The ever-reliable unreliability of technology

I'd made an excellent start on a (typically lengthy) post last night when my browser closed down without any warning. I was in no mood to start all over again, so you'll have to wait till tonight to read all about the wonders of a day off (yesterday) after all the never-ending activity of Thursday ...

That said, I'll be writing the post off-line!

Is there any point in voting come 5th May?

The prevailing mood with regards to politics in Britain is sadly one of apathy, with many failing to see what difference politics makes to their lives and/or not understanding how much difference one single vote can make. Before you go accusing me of feeling the same way, however, let me state my case - which will mean starting off with a look back at recent British political history.

When the Labour party was defeated for the fourth consecutive time at the 1992 general election, Neil Kinnock was unceremoniously ousted as their leader. Whatever the contribution of John Smith might have been, his unexpected death two years later forced another leadership contest, won by Tony Blair. To be honest, the Conservatives were in such a state by the 1997 general election that only the most incompetent of Labour leaders would have lost it - but Tony Blair was no slouch, essentially relaunching the image of his party so that it was truly electable for the first time in 18 years.

New Labour was an incredible undertaking in that it repositioned the party towards the centre of the political spectrum, but unfortunately it has proved the undoing of British politics as a whole. Tony Blair refashioned many of the Conservative party's policies, thus throwing the latter into complete disarray. Their existing split grew yet worse as some favoured a move further to the right (the only way for them to remain distinct from New Labour) while others, horrified by the mere thought of becoming more right-wing, preferred a move towards the centre. The fact that the Conservatives are now on their third leader since the historic landslide of 1997 is sufficient indication that this ideological conflict has yet to be resolved.

The writer Sue Townsend summed it up beautifully in describing the New Labour years as being like a cappuccino: heaps of froth on top but ultimately unsatisfying. The metaphor is appropriate to this day: the froth has gradually melted into the rather bland coffee below. In short, Tony Blair's reimagining of his party was a tremendous idea in the short term but could not possibly last. Worse still, besides being increasingly unelectable themselves, New Labour has effectively destroyed any realistic hopes the Conservatives may have of re-election and there is no-one credible occupying the left wing of British politics. Even the Liberal Democrats, who might be viewed as a reasonable alternative to the two main parties, have fallen prey to centrist politics ...

I'd come to the conclusion, some years ago, that New Labour was little more than a Diet version of the Conservatives, and while it was satisfying, once, to see my suspicions proved correct, it's now rather dismaying. Last night the Channel 4 programme Election unspun tested members of the public to see if they could match policies to parties; their inability to do so only heightened the degree to which there is but scant variation between the proposals of Labour, the Tories and the Lib Dems, to say nothing of the marginalisation of serious polical debate. It got even more worrying: apparently following the practices of the last American presidential election, the British political parties now identify the key groups they wish to target and set about making themselves look appealing to these key groups. There was a time when politics was about long-term ideologies; now it's a matter of getting votes.

With all the main parties vying for my approval, I'd sooner give my vote to one of the smaller parties - and they have but little hope of getting any meaningful representation in parliament. I could easily feel apathetic about the whole thing, but being the idealist sort, I have too much of a social conscience not to make my voice heard ...

Unfortunately, I don't know how.

How time flies ...

I realised at the time of writing my first post here that it'd make sense, every so often, to look back on events long past. It's not merely out of pure nostalgia, as I would hope any such reflections would help anyone who cares to understand me better. Throwing you in at the deep end is all very well, but some background information can only help!


A confession to kick things off: the photo to the left (originally my profile photo here) is one day short of ten years old, when I was about ten days shy of my 21st. (As soon as I get a digital camera I'll get an up-to-date one up - the main difference is that the glasses have gone as, sadly, has a good deal of my hair - but that's not my purpose here.) The occasion was a performance of a play by Ionesco to which I made a substantial contribution: adapting it from a series of sketches entitled Exercices de conversation et de diction françaises pour étudiants américains (you can make out some of this title on the blackboard behind me), directing it and, as the photo suggests, acting in it to boot.

This was during my second year at the University of Stirling (a place now known to most thanks, rightly or wrongly, to Braveheart), which I'd started with the intention of directing the annual French Society play, little expecting that I'd end up President of the society as well, no-one else being interested in the post. Being President had its frustrations which rehearsing for the play amply made up for: the sketches being among Ionesco's earlier work, there's a wonderful playfulness about their language which we worked hard to reflect in the staging. In one scene, two of the main characters were given incredibly convoluted directions for getting to the hospital, so we gave them a carboard cut-out for a car, in which one of the others members of the cast, hidden from sight, made all the sound effects: screeching tyres, bad gear shifts, sudden braking, you name it. One insult thrown out at a passing motorist still brings a smile to my face: the next time you get annoyed with someone, try calling them a carotte gelée (frozen carrot).

It wasn't quite a sell-out, but made for great pre-exam entertainment and was by far the most profitable event of the year - a fact which made me all the happier as there'd been problems between me and the rest of the committee, all of whom were first-year girls who seemed to think they knew better. They didn't exactly grovel an apology afterwards, but the look on their faces when they realised how successful the evening was was very pleasing.

For the record, my character (Thomas) was a bit dim, and that's putting it mildly. In the scene from which this photo comes, he was telling his teacher about his holiday in Paris, more particularly going to the theatre, where nothing could puncture his wide-eyed enthusiasm. He'd clearly never been to the theatre before, as he assumed the falling chandelier, the ensuing fire, the rows full of dead bodies, the collapse of the entire building in fact, to be part of the play. The one thing he couldn't fathom was why, when he went back next day, there was nothing but a pile of ashes ...

Funerals and memorial services

No, I'm not in the midst of a depression: we had a couple of weddings at the church in Easter week, both of which finished with the bride and groom leaving the church to the strains of the Hallelujah! chorus. It struck me that at my wedding, I'd want to have The heavens are telling from Haydn's Creation - then promptly had to remind myself that under current British law, my getting married is not a likely proposition (which is a whole other post). I was also conveniently forgetting that my spouse should have a say in the choice of music, which means the one occasion I can afford to be selfish in dictating my wishes will be when I'm dead and gone.

I'm differentiating between funerals and memorial services because I'd want one of each: the first would be for only the closest of my friends and relations, whereas all woud be welcome to the second. The choice of music and readings would therefore have to reflect the difference in atmosphere on both occasions, all whilst remaining representative of my character.

For me, a funeral is a time for friends and relatives to mourn a lost one, something which the music should enable them to do. Many years ago I discussed this with my mother (I don't remember under what circumstances) and she surprised, nay shocked me, by saying she'd want the Dies irae from Mozart's Requiem, claiming it was "lovely music" - to this day I'm convinced she meant the Recordare. High Catholicism notwithstanding, I don't think it's an occasion to shake up the bereaved with a reminder of what awaits us come Judgement Day.

My grandmother's funeral stands out from all the others I have attended for its sheer simplicity: she was a Quaker and as such, insisted the religious content was kept to a minimum. After the briefest of ceremonies at the crematorium, we held a meeting in her living room and buried her ashes over her husband's grave in the churchyard. The fact that barely a word was said during all of this made it all the more moving. While I am not a Quaker myself - let's face it, I'd miss the musical content of Anglican worship - I should dearly like my own funeral to be similar in its intentions. (I have to say I've not given it much more thought at this stage. God willing, I've got a while to go yet.)

A memorial service gives a lot more scope for the ecclecticism I enjoy. One thing is for certain, I'd want there to be some of my own compositions among the music. Of the works I have written to date, my Tres cantiones sacrae for unaccompanied choir would fit the bill nicely: they're all reflective pieces (an O vos omnes, an Agnus Dei and an Ave, verum Corpus) and could be interspersed throughout the service. For good measure, I'd probably throw in one of the motets for unaccompanied double choir which are among the favourites of choirs across Britain, either Wood's Hail, gladdening light or Harris' Faire is the Heav'n.

As far as readings go, I would dearly like The beginning of the armadillos from Kipling's Just so stories, largely because it evokes such pleasant memories of summer holidays as a child. We may still have the tapes we listened to on those long car journeys, read by I forget whom, joining in as Mother Jaguar said "Son, Son" ever so many times, graciously waving her tail. My one request is that the story be read by a woman with a rich voice.

Besides prayers, I'd also want at least one reading from the Bible, possibly from one of the letters of the Apostles (again, I hope I've time to decide from where), though typically for me, I'd want to offset it with the irreverence of the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch passage from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, one of my favourite films. That said, the two should not be read consecutively as the inclusion of the latter is not meant to downplay the significance and importance of the genuine biblical reading.

Let's not forget The heavens are telling: made all the more effective by the recitative which precedes it, a stunning depiction of the first sunrise, it would be my ideal way of ending the service.

On a more serious note, Bill's funeral (see my previous post) is on Thursday morning. From what we were told at this week's rehearsal, he had a clear idea of at least some of the music he wanted performed at his memorial service; the solemnity of the occasion notwithstanding, I'm looking forward to seeing how we'll be sending him off.

A very subdued choir rehearsal

I was going to write something light about sneezes today (which will keep), but tonight's events have put such frivolities into perspective.

One of our basses died today. From what I understand, it was very quick and he won't have felt anything (apparently it was old age, but he'd always seemed young to me, perhaps in his early 60s), yet the news still left us all in shock. I'd been on the point of asking why everyone was so quiet when I heard the rector (whose presence at a rehearsal was in itself unusual) ask two of the sopranos whether they'd heard the news. There was a lot of standing around before things got going - the director of music had had a word with us last week about showing up on time to start the rehearsal at 7:30 prompt, which attitude would obviously have been inappropriate in the circumstances - and even then, most impressively, we started with a prayer.

Bill had been with the choir around forty years, and although I wasn't there for so much as one of those, he was one of those I remembered from the first for the immediate warmth of his personality. Earlier this year he'd taken to recounting, with evident delight, an incident from what must have been my first eucharist at St John's: he being rather shorter than my 6'3", our hands did not meet at the same height when sharing the peace. As recently as Sunday I managed to better that - at the very same moment of the service, I extended my hand underneath the music stands to the sopranos in the front row of the stalls, only to find the part between my thumb and index finger (whatever it's called) striking one of the brass posts holding up the music stands in question. Bill promptly dissolved into giggles.

We usually go downstairs for drinks after the rehearsal, and tonight was no exception, only we also had a birthday to celebrate. By the time we'd got downstairs and set everything up, the incongruity of it all was starting to lift, a feeling which was greatly alleviated when we stood to drink a toast to Bill's memory moments after singing "Happy birthday". The rest of the evening passed by in relative good cheer.

Which is not to say we've come to terms with his loss, of course - it'll be particularly difficult for the older members of the choir, who'd known him for years - but our memories of Bill are such that his funeral, likely to be at the end of next week, will see us celebrate his life even as we mourn his passing.

Resquiescat in pace.

Words which are pronounced differently from how they're spelt

Being a linguist, it's only to be expected I should be interested in this: it's mostly proper names, but there's an endless array of words in the English language which, by rights, shouldn't be pronounced how they are.

With some, it seems to be a case of one-upmanship (just so that someone can look down their nose at you in a "you really ought to know better than that" way): Penicuik, on the outskirts of Edinburgh, is pronounced "penny-cook", while Glasgow has Milngavie, pronounced "mullguy". Then there are names like Featherstone (Fawnshaw) and the one pronounced Chumley, which is spelt something like Cholmondely.

If you really want to test yourself though, have a look at The Chaos. Best to read it out loud: it's an absolute beast, even for native speakers ...

A countess, various mad old men, stuck-up prats - you've got to love my customers!

It never ceases to amaze me what sheer variety there is among my customers. All walks of life barely covers it.

There was a time when I thought of them in terms of their knowledge about the CDs they were buying (from those who come looking for this nice tune they heard on the radio to wanting to hear the new Angela Hewitt recording), but the lines are getting increasingly blurred. The fact is, only a small number of customers are truly memorable, and usually for the wrong reasons.

A few random examples drawn from three years' work in this industry:
- the woman looking for a Schubert Lied, only in Italian, something to do with a boy and a horn. The sexual innuendo didn't strike me till later as I was convinced she meant "Des Knaben Wunderhorn", which is neither Schubert nor in Italian. She would have none of it, insisting that she couldn't stand Mahler, until a couple of my colleagues backed me up unprompted, at which point she listened to the CD and, most unusually in these cases, backed down. And apologised profusely.
- one of those classic malaproprisms which I feel ought to enter common parlance: a customer came in looking for a CD of piano music by Lamborghini. He meant Einaudi, but the car allusion was really rather wonderful.
- the man who wanted to replace a Beethoven LP he had many years ago. No idea what the music was, but it had a landscape on the cover.
- if you know of anyone besides Schubert whose fourth symphony is (a) in C minor and (b) known as the "Tragic", please let me know. Apparently it wasn't the piece this one woman was looking for, but then she did think it could be Brahms' fourth, despite that work being in a different key and having no nickname.
- a slightly creepy semi-regular with a very bad case of builder's bum (and not an attractive one at that) asking me why I was playing jazz, apparently oblivious to the fact the jazz section is in with classical. I explained that I had to be selective with it, choosing artists from the 50s and 60s, but he went on to say he didn't like jazz, full stop. I left the CD on.
- similar sort of thing with another semi-regular who asked what opera DVD I was playing. I don't know why he did, to be honest, 'cos the moment I told him it was "The turn of the screw" he said very sniffily "I thought it was, I can't stand that opera." Again, it stayed on - spite can be a wonderful thing.
- a man we only ever knew as Flatcap, who stank to high heaven and invariably appeared out of nowhere (we had a feeling there was a portal next to the classical DVDs), though he always left via the lift. Once returned some porn, claiming it was too funny.
- Mr Graham (apparently not even his real name), an even smellier man whose stench you can still detect five minutes after he's gone. Can be borderline rude, stopping only just short of making personal insults, if he deems the service he's receiving to be under par. Thankfully he seems to have taken his custom elsewhere, though I feel I should probably go round to his new haunt and apologise to its owners.
- Mr M. Hardly ever buys anything but shows up every weekday, almost like clockwork, between 4:30 and 5:30pm. On the old side, a bit eccentric (probably not all there) and absolutely obsessed with anything loud, Tchaikovsky in particular - NEVER get him into a discussion about Mount Doom in "Return of the King". Invariably asks, looking up at the plasma screens behind the counter, "is that an opera?". There are times I'm tempted to reply "no, Mr M, it's a duck-billed platypus", just to see how he reacts, if at all.

There are more. Many more, in fact, but those'll do for now. (The countess, if you were wondering, was only memorable because she was a countess.)

Work issues

I got a minor ego boost at work today courtesy of the boss. He mentioned to my supervisor that he wouldn't want me to piss off elsewhere (his words), given how difficult it is to get hold of decent staff for the classical side of things. Neither of them could work out how I managed to buy a flat on my salary, but took that purchase as an indication of my intention to stay. As well the boss might.

There could be a fly in the ointment though, as we're to get a new floor manager at the beginning of May and you can never be sure how someone new is going to take to the smaller departments, i.e. any CDs which aren't rock, pop, dance, metal or the like. Luckily we're getting Nicola Benedetti, the violinist who won last year's BBC Young Musician of the Year, coming to sign copies of her first CD on 9th May, an event I suggested, so it should get us off to a good start.

My concerns don't stop there, however: we're due a refit in the summer (not during the Festival, I trust) which I know is going to affect my deparment. Either it gets moved to the basement, in which case the only thing we'd lose is the fantastic view of the castle, or the other CD sections on the floor (country, easy listening, folk, blues and world music) get shoved in with classical and jazz. Heaps of reasons why I don't like this, not least knowing how proprietal my customers can be, in terms of enjoying having their own place, but more than anything else it strikes me it'd be a compromise anyway, as we'd all get moved into the basement in due course anyway. The growth of the DVD market can only mean that they'll take over the entire floor in due course, so why not bite the bullet and get on with it?

If you do want to leave a comment on this post (I've enjoyed all of them so far), please don't feel you have to be vastly knowledgeable about the world of retail ... I'd just as soon hear about how good your local CD shops are, especially if they've a classical section worth mentioning!

A busy old weekend

If I have any regular readers by this stage (chance'd be a fine thing!), my apologies for a few days' quiet. I've had guests, and not just any old guests either: my parents are up on their first visit to Scotland since my graduation (6 years ago), so I had to pull out all the stops.

We met at the airport so I could mapread them to their bed & breakfast, so once I'd got them settled in there we headed into town for lunch at the Mussel Inn on Rose St, a place well worth seeking out. The first bit of culture - more often than not the reason for holidays in my family - was going round the Britannia (the Royal Yacht which was decommissioned some five years ago, I think), after which we headed back to my flat for a bite to eat. One in-depth inspection of said flat and one mushroom risotto later, off we went to a concert given by the RSNO (that's the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, in case you were wondering) at the Usher Hall, an all-Russian programme of which the highlight was Tchaikovsky's fifth symphony. I'd quite forgotten how beautiful the second movement is.

That wasn't the end of the evening as I had a flatwarming to go to (my parents passed), where despite being something of a late arrival - some people had already left - I joined in singing Cole Porter songs around the piano. "So in love" got a particularly rousing rendition, no doubt helped by the words "so taunt me and hurt me, deceive me, desert me. I'm yours till I die". Even put in context, it still sounded a tad masochistic!

As ever, I was working yesterday (Saturday), so met my parents in the bookshop next door when I finished, where my mother shocked me by not buying a single book. She's a voracious reader as it is, and I'd fully expected to have to keep her on a tight leash knowing I get a discount there. We had another concert to head to, this time at the Queen's Hall, conveniently enough just a short walk from their accommodation, so as we were all a bit on the tired side we went to put our feet up there. The concert wasn't quite on a par with the RSNO's, partly down to none of us being that keen on Richard Strauss (though his oboe concerto had its moments), though the orchestra was clearly in its element in Mozart. A shame someone further along our row insisted on talking at inappropriate moments, but what can you do when glaring has no effect?

My Sundays are always busy singing in the choir at church, which meant I started preparing for lunch today last night (I'd done the shopping during my lunch hour): an onion tart then and an Apfelstrudel this morning. I only have the vaguest of recipes for the latter, the sort of thing where you have to guestimate the quantities throughout - for the first time, the pastry tore (in these cases, the recipe suggests you chuck it out and buy one ready-made, which is all very well if you live in Austria) but the taste was as good as ever. On my return from the morning services, I made three salads, at which point my parents arrived, soon followed by my friends Alison and Jim.

I'd been a little bit worried my father could be a bit difficult, but this proved unfounded: he can be a bit of a tyrant within the family circle, yet is invariably charming in wider company, as was the case today. At any rate, the whole occasion came off beautifully, complete with a priceless anecdote from Alison and Jim about a Swiss waiter whose gender they failed to determine over a three-hour meal, despite looking really hard. Come half-past five it was time to return to church for evensong, during which I realised the collect I had sung at matins was last week's (it was my first time leading the sung prayers, okay?); no major hitches this time round. We had a quick drink at a bar round the corner from my flat, largely so my parents could see other paintings by the artist I'd commissioned to do the one in my flat, then had an early supper at the Mexican cantina down the road.

The last bit involved my passing them the computer my brother wants back in exchange for a case of 12 bottles of wine (4 types, half red, half white). Even without taking the paintings they'd brought over for me into consideration, I can't help but think I've got the better half of the deal!

They're now off a little further north in the morning, while I have the washing-up to look forward to ...

What on earth were they thinking?

I've just seen the stupidest, most insulting question on OK Cupid, a site which matches users for potential relationships and friendship by the means of, well, questions, to work out their compatibility. Until now, I'd found most of the questions more or less reasonable, but this one really took the biscuit:

"Does the United States deserve to be targetted by terrorists?"

It was admittedly preceded by something to the effect of "in view of its current" something or other, but I was too pissed off to take it in. Regardless of what I may think of the Bush administration, no country deserves to be targetted by terrorists, full stop.

Thoughts on parenthood

Not the first thing you'd expect to cross a gay man's mind, perhaps, but a matter close to my heart.

Long before I accepted that the whole fancying other boys thing was more than a phase, I knew I wanted kids, and all these years later I've come to realise that I'd still put that above having a man in my life. Don't get me wrong: I certainly wouldn't complain if some gorgeous guy were just waiting to sweep me off my feet, but given a choice between him and a child, I'd go for the child every time.

To some extent, it's a means of proving myself. I'm a firm believer in personal challenges along these lines, pushing myself to do something I know I can manage - like spending two months looking after my grandmother after her stroke or dropping French to concentrate on German when I was a student - while accepting that it's not going to be easy. That'd certainly be the case with bringing up a child, and frankly I think it'd be the making of me.

So much for my aspirations. When it comes down to it, if I want to be a father it's because I love children and have frequently been told I'd make a great parent. I don't see why my sexuality (i.e. never being in a relationship with a woman with whom I could conceive a child) should be any bar to this, and if I can give a child a loving home, we'd both gain from it. Yes, I mean to adopt or foster: there's no shortage of unwanted children around the world today, so it'd make better sense to offer one of these a home than selfishly bringing one of my own into being.

You may ask me why I don't get a dog. Fair enough, I adore dogs, but living on my own, it would not be fair on the poor animal, being left indoors all day while I go to work - the sight of a dog tied up outside a shop is enough to make me feel sorry for it. Even the most intelligent of dogs remain dependent on their master all their lives, whereas a child learns to take care of itself. No contest.

That, at least, is the optimistic side of the equation. On the other side of the coin, a couple of concerns prey on me: firstly, how much support I'd get from my family. I broached the subject with my mother on a rare visit home last year (discussions of this sort have to be face to face, in my book) and got a disappointingly non-commital response - but to be fair, big news like this takes time to digest; she took a while to come to terms with my sexuality, so I can't expect her to be immediately keen on my being a father. Then there's the matter of my age: I've hitherto been known among my friends for not being bothered by this, but would still rather a smaller age gap between me and my child. I'm coming up to 31, which wouldn't be an enormous difference, but unless I sort out these issues there's a risk this could remain a pipe dream ...

So yes, I do have concerns, but they're not sufficient to shake my good feelings on the matter. And as I say, if there's a guy out there who fancies joining the fun, I'm unlikely to say no. Anyone interested?

(Private) life of birds

As I was putting out an enormous pile of CDs on the shop floor today - I work in a record shop, in case you were wondering, and yes, it is the classical department - my gaze was drawn to two pigeons out on the roof whose behaviour intrigued me. They appeared to be having something of a stand-off, constantly circling each other and occasionally breaking off when one of them pecked at the other. I say "pecked", but that word doesn't do justice to the way it seemed to thrust its beak down the other's throat. When they separated again, it looked as if both were chewing, almost as if the attacker had been trying to get at some food the other had snatched first. Greedy beggar!

I was just starting to wonder if it was always the same one on the attack, when one of them mounted the other, thrust backwards and forwards a few times then climbed off again, at which stage the two went off in opposite directions, one nonchalant while the other appeared a bit shell-shocked. Can't blame it, really ...

It's the first time I've seen birds at it: at school, a friend of mine once gleefully pointed out a couple of small birds on a drainpipe, shagging like rabbits, only I didn't take much interest, and some years later, at university, I happened upon two ducks left to their own devices during the mating season, at a time when all the others had umpteen drakes after them. Perhaps inevitably, I concluded they had to be lesbians.

As a colleague of mine pointed out afterwards, pigeons may be vermin, but it was still a sight that left me grinning inanely.

An introductory message

I can't be the only virgin blogger struggling to find the right way to begin. There's so much to cover, but I'm damned if I'm going to do another potted history. One of the worst questions you can ask me is "where are you from?": if I'm to answer it properly, it takes a good five-ten minutes, so you're getting a potted potted history.

I've lived in France, Switzerland, Austria, England and Scotland - not always in that order, and some of them more than once. I'm now in Scotland, and as I bought a flat back in November you can take it that I'm pretty serious about staying put for the foreseeable future. I talk a pretty haphazard mixture of English, French and German, both in terms of the vocabulary I employ and - unknowingly - my way of translating expressions from one of these languages into another. (It can get confusing.) More happily, I've picked up culinary influences from all of these and more, now with the added challenge of having turned vegetarian last November.

Music dominates many aspects of my life, be it singing, playing or composing. Despite many attempts, I've yet to warm to the Romantic era (at least as far as its Germanic and Italian representatives are concerned) but being a choral singer, my tastes are necessarily broad. I'm especially fond of composers with an interest in orchestral colour, from Telemann to Stravinsky.

Oh, and I'm also what I like to term a raving poofter.