What will the Togs do?

Sir Terry Wogan was one of those people not just larger than life but almost larger than death - such a warm, comforting presence that you expect him to be around in something like perpetuity.  Rising to prominence before I was born, he was an ever-present for me and so, unlike the Queen say, his death was not foreseen.
Victor Lewis-Smith, ferocious TV critic and columnist for both The Evening Standard and The Mirror, was one who saw Wogan as smug and self-satisfied, epitomised by his toupee which after a manner of speaking was the latter's Achilles' heel and could expose the underlying viciousness.  His bad-temper at the 'political voting' of Eurovision (and subsequent departure as 'British' host) is understandable, even if the song that wins is the one that cuts across such cosy and mutual back-slapping.  Lewis-Smith's was not such a lone voice among the journalistic profession on the bile Woagn would coat in syrup though millions fell for his avuncular charms in which he seemed to be in contented 50s perpetually.  Cancer seems to be the dreaded word among celebrities of continuing import - Bowie, Rickman and now ol' Sir Terry (it seems apposite to use his first name given the way he touched people).
I'm sure he would have devastated to learn that his death was the top news item, pushing the deaths of 45 in Damascus through suicide bombings into second place.  But these Syrians who we never knew did not have such an effect on our national culture.  To borrow a favourite phrase of blood-thirsty dictators, one death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic.  To turn it on its head, all life should be cherished and we can cherish Terry, 'Togs' and non-'Togs' alike, in our memories of the imprint he left in our lives.

Taking the Saudi dollar

For a culture as venerable as that of Egypt, it might seem incongruous to say it is aping a comparative parvenu like Hollywood.  But it seems to follow the plot of Star Wars Episodes VI and VII quite closely.  After the rebellion overthrows the evil emperor Hosni Mubarak, there is a time of great celebration and optimism.  But the reassertion of the iron grip of the military recalls how the openly fascistic First Order emerged from the upheaval to wreak even more havoc than the Empire.  This is in the wake of Hossam Bahgat saying the repression in Egypt is worst in living memory, stretching back to the Nasser era.  Bahgat is one of Egypt's most prominent journalists and human rights advocates but that hasn't stopped his being 'detained' recently.  Bahgat spoke of the restrictions on media outlets, a spike in the number of political prisoners, forced disappearances and extrajudicial killings.  But then I guess that what happens when a country's rulers are deeply in hock to Saudi Arabia who are like Snoke in the analogy.  Though Iran is not innocent when it comes to stirring the pot, the House of Saud are the real drivers of instability in the Middle East.

Back in harness

Slow times on blogging - maybe it's January and post-Christmas blues but I've been extremely lethargic about writing things, a tendency extending beyond my meagre contributions to the blogosphere.  This past Monday was allegedly Blue Monday, the day of the year that is discerned by statisticians to be the most depressing 24 hours of all the 12 months.  Being very engaged with a new member of the family and making sure his big sister doesn't feel left out has also consumed copious hours but this at least is mutually beneficial.
There was a big picture on the front page of yesterday's Daily Telegraph of the red trigger aboard HMS Vigilant that would unleash its arsenal of nuclear weapons at what would probably be the end of the world as we know it.  Aside from needing a paint job (for something that is rarely seen and has never been used, it is in very poor nick), it formed part of the propaganda for keeping nuclear weapons with the picture headlined "The red button Corbyn will not press" - thus it comes across The Telegraph is effectively egging on Corbyn with "Press it.  Press it.  Press it."  Such is the casual approach to nuclear Armageddon by the nuclear lobby.
Across the pond, Donald Trump continues his 'Carnie' act with Palin joining the hoopla.  No not our venerable Michael but Sarah - the woman made out of, to purloin Abraham Lincoln's phrase, "the base alloy of hypocrisy."  She proclaims herself as the unimpeachable apple-pie mom, yet hours before she took to the stage with Trump, her son had been arrested for domestic violence and days later her daughter Bristol has a second child out of wedlock (an act that is despised by the evangelical right of which Palin is one), despite Bristol being the face of a sexual abstinence campaign.  My, their parents raised them well.  Although he wouldn't know it, Trump, appropriately, is channelling the spirit of the 'Know-Nothing' movement of 150 years ago.  That was virulently opposed to immigration, especially by Roman Catholics and had some electoral success including the mayoralties of Washington D.C. and Philadelphia amid some dreadful violence.  For the Catholics of then, Trump vilifies Muslims now after seemingly getting bored of attacking anyone south of the Rio Grande (who, incidentally, are overwhelmingly Catholic).  The 'Know-Nothings' dissolved over the issue of slavery most joining the anti-slavery Republican Party (from which Lincoln derived his hypocrisy charge in a private letter - people opposed to slavery but happy to degrade and denigrate Roman Catholics, especially Irish ones).  It could be said that the Republican party has come a long way since it was under the tutelage of the wise Lincoln but in another way, it could be argued it is little different.

"Snape's dead"

Was the snippet I overheard on the train back from London today and while that is true of the Harry Potter character in book and film, it symbolised how Alan Rickman had remained in the public consciousness.  Like Bowie a few days earlier, the London-born actor died of cancer at the age of 69, not even reaching the standard three score years and ten.  He came to acting professionally quite late, being a graphic designer before RADA (something that would later aid him in his directorial forays), but his youthful features (he always looked like someone born in the 1950s, not 1940s) allowed him a versatility of roles and makes his death all the more shocking - for instance, I had no idea that he was that old.
Of course, there was that BAFTA for Best Supporting Actor as the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves in which he himself admitted subtlety went out the window.  There was his performance in the touching Star Trek parody Galaxy Quest.  And though it forced him to postpone his directing duties for a decade, he had no regrets about the eight Harry Potter films.  All in all, he must be one of the actors I have seen the most.  But it was his breakthrough Hollywood role as Hans Gruber in Die Hard that stands out for me, made especially poignant as I saw it on the big screen before Christmas (perfect timing).  As good as the film is, Rickman takes it to a whole other level (and I'm not talking about the roof!).
It's sad that we won't see any more new contributions from him (aside from post-production projects) but he  has been released from a horrendous fate of cancer.  He is at peace now.

Please come away, just for the day

If we still had watercooler chats (if we ever did), David Bowie's fate would be to be the subject of them.  Dying days after his birthday on which he released his new album, the latest musical offering was interpreted as a parting gift to fans when undoubtedly it will achieve massive commercial success from the exposure and mournfulness of his passing.  Several of his singles will re-enter the charts and we will be inundated with bootleg albums and off-cuts from studio recordings that didn't make the grade.  In the rush to honour an icon, it could be missed that a person has died.
Already the sloppiness has begun (e.g. Jon Snow saying Space Oddity was Bowie's first album, when in fact it was his breakthrough after the eponymous music hall-pop first album) and Paul Mason standing in Brixton (Bowie's birthplace) proclaiming 'tens of people gathering' (though hundreds were in the offing) would have made Bowie laugh at the self-importance of all those who claim to have been affected by him.  But he is international news, not just hyped by our parochial media.
He worked with an incredible array of talent: Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Queen, Andy Warhol, Brian Eno and Tony Visconti to name a few, was a bit-part film star and always strove to be at the cutting edge, even launching his own internet banking and the first to make his music downloadable from the web.  Bowie was part of the cultural 'soft power' that a post-imperial Britain proved remarkably adept at producing during and after its colonial swansong.
That he should go into reclusive semi-retirement following his on-stage heart attack in 2004 was perfectly understandable, allowing Bowie to reclaim himself after so many personalities that her performed.  That he made two more successful albums showed how vibrant he remained.  What will the Unionists do when Scotland has its next independence referendum without Bowie using an avatar to ask Scotland to stay?  I'm not sure how much effect it did have but it certainly showed Bowie could still grab the headlines.
Ziggy Stardust and the albums around that time were perfectly timed for my Dad's youthful adulthood (though he was less enamoured of the Thin White Duke) but to span four decades and remain popular is incredible.  My favourite album of his is Hunky Dory (a Bowie album none of the Pointless audience named within the allotted hundred seconds), something without 'fillers' around the standout tracks of Changes and Life on Mars - his playful commentary on Warhol and Bob Dylan joyful to listen to.  Yet his greatest song for me is The Bewlay Brothers, the final track, in which through allusions he reflects on those taken away to mental institutes and disappearing into them.  My dad (not always reliable in his pronouncements but not alone in this interpretation) said it referred to Bowie's brother (Terry Burns) who was schizophrenic and suffered that fate, leaving an indelible impression on Bowie as a child.  His next persona was Aladdin Sane (a lad insane) and would name his publishing company in the late 1970s as Bewlay Bros Music.  Bowie with suppressed anger talks of how those who should have been looking out for Terry or indeed the institute's officials "bought their positions with saccharine and trust and the world was asleep to our latent fuss."  Later, the 'men in white coats' lure Terry to the institute "please come away, just for the day" (when in fact they knew it would be for considerably longer).  At the very end of the track we hear Bowie wailing in pain for the fate of his brother.