Meeja Hoors
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
The Magic Christian...
...Is not only a great title for a film, it wasn't a bad satire on greed either.
Friday, August 19, 2005
The Self-Thanks Show
In arts and culture programming Melvyn Bragg occupies a pre-eminent position, owning, producing and presenting the South Bank Show. ITV, often regarded as being philistine in outlook, wisely gives Bragg executive powers and the sometime novelist is never one to fail to exercise his judgement. Bragg uses his late night-Sunday hour to get under the skin of some of the foremost practitioners in kunst und kultur.
Read on
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Need some business and charity advice?
Call the expert...
Noel is offering a Summer sale-off: "Three sures for the price of five"
[as long as you sign up to daily bulletins, mass spammmings, junk mail aplenty and general hassle as your data gets whored around the nation's call centres)
Noel is offering a Summer sale-off: "Three sures for the price of five"
[as long as you sign up to daily bulletins, mass spammmings, junk mail aplenty and general hassle as your data gets whored around the nation's call centres)
Monday, August 15, 2005
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Trans-Europe express
Muz Meeja Hoor on his Euro adventure....
The Kraftwerk reference is entirely correct, as after more than 30 hours of sitting on trains and standing on platforms I reached Barcelona from Prague. My connections included five in western Bohemia, Nurmberg, Stuttgart, Strasbourg, Basel and Berne, from where I got the overnight "hotel-tren", sharing a bunkbed room with a Swiss-Moroccan. By Sunday morning I was totally Catalonia.
Porque? Porque I was "double-booked" for two "stag dos" in Praha and Barca, two cities of considerable culture and history but also with the infrastructure to support the invading hordes of brits, who judge the success of a weekend not on the number of sites visited or successful execution of foreign phrases but by the number of times the stag-subject throws up, or whether he chooses infidelity to his fiance. I could have easily got an aero connection between the two but didn´t want to be responsible for the burning of any more jet fuel than was necessary and I also like travelling by train, what some others would see as making things difficult for myself. A re-imagining of these stag parties as glorified short holidays or city breaks is the only way to justify these continental excursions.
What impressions can I offer of central and western Europe? Well because I had stayed up talking to a Parisian now living in NYC until 4am, the Czech leg was hazy. I passed in and out of consciousness, having the helpful guard to thank for telling me where to change (back at Markowitz where I should have done so the first time). Stations were functional, a world away from the gothic splendour of Prague, the surroundings mostly forested. Nurmburg passed me by as i had minutes to get a train. Stuttgart like many of the others we passed, such as Karlsruhe, was as big as most London terminals, testament to nineteenth-century ambition and provincial assertion. That Franco-German border town Strasbourg was another big old gare, but the front area was being ripped out for civil works. Signs invoking the project of European integration were as frequent a sight as the all-day drunks. Someone asked "tu me connais?" and added after my "non" something a lot sterner about "Arabes". After pissing about wasting time and money on a dodgy kebab, I had mere minutes to book up my complex plans. She said I´d have to book the last leg in Berne. The SNCF train then sped through the flatlands of Alsace before then rising up and cutting through mountains. The odd mini-disc of my own house and jungle mixes kept me going, but soon the batteries expired on that as they had on the mobile phone.
Quality graffiti lined the walls near most stations, nowhere more impressively than in Switzerland. The German-speaking city Basel was notable for its gleaming towers housing high capitalist financial services firms and faceless corporations, while Berne station, reached from the north via a high river crossing revealing the city´s architectural jewels and fine setting, was an ultra-modern artificially-lit subterrania morphing into the main city. The stern Swiss at the ticket office told me I couldn´t get the train as I hadn´t booked, but I didn´t have another option. The official on the Franco-Spanish train was more helpful, and I was away to Barca, reacting only now to the stop, starts and shunts of the rolling stock. Like most people I talked to, the semi-Swiss seemed comfortable using three languages. My bits and bobs of French, German and Spanish got me by, if only as prefixes and suffixes to each conversation. Into Barcelona Place Sants, and now there was Catalan to decipher too. But first the spray painted legends read: "Catalonia is not Spain" (in English for effect.)
How difficult was it? No more painful than the average endless pissing about getting to airports, waiting for planes, then waiting for baggage, etc, or trying an ambitious itinerary out on "national rail". The worst bit was the last - a sweaty walk into the centre of Barcelona. I tried to jib my way through the connections and although this was mostly unsuccessful I paid about 300 euros (about 200 pounds) in total. That included a mandatory 200 euros for the bunkbed room as they had run out of the cheap sieges inclinables. I also saved on hotel fees in Praha, and intend to do the same in Barca, using drunken persuasion later tonight. Even this internet session is a freebie, although the hotel staff may chuck me out soon. The "lads" are down on the beach off one of the newer parts of the town, but I´m reading this instead (not an endorsement). Also need to check the Gaudi stuff, Parc Guell, etc, etc out. The Nou Camp is closed today because Bongo and the Hedge´s U2 are churning their back catalogue there tonight. Bet Ronaldinho won´t be down the front for that.
Yes, I should have bought a camera and documented it visually. Forgot. I had envisaged getting moody shots at stations just like those of Hutter and Schneider. I hadn´t accounted for how hungover I´d be either. Nevermind, because in one of the darker eras for European integration it was a pleasure to experience a near-seamless journey through five countries. Now please don´t make me do anything staggy. What goes on tour seldom stays on tour, in fact.
The Kraftwerk reference is entirely correct, as after more than 30 hours of sitting on trains and standing on platforms I reached Barcelona from Prague. My connections included five in western Bohemia, Nurmberg, Stuttgart, Strasbourg, Basel and Berne, from where I got the overnight "hotel-tren", sharing a bunkbed room with a Swiss-Moroccan. By Sunday morning I was totally Catalonia.
Porque? Porque I was "double-booked" for two "stag dos" in Praha and Barca, two cities of considerable culture and history but also with the infrastructure to support the invading hordes of brits, who judge the success of a weekend not on the number of sites visited or successful execution of foreign phrases but by the number of times the stag-subject throws up, or whether he chooses infidelity to his fiance. I could have easily got an aero connection between the two but didn´t want to be responsible for the burning of any more jet fuel than was necessary and I also like travelling by train, what some others would see as making things difficult for myself. A re-imagining of these stag parties as glorified short holidays or city breaks is the only way to justify these continental excursions.
What impressions can I offer of central and western Europe? Well because I had stayed up talking to a Parisian now living in NYC until 4am, the Czech leg was hazy. I passed in and out of consciousness, having the helpful guard to thank for telling me where to change (back at Markowitz where I should have done so the first time). Stations were functional, a world away from the gothic splendour of Prague, the surroundings mostly forested. Nurmburg passed me by as i had minutes to get a train. Stuttgart like many of the others we passed, such as Karlsruhe, was as big as most London terminals, testament to nineteenth-century ambition and provincial assertion. That Franco-German border town Strasbourg was another big old gare, but the front area was being ripped out for civil works. Signs invoking the project of European integration were as frequent a sight as the all-day drunks. Someone asked "tu me connais?" and added after my "non" something a lot sterner about "Arabes". After pissing about wasting time and money on a dodgy kebab, I had mere minutes to book up my complex plans. She said I´d have to book the last leg in Berne. The SNCF train then sped through the flatlands of Alsace before then rising up and cutting through mountains. The odd mini-disc of my own house and jungle mixes kept me going, but soon the batteries expired on that as they had on the mobile phone.
Quality graffiti lined the walls near most stations, nowhere more impressively than in Switzerland. The German-speaking city Basel was notable for its gleaming towers housing high capitalist financial services firms and faceless corporations, while Berne station, reached from the north via a high river crossing revealing the city´s architectural jewels and fine setting, was an ultra-modern artificially-lit subterrania morphing into the main city. The stern Swiss at the ticket office told me I couldn´t get the train as I hadn´t booked, but I didn´t have another option. The official on the Franco-Spanish train was more helpful, and I was away to Barca, reacting only now to the stop, starts and shunts of the rolling stock. Like most people I talked to, the semi-Swiss seemed comfortable using three languages. My bits and bobs of French, German and Spanish got me by, if only as prefixes and suffixes to each conversation. Into Barcelona Place Sants, and now there was Catalan to decipher too. But first the spray painted legends read: "Catalonia is not Spain" (in English for effect.)
How difficult was it? No more painful than the average endless pissing about getting to airports, waiting for planes, then waiting for baggage, etc, or trying an ambitious itinerary out on "national rail". The worst bit was the last - a sweaty walk into the centre of Barcelona. I tried to jib my way through the connections and although this was mostly unsuccessful I paid about 300 euros (about 200 pounds) in total. That included a mandatory 200 euros for the bunkbed room as they had run out of the cheap sieges inclinables. I also saved on hotel fees in Praha, and intend to do the same in Barca, using drunken persuasion later tonight. Even this internet session is a freebie, although the hotel staff may chuck me out soon. The "lads" are down on the beach off one of the newer parts of the town, but I´m reading this instead (not an endorsement). Also need to check the Gaudi stuff, Parc Guell, etc, etc out. The Nou Camp is closed today because Bongo and the Hedge´s U2 are churning their back catalogue there tonight. Bet Ronaldinho won´t be down the front for that.
Yes, I should have bought a camera and documented it visually. Forgot. I had envisaged getting moody shots at stations just like those of Hutter and Schneider. I hadn´t accounted for how hungover I´d be either. Nevermind, because in one of the darker eras for European integration it was a pleasure to experience a near-seamless journey through five countries. Now please don´t make me do anything staggy. What goes on tour seldom stays on tour, in fact.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Kilroy-Sunk
Offensive simpleton Robert Kilroy-Silk has resigned from his own party Veritas, blaming the "the nature of our electoral system" and a lack of "a central administration and significant financial support". Go and deliver a further damning verdict on Cull's Kilroy-Silk poll. We promise to email him the results to further lose his mind.
Next week, Robert faces the ultimate truth of his Hitlerian ambition...
Next week, Robert faces the ultimate truth of his Hitlerian ambition...
