BBC: Big Bad Copper

Happy Valley's on tonight, the TV highlight of the week. I've found myself squirming, shuddering and looking away as the violence has become ever more unbearable. There's little justice in this northern town – there's decent people who get slapped at every turn, weak people thrown into terrible situations, and downright evil to fill in the gaps. 

: spoiler time :

It's interesting that Fargo is on 4 a couple of nights before, because Happy Valley's kidnapping comes from the same place as the one in the Fargo movie – a supposedly harmless spot of abduction for a bit of cheeky cash. 'Ultraviolence' is arguably another property shared by both, as inevitably the crimes deepen. But Happy Valley has this grim, gritty realism which contrasts with the Fargo series, which is slick and contains dramatic, thought-out passages full of riddles and metaphor. Fargo's main characters, except for the female officer, are pretty hard to decipher, whereas Happy Valley's characters have their aims and worries and pressures and pasts, all written on their faces, often ready to rip them apart. The only time the realism breaks down is when Sergeant Cawood has terrifying visions of her dead daughter, visions which increase in intensity as the local pressures increase, showing the fragile relationship a mind has in dealing with reality itself. 

Of course, such a blunt approach to violence has its critics. The Daily Mail's deft tactic of being morally outraged at something while reselling it to their readers (just think of all the bikini girls on their website, alongside tut tutting articles condemning the sexualisation of kids – Dacre, you old fox) is put in full force, as they show an almost frame by frame coverage of Cawood's brutal beating and its aftermath. At the same time they align themselves with viewers who found the violence to be too much, and Mediawatch-UK who suggested that the show depicts 'gratuitous violence, often against women.'

It's a little strange to interpret misogyny into this show, considering that, more than any other show I can think of, it has in Cawood the most human, strong and substantial female character you're likely to find. The beating she gets at the end of episode 4 is just a phsycial manifestation of the emotional onslaught that she's been continually bearing, a result itself of various cases of extreme violence on women. Far more than showing violence, the series expresses the damage that violence can cause. Many shows are just violent – bang, bang, and move on. 24 is probably a decent enough example. I doubt that palatable violence is preferable to shocking violence. In Happy Valley, it all goes to show how fragile and human Cawood is – she only shows herself to be different from the rest of us when she puts on that professionally chipper tone when addressing a member of the public. 

The Mail also wrote a good review of Happy Valley. But of course generally the paper gets irate about the BBC's political correctness. Not this time, hey. Perhaps, dare I say, the Mail just has a problem with the BBC. I rarely watch BBC dramas because they're a little trite and camp, and predictable, with the same BBC gloss pasted over them. Happy Valley is a great exception to the usual BBC tricks (I do like the BBC in general, by the way). It's on tonight, and I'm already emotionally preparing myself for some hard-to-watch awesomeness. But if you're still not convinced, listen to the creator Sally Wainright, who retorted, 'you can always turn the telly off.'

Friday Night Pick-me-up

You can keep those pints and pitchers to yourself, for I've found a poem about cancer which will keep me jollying into the night. It's by JBS Haldane, the scientist whom I've mostly found interesting of late, who was musing on his own incurable diagnosis.

Cancer’s a Funny Thing

I wish I had the voice of Homer

To sing of rectal carcinoma,

Which kills a lot more chaps, in fact,

Than were bumped off when Troy was sacked.

Yet, thanks to modern surgeon’s skills,

It can be killed before it kills

Upon a scientific basis

In nineteen out of twenty cases.

I noticed I was passing blood

(Only a few drops, not a flood).

So pausing on my homeward way

From Tallahassee to Bombay

I asked a doctor, now my friend,

To peer into my hinder end,

To prove or to disprove the rumour

That I had a malignant tumour.

They pumped in BaS0₄.

Till I could really stand no more,

And, when sufficient had been pressed in,

They photographed my large intestine,

In order to decide the issue

They next scraped out some bits of tissue.

(Before they did so, some good pal

Had knocked me out with pentothal,

Whose action is extremely quick,

And does not leave me feeling sick.)

The microscope returned the answer

That I had certainly got cancer,

So I was wheeled into the theatre

Where holes were made to make me better.

One set is in my perineurn

Where I can feel, but can’t yet see ‘em.

Another made me like a kipper

Or female prey of Jack the Ripper,

Through this incision, I don’t doubt,

The neoplasm was taken out,

Along with colon, and lymph nodes

Where cancer cells might find abodes.

A third much smaller hole is meant

To function as a ventral vent:

So now I am like two-faced Janus

The only* god who sees his anus.

*In India there are several more

With extra faces, up to four,

But both in Brahma and in Shiva

I own myself an unbeliever.

I’ll swear, without the risk of perjury,

It was a snappy bit of surgery.

My rectum is a serious loss to me,

But I’ve a very neat colostomy,

And hope, as soon as I am able,

To make it keep a fixed time-table.

So do not wait for aches and pains

To have a surgeon mend your drains;

If he says “cancer” you’re a dunce

Unless you have it out at once,

For if you wait it’s sure to swell,

And may have progeny as well.

My final word, before I’m done,

Is “Cancer can be rather fun”.

Thanks to the nurses and Nye Bevan

The NHS is quite like heaven

Provided one confronts the tumour

With a sufficient sense of humour.

I know that cancer often kills,

But so do cars and sleeping pills;

And it can hurt one till one sweats,

So can bad teeth and unpaid debts.

A spot of laughter, I am sure,

Often accelerates one’s cure;

So let us patients do our bit

To help the surgeons make us fit.

J. B. S. Haldane (1964)

EU da man!

The EU elections are tomorrow, but I'm not voting. Am I Russell Brand? No. The main reason is that I haven't bothered registering since coming back to the UK.

But the better sounding reason is this. The whole debate is bastardised into some in/out referendum. Clegg and Farage, neatly representing caricatures of in and out, offered us the only (potentially) meaningful debate, and was consumed by a meaningless trade-off of bad puns, rhetoric and dubious statistics. And it was about in or out. Since then, the media has been on a Nigel high, using any excuse to get him and his pint into the news. "Nigel's booming support!" "Nigels a raving racist!" etc. The media level their judgements, and good old Nige blames immigrants and, ultimately, the EU. Again, are we in or out? Then, in reports which sound like obituaries, Clegg dribbles out something about being the "party of in", saying "of course" all the time. "Of course there are problems, of course we need improvements, of course no one believes a word I say..." Vote Lib Dem if you want to be in Europe... um, we already are! 

Then the other two parp up to say nothing much. Blue offer a referendum, red offer it if an exchange of powers happens. Once more – twice more! – it's about in or out. The Greens, pushed down into 5th place by the masturbatory anti-eu obsessives, are forced to use what slither of airtime they get by stating their own case for "in", and also supporting a referendum. They tend to list some achievements that the EU has made (and admirably often look beyond narrow "British" interests to a wider picture). Fair enough, but it's still about in or out. No MEP is going to Europe with a mandate to get a referendum, the whole farce is a symbolic argument about competing ideas of patriotism and interest. As long as the argument remains purely symbolic, not about EU policies, people will feel alienated by Europe and they'll mostly want to leave. I don't blame them. Even I want to leave!

But I can't shout loud enough to remind them that this EU election isn't a referendum. It's actually about sending people there to vote on things. What things? I don't know, they never say! 

The process of the European parliament is a little hazy to me. Do they just vote? Can they debate? Or propose bills? I'm not sure. But here are a few suggestions of what to campaign on – realistic or not, procedural or not – starting with the most prescient. (These are suggestions which cover the spectrum, not necessarily things I want to happen).

- disbanding the EU

- making the placement of the numerous presidents' into a position secured by democratic elections

- an end to the agriculture policy

- borders up everywhere, no more free movement

- reform of the EUs parliamentary procedure

- agrarian socialism across the board

- tougher stance on Russia

- changes to the European aid budget 

- environmental targets

- changes to human rights legislation

- European space programme

- the end of private finance initiatives

- no more austerity

- take Israel to court over crimes against Palestinians.

Like I say, I don't associate myself with these ideas, they're just principles that go beyond "in and out", which MEPs could endorse or argue against. I admit though that it's the agricultural policy which grinds my gears the most – hypocritical, neoliberal and unfair, and from that policy I make my judgement about the general principles of the EU. But that's not the point. The point is that when people want to get elected, they should offer something more than either supporting or condemning the institution that they're getting elected to. I guess Ukip's OK for not talking about anything else, because their tiny brains can't think beyond the in/out question. The rest should talk about what they'd stand for in Europe, even if it includes a referendum. 

Anyway, like I said, the reason I'm not voting is because I can't be arsed. So there.

WarAds

I've been enjoying the new army jobs ad. Slow motion machine guns, cool armoured vehicles, football. All with a hip urban beat. Reminded me a little of a South Park episode where Vietnam veterans reminisce on the ups and downs of combat in the jungle. "We had a badass rollercoaster but... all we wanted was a log ride,' says one forlorn veteran. 'We waited and we waited but they never built us one."  

The Army ad doesn't even mention rollercoasters, and it doesn't say what the pay rate or death rate is, and not much about post-traumatic disorder and the like. But the advert is selling a lifestyle, a macho cool that is sure to make the ladies go all weak. Surely it's worth the risk. Maybe some of 'our boys' don't even need log rides and footie. Sometimes people genuinely like killing people, which you can also do in the army. You can kill bad guys, and occasionally good guys. You can get so out of your head that you can't tell the difference anymore, or decide to take a few happy snaps next to a newly expired enemy. 

The incredibly posh Victorian hangover scientist J. B. S. Haldane remarked that he 'enjoyed the opportunity of killing people' during WW1. That's the kind of spirit we need for our troops! High on Medal of Honour and propaganda and ready to fire! But Haldane became a raving Marxist, which, perhaps the Army would frown upon.

Half-filled watering can

It's been a long time since writing on here. Did you notice? Thought not. After quitting Facebook today I felt a little liberated to write about things again, to once more address my tiny readership of one. That 'one', if you're interested, is me. And long may it remain me, for I believe it was Paolo Coelho who said, "writing is a socially acceptable form of getting naked in pubic," and I can scarcely turn my gaze towards a mirror even when fully clothed, let alone shrivel under the torment of another's judging gaze. Shrivel indeed, and those who noticed the not too subtle allusion to a penis under pressure may draw their Freudian interpretations now.

I used to write bits of whatever. Not any more. It's better when there's no purpose to it. It's therapeutic that way. I wrote reviews for theatre and music. I wrote political polemics for high minded university journals. Eventually I started my own art-lit duo. For that I'm still writing a series of books for self-publishing, but the zest of the project has turned bitter. It's probably not the project itself that's at fault. Such bitterness follows all memories, all endeavours, to the extent that each event, in some small manner, has been part of the long and vacuous process of transporting me here, into some form of bleak hell which lacks so much as a spark to get the river of fire alight.

So for a while I will maybe try and explore why the wish to write surfaces, submerges, and sometimes surfaces again. A writer's curse is not knowing if and when the pot of inspiration will dry up. The sense of 'channelling' something is something I relate to, but I'd stop short of labelling myself a writer, anymore than someone who buys clothes can be called a 'shopper'. For me, just the impulse, the lack of inertia is enough to get the little engine of words whirring, and then it doesn't matter if the words are good or shit, read or unread, for after a while a tiny endorphin has poked its scared face out from behind a rock in my skull, and tentatively stepped out into Blood River.

Besides that, maybe I'll dwell a bit on anxiety, joblessness, aimlessness, hopelessness, phonelessness, Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, travelling in Taiwan, learning Chinese, idle ways of wasting time, screwing everything up, screwing people over, and screwing people.

What A Week

What a week, i'll say, by George, that was some week. Went to London last weekend, armed with armfuls of jam and little tasty postcards. Sold some of them, all the jam. sold all the jam and then some. I drank too much and became an idiot: such is the Real of intoxication. In London I stayed in three different beds, which makes a nice change from the sofa that is usually my home. It sounds mighty salacious too. In one room, you had to go through someone else's room to get there; the next was an illegal loft conversion, and the last one had a bed that was falling apart. But each house had their own splendid blend of idiosyncratic hospitality. On the day Palestine became recognised by the UN as a non-observer state – is that right? – i was in the brockley mess having a cup of tea and writing my novel. the news came through on the BBC website and Beirut was playing on the stereo, the song called the Gulag Orkestar. OK, so it's only faux middle-eastern music, but it's more appropriate than Gaga or Barry Manillow or Mumford and Sons or anything at T in the Park. On that day, a shot of olive oil was in order, i'm sure you'll agree. Then myself and my comrade set up an exhibition in shoreditch. the printers screwed us around so we couldn't get the print we wanted. we won't go back – that's the free market for ya. Each day was marked by an inability to fulfil our objectives, but thursday came and went off pretty well. jammojitos, need i say more? banalograms, need i say more? it took a long time to drive from elephant to shoreditch in a overheating car and if there is one i learnt as a result of that ordeal it is this: never buy sausage rolls from shell garages unless you are sure they have been heated very recently. (also, check the water in your radiator) (finally, if sausage rolls are below expectation, do not use them as an alternative to water in the radiator.)

What a week.

what a week, hey? i took to charging around the country side delivering chinese takeaways to people. i've been slowly working out the most efficient way to go about this and i think i have sussed it. it goes like this. drive to takeaway, unclip sat nav and put in pocket. leave car unlocked for expediency. enter takeaway. if meals are not ready then consider the address on the reciept. if address not known, type into sat nav, and then turn sat nav off. pick up bag and leave, enter car, sat nav and bag of meals on passenger seat; reverse, aim the appropriate way down the street, accelerate, switch on headlights, buckle seatbealt, clip in sat nav, turn on sat nav. turn on radio. when i get to the house there are more options of which to choose, including. do i leave engine running while i hunt for the house in the dark and in the rain? do i check the amount owed before i go to the front door or use my phone to check it in the dark? do i leave the car unlocked? do i fumble around for change for longer than nessecary in the hope of a higher tip? yes it's full of intricacies. i speed like a madman, something i am compelled to do by working on commission. it's just like grand theft auto. i ran down a hooker at about 8pm on tuesday night, but i outran the cops pretty quick so it was OK. meanwhile, israel! what would god say? thats what i want to know? ok so they may have different prophets, but yahweh and allah are they same bloke at the end of the day. let's not get into this too much, taking sides and whatnot, and just say the one thing that can be known for sure – this is going to go on and on. when children die and people don't stop doing the things that make children die then something is seriously fucked up. the novel i'm writing is slowing down dramatically around the 20000 words mark, whereupon i have done some serious rejigging and had to stop and consider at length where to go now. maybe i will have a crusading female priest who becomes a maverick bishop in all but name, doing ad hoc ceremonies in underground car parks until catholic henchmen hunt her down. if i were richard dawkins i would say, nay spit, the words 'of course they didn't accept female bishops. their archaic rules are dictated by the word of a made up entity of which there is no factual scientific basis. but the more alienated from society they become, they easier it will be for the atheist armies to crush them when the Atheatic day of judgement comes, circa 2030.' And then i'd chew on the corpse of a newly baptised child.