A matter of artistic integrity.

I had an unpleasant experience last night. I was watching Swedish TV (I know what you’re thinking, but that alone wasn’t the experience I’m talking about) when an advert came on. Suddenly, there before me was an unholy juxtaposition of two very familiar sights. One of these sights was Swedish electrical retail giant, ElGiganten; the other was…Mr. John Cleese.

Perhaps I should explain my views on artists doing commercials. First, let me emphasize the word ‘artist’. I couldn’t care less what the money-grabbing ‘celebrity’ no-talents do to milk their 15 minutes of fame. I’m talking about those who have real gifts in music, or acting or any type of performance which requires an intellect (that excludes you, Mr. Beckham). Those who, through their creative talent, imagination and insight, help us understand important things in a new way, or just make our world a better place to be in through the art they produce. 

Artists doing commercials offends me for the following reason: the work of any true artist depends on honesty and sincerity. We put our trust in the artist to express, in their own unique way, a sincere message which is significant for one of a multitude of possible reasons – doing a commercial makes this impossible because their personal integrity has been bought and paid for. The words coming out of their mouths are not their own, but have been scripted by some advertising executive who simply wants to use the ‘artistic brand’ to sell product ‘x’ to target market ‘y’. As the ad-man sits back on his leather bean-bag sipping his skinny latte, he gives no thought to the artist’s reputation that has been built up over many years of graft, honing the raw talent into something that is respected and appreciated. The ad-man only sees a way in which to shift more units on his account. I do not, in any way, blame the ad-man for this. If you put a bone in front of a dog, it will gnaw at it.

I do, however, believe that the artist deserves our contempt for selling their art to the biggest corporate sponsor that chooses them. I believe that many so-called artists see doing a commercial as a validation of their work thinking if the advertising industry thinks they are worth an investment, they must be really good at what they do – as if the appreciation of the public was not enough. Now, we all have insecurities about the things we do… but John Cleese? Robert DeNiro? Anthony Hopkins? Come on.

Then there’s the money, the lovely, lovely money. I can understand someone in need of the cash lowering themselves in this way, but you have to ask yourself, how much money is enough? Can you ever have enough? Clearly not, in the case of some surprisingly prestigious names. What you’ll notice in this next clip is that these adverts are made for the Asian market, principally Japan. This is always a convenient way for stars to try and hide their dirty little advertising secrets.

While I’m on the subject of money, I think a dishonourable mention for Peter Jones is apt. Now Peter Jones isn’t talented at anything except making money, but he has gained a level of celebrity by appearing on Dragons’ Den – a tv show where very rich people use the ideas of not-rich people to make themselves even richer. Since becoming a recognised person, Peter Jones (fortune estimated at £250 million) is now doing adverts for Moneysupermarket. Break this situation down and what do we have? We have the quite delicious irony of a rich man, gaining celebrity by making even more money out of other people on tv, making even more money out of his celebrity. Ever get the feeling something is broken in our culture?

The first line of one advert is: “In times like these, we ALL need to find ways to save money on our household bills.” One can only imagine the contempt this man has for the average guy on the street. Still, at least it is heartening to see such a loathsome man make such an utter, utter fool out of himself.

Anyway, back to Mr. Cleese. This isn’t the first time he has ventured in to the arena of mindless self-exploitation. His abortive attempt to breathe life into Sainsbury’s fortunes is the stuff of advertising nightmares. He got kicked because the ads weren’t funny. Take a moment to ponder the sheer irony of John Cleese (of Monty Python, Fawlty Towers and countless other crowning achievements) being sacked by Sainsbury’s for not being funny enough. I wonder what John’s face looked like when his agent broke the news: “John, it’s bad news. You’ve been replaced by Jamie Oliver…sorry.” Poor John. Still, not to be defeated, John has made his advertising comeback…in…errrr…Sweden. You really couldn’t make this up.

To give you a idea about the size of John’s new ‘gig’, here’s a picture of Dogge Doggelito, the man he’ll be replacing. This man is a Swedish rap star. Don’t…just don’t.

As I’ve borrowed liberally on this entry the work of Bill Hicks, I shall leave the final word to him. He always said it better than I ever could.

Jeremy Kyle

Only the most fortunate among us will have managed to avoid the modern confessional chat show. Building on the considerable cultural achievements of such luminaries as Jerry Springer et al, Jeremy Kyle is the hottest ticket in the UK, in the ongoing international project to educate and humiliate the lumpenproletariat.

The psychology of this phenomenon is multi-layered and complicated. It reveals a lot about us as a society and about our motivations and insecurities as individuals.

Sweden has its faults. Swedes are difficult to get to know and as a culture are, I have observed, secretive and very reticent to discuss their problems in public. They have no Kyle of their own. They do, however, import in copious amounts the dirty laundry from across the pond. I’m not sure why they haven’t made their own version of this format – it’s very cheap, in every sense of the word. Perhaps it is the paternalistic Swedish state knowing best, as in the case of alcohol (in Sweden, one is only able to buy alcohol during a window of 7.25 minutes on Tuesday afternoons). It is also, however, quite hypocritical.

Of course, dysfunctional Swedes exist. There is no shortage of badly behaved teens here, or drunks who like to sit at bus and tram stops. Still, we aren’t allowed tv access into their world, we have to content ourselves by listening to their scooters whizzing by our windows or their grumpy rantings on the street after a particularly heavy session on the stark öl.

It could be that Sweden doesn’t want to open the window on this unseemly part of its society for entertainment purposes – a perfectly reasonable position in my view, were it not for their willingness to watch other countries doing just that.  However, I’m really not sure if Kyle is a window on a pre-existing and widespread culture. Of course losers and idiots exist. People who are just crap at life. People who revel in creating their own barriers and pinning themselves down in the smallest possible life-space; but Kyle always highlights only the very worst examples of the human species, portraying them as a social problem in need of his wise counsel. Ironically, it seems to me that Kyle is actually helping to strengthen the culture it purports to rail against. It feeds off anti-social behaviour; its reason to exist is this culture of ignorance, it depends and thrives upon it.

The show seems to be developing and perpetuating its own lexicon. Just as Jerry Springer gave us the hand-in-the-air-plus-head-wobbling-from-side-to-side combo, so has Kyle popularised such linguistic gems as ‘at the end of the day’, ‘I’m not being funny, yeah’ and ‘love you to bits’.

What makes this phenomenon even more depressing than the actual stories is the fact that it is a modern form of bear-baiting, of putting people in the stocks and pelting them with rotten vegetables. One thing you will quickly notice when watching these programs is how uniformly low the educational level of the ‘guests’ is. That’s not to be patronising, just factual. You will never see a middle-class, or lucid person on Jeremy Kyle. You will never see a GP who wants Kyle to pay for a DNA test because she has slept with so many men she doesn’t know who the father of her child is. You will never witness an enraged QC spitting obscenities at a fellow professional for getting hammered and ‘banging his bird’. You will never see a headteacher equipped to rebuff the strident judgements of the host.  This is a show on which only ‘chavs’ and morons would go.

The fact is that the middle-class, indeed all layers of society, have their problems. Historically, it is the most privileged parts of society that have often been the most debauched (tales of the excess and sexual proclivites of the aristocracy are endless, and amazing). So it isn’t that the behaviour doesn’t exist, just that only certain types of people are willing to talk about it on tv. Why is this? Is there dignity in keeping things private? Surely the dignity comes from doing one’s best and doing what is right, not in keeping the dirty linen locked away in the cupboard. Perhaps, then, it is pride, arrogance and fear of ridicule that means Kyle and his ilk will have to content themselves with an exclusively working-class diet. The more rotten vegetables that are thrown at those unable to see their true plight, it seems, the better other people feel about their own lives.

Latest developments in technology have created a final judge and jury on the rights and wrongs of people’s lives. In the world of Kyle, there is no surer way of sorting out a problem than an ‘all-important’ DNA or lie-detector test. Sure, these things can provide certain clarifications on certain things, but one can’t help but feel that in these individuals’ lives the problems require solutions that go way beyond the capability of quick-fix diagnoses. Kyle, of course, will point to the work of the ’after-care team’ which provides assistance for the show’s participants; that part of the show happens behind closed doors, however. It’s just the shouting, conflict and chance to ridicule which keeps the hungry public coming back for more.

Tell it like it is, George.

Language is a powerful weapon. It can be used for all manner of nefarious ends. It can be used to flog junk. It can be used to incite or inflame violence and hatred. In extreme circumstances, it can even be used to attack the very core of our humanity (see video below).

Now and then, however, there comes along a person that seeks to enrich our lives with their razor-sharp intelligence, humour and total command of language. A gentle ray of light passing under the door of a stinking public toilet. Theirs is the ability to make us look at things in a different way, see the absurdities of life, and make us laugh our backsides off in the process. One such man is George Carlin, now deceased and sorely missed by those that saw him perform.

George Carlin didn’t stand on ceremony, he never put on airs and graces and he was a close friend to profane language. Swearing really isn’t a problem in the right context and it can even be used to dazzling effect, as was the case with Mr Carlin. When a person is equipped with an intelligence and insight that underpin what they say, swearing becomes a comedic device, not the empty, coarse ranting that pours out of those trying to hide their lack of intelligence. You see, I’ve never heard Paris Hilton swear. I’ve never heard any swearing on MTV, but I’ve been grossly offended by much of what I’ve seen and heard. Never felt that way about a George Carlin show. Funny that.

George was a natural communicator. Direct and in-your-face. He never needed to hide behind fancy words, but could still explain the most complicated ideas as part of his routine. If you are easily offended, I suggest you click on the video below…and give up MTV. Simple.

When advertising goes bad, and mad.

Not since the advent of the bread with the invisible crust have I seen a product as overtly useless and fraudulent as one that is currently being advertised on Swedish tv.

Ladies and Gentlemen, (drumroll) may I present to you, for your delectation, the ultimate answer to your fickle consumer tendencies, at least for the next couple of weeks, the one, the only…………..Barbecue Lager.

That’s right, I’m not joking. Barbecue lager. Not lager that you can barbecue, silly. Lager that is designed to be drunk AT barbecues, with barbecued food.

Ok, where do I start? I’ll start with the fact that ANY lager, as long as it is reasonably chilled, is barbecue lager. Lager is lager, barbecue is barbecue, the two go together like being in the advertising industry and eternity in Hades.  This sector of the market really doesn’t need your intervention, thanks all the same.

Before I get a few troublesome people at the back making noise about how it is specially brewed to taste good with certain foods, let me point out that this is a 3.5% lager. It is the most degraded specimen in the family tree of beers. It is folköl, or ‘piss’ in the English lexicon. The words ‘brewed’, ‘specially’ and ‘folköl’ should never be used in the same sentence.

I was seriously thinking of going to a shop and buying a pack of this beer and then asking the manager to explain the merits of this lager for barbecue purposes as compared to ANY other lager. Or perhaps going into a shop where I knew it wasn’t being stocked and then kicking up a fuss because this would mean I couldn’t enjoy my barbecue because I didn’t have the correct lager – just to see if there was any sign of incredulity on the shop assistant’s face. Or perhaps trying to locate a real barbecue in progress, at which the host had furnished his guests with said barbecue lager, and then, at great expense to myself, offer to swap this lager for an equivalent quantity of a manifestly superior brew, such as Hoegaarden or Duvel. Then, if the offer was accepted, to question the man on his rationale for purchasing barbecue lager and then see his face as the penny drops. You, Sir, have been had.

The adverts for this product consist of an affable 30-something bloke having….a barbecue. This isn’t just any sort of man, this is an uneasy mix of lager-swilling barbecue devotee and ethnic-cuisine enthusiast and gastronome. As the raison d’etre of the lager is so tenuous, most of the advert consists of the guy whipping-up some tasty, exotic dish with the aid of………a barbecue. Cunningly, the whole process is interspersed with ostensibly subtle shots of the real star – the barbecue lager. The lager for barbecues. The lager which should be primarily, but not exclusively, consumed at, or in the aftermath of…..barbecues.

Thinking about it, I think this freak doesn’t even exist. I think this lager is being marketed to the wives and girlfriends of the barbecuing men of Sweden. Yes, that’s who is the target for this commercial: the women of Sweden; the women who see their men chucking a few dirty korvs on the barbie and hoping for the best; the women who deserve so much more than an filthy Eldorado burger; the women who are fed-up with seeing their menfolk get trashed on 7.5% Kopparberg. Every. Bloody. Weekend.

Ok, that’s my rant over with. I’ve got to calm down. I’m off for a lie-down…and perhaps a pleasantly-chilled barbecue lager.

The International Indian Music Conspiracy

So, they say that in the entertainment business, the key to success is being in the right place at the right time. If you happen to be someone who can get away with possibly being of Andes lineage, and have no problem with shamelessly exploiting your native culture, then your ‘right place’ is Planet Earth and your ‘right time’ is at any point in the last five years or so.

Before this phenomenon, and indeed to this day, I was happy to leave the mixing of Western with Andes culture to that early-eighties band Incantation with their seminal Cacharpaya. The people of the Andes, however, had other ideas. The teet of public goodwill still contains a little milk, it seems.

Coming to Sweden should have been enough to evade these guys, but they’re everywhere, even in Gothenburg. In fact, Gothenburg is where they have taken on perhaps their most ludicrous manifestation to date. These guys swirl around like dervishes wearing costumes straight out of god-knows-where, quenching the thirst of the West for ‘authentic’ ethnic culture. I regret to announce the picture below was taken in Gothenburg, only a few weeks ago.

One of these men was spotted only days earlier, dressed quite normally, selling some kind of cheap mechanical donkey by the roadside. If you’ve missed the spectacle (unless you’ve been part of the Antarctic Survey since 2003, you won’t have) then check out the vid below – it is but one of many from all corners of the globe. But if you aren’t the sort of person that goes to the Eiffel Tower and buys a hat in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, then probably best to leave it.

Dark days for the English language

Language is important; more specifically, correctness of language is important. Purpose and meaning in one’s language is essential and, without it, what is left? Very little. After all, without meaning, language is just noise to break the silence and, if breaking the silence is what we as a collective are trying to achieve, perhaps this means we are afraid of the thoughts the silence might conjure up.

The English language has, by necessity, become a servant to a culture of superfluous noise – a modern, economically-driven culture which makes a virtue out of saying very little, if anything, and making it sound attractive, glamourous and important. One evening, perhaps even an hour, of watching MTV will fill your head with enough junk to last several lifetimes. Bright, fast, colourful, loud. Empty, soulless, meaningless, destructive.

George Orwell, as early as 1946, laid out his thoughts on how the English language was being corrupted by meaningless and low-quality expressions which served only to obscure meaning, rather than to express it. He spoke primarily about politics then: “In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally be found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his private opinions and not a “party line.” Orthodoxy, of whatever color, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style.” If you had lived in Britain through the New Labour era, you would know that this ‘ideal’ had been perfected to an art-form. ‘On-message’ members of Parliament (MPs) were slaves to their pagers, telling them what to think and how to express it and anyone who dared to have an opinion outside the orthodoxy was fated to have a career on the margins, never to really be taken seriously again.

Orwell also stated that: “People are imprisoned for years without trial, or shot in the back of the neck or sent to die of scurvy in Arctic lumber camps: this is called ELIMINATION OF UNRELIABLE ELEMENTS. Such phraseology is needed if one wants to name things without calling up mental pictures of them. Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, “I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so.” In our modern era of Rendition (kidnapping) and Enhanced Interrogation (torture) Orwell’s ideas have never been more relevant, or poignant.

The corruption of language has been extended into the commercial world also. Anyone lucky enough to have seen The Office will have witnessed David Brent trying to explain away his own laziness by using a raft of corporate terminology that does nothing to solve the problems there clearly are. However, despite being widely ridiculed, this corporate terminology continues to grow apace in the real world. It is positively encouraged in the biggest and most revered corporations at which many young people aspire to work, as well as in the public sector, where navigating safely through an interview requires fluency in a language of political-correctness that only certain people can match.

I remember one interview I had in which I was asked how I would deal with having a disabled colleague. This question struck me as odd in the first place because you would only have to ask this question to a brute who wouldn’t have been interested in applying for the job in question. Nevertheless, I answered that I treat everybody the same, with the same respect and as I would want to be treated myself. This, apparently, was the wrong answer. I should have said that I would treat the disabled colleague taking into account their particular disadvantages, as if that were not implicit in my own answer. As if respect for everyone, as well as common decency, did not entail offering to make a cup of tea for the person who was unable to reach the kettle for themselves.

It is this impenetrable nature of this kind of language that means you have to adjust your thought processes to get the approval of other people. As Orwell put it: “But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought.” Mandatory adherence to a certain style of communication, then, promotes a fear of stepping outside the rules and, by extension, a general compliance among those who speak it. This is useful to organisations such as companies, political parties and the military, but it restricts the beauty of language and the duty of the individual to express their thoughts in an unfettered and honest way.

Big Brother ain’t coming, he’s already here.

So I’ve been away for a while, on holiday and then moving home. We had a wonderful time in Italy and perhaps I can publish a few pics of some simply wonderful sights we saw there. I’d heartily recommend a trip to both Rome and Florence if you get the chance.

However, there was one event which I feel moved to write about. On the train on the way from Rome to Florence, two policeman boarded. They came into our carriage and asked to see our passports. Naturally, I asked ‘why?’. They could speak no English whatsoever, and neither of us could speak Italian. A passing train guard assisted in a rudimentary translation and assured us that this is a common thing in Italy and not to be alarmed. Suffice it to say that they remained insistent in their demands and eventually we handed them over. All this felt like an unwarranted intrusion. Imagine, then, my concern when one officer began scribbling down details from both our passports. I looked at the other officer as if to say: ‘What the bloody hell have we done?’ – he merely grinned in response.

Then, to cap it all, the scribbling officer then made a phonecall and was reading our names out to the person on the other end, for some unknown reason. I was incredulous, and angry. The whole episode must have taken at least 15 minutes of our time. Our only crime? Taking the train.

I see nothing wrong in having an effective police force capable of protecting people, but I fail to see how this makes anyone anything other than simply less free. I worry about the state of civil liberties today and the direction in which they are heading. Perhaps this is tolerable in Italian culture but not in the British. However, even in Britain there have been too many curbs on civil liberties already but this was something entirely new and evocative of wartime restrictions and demands to see: ‘Papers please!’

I would like to offer you a link to a very interesting and poignant documentary made by Naomi Wolf, the noted author of such books as The Beauty Myth. It’s called The End of America and it is about how the last few years have seen some very disturbing erosions of the rights of US citizens.

Breaking news…

I’m going to be offline until mid-July, going on holiday and moving house, so it’s busy, busy, busy! Until then, I’ll leave you with some breaking news from a sun-baked Gothenburg. Ha det så gott!!

Transport Chaos in Gothenburg – Outbreak of immigrant crime a result of “homesickness”

It was discovered today that a series of traffic disruptions in the city centre (centrum) in recent weeks has been carried out by a group of disgruntled British ex-pats in order to target public transport.

Anders Flöberg, Chief Constable of Västra Götaland Police Force revealed to WesSweBus that a breakthrough has been made in the ongoing investigation: “We have now infiltrated this group and are closely monitoring its activities. As most Brits have menial, low-paying jobs here, the offer of part-time work grassing on their mates has proved attractive”, he said.

It is thought that many Brits in Sweden have experienced difficulty in adjusting to a public transport system which operates with such ruthless efficiency. The Police have claimed it is this that has led to the formation of the guerrilla group calling itself ‘Inefficiency Drive UK’.

Speaking under a guarantee of anonymity, one leading member of the group told WesSweBus: “I’ve got a sweet little number washing-up pots in a works canteen. I haven’t been late for work for three months now, something’s got to change. It’s typical Sweden if you ask me, all government propaganda…or something”.

The tram and bus drivers of Gothenburg have experienced all manner of innovative deceptions by the members of Inefficiency Drive UK over the last eight weeks or so.

WesSweBus spoke to bus driver, Andreas Bengtsson, about how this campaign has affected him: “A few days ago, I was driving my bus to Frölunda when I met an unexpected detour sign. It looked very professional so I didn’t question it, but the signs just kept on coming. Two hours later I was halfway to Stockholm. These people are sick in the head.”

Gordon Archlever, 67, ex-pat and long-time resident of Sweden’s second city is an avid supporter of Inefficiency Drive UK. He had this to say: “One thing we all know about The Filth out here is that they’re bloody useless. They couldn’t catch a cold. We have carte blanche.”

Swedish Midsummer

This is a really big deal here, second only to Christmas I’d say.

Basically the deal is this: Put flowers on head, eat traditional foods (pickled herring, potatoes, strawberries), dance around a maypole or midsommarstång, sing drinking songs, drink a lot. It was the first time I’d celebrated midsommar properly with some Swedish friends and I had a thoroughly good time.

Where I’m about to move, there was a lovely midsommar party for old and young people. I took some shots of it for your delectation.

Old people tuck into some fine grub amidst traditional cavorting.

These guys are pros. There's a definite feel of American style line-dancing about this, even some of the music sounded similar. It's much nicer to watch though.

This shows the kids' turn to dance. There was a guy in the middle with a guitar, leading everyone in song about the midsommarstång (maypole). There were also some complicated moves for the kids to master. Good, simple, clean, fun. Delightful stuff.

There’s more than a little pagan flavour to all this, as there is with all midsummer celebrations, indeed most traditional celebrations. People wear traditional crowns made of woven flowers and leaves and if you’ve ever seen The Wicker Man, you’ll have an idea of what it’s like, except without all the murders and intrigue. Clearly the midsommarstång is a fertility symbol of some kind and I got this from Wiki: “Because Midsummer was thought to be one of the times of the year when magic was strongest, it was considered a good night to perform rituals to look into the future. Traditionally, young people pick bouquets of seven or nine different flowers and put them under their pillow in the hope of dreaming about their future spouse.” – so there’s definitely a lurve vibe going down.

As for us, we spent the day in the city’s main park. It’s a custom for most Swedes to visit their rödstugan (red house) in the country at times like these, but as we were rödstuganless this was not an option. Below a pic of us enjoying ourselves (a little the worse for many shots of snaps, which is a strong Swedish drink, sort of like vodka). Here we are in the park, cooking out on a disposable barbecue (engångsgrill).

My fiance, Victoria, did this sketch of me wearing a crown of flowers. She's clever like that.

Hottus Horticulturalis

I love gardens. I one day hope to have a nice house with a decent size one that I can tend. It has not gone unnoticed, then, the prevalence of a garden species previously unknown to me prior to living here.

In the UK, this species doesn’t exist. In Sweden it flourishes, and this is strange given the relative proximity of the two countries and the roughly similar climate. I refer, of course, to the female municipal gardener or Hottus Horticulturalis (HH) to give it its proper latin classification.

HH thrives particularly well in the summer months, when it can be observed throughout the country removing litter from grass, pushing mowers, weeding flower beds and generally improving the green and pleasant land of Sweden. It generally sports a particularly alluring combination of rugged gardening attire (sometimes in a fluorescent orange) on the lower half with a summery top to enable maximum photosynthesis - this leads to the development of the characteristic and pleasing solar colouration that enables it to survive the long, gloomy winter months of hibernation. It has often been reported to wear a pony tail and baseball cap combination at the tip.

Pictorial evidence of this species is sparse, given the potentially hostile climate in which photography could be practised – as well as the ever-present fear of arrest. Your intrepid reporter did, however, manage to get this.

As stated earlier, it is not to be confused with the genus native to the British Isles, Heinous Horticulturalis, an example of which can be seen below.