year old girl breathlessly telling her mother, “Wow! In the second curtain call, he was definitely looking and waving at me!”
I’d had the tickets since before xmas so have been excited for months to see the first reunion gig since MBV stopped recording around 15 years ago.
As seems traditional these days, the support band were a bag of shit and the main band took far too long to come to the stage (what are they doing backstage? Finishing a game of monoploy?) and I was knackered, so starting to feel pretty grumpy.
But, as I’d hoped, they blew me away. The last time I saw them (in 1991) I was in a special frame of mind so my memories of that gig are hazy. I recall great visuals, a lot of noise and the band not interacting with the audience. As we entered the hall, Nongyaw and I were offererd free earplugs. I declined: what kind of wussy pink-knickers wears earplugs at a gig?
Answer: me, by the end of the evening.This gig’s chemical intake was restricted to 2 pints of Kronenbourg, so I trust my recollection. MBV are the loudest, noisiest bunch on the planet. Colm O’Coisig flails away on the drums like a madman, Debbie Googe on bass never takes her eyes off him, and Bilinda Butcher and Kevin Sheilds neither acknowedged the audience or each other.
My only criticism is that the vocals, which are never emphasised and only ever another instrument in the songs, were so far down the mix that sometimes they disappeared altogether. Nevertheless, all the hits were played, the visuals were splendid and the last song, You Made Me Realise had me putting my ear plugs in as the band just howled noise.
That nice Jule Howell invited me to go and see the first night of the Sex Pistols’ reunion gigs. As I was just a little too young and provincial to see them back in 1976, I couldn’t resist the chance for a little nostalgia. For a band whose premise was a musical “burn the museums”, there’s a special irony in their being a nostalgia act, yet that’s what they are (bear in mind that we’re as far away now from the release of Never Mind The Bollocks than it was from the end of the second world war).
There was a real air of expectation in Brixton. The pubs were full of forty-somethings having conversations like “Did you see Sham in Southend in ’79?” and “…so that’s when Sid punched me”. The excitement was not completely scuppered by the miserable shitty venue with its two rows of corporate hospitality seats in front of us, and scowling bouncers telling everyone to “remain seated at all times”.
The (crappy) support band were dispensed with, Dame Vera Lynne’s “There’ll always be an England” concluded on the P.A., and out came the band—at which point the bouncers gave up on the “seated at all times” rule and retreated to the sidelines.
Age has mellowed Johnny Rotten. He actually hugged Glenn Matlock on stage and told us that “we fucking love each other”, told us that Matlock, Jones and Cook are “a fucking good band” and—heartwarmingly—that he is “one lucky cunt” because of them. Don’t believe me? Check out my video:
Age has improved Matlock, Cook and Jones’ musicianship. A guy behind was commenting that they were immeasurably better than they were 30 years ago, and they were certainly tight, well-rehearsed and oh so loud. Rotten, on the other hand, had a book of lyrics bought onto the stage by a flunky, and still managed to fuck up the words to No Feelings, Liar and (for chrissakes!) Anarchy in the UK. You’d’ve thought that someone who’s made a mint for thirty years on the same dozen songs would know the damn words! Never mind, though; it was the occasion that mattered.
The band worked their way through note-perfect versions of all their songs except (I think) I Wanna be Me and Satellite, and a reworked version of Belsen was a Gas called Baghdad was a Blast for an encore, and a splendid time was had by all.
Here’s me and Julie—the MS Pistols—all excited on our way to the gig.
A mate of mine had tickets to see the Bajofondo Tango Club, but couldn’t make it so donated them to me. I was sceptical: “a sort of jazzy tango” was the vague description he’d given me and as I like neither modern jazz nor tango, I wasn’t expecting a good night.
I had a great night. I never expected a band fronted by violin, guitar and an accordiany thing to do the kind of looping riffs with increasing textures that you find with Loop or My Bloody Valentine, but these guys were something else. Some songs were haunting Spanish guitar; others were almost industrial, with the on-stage VJ layering black and white footage of machinery, trains and a military coup while dirty beats and samples intertwined with the real-world instruments. All the while, audience members danced the sleaziest, fucked-up tango that I’ve ever seen.
Listening to the CD subsequently is a pale imitation of the live experience, unfortunately. Highly recommended.