Layer 402 . . . Pantomime Villains, Burlesque Performers, Politicians, Financiers and Boogie Woogie

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This year's pantomime villains? Politicians and financiers
 

by Aditya Chakrabortty

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/dec/14/brain-food-politicians-financiers-lack-control

This is the charge sheet we like to build for our public villains: immensely powerful, yet thoughtless with their power. They shuffle around billions and cause a massive financial meltdown. Or they pack off youngsters to destroy others (and themselves) in faraway wars. Oh, and they all come from the same elite backgrounds: a private education, then a stint at Oxbridge before floating down to London on a lotus leaf to enjoy careers as unarguably middle class as their Smeg fridges.

If you thought the men and women in frontline finance and politics operated in a hermetically sealed bubble, then Davis has news for you: it's worse than you think. Not only do top politicians and financiers come to their desks with little knowledge of life beyond the Commons or their Bloomberg machines, but that bubble closes in, the higher they get on the professional ladder.

Of 22 London fund managers Davis talked to, only two had any experience in industry. Unsurprising? Consider this: only two had ever visited the companies they invested in – and that was in the distant past. Instead, hundreds of chief executives and finance heads came to them. Invest in what you know, runs an old stockmarket homily; invest in what you can find out about in an hour, would run the modern version, over a glass of fizzy water and in between checking the BlackBerry.

The specialists managing your money, whether in pensions or on prisons, will do well even to gain a puddle-deep knowledge of their subject. Yet politicians and financiers both have to make big decisions at vast speed. Fund managers typically keep a portfolio of 100 companies in their head, while considering whether to buy or sell hundreds more. They might rely on brokers to provide analysis – but they also know these "double-glazing salesmen" (as one fund manager calls them) are really only touting for commission. As for frontbench politicians, Davis describes their decision-making as almost entirely "subcontracted" – with the parameters set by colleagues, or advisers, or the latest fuss in the papers.

I am not asking you to feel pity for these people, or any other such cheap exercise in false consciousness. But anyone who thinks of financiers or politicians as the great men (and, occasionally, women) of our age, making the gigantic decisions on the issues that count, is wrong.

The other impression you are left with after reading Davis's descriptions of nerve-jangled fund managers and panicky frontbenchers is that it is no wonder so many bad decisions are made in both finance and politics.

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More on Burlesque

 http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2010/dec/13/burlesque-dita-von-teese-christina-aguilera

'Any body can do it'

If the content can vary in tone and quality, there are certain consistent conventions; a burlesque show can seem almost like adult pantomime. Cheers are expected at key moments of undress – it's literally rude not to – and the women in the audience tend to offer even more vociferous encouragement than the men. From one perspective, the scene's current popularity means demand is sufficiently high for mediocre acts to thrive. But from another point of view, mediocrity is an asset – that is, audiences are willing to celebrate performers simply for having the confidence to put themselves on display. Amateurism – or at least a kind of permeability between performer and audience – is sometimes the point.

At the Tournament of Tease final, for instance, two separate turns see performers rejected by men, moping to All By Myself then taking self-assertive pleasure in their bodies – one involving a lot of cake – to massive whoops of applause. In another, Betsy Boudoir, an older woman in a white two-piece suit mimes getting trapped in a lift then tearing her clothes off in a frenzy. Her timing is spot on, her enjoyment palpable. When Betsy is announced as winner, the 20-strong party accompanying her, including her mother and husband, go wild. "With burlesque, it doesn't matter what age, shape, size colour you are," Betsy – aka 48-year-old Adele Bolkansky – tells me. "It's about attitude. The human body is beautiful. Literally any body can do it."

"I really like the atmosphere here," says Lisa, a 48-year-old psychotherapist. "It's not lewd. The women chose to perform. To get up there and be proud of their body in front of 250 people is very empowering. A lot of them seem to be working through stuff in their performances. It's a bit like therapy."

Arthur's friends seem convinced, too. I ask one, Ricardo, how he found his first burlesque experience. "Very interesting," he says. "Surprisingly so. I expected the worst – some kind of strip club. My colleague has been trying to drag me here forever. But this was creative, entertaining, very funny. Now I'm upset he didn't bring me before."

Nice comment by AmandaStone:

I find any hint of men enjoying women's bodies to be sexist and disgraceful.

I like a guy with muscles though.

(This is The Guardian, right?)

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Boogie Woogie

Mike Sanchez
Down the Road Apiece
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6UH0zpbmvM&feature=related

A great way to start your day.

Eat your heart out Jules Holland . . .
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Layer 62 Expecting the Unexpected; Rhythm and Blues; Cooking and Eating.

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Life is full of the unexpected. When I got up this morning I never expected to feel a chill in the air, all around the house, like the threat of autumn, like the end of summer, so soon. It was unexpected, and unwelcome.

I never expected to see a three-legged dog tottering past me on the way back from the shop. I never expected to see Steve The Greek propped up in his corner of the shop at such an early hour. I never expected the Guardian to be sold out, all bar one copy, before 10.30am.

I hadn’t expected the weekend to be so full of ups and downs. For the past two years the Gloucester Rhythm & Blues Festival has been nothing but fun and enjoyment, all the way. I certainly hadn’t been expecting to find Gloucester looking and feeling so tatty, so shabby, so desperately dying to have fun and not knowing how to.

It was like the six young women in the over-priced restaurant on Saturday evening, sitting around a table all wearing identical pink sashes and pink rabbit ears, looking faintly ludicrous, desperately wanting to have a good time, but knowing really, in their hearts, that it was impossible in such a place, with its total lack of atmosphere, and mediocre food.

As recently as last year Gloucester had seemed like a reasonably thriving small city, with good crowds of people turning out to enjoy various blues bands and some great musicians and singers in the open air, and in various venues around the place over the course of a weekend.

This year the very hotel I’d stayed in two years ago was closed down, with paint peeling from its walls and windows. A couple of the larger shops had also closed down. Loud, drunken voices echoed around the otherwise deserted shopping precincts, with their dead, dreary chain stores and their Summer Sale signs. I hadn’t been expecting any of that.

On the other hand, I hadn’t expected to find such a wonderful, perfect place to stay overnight on Saturday as Painswick. In the past, traveling in France and Italy, and also in England, I’ve managed to strike lucky with finding excellent overnight accommodation, even when searching in the early evening time. I thought my luck had run out.

Motoring into the nearby Cotswolds I picked at random from the road atlas a large village called Painswick, which I’ve never even heard of, to look around for B & B. My idea of a perfect B & B is a Georgian or Victorian country inn or hotel, set in lovely countryside, where there’s a bar serving excellent cask-conditioned ale, and where there are comfortable, quiet bedrooms.

The Falcon is such an inn. A sign outside said, “Rooms available. Great Rates.” And so there were. Or at least there was one - the very last one. I definitely hadn’t expected to find a place that was not only brilliant but also very cheap. It was heaven sent.

The weather on Saturday had also been unexpectedly sunny and warm. The forecaster had confidently predicted the opposite. Sunday morning was also bathed in wonderful sunshine, and was almost hot, even up there in the Cotswold hills.

Painswick was an unexpected treat, an incredibly beautiful Cotswold stone village, with every street full of lovely buildings, hanging baskets, and people. The Anglican church was stunning, set in a unique large churchyard full of 99 beautifully pruned, cut and shaped yew tress, which range in age from 200 to 400 years. There were three different exhibitions by local artists, designers and craftsmen in various parts of the village. The place was unbelievable, and a photographer’s paradise.

The blurb in the brochure about the village gives a flavour.

Painswick is set in the largest Area of Outstanding Natural beauty in the country.
There is a variety of small shops in the village, as well as welcoming hostelries and fine dining. The seeming tranquility off the main route through the village belies the vigour and concerns of the 2,000 or so villagers, and the seventy clubs and societies they sustain. Look closely, and find evidence of a deeply caring community.
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The blues itself was wonderful, as it always is. Though it seemed a pity that the bands didn’t play on the open-air stage, like before. I didn’t expect that. The main venues were too small for the numbers of people who were hoping to be able to see as well as listen to the performers.

Mike Sanchez and the Portions, as ever, were fabulous. I’ve never seen a performer play with such gusto and panache, and such good humour. At the electric piano he does boogie woogie, rock and roll, and a whole range a stuff from Jerry Lee Lewis to Little Richard. It’s a happy man who finds his own voice, and in doing his special thing sees that he’s able to delight and energise crowds of people who love the music as much as he does, and love listening to it live.

He even makes a plea at the end for people to keep on going out to support live music. It’s his lifeblood.

I hadn’t expected people who were near the front of the stage, and therefore not under the large gazebos or inside the building, to keep on dancing and rocking when it started to drizzle, halfway through the Sanchez set.. There were some real characters there, though, who weren’t about to be put off by mere weather. So they got drenched, some of them, and still kept right on rocking and jiving. Long live rock n roll. Love live rhythm & blues.

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I hadn’t expected to hear some sort of food expert on the radio this morning talking about obesity say, “We don’t really understand the link between poverty and obesity”.

YOU DON’T??? Which fucking planet have you been on?

Have these people never heard of comfort eating and drinking? What’s wrong with them?
Let’s run this past again. Poor people with restricted opportunities to find fulfillment, success, a decent standard of living and contentment in life are more likely to suffer from anxiety, stress and depression and therefore are more likely to self-medicate with fatty and savory food and various sorts of alcohol.

They are less likely to live near a gym or health club, tennis club, golf course, squash courts, swimming pool, etc. They are highly unlikely to have the confidence or means to afford membership of any of these. They are less likely to have friends who might encourage them to take part in these activities.

Their working hours and childcare responsibilities are likely to severely limit their ‘leisure’ time and the time available for looking after their personal fitness and wellbeing. They are therefore far more likely to put on weight, and far more likely to find it difficult to work off the weight once it’s been put on. They therefore find themselves caught up in a vicious circle and a downward spiral towards even higher levels of negative self-image, depression, anxiety, lethargy, inactivity and obesity.

Is this fucking rocket science, or what?

Do they go walking on Dartmoor or the Pennines or along the coast? No. Do they go cycling in the countryside, or in Normandy and Brittany, like some of my friends? No. Can they even afford a decent bike, or have anywhere to keep one, where it‘s not taking up living space and won‘t get stolen? No. Do they have a vehicle with a roof rack or a strap-on device for the boot or tailgate on which to transport bikes to their healthy holidays? NO! Can they afford healthy holidays? NO! NO! Do they feel depressed about that? Fucking hell YES! DRINK UP! Have another slice of pizza! Have another kebab! Have some more chips!

And yes, there are individuals on low incomes who somehow pull and push themselves back on track, join local authority gyms and go to local authority swimming pools, and regain decent levels of fitness and wellbeing. But MOST people cannot, will not and do not. End of.

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It make me angry to hear experts declaring, with regard to people’s confidence to cook and prepare decent healthy meals, “Nobody teaches kids the basics.” Even though food is an essential part of everyone’s culture, as are mealtimes. Of course we fucking don’t. We don’t have time do we? It’s not a priority is it? We’re too busy cramming kids for academic tests and we don't have either the time or the intention to interest them in being able to make soup or a proper simple bolognaise sauce or even being able to cook a piece of chicken.

So no wonder kids go through the entire school system without learning a thing about food or cooking, without the confidence or interest to experiment and invent and be creative, and so finally they become people who resort to eating the mush you get in cans and packets and ‘ready meals’. Expensive mush, at that. As are all the ‘fast food’ takeaway 'meals' that people spend small fortunes on - the ‘kentucks’ and ‘big macs’ and ‘chop sueys’ and ‘spare ribs’ and doners and pies and chips and pizzas. So no wonder they get poorer, and more lethargic, and poorer, and fatter, and more depressed . . .