Does the BNP speak proper English?

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Yesterday a leaflet was pushed through my mailbox. In bright blue letters on yellow background it said:

“People like you voting BNP”

Now, my grammar is not what it used to be, but isn’t this the wrong use of the gerund? Wouldn’t it make more sense to precede the ‘voting’ with an ‘are’, or at least put a comma after the ‘you’? Or, even easier, just use ‘vote’?

It doesn’t instill me with confidence that this party can’t even get their grammar right.

Or is this code that only their clientele understands? And why would people like me ever in their right mind vote for these simple minded right wing loonies?

Another misguided mailshot.

L’Oasis. An Oasis in the East End.

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DSC_0104On a recent trip through the East End I passed the green tiled entrance of a  pub that had caught my eye before: a slightly grubby entrance with big, golden letters over the door announcing to the world that behind the the slighty grubby and not particular welcoming face of the building there lurks a place where people can rest, spelled in French.  Inspired by the positive comments in the Michelin Guide for “Eating Out in Pubs “ I ventured in, not particularly suspecting anything exciting. I couldn’t have been more wrong: inside you’ll find a roomy, tastefully furnished pub with wooden tables, a long bar, pleasant music at pleasant level, friendly, local punters AND NO, I repeat, NO TV!! Praise his noodly appendage and vulcanoes!

DSC_0106But it gets better: their catchy slogan ‘real chefs, real food’ is probably a dig at the recent revelations that rhere is a plethora of pre-cooked, off-site produced food out there, but on my second vist after only 3 days the menu had already changed, but the food was just as excellent as before. Even the best girlfriend ever was impressed and probably added the place as another reason to move to Stepney or Bow.  But it gets even better: they have a lovely collection of ‘Meantime‘ beers on tab and in bottles (including an amzing wheat AND a framboise) that promise to light up any rainy Saturday afternoon.

Top Marks.

Marcel Berlins is bad-ass avantgarde. And such lovely hair! And exquisite features! I want to meet him and bow to him! Express my delight at his opinions!!

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“Marcel Berlins is a lawyer turned journalist. Apart from his two weekly Guardian columns, he is a university law lecturer, reviews crime fiction for the Times and is a frequent broadcaster.”

He is also rather pompous with elitist views on the accessibility of art.  His latest comment in today’s Guardian bemoaned New York City’s Musem of Modern Art’s policy of allowing the public to take pictures of the exhibits. How dare they?

“I was being jostled and pushed not by people anxious to get a better view of the art on show in one of the world’s great museums, but by mobile phone owners rudely trying to ensure no one blocked their desired camera angle. They were there not to see and be inspired by artists of genius, but to take snaps to prove they were there.”

As it happens I was visiting the MOMA last week as well and I can’t remember any jostling going on. On the contrary, the members of the public taking pictures did this with a certain awe.  Just like Monsieur Berlins I wondered about the museum’s policy of allowing the public to take pictures, but in stark contrast to him I was actually delighted (so was the best girlfriend ever). I even asked one of the delightful attendants and she said the policy in place because the musum is ‘modern’. Good on her. Signore Berlins obviously isn’t. You see, I’m  just a middle -class bog standard academic with middle class income, so I can’t afford to have a Seurat hanging in my guest toilet.

I was quite happy to have the chance of taking some well-lit pictures with a proper camera of some outstanding art work. I don’t make it that often to New York and I will now relish the chance of being able to gaze lovingly at my favourite Klees and Feinigers. Marcel nevertheless doesn’t like this, because:

“Photography in museums ought to be banned, but I also have a less drastic solution. Anyone wanting to snap an exhibit ought to be forced to look at it first, for at least a minute. If they don’t, they should be fined for each second of non-inspection. The scheme will, of course, have considerable technological, financial, logistical and manpower implications. But it will be in the cause of art.”

In the cause of art I am actually delighted that MoMa uses photography to make art viral: the more these precious paintings, sculptures and installations can be cherished by an ever expanding pool of viewers (be it on  a computer or in a museum) the more art wins. Making musems and their content more accessible to a wider audience (so the plebs can show their pictures to their plebeian friends) will democratise art.

Even our pompous little art critic must cherish that thought. On the other hand, he probably prefers to have the galleries to himself, scratching his chin and possibly muttering into his beard.

Accent on Niles

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Image by Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

Being currently in New York City (hello burglars!) and lodging wap bam boogie in the theatre district, the best girlfriend and I thought we do the local thing and go to the theatre. There were three shows that were really appealing: “Exit the King” by Ionesco and starring Susan Sarandon and Geoffrey Rush, “33 Variations” (suggested by my favourite director ever) and ‘Accent on Youth’ by Samson Raphaelson, starring David Hyde-Pierce. I won, meaning we went to see this 70 year old play that was almost (but not quite) as good as a good Lubitsch screwball comedy. Being the enormous Frasier fan that I am I obviously had to see David Hyde-Pierce live and fortunately the far more erudite best girlfriend ever agreed to forego the more intellectual pleasures of Ionesco and join me in watching this rather shakily reviewed piece.

It was certainly an interesting experience: the audience had an approximately average age of 75, which would explain the constant beep of badly tuned hearing aids and the constant ringing of mobile phones (even though there were three clear notifications by the management to turn the bloody things off).

The play itself was fine: a vapid little thing of a thirties comedy highlighting the difficulties of loving young women from the perspective of a man of a certain age, it induced some smiles from the girlfriend of me (although certain members of the audience guffawed at the slightest amusing aside) and Hyde-Pierce was certainly a delight to watch when he was allowed to indulge in his trademark physical comedy, all flapping extremities and raised eyebrows.

The 200 dollars the girlfriend and I payed for these two hours of folly would have financed a lot of West End plays in London, but it was nevertheless a delight to see Hyde-Pierce in full effect from the first row on a Broadway theatre, but the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre should do more to enforce their crowd’s adherence to the rules of annoyance-free enjoyment. For 200 bucks I would expect 2 hours without noisy hearing aids and annoying ring tones.

Nevertheless, as New York goes, you can spend this kind of money much quicker in a crap restaurant, so I would call the experience a success.