Fraternal discord between the Milibands continues. But age did not give David an automatic right to the Labour leadership
✒Why are people obsessed with the fact that Ed Miliband stood against his big brother? It cropped up again during his appearance on Desert Island Discs this week. Is there some deep, atavistic belief that the younger must always give way to the elder, as if it were the royal succession? Has he committed a crime against the gods, like Oedipus?
It seems a little unfair. David M lost because he took the job for granted, perhaps assuming that the electorate would naturally, unthinkingly plump for the elder. The ill-feeling that persists between the two suggests that he felt that this was an innate right. But I am an older sibling myself, and if my brother had successfully challenged me to become sketch writer for the Guardian I would be disappointed, though hardly outraged. Or feel that the job was mine by right of primogeniture.
✒I've been a fan of Bob Dylan for decades, since my father brought back his earliest LPs from America, where friends had told him that Dylan was a coming star. I was hooked. I hadn't heard anything like A Hard Rain, and nor had anyone else in the UK. But until this week I'd never seen him perform live. So nothing, including illness, was going to stop me going to the Albert Hall to join friends who had tickets. The place was packed, the atmosphere as electric as one of his controversial guitars. We had a jolly meal before the concert, and finally the moment came.
Was I just a touch disappointed? Yes, I'm afraid I was. You can't blame him because his voice is incredibly throaty, making me want to throw Strepsils at the stage. Kingsley Amis once said that the most depressing words in the English language were "shall we go straight to the table?" For rock fans, it is usually "and now, a few tracks from my new album". (Imagine going to see Pavarotti and learning that he was going to sing only selections from Nixon in China.)
Almost all Dylan's performance consisted of tracks from his new album, Tempest, with only three classics thrown in: She Belongs to Me, A Simple Twist of Fate and All Along the Watchtower. As he sang he hoisted his voice half an octave at the end of most lines, as if asking a question, like an Australian teenager. And the stage was so murky you could hardly see him or the brilliant band, none of whom he introduced.
Indeed, he didn't speak to the audience at all, except for one throwaway remark before the interval, which I didn't catch. A simple "Hello, Kensington Gore!" would have been nice.
On the other hand, seeing Dylan live is one more thing to tick off the bucket list, along with the Great Barrier Reef, the Grand Canyon and meeting Robert Vaughn.
✒At one point Dylan sang about the mournful whistle of a train. American trains do have a mournful whistle, and very evocative it is, like the cry of "All abo-o-oard!" There is nothing more romantic than a long-distance ride across the continent, though on shorter routes Amtrak has installed small windows and serves crummy food, as if those are what people really like about air travel and so must be replicated on the railway.
The mournful whistle of course usually acts as the leitmotif for a sad song, reminding the singer how miserable he feels. But I think it's time for some happier songs to hum along to.
I hear that cheerful whistle
Blowin' down the track
And that whistle tells me
My baby's comin' back
She went to get the cat wormed
But now she's comin' back.
✒The England cricket team were in Alice Springs this week. I was there myself, one Australian summer. The temperature was well over 100F, and when you parked you had to cover the steering wheel with newspaper or blankets so it was bearable to the touch. I wanted some lunch, so I went into a hotel, where there was a lavish choice: hot roast beef with yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes, roast pork, or roast chicken, all with lashings of gravy. There was a small selection of salad, no doubt for ladies and pooftahs.
✒I'm still hooked by MasterChef: The Professionals. It is fun to spot the dish you would least like to eat. This week my choice was created by a young chap who is clearly very talented, though perhaps he needs to rejoin the real world sharpish.
He served muntjak, confit potatoes, a roast blackcurrant gel, compressed plums, pan-fried grillotes and charred radicchio, accompanied by a venison sauce, the whole served under a dome filled with cherrywood smoke and topped with fresh flowers. All on one plate. And it won more plaudits than any other dish that day! Obviously fish and chips or sausage and mash would be silly, but this is surely a joke.
✒Stupid labels etc: Tony Johns noticed that a department store Santa is needed in Crawley, at £10.50 an hour. The ad notes candidly that the work is "seasonal". Patrick Russell bought a packet of Avomine tablets, for the relief of dizziness and light-headedness. The leaflet inside warned that side-effects include dizziness and light-headedness. Frank Vigon found a notice taped to a waste bin outside the local Co-op in Macclesfield: "This bin is not for dog waste. It is for Co-op food and waste paper." No wonder they are in trouble.
✒Useless presents: Brenda Hillmen spotted a tapestry bell pull to hang in your drawing room, only £95. But it can't connect to anything, so you could pull and pull and Bates would never appear. Lindy Williams found plenty of pleasure in the Really Useful Gift Company catalogue, which includes a mock-up of a DJ's record deck for your cat to use as a scratching toy. The picture shows a moggy poised over the deck like Fatboy Slim. £19.99. Reported by guardian.co.uk 4 days ago.
✒Why are people obsessed with the fact that Ed Miliband stood against his big brother? It cropped up again during his appearance on Desert Island Discs this week. Is there some deep, atavistic belief that the younger must always give way to the elder, as if it were the royal succession? Has he committed a crime against the gods, like Oedipus?
It seems a little unfair. David M lost because he took the job for granted, perhaps assuming that the electorate would naturally, unthinkingly plump for the elder. The ill-feeling that persists between the two suggests that he felt that this was an innate right. But I am an older sibling myself, and if my brother had successfully challenged me to become sketch writer for the Guardian I would be disappointed, though hardly outraged. Or feel that the job was mine by right of primogeniture.
✒I've been a fan of Bob Dylan for decades, since my father brought back his earliest LPs from America, where friends had told him that Dylan was a coming star. I was hooked. I hadn't heard anything like A Hard Rain, and nor had anyone else in the UK. But until this week I'd never seen him perform live. So nothing, including illness, was going to stop me going to the Albert Hall to join friends who had tickets. The place was packed, the atmosphere as electric as one of his controversial guitars. We had a jolly meal before the concert, and finally the moment came.
Was I just a touch disappointed? Yes, I'm afraid I was. You can't blame him because his voice is incredibly throaty, making me want to throw Strepsils at the stage. Kingsley Amis once said that the most depressing words in the English language were "shall we go straight to the table?" For rock fans, it is usually "and now, a few tracks from my new album". (Imagine going to see Pavarotti and learning that he was going to sing only selections from Nixon in China.)
Almost all Dylan's performance consisted of tracks from his new album, Tempest, with only three classics thrown in: She Belongs to Me, A Simple Twist of Fate and All Along the Watchtower. As he sang he hoisted his voice half an octave at the end of most lines, as if asking a question, like an Australian teenager. And the stage was so murky you could hardly see him or the brilliant band, none of whom he introduced.
Indeed, he didn't speak to the audience at all, except for one throwaway remark before the interval, which I didn't catch. A simple "Hello, Kensington Gore!" would have been nice.
On the other hand, seeing Dylan live is one more thing to tick off the bucket list, along with the Great Barrier Reef, the Grand Canyon and meeting Robert Vaughn.
✒At one point Dylan sang about the mournful whistle of a train. American trains do have a mournful whistle, and very evocative it is, like the cry of "All abo-o-oard!" There is nothing more romantic than a long-distance ride across the continent, though on shorter routes Amtrak has installed small windows and serves crummy food, as if those are what people really like about air travel and so must be replicated on the railway.
The mournful whistle of course usually acts as the leitmotif for a sad song, reminding the singer how miserable he feels. But I think it's time for some happier songs to hum along to.
I hear that cheerful whistle
Blowin' down the track
And that whistle tells me
My baby's comin' back
She went to get the cat wormed
But now she's comin' back.
✒The England cricket team were in Alice Springs this week. I was there myself, one Australian summer. The temperature was well over 100F, and when you parked you had to cover the steering wheel with newspaper or blankets so it was bearable to the touch. I wanted some lunch, so I went into a hotel, where there was a lavish choice: hot roast beef with yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes, roast pork, or roast chicken, all with lashings of gravy. There was a small selection of salad, no doubt for ladies and pooftahs.
✒I'm still hooked by MasterChef: The Professionals. It is fun to spot the dish you would least like to eat. This week my choice was created by a young chap who is clearly very talented, though perhaps he needs to rejoin the real world sharpish.
He served muntjak, confit potatoes, a roast blackcurrant gel, compressed plums, pan-fried grillotes and charred radicchio, accompanied by a venison sauce, the whole served under a dome filled with cherrywood smoke and topped with fresh flowers. All on one plate. And it won more plaudits than any other dish that day! Obviously fish and chips or sausage and mash would be silly, but this is surely a joke.
✒Stupid labels etc: Tony Johns noticed that a department store Santa is needed in Crawley, at £10.50 an hour. The ad notes candidly that the work is "seasonal". Patrick Russell bought a packet of Avomine tablets, for the relief of dizziness and light-headedness. The leaflet inside warned that side-effects include dizziness and light-headedness. Frank Vigon found a notice taped to a waste bin outside the local Co-op in Macclesfield: "This bin is not for dog waste. It is for Co-op food and waste paper." No wonder they are in trouble.
✒Useless presents: Brenda Hillmen spotted a tapestry bell pull to hang in your drawing room, only £95. But it can't connect to anything, so you could pull and pull and Bates would never appear. Lindy Williams found plenty of pleasure in the Really Useful Gift Company catalogue, which includes a mock-up of a DJ's record deck for your cat to use as a scratching toy. The picture shows a moggy poised over the deck like Fatboy Slim. £19.99. Reported by guardian.co.uk 4 days ago.