It’s funny how a single object can bring back vivid memories. In a drawer in my parents’ house in Scotland is a small yellow armband - a reflective strip backed with white elastic just the right size for the arm of a five-year-old. It’s a permanent reminder of the experiment of British Standard Time.
Forty years ago this week, the children at my primary school were issued with these armbands as we prepared for a winter of walking to school in the dark. They were part of an intensive safety drive as Scotland geared up for the darker mornings.
By the end of the Autumn term, this meant arriving at school in the dark and, at break time, watching the sun come up over the hill as we drank our morning milk. This could be the experience of future generations in Scotland if the proposed change succeeds in bringing us in line with Europe.
It’s interesting that the Spouse, educated in southern England, has no recollection of this happening. In mid-December, London’s day is almost over an hour longer that the scant seven hours separating sunrise and sunset in Edinburgh.
The experiment was over by October 1972, when the clocks were once more being put back and everyone got an extra hour in bed. This must have been particularly welcome in a remote part of South-west Scotland, where filming of ‘The Wicker Man’ was under way – one of my favourite behind-the-scenes stories.
Despite the plot hinging on rites of spring, financial problems held up shooting until the autumn and the unintentionally significant date of October 31st; artificial leaves and flowers were attached to the orchard trees and those poor wee lassies cavorting naked round the Beltane fire must have been chilled to the bone.
And on a bleak Dumfriesshire hilltop, as Christopher Lee - who must have been very glad of his rather dubious tweed-jacket-and-polo-neck combo - unleashed his sinister rendition of ‘Summer is icumen in’ and the flames licked at the base of the Wicker Man, the unfortunate Edward Woodward, imprisoned inside, nearly succumbed to hypothermia.
I hope someone reminded him of Ezra Pound's parody:
Winter is icumen in, Lhude sing Goddamm, Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm. Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham. Freezeth river, turneth liver, Damm you; Sing: Goddamm. Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm, So 'gainst the winter's balm. Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm, Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.
Incidentally, does anyone else out there think the Bonfire of the Quangos should involve a capacious Wicker Man?
A week or so away from the Tavern has mean a couple of landmarks passing unnoticed, so, for the record, the previous post marked the blog's second anniversary and, with a pleasing symmetry, this is post number 333.
The recent hiatus is not unconnected with the onging struggle I have been having with an unnamed branch of Social Services on behalf of a relative. For the past eleven months, this department has continually sent forms to the wrong address and made telephone calls to the wrong person; repeated e-mails and letters have been ignored.
Even telephone calls are unsuccessful - usually they don't answer the phone at all but, on the rare occasions they do pick up I give my details, the phone inexplicably goes dead or the call is tranferred without explanation to someone totally unconnnected with the case.
Meanwhile, despite a council undertaking to provide interim funding, I found myself responsible for a debt of £15,000 in care home fees before my relative's family home could be sold to pay it off.
But this post is not about the shortcomings of the finance department - it is in praise of someone for whom the term public service is more than just a handy label for a cushy job. This mental health nurse, who once carried out an assessment of my relative's needs, called me last night at 7pm.
Although she has no ongoing connection with the case, she says she always checks the department files before going home for the weekend - seeing that no-one had returned my call, she did so, even though everyone else had gone home. And it wasn't the first time either - even though she has only met my relative once.
Her first question is always about the welfare of the patient - then she asks whether there is anything at all she can do to help. Polite, friendly and unfailingly positive, even when phoning from an empty office at 7pm with an hour's commute ahead of her - if all public sector staff were like her, we wouldn't be looking at draconian cuts.
I though of her when I read Pavlov's Cat's description of his own modus vivendi: 'Do unto others as you wish to be done by' - if we as a nation are serious about public service, that phrase should be written up in large letters on the wall of every council office, school and hospital in the land.
In its time-honoured tradition of printing press releases verbatim and claiming they are news, the Telegraph reports the planned comeback early next year of London’s Playboy Club.
The original London version opened in 1966, catching the Zeitgeist of Swinging London – Groovy, Baby! – but closed down after its gaming licences were revoked, to the manifest approval of the feminist lobby.
Hoewever, like the planetary engineers of Magrathea, it seems Hugh Hefner’s British operation had merely retreated into suspended animation, awaiting the development of a new civilization with abundant cash and a desire for tasteless ostentation.
And now, it seems, the time is right; Hefner is quoted as looking forward to returning to London and “again sharing the notions that are celebrated in the magazine, the concept of good food and drink, pretty girls, and exciting entertainment.''
Any record of what the ‘pretty girls’ might feel about being stuck between the food and the entertainment as an amenity? Since Hefner’s minions have announced that ‘Playboy Bunny hostesses, croupiers and cocktail servers will be part of the new set-up’, they must expect to have some on the payroll.
At last, all becomes clear. The controversial Playboy Bunny pencil-cases and bags carried by little girls in primary school and the Playboy-branded pink tracksuits worn by their older sisters were all part of a softening-up campaign; the ultimate in sly recruitment.
As the press release – sorry, news report – says, the return of the club has been trailed for at least a decade – long enough to brainwash a new generation of girls into believing that career fulfillment can consist of fawning on rich businessmen while wearing pink satin ears and a leotard.
If successive governments had ever really been serious about improving the role of women, that’s where they should have been looking. Changing from the top down just won’t work – you can have all the all-female shortlists and pro-women policies you like but it is unlikely to have much impact on the celebrity-fuelled day-to-day culture of the playground.
In 1960, the same year Hugh Hefner opened his first Playboy club, John Wyndham described in 'Trouble With Lichen' the difficulties facing teachers of bright girls:
'You not only teach and attempt to educate a child; you conduct a kind of jungle warfare on her behalf - and the better-looking the child, the more slender are her chances of survival, for the partisans of ignorance enfilade your route in greater numbers
The touts for dead-end jobs slink along beside you...the miasma of the picture-papers taints the air, the sticky webs of early marriage are spun close by the track, hen-witted mothers dart suddenly out of the bushes...'
Fifty years on, it seems all those hazards are still out there, compounded by the insidious drip-feed of Facebook and the mass media. A generation of feminists overturned the real inequalities years ago and there's nowhere left to go but backwards.
If our schools are still turning out aspiring Bunny girls, then there’s something very wrong indeed.
How many skeletons are there in your family closet? None? Can you really be sure?
In the high and far-off times before the People’s Princess, the stiff upper lip reigned supreme. From Victorian stoicism to the dogged determination to Keep Calm and Carry On, the British played down the traumas and disasters that afflicted them.
And that meant ‘not in front of the children’. As far as possible, children were protected from knowledge of tragic accidents or violent death affecting the family, aware, perhaps, that something was wrong but spared the grisly details in a way unthinkable in today’s media-saturated culture.
The children of that era have grown up largely unaware of their family skeletons – until now, that is. Thanks to the growing popularity of tracing family history and the avenues opened by the internet, amateur genealogists are researching family history and news stories from the last century with painful consequences.
Imagine learning for the first time of an older sister murdered before you were born, or being told the horrific details of the industrial accident that killed your grandfather, in a letter from a complete stranger, a distant and hitherto unknown relative who has found the story and wants to know more.
Not being personally involved in the events they describe, the researchers cannot begin to appreciate the impact of their enquiries and find it hard to take no for an answer. And some of them, at least, their expectations shaped – or warped – by tabloid journalism, are clear about what they want; gory details, intimate secrets and scandal.
In the words of one victim, bombarded with persistent letters and e-mails demanding to know about a traumatic incident from her distant past, “The information explosion has all the sensitivity of a battleship running down a small craft.”
There is a burgeoning and profitable industry producing software to help unearth these stories and track down distant relatives but it’s doubtful whether its creators or users have ever given a thought to the demons they may be unleashing in other people’s lives.
Bad news for all those recalcitrant ‘nonliners’ out there - they’re coming to get you.
‘A major drive to get more people to use the internet has started, with the aim of persuading reluctant users that the web can save them money and time. Among the events, companies including Google and McDonalds will descend on Bridlington in Yorkshire to offer free web training'.
Lucky Bridlington! Meanwhile, the BBC has jumped onboard the Get Online campaign, signing up an assortment of celebrities and shoehorning a particularly cloying story-line into The Archers; the reason? It seems there are people out there who simply will not see the light:
‘More than nine million Britons have never used the internet, and they tend to be more elderly and less well-off. BBC technology correspondent Rory Cellan-Jones says the campaign will hammer home a simple message, that the internet can save you money’.
Very laudable I’m sure, but I smell a hidden agenda; there's a big difference between using the net for reference and for financial transactions and this campaign is deliberately blurring the boundaries. After all, is it really worth all this effort to coax reluctant people into a course of action they have consciously rejected so far?
Well, it is if it cuts your costs. Already some major companies are making it very hard for customers in the real world to access information freely available in cyberspace - why bother with a shopfront or call centre when you can do everything via a website?
How many years, I wonder, before meals on wheels disappear because ‘everyone can shop online’ or before social services require elderly ‘clients’ to contact them exclusively by e-mail?
In fact, apart from the irksome necessity to have them physically present for medical care, the sick, unemployed and elderly needn’t bother public sector officials with their unwelcome presence at all if they can be dealt with online from a nice, comfy office.
Meanwhile, if that really is the future they want, they had better prepare for the consequences of online fraud on a grand scale. Large numbers of inexperienced computer users being encouraged to carry out major online financial transactions is surely a recipe for disaster.
And that's without the risk of important information being hacked, leaked or left in a taxi somewhere. There are many people who, for good reason, do not wish to entrust personal or financial information to the internet and that decision should be respected.
Instead, campigners are ready to drag them kicking and screaming to the sunlit uplands of internet access for all - whether they like it or not.
The nation, it seems, is divided into ardent social networkers and those who wouldn’t touch it with a barge-pole. It will come as no surprise to regular readers that I fall into the latter category, so I admit I'm slightly biased.
While not necessarily subscribing to the view that Facebook is the fifth horseman of the apocalypse and we’re all going to hell in a handcart designed by American college kids, I have to admit it makes me distinctly uneasy.
And I’m not alone – this week’s Telegraph carries a piece by headmaster John Newton outlining his concerns about the effects of Facebook on the young: ‘Children believe that the imprimatur of the internet gives a statement an authority and a value that are unquestioned’.
I dare say that, when William Caxton and Johannes Gutenberg demonstrated their cutting edge technology, there were dark mutterings about it giving equal validity to sacred and profane content – “Nothing good will ever come of this printing – you mark my words!” – but nevertheless the printed word inexorably acquired precedence over handwriting.
Now we are seeing the same phenomenon at work, as children attach more significance to what they read on the internet than to what they are told in class. They are bombarded with so much information – and misinformation – that they no longer recognize their own limitations.
The authority of teachers and respect for their superior knowledge have been undermined to the extent that a twelve-year-old, looking at the word ‘whom’ on the board, can point out with utter conviction and a distinctly triumphal air: “You’ve made a mistake – there’s no such word as ‘womm’.”
He knows there’s no such word – he’s never seen it before, ergo it does not exist. As Newton puts it, ‘By unleashing a monster which encourages young people to learn from each other armed by their inevitably limited perspective...we will raise a generation who do not love learning but simply see the screen as a source of opinion – any opinion – or nuggets of information, poorly digested, that will suit their point of view.’
He also highlights the problems of teachers using facebook to communicate with their pupils – a favoured strategy among some progressives: ‘An instruction to do the questions on page 17 sitting next to a photo of a drunken moment in Ibiza can have dire consequences’.
Personally, I feel there’s a trade-off here – teachers need the respect of their pupils and to keep their home life entirely out of the school domain and that means exercising extreme caution over Facebook and its ilk. Any teacher who posts personal details on the internet where pupils – and parents – can see them is taking a grave risk.
The first step should be to remove all implicit endorsements in schools – unbelievably, there are school websites containing direct links to Facebook and similar sites. There is much to be said, too, for a ban on internet-enabled mobile phones in schools.
And, above all, schools need to get across the message that anything published on the internet is immediately beyond your control. The best advice I’ve heard is ‘Don't put anything online today unless you’d be happy to see it on the side of a bus tomorrow’.
It’s a rule I try to follow – although tomorrow, at least, it would have to be a bloody big bus.
Thursday was the day when the PE teacher would mercilessly drive a horde of shivering children before her into the chilly horror of the school swimming pool, where we were assigned to groups according to ability.
Those who could not swim, or who lacked technique and stamina, were despatched to the Shallow End, where they could stand securely on the bottom or cluster round the railing at the edge of the pool while the teacher gave out floats and armbands.
The strongest swimmers went to the Deep End, where they could dive in freely and practise their strokes, or rest against the surrounding railing; from time to time, the teacher would visit them and make encouraging remarks.
And that left the third group – in what was traditionally (if somewhat illogically) known as the ‘Middle End’, squeezed into a narrow section delineated by ropes slung across the pool.
Crammed into this small area, unable to touch the bottom, the unhappy ‘Middle Enders’ splashed miserably back and forth from side to side of the pool for half an hour or frantically trod water waiting for a space to open up on the few feet of railing.
And to add to their misery, on her way to and from the deep end, the teacher would pause to order them back to swimming their relentless widths – and, on rare but unpleasant occasions, ‘accidentally’ tread on fingers clutching the side of the pool for support.
Coverage of the forthcoming cuts, for me at least, is inextricably linked to dripping pipes, peeling paint and an overpowering smell of chlorine.
Blogging as a science/art form/menace - depending on your point of view - is still in its infancy, culturally speaking. There's no official written protocol - nobody gives lessons in it; most of us are making it up as we go along (or at least I am).
Since recent events and journalistic opinions have highlighted the issue of integrity - or the lack of it - in the blogosphere, I though I'd set down the rule of thumb that usually governs posts here in the Tavern.
Socrates, rebuking an Athenian for spreading gossip, advised asking three questions before saying anything:
- Is it true? - Is it kind? - Is it necessary?
It is my firm belief that a pseudonymous blogger can maintain personal integrity as long as any two of those three conditions apply.
An unkind statement - or accusation - must always be checked for accuracy and there should be a good reason for publishing it. Where there is doubt, a caveat or attribution is needed to warn readers of the fact.
An untrue statement is acceptable as long as it harms no one and there is a perceived purpose to it - which, lest we get too po-faced about it, can be to make people laugh.
And I doubt anyone would have a problem with a statement that is both true and kind, however slight the reason for including it.
In the words of Meat Loaf, "Two out of three ain't bad" - or, according to the sleevenotes of a Chinese bootleg CD, "Sixty-six percent is alright".
In the previous post, I suggested that some of the great 19th century novelists would have been prolific and entertaining bloggers - Dickens, at least, was part-way there with his social commentary combined with comedy, pathos and witty asides.
If Dickens had a spiritual descendant among today's bloggers, it was surely Anna Raccoon - tireless researcher, indomitable campaigner, witty satirist and gifted raconteuse. The blogosphere will be much poorer for her absence, though I suspect she will be happy to put recent events behind her.
I don't pretend to understand all the issues that escalated into a full-scale campaign against her - all I know is that, even under the pressure that eventually caused her to call it a day, she took the time to offer me advice - and to follow it up with kind enquiries later - a generous gesture much appreciated.
It seems I'm not alone - other bloggers, too, have found her a source of inspiration and support. The anxiety caused by her abrupt disappearance suggests that her absence will be keenly felt by many and that her well-wishers greatly outnumber those trying to do her harm.
Now she has abandoned blogging, I hope their efforts will cease and that she can enjoy a well-earned rest. And perhaps, if we're lucky, in the fullness of time there will be a memoir incorporating some of the tales that have made us marvel at her talent for story-telling.
"The time was once when thou, unurged, would'st vow That never words were pleasing to thine ear, That never object pleasing to thine eye, That never touch were welcome to thy hand, That never meat sweet-savour'd to thy taste Unless I spake, or looked, or touched, or carved to thee."
The unhappy Adriana, in A Comedy of Errors, describes the all-encompassing love her husband used to profess for her. To modern eyes, the expression may sound rather florid, but the concept is alive and kicking. The British public have an insatiable appetite for the endorsement of the famous - at least if the news media are to be believed.
Consider, for example, the 'Delia Effect', or Jamie Oliver promoting Sainsbury's food, or perhaps the lustre added to perfumes and cosmetics by a smiling celebrity. Even breakfast cereal gets in on the act; no product, it seems, is so mundane that a sprinkle of stardust won't help it sell.
Almost anything the advertising industry tries to sell us has a celebrity on hand, to speak, or look, or touch, or carve for us. And when we're not being enticed to buy, we're bombarded by the media with endless personal information. Even the supposedly highbrow BBC has a good line in celebrity gossip cropping up in unexpected places.
Take for example a series from the news pages in 2006 - linked to in an article about Claire Rayner. Entitled 'Celebrity Health', the features interviewed such diverse characters as Sir Stirling Moss, Rabbi Lionel Blue and Britt Eckland about their health. Now call me a cynic, but are someone's gallstones really more interesting if they have been on TV?
The development of mass media in the 20th century means that many of today's celebrities were born to the purple, children who neither achieved fame nor had it thrust upon them but who were simply born famous. Trying to compete with the offspring of Rod Stewart, Mick Jagger et al drives aspiring youngsters into ever more extreme behaviour to get noticed.
All of this is fed by a public avid for more information, and it's getting nastier, if the covers of the magazines are anything to go by. 'Overdoses!' 'Divorce!' 'Cellulite!' the headlines shriek - human life played out for entertainment to accompany a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.
The whole thing reached its apotheosis in 'famous for being famous' - the darlings of the gossip column who enjoy a brief ubiquity with no-one knowing exactly why (although a cynic might make some shrewd guesses).
The unexpected result of this is a generation of schoolchildren whose stated ambition is 'to be famous' - nothing more, not 'famous' for anything - just 'famous'. Ask them to define fame, and - along with a fair few blank stares - you'll get the answer 'it's everybody wanting to know all about you' - a truly horrible concept.
All of which is a long-winded way of getting round to the concept of anonymity; in the days when the Bronte sisters were Acton, Ellis and Currer Bell and books were written by 'A Lady' or under pseudonyms such as 'Saki', 'BB' or 'Sapper', no one seemed to mind that some writers preferred not to be publicly recognised, now it's almost unimaginable.
Don't get me wrong - I'm not suggesting bloggers are the equivalent of the great 19th century novelists, though I bet Mrs Gaskell or Anthony Trollope would have been prolific and entertaining bloggers - but in this fame-obsessed society, Andrew Marr makes the common mistake of attributing a sinister motive to all of us who choose to hide behind a pseudonym, whatever the reason.
Westminster’s gravy train may have slowed to an ignominious crawl but it hasn't stopped yet – at least some honourable members have made sure their pockets are well-lined, with directorships and outside legal work bringing in up to £18,000 a month.
Now, on the face of it, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t seek extra employment elsewhere – though their constituents might beg to differ. The problem is that they are earning extra income in time that could, perhaps be better spent on constituency and parliamentary matters. I, for one, would like to think my elected representative is concentrating fully on the job I pay him to do.
There is much to be said, however, for doing as one Tory MP has done and declaring £100 for ten hours of agricultural work. In fact, if MPs have so much time on their hands that they can afford to do outside work, why not make them do it in their constituency, among the people they represent?
It’s not a bad idea – make each MP do a few weeks of ‘work experience’ every year in local industries – really getting their hands dirty; not just a morning’s photo-shoot in white wellies and a hairnet - to get an idea of how the other 90% live.
Or instead of dishing out legal advice for hundreds of pounds an hour, why shouldn’t they put in a few shifts in the Citizens’ Advice Bureau or a Jobcentre? It might make them more appreciative of the issues facing local employers and workers in the areas they represent.
That, at least, would be some improvement on having a vested interest in the dealings of big business – if you’ve got a seat on the board, it’s a fair bet you’ll be working for the success of the corporation. And that brings us to another question.
These multi-nationals aren’t paying out vast amounts just for the decorative value of having an MP on board – they must feel they will benefit – now or later – from the deal. What exactly do they expect to gain that’s worth that sort of outlay?
Cameron’s Big Society isn’t quite big enough yet, it seems.
Sue Vacca wasn’t happy about the litter and the rats that infested the dense undergrowth on council land behind her garden, so she called her local council and asked them to do something about it.
She was told that pest control would not remove the rats until the area had been cleared. However, the maintenance company responsible for the green space - the grandiloquently named Continental Landscapes -would do nothing more arduous than mow the grass.
Undaunted, Ms Vacca rolled up her sleeves and tackled the job herself, picking up the litter and clearing out the brambles and nettles. In their place, she created a flower bed, using plants offered by supportive neighbours.
What happened next – actually two years later, but council wheels grind slowly - won’t surprise anyone who remembers the fate of a similar urban garden in Cornwall*. It seems Ms Vacca’s over-zealous efforts upset one neighbour, who would have preferred the brambles to remain.
Ms Vacca received a letter ordering her to ‘immediately stop’ her ‘unauthorised’ activities – they’re even sending the boys round:
'The town council’s park ranger service will be patrolling the site to ensure no further works occur.'
Funny how a single complaint can prompt such an energetic response - at least when it involves curtailing the public-spirited horticultural activities of a lone woman.
I can't do better than Demetrius' comment on the last case: "Has anyone costed the time, effort, etc. that the relevant council employees have put into this one?"
(Story from the Banbury Guardian)
*Readers may remember that a retired florist was threatened with legal action for what JuliaM memorably described as 'Aggravated Flower Arranging'.
As regular readers may have gathered, I am no stranger to the chalkface; I have therefore followed with interest the voluntary 'outing' of Katharine Birbalsingh at the Conservative conference.
Like her, I started out subscribing to many of the left-wing ideologies but soon saw the damage they were causing in the classroom. One point she made had particular resonance for me; that black boys were underachieving 'because of what the well-meaning liberal does to them'.
Many years ago, I was working in a school in an ethnically diverse area with significant discipline problems and poor exam results (some of the reasons for that are discussed here). Homework frequently presented a problem - I had one pupil who did his at a corner table of the restaurant where both his parents worked until 9pm - and a certain flexibility was often required.
Sometimes, though, it was necessary to complete one assignment in order to understand the next. In one such case, I told a pupil to come back to the classroom to complete the work at lunchtime, when I would be at my desk marking and could give him any help he needed. He looked doubtful:
Pupil: Is this a detention, like? Me: No; it's so you can finish that work before this afternoon's lesson, otherwise you won't understand what we're doing. Pupil: So I don't need to report it then? Me: Report it? Pupil: To Mr H. Me: (baffled) Who's Mr H? Pupil: He runs my Saturday school.
This was the first I'd heard of it, so I asked him to explain. The boy told me he had started attending a Saturday school intended to raise the academic achievement of afro-carribean boys. So far so good - I told him how pleased I was that he was taking his education seriously - but there was more:
'Mr H says that we have to tell him if a white teacher gives us a detention. If there are no white kids in the detention, that's racist. If you tell me off and don't tell any white kids off, that's racist too; Mr H said so.'
I asked for more details; it turns out the boys had been instructed to report back to Mr H, naming as potential racists any white teachers who told them off - a worrying prospect for staff living in the catchment area. The same went for white teachers giving detention and extra work or even asking black pupils to tidy up their appearance.
It was only after I left the school that the full irony of the situation became clear to me; I found out that the Saturday school in question was started and funded by contributions from a national televised charity appeal. Well-meaning people from all over the country had put their hands in their pockets to enable Mr H to pursue his witch-hunt and undermine the teacher-pupil relationship.
To avoid any possible misunderstandings, it should be understood that this post refers to one particular Saturday school, now closed.
What do you give Vladimir Putin for his birthday? Simples, at least according to a bunch of Moscow journalism students; his very own girlie calendar. Twelve of them stripped off to their underwear and posed along with flirtatious messages for the Prime Minister.
However, the calendar - entitled "Vladimir Vladimirovich, We love you. Happy Birthday Mr Putin," is not what you might call a spontaneous gesture; the women were recruited by Maxim Perlin, a producer at an internet TVchannel, who teamed up with publisher Vladimir Tabak for the project.
According to Perlin, who at 22 has a long and presumably sleazy career ahead of him, the girls were not paid. He claimed the the calendar 'had an empowering message' - the battle-cry of twenty-first century exploitation - and the women were recruited because of their political opinions.
Asked why, in that case, they were photographed in lacy underwear, he explained "In my opinion it's more beautiful and more interesting." It would be interesting to know whether Putin shares his view.
It would also be interesting to know what the Prime Minister thinks of sharing his birthday present - far from being an exclusive gift, fifty thousand copies of the calendar are to be sold in supermarkets at 260 roubles ($8.71) each; the story does not say where the profits will go.
Not everyone approves: Journalism faculty spokeswoman Larisa Bakulina described the calendar as a "work of erotic tastelessness."
"We are not happy that they used the brand of the journalism faculty. It is tactless on the part of the publishers."
Tasteless and tactless; at least someone has a sense of perspective. It's a fair bet that Ms Bakulina didn't get where she is without being a forceful character and she certainly doesn't mince her words; it's hard to imagine her showing much sympathy for a student who allows two men to exploit her in this way.
I wonder what sort of reception awaits Putin's calendar girls when they return to Ms Bakulina's faculty for the start of the new term.
The usual hazards of frequent blogging - aching shoulders, eye-strain, a grumpy spouse - have been joined this week by a fresh menace; 'Laptop Thigh'.
Laptop thigh or, to give it its medical term, erythema ab igne (which I think roughly translates as flame-grilled, medium rare), is a discoloration caused by sitting with a hot computer on the lap for extended periods of time.
Since laptop casings can reach a toasty fifty degrees Celsius, it's hardly surprising they can get uncomfortable; most of us, though, would have the wit to move if that's the case - it's hard to imagine getting so carried away in the white heat of composition that you are willing to fry.
And sure enough, the cases decribed in the BBC article are those of a law student working for six hours a day and a 12-year-old who developed discoloured skin after playing games for hours every day - presumably as obsessively as the boy who collapsed after 24 solid hours of World of Warcraft.
Fortunately for those lacking the wit to move a hot object off their burning legs, it's not the end of the world;
'Dr Bav Shergill, a consultant dermatologist at Brighton University Hospitals NHS Trust, said that people who developed the rash should not be overly concerned.
"I would expect it to resolve fairly quickly, with no long term consequences."'
However, the doctor is a lone voice crying in the wilderness - the media won't let a story like this get away so easily. Consequently, tonight's news websites abound with warnings of skin rashes and discoloration, vying to create a scare story of epic proportions.
And, by popular acclaim, the Daily Mail wins hands down with the inevitable 'cancer risk' and a headline memorably describing the unhappy victim as 'Toasted boy'.
In a warehouse outside Moscow, largely forgotten by the outside world, six would-be cosmonauts are sitting in a tin can.
The simulated Mars mission yesterday entered its fourth month, having passed the previous study's 105 days two weeks earlier. Our intrepid heroes are now in uncharted territory, cut off from mission control by the increasing communications time-lag and thrown entirely on their own resources.
When the experiment began, the Tavern regulars speculated about the entertainment that the crew would choose to help while away the 502 days of their mission, concluding that the classic sci-fi films might well be top of the list.
And, sure enough, last week a recent response to a question from a member of the public - anyone can play; there's an e-mail address - confirmed this is the case. French crew member Romain Charles explained;
'We have brought with us a lot of Sci-fi books and movies. Each time that we watch one of them, we always comment it. We are much more sensible to each detail of the film or of the book.
For example, we saw “2001: A Space Odyssee” a couple of weeks ago and I could really feel the loneliness and the monotony that the 2 main characters had to endure. I didn’t experience these feelings the first time that I saw this movie.'
I can't wait to hear what he has to say about 'Alien'.
Hold the front page! Research commissioned by the BBC has revealed that ‘two-thirds of the people surveyed said they would be uncomfortable watching a sex scene between two men before the 9pm watershed ‘.
I’m surprised it’s only two thirds. It’s not that I’m homophobic; it’s just that I’m not actually that comfortable watching a sex scene between anyone that early in the evening – even the sight of a randy wildebeest enthusiastically humping away is liable to put me off my gin and tonic.
You used to be sure of your ground with the 9pm watershed. Not only did it mean fewer awkward questions from the children; you could invite your visiting great-aunt to sit down and watch a costume drama knowing that bosoms might heave with emotion but would remain decently clad throughout.
As with the mobile phone that rings at an inappropriate time, the rules of etiquette have yet to catch up with modern technology. We have no established code for dealing with the sudden appearance of unexpected body parts in our sitting-rooms mid-evening.
Sod’s Law, of course, dictates that the more graphic the scene, the more embarrassing the company in which you will be watching it; consequently the startled viewer is obliged to feign a sudden interest in the Radio Times or leap up and offer to fetch the mother-in-law another drink.
Just because sex has been creeping back towards the six-o’clock-news doesn’t mean we should have more of it just to even up the score. Quite apart from the fact that it’s facile and demeaning to define characters exclusively by their sexuality, it’s usually dramatically superfluous to demonstrate in graphic detail.
After all, we assume the characters in a drama eat breakfast and go to the lavatory, but that doesn’t mean we have to spend five minutes watching them chewing their eggs and bacon or excreting the residue. As a rule of thumb, it would be good if pre-watershed drama should restrict itself to what would be acceptable in a public place - say, a railway platform - at that time of day.
Regardless of orientation, there are levels of intimacy most people would consider unacceptable in public and which should have no place on early-evening television. Perhaps it’s because the shared cigarette is no longer available as convenient broadcasting shorthand – lacking the imagination to think of a replacement, broadcasters simply decided to show the lot.
I am quite content for drama to feature characters who happen to be lesbian, gay or bisexual, or using the preferred terminology, LGBTQQIA** (to which I always want to add ‘Cuthbert! Dibble! Grubb!’), but I – and I’m sure many other viewers - prefer them and everyone else (including the wildebeest) to avoid the steamier displays of affection in my sitting room before 9pm.
*Mrs Patrick Campbell on demonstrations of affection between two actors: ‘Does it really matter what these affectionate people do — so long as they don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses!’
**lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex and allies (straight and actively supportive) – a Google minefield if ever there was one! (I am fortunate to have an information source active in gender politics.)
The Daily Mail surpasses itself this week with an article that proclaims 'Third of British women would say no to proposal if they didn't like the diamond'.
And they say romance is dead! Actually, as usual, the headline over-eggs the pudding; the ungrateful baggages in question merely said that they would have second thoughts - though that's still pretty rough on the poor enamoured suitor.
But the article ploughs merrily on, coyly flourishing terms like 'new research' and 'statistics that emerged today'. It appears that 'women are now so desperate to get it just right, 41 per cent would rather choose the ring themselves'.
It even signs up a 'relationship expert' to explain the significance of these findings. Only half-way through does it drop the peekaboo act and reveal the source of the information: a survey by shopping channel QVC.
Now, funnily enough, QVC happen to be in the business of selling jewellery - including engagement rings - and what a lucrative business it turns out to be:
'The average groom-to-be is now having to spend around 930 pounds, with 40 per cent admitting they were forced to spend ‘more than they could afford'.
Consider for a moment the implications of that one little word - 'forced'.
'A further 45 per cent found the process extremely stressful, with 52 per cent saying they’d be happier if there was a more convenient and direct way of shopping for the right ring.’.
You don't say! Teleshopping, perhaps? Combining a blatant piece of advertising with the implication that your readers are grasping, avaricious harpies; even by the Mail’s dubious standards, this is an outstanding piece of journalistic prostitution.
It's been quite a week for cliches here at the Tavern. On Monday there was an e-mail at work confirming that a planned Christmas outing to a local beer-tasting venue is to be replaced by an in-house party, thereby proving the popular theory that my employers can't organise a piss-up in a brewery.
And now, the Artful Dodger has explained why he cannot come home for the next few weekends. A keen historical re-enactor, he has secured a temporary role as assistant to a seventeenth-century urban medical practitioner.
In other words, my son has managed to get a job as a pox-doctor's clerk.
We're all going to Hell in a handcart, and the sign on the front says 'Facebook'.
The indications have been out there for a while - Jordan posting pictures of her infant daughter tricked out in lipstick and mascara, for instance, or the jaw-dropping awfulness of 'social networking bingo - and it's set to get worse with the advent of a new system allowing users to find the exact locations of anyone currently online.
And today, there's a horrifying indication of the effect this is having on the young. A group of schoolchildren this week found a dead body floating in a stream near their school - a traumatic experience by anyone's standards, you might think.
'Everyone started crowding around and people had their phones out. We were telling everyone else to shut up because everyone else was trying to take pictures and laughing.’
And as soon as they got home, apparently, they published the pictures on the internet. Photo ergo sum; the ubiquitous phone camera has turned the juvenile population into a pack of amateur paparazzi with a ready-made market for their wares.
The Head Teacher is trying to play this down, saying that one boy took a picture, but deleted it from his phone before teachers spoke to him - an effect somewhat marred by the words of the Detective Chief Inspector:
"I am especially keen to speak to anyone including any school pupils who were at the scene and who may have taken photographs or video footage before the police arrived."
This reassurance may be a necessary one. It's a cliche to say children today have no respect for anyone, but that is surely taking it to new extremes - the schoolboy witness went on to add ‘Some kids were throwing stones at the body'.
Or worse. The man was lying on his back with his head out of the water; the children had no way of knowing for certain that he was dead. In fact, the first teacher on the scene actually went into the river to check for signs of life.
The idea of a generation so inured to death and violence that they not only view a dead or dying man with equanimity but even treat him as a target is a disturbing one; this sort of behaviour is more usually associated with child soldiers or victims of bloody civil war.
But what I find truly frightening is the narcissism of using such a traumatic event to enhance their personal online status.
Macheath, the notorious highwayman, has retired from a life of crime and can now be found behind the bar of Peachum's Tavern, favourite haunt of the rakes, rogues and vagabonds of 18th century Newgate and setting of 'The Beggars' Opera'. Visitors are always welcome; help yourself to a virtual tankard of ale and read on...