Armageddon time

The world is ending after this festive period. The date is not fixed yet – the big man upstairs has been liasing with Blair and Bush to hammer out an agreement – but rest assured this will be the last time we will be able to avail ourselves of Santa Claus’ smorgasbord of simple pleasures.

It was something the doris and I remarked on late last night – that in among late December’s traditional shop rage and transtorture there seems to be a dreadful finality to everybody’s comments. “This will be the last time I get to see you”/“Take (even more) care (than usual)”/“I won’t see you again for ages”, etc. What, until after 27 December or NYE? Six days or so is such a harrowingly long time to be away from your clones. I know you’re going back to your families who you claim are completely different from yourselves, but just return to the grog, switch on the iPod and switch off as usual. Back to robot (modes: self-satisfaction/non-thinking).

Perhaps it’s a symptom of being in the London Media Centre – where the hordes of economic migrants (from Halesowen, Swindon, Weybridge) become so metropolitan that to be away from the whirlpool for even a few days seems like an unbearable break. The pogrom to the septic isle’s bypassed villages and roundabout towns returns the YPs to straightsville, people who have never heard of Clerkenwell or set foot in one of its gastropubs. Fellow staff here have drawn up emergency plans to meet up – some will be cutting deals even as the turkey is laminated in cranberry sauce (GlobeInc never sleeps).

It may have been like this before, but the sense of exodus feels stronger this time (and scant memory precludes me from comment on earlier years). Even this is unwittingly part of the process, for I know that soon I will be “all settled” – chronically bored and immobile… stuffed of nut and replete of waste… unable to access cyberia in any case. (“Doris” said she wants to go home to her ‘mummy’, sit down and have a good cry – when I asked what was so bad answers were not forthcoming).

Despite the hype dialectical shift will not have taken place. There will be no chronic rupture to civilisation. People will return to their workstation, start it up and start over. The grim process of unlife renewed. Seasoned greetings.
  ¶ 2:03 PM

  White City vessel complicit in ongoing institutional racism

It was lovely to note that when black players were in focus on Adrian Chiles’s documentary on Ron Atkinson that the musical signifiers were all “black” genres – disco, reggae, etc. While white subjects get any music depending on the emotion a producer wants to portray, it is this kind of insidious pigeon-holing that goes a long way to entrenching values in the minds of they publics. “Yo Harry, you’re a writer, are we that type?”

On the “nigger” word he used, it is one of our lexicon’s foulest in both intent and sound – a true McGrootism which I would have preferred that the African-American hip-hop “community” had not reclaimed. “Nigga please”, it’s a horrible term, ‘course bruv. We all have racist thoughts – it’s activating them by deed or action that makes us racist. We all have racist thoughts, but not many mindlessly mumble “nigger” to ourselves. That word is verboten even in my infinite unconscious.

Ron Atkinson could well be a racist cunt who merely used Cunningham, Regis and co to further his career – a case of real kapital, “if you like”. He had made marks like it before (1990 World Cup). When throughout the doc he was unable to say “I know what I said was wrong” rather than go on about “mistakes” or “aberrations”, then one can’t help thinking he is KKK-eligible.

He is an over-rated commentator – anyone who has played football would bring a few phrases off the pitch. Unfortunately his rehabilitation by a nebulous media is assured. Scandalous. Thanks.

The Denigr8a
  ¶ 1:15 PM

Comments:

Ron Atkinson confirmed that he is a complete racist, no matter how many rounds of golf he plays with Carlton 'bwana' Palmer. Frank Skinner�s claim that he and other Baggies fans would have been (and continued to be?) your average racists if it hadn't been for Ron's race relations revolution at the Hawthorns had some rather chilling undertones. Skinner is one dead-eyed Midland comic.

[ Leo 14/12/2004 19:10:25 :: web]

Euro hubris comment; among those of a prejudiced nature, it is also instructive to see how English, Germans, Danish, Poles and co all regard themselves as different races while Africans are seen as one homogenous race, despite the size and diversity of the Sub-Saharan continent. Asians too are apparently the same from Asia Minor to Burma, while Arabs are definitely the same from Marrakech to Muscat. Even the berbers.

[ Mulhal 14/12/2004 20:30:07 :: web]

I believe Shatkinson, in his own 'profuse' defence, attempted to make us believe that the Danish are a race. I'm sure they are considered such in extreme Danish nationalist circles but Ron's random grasping at what he perceives to be ethnicities illustrates the insulated world football is and the consequently ignorant people it produces, especially within the ailing conglomerate that is UK Class Structure plc. Stray outside the confines of the football prison and society is out to get you (because, naturally, they're all jealous of your success and plastic wife). Things might, in the worst cases, turn POLITICAL!!!!! The classic working class tory view of education as inherently suspicious and an avowed awareness, and frequent celebration, of established intellectual inferiority (to whom? cue Corbett, Bird and Cleese sketch). There's a "fear of language/vocabulary = sub conscious need for viscerality" angle in there that i can't quite develop adequately. Anyone want to help?
I've always taken it for granted that Atkinson (and the majority of white football commentators/pundits) is a racist. Anyone familiar with his particular brand of bragging, arrogant, "little eyebrows, if you like, lollipops and gollywogs" (remember 'Ronglish'? thanks Guardian) commentary over the past 20 odd years would have recognised the narrow selection of racist (and bizzarely homoerotic) euphemisms for black players (something about size, followed by a suitably awed testimony to strength) that he never failed to indulge in.
Atkinson is proud to be stupid to the extent that he thinks ALL his achievements in football will get him off this 'accusation' of racism. But the people who we should really be wary of are those in all public and private institutions but have simply moderated their language to fit the supine times, yet remain racist 'on an intellectual level', although would never admit to it. Because they don't use the N-word and would never openly racially abuse anyone (except their cleaner), they will be left alone to snipe and abuse at people on grounds of race but claim that it's simple, natural, survival of the fittest, free market rude heath " yuh?". Atkinson was just too arrogant and casual in his approach. Typical of the working class. Huh.

[ Leo 15/12/2004 02:04:36]

  Part Troll; part droll

Infinite’s recent post, like several comments from k-punk, serves to debunk BritKap’s mindless “cannabliss” hedonism. The Thought highlights a pertinent point – that first rush of THC sends exactly the same signals to the brain as schizophrenics experience; the bemusement/unreason of her ex-housemates was literally a smokescreen as the reality in their heads more resembled The Shining than Magic Roundabout. On the one hand, rizlas primed to roll, I would argue that skunk and other narkotix have actually enabled my detachment from the mainstream over the years – both in the actual time of the high (go away, 99% of boozers) and the 1,001 new thoughts they inspire. On the other, it’s fairly doubtful if drug use can make you any more creative. (As the Imagine doc showed, Brian Wilson was there already and did not need to go any “furthur”. Now he is bipolar). Some great ‘Moments’ yes, but they drukqs really are false needs. I for one need a lot of reprogramming.

At Bill Bailey’s show on Tuesday, the audience could see an intelligent man who, though not ashamed to have dabbled, actually plays on the inarticulacy and uncertainties his experiences have engendered. The west countryman knows it’s a gilt-edged trip. Accordingly, he invites the crowd to offer experiences of their own.

What we got in this musical parodies and ponderings review was also a slighting of the British “It’s alright” mentality – whither the ambition, the challenging? As well as banjo renditions of the classics and some existential musings (how did we all get here and why is it only earthlife that has generated “fridge magnets, hummous, Spandau Ballet – anything you want?”).

In a way you sense that old Bailey is as much a symbol of the britcrap as anyone else – the Buzzcocks act is not expanded on here and, as he admits, he’s been doing this act for 20 years (albeit with better equipment now). You get to a point where you just want recognition: stereotype yourself; receive cheques.
After clever takes on Kraftwerk and the BBC News tune (always did think it sounded like a progressive house number), he finishes with a stoner film of him washing up in a clear fridge container. Cheech & Chong’s films are now available on dvd for those who want more of the same.
  ¶ 6:07 PM