'Listen I'll chop your spine off, you talk to me like that! You understand? Talking to your lousy filthy father like that!'

Recently one of these found it's way into my life-


It's called the 'Dyson Powerball' and it's release was greeted with a fair amount of fanfare amongst hoovering circles. The press that accompanied this new Dyson's assault on the world of vacuuming announced that the Powerball, or The Ball as I've decided to call it, offered- 'a new way to turn corners'. Fantastic, I for one know that I was bored with the old way.

To operate this over-engineered and over-priced piece of 21st century kit really is quite a profound experience,indeed we can read The Ball in a number of ways: a testament to the dogged pursuit of advancement and technological breakthrough combined with a ridiculous hyper-consumerism that leads to the design, manufacture and sale of such (unnecessary) products; as an object in purely aesthetic terms, some kind of retro-futurist sculpture that also seems to be constructed in the same vernacular as the ipod; as another example of Man's attempt to triumph over and harness the power of nature (it contains a cyclone after all). Despite all of these possibilities one truth remains- operating it makes you feel like you're piloting a space ship. This can be no bad thing.

Generally I like to hoover on Sunday mornings but it is a little early to blast of with The Ball so I have been nosing through some books I purchased recently from a charity shop. A chapter in a book by Raman Selden on Iser's particular brand of reader response criticism caught my eye, not because of the theory but because of the subject- 'The Homecoming' by Harold Pinter.

In the chapter aside from the usual 'RRC' comments (the interplay between the 'actual reader' the 'implied reader' and the book('s response-inviting structures) forming meanings and varying interpretations in pursuit of a shifting 'gestalt') were some ideas about the joy of Pinter that I found interesting, although I imagine to more astute readers these things are glaringly obvious.

I only discovered Pinter fairly recently (I am embarrassed to say) and found the experience of reading The Homecoming for the first time like being approached by an unassuming old lady on the street only to have her swear violently at you, punch you in the balls and steal your dinner money. Lines such as the one that open this blog are so joyfully over the top and yet precise that you can't help but to both laugh at them and ponder what they reveal about the characters who deliver them.

In the chapter Selden discusses how to interpret the pauses in the play, how to fill in the blanks without the assistance of the omniscient narrator we might find if The Homecoming were a novel. This is where the joy in Pinter (for me) lies, we are lead down alleyways and back streets of possible interpretation where we constantly loop back on ourselves. As the possibilities become narrower some of our ideas are confirmed, others are subverted and some are left open for us to ponder long after the play finishes. The whole time we are completely in Pinter's hands, the precision of the language the tool that allows him to form our responses and toy with them.

Obviously he's snuffed it now and that is, as far as I can see, a massive bummer. From perusing 'Various Voices' it's clear that this precise control of language could be turned to any subject; from war to politics and I do not doubt, to the various implications of The Dyson Powerball.

On wikipedia my favourite of the quotations credited to Sir James Dyson reads- 'I just want things to work properly.'

I've been imagining Pinter responding to this comment with-
'Hallelujah!
It works.
We blew the shit out of them.'

'You can scarce imagine how nauseatingly inhuman they looked- those pale, chinless faces and great, lidless, pinkish-grey eyes!- as they stared in their blindness and bewilderment.'

Yesterday I walked through the Broadmarsh shopping center, usually I would have no cause to make such a journey but I was on the way to the station and felt, naively, that a Gregg's 'sausage and bean melt' was just the sustenance needed to energise me for my fifty minute train ride to Wellingborough. ( I have two problems with the 'sauage and bean melt': the first is semantic, why call it a melt when nothing inside it has actually been melted? I was unable to detect the taste of cheese and beans don't melt so surely it should be called a sausage and bean slice or parcel or suprise or something. The second is partly semantic and partly portion related; 'sausage and bean melt' suggests an equality between bean and sausage that simply doesn't exist, I for one, had but two slices of sausage yesterday. The balance of the pastry was all wrong, I don't think it would be too much to expect a lump of sausage every third bite or so, I think that then you could call it a 'sausage and bean melt' without raising expectations to a level that your pastry just doesn't deliver. In summary- Gregg's 'sausage and bean melt' should be called Gregg's 'bean slice with a side of sausage'.)

Wandering the Broadmarsh was not a pleasant experience, near the main glass doors (and the light) things were not so bad, the juice bar looked vaguely appealing and the T.K Max almost inoffensive. As I made the 'Dante-esque' decent into it's labyrinthian bowels however things got a whole lot worse. At the heart of Dante's hell one finds (in the word's of Alessandro Scafi in the pages of Cabinet, issue 30) '...an iced river, kept frozen by the chilly blast of lucifer's enormous bat-like wings, (which) holds traitors in the icy abscence of all human-warmth.' In the Broadmarsh an enormous 'poundland' serves the same purpose but for people from The Meadows. I was going to go on to make a comparison between my experience and that of Wells 'intrepid Time Traveller' but instead here is a video of clips from the sixties' film version of the novel set to the music of 'Drowning Pool'. Awesome.

'Since I cannot prove a lover to entertain these fair well spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain and hate the idle pleasures of these days.'

And so begins Richard III, an unashamed, balls to the wall romp of villainy and murder; excellent. Say what you will about our boy Dick but he sure lays it all on the line right from the off. He may not be the most psychologically developed of Will's characters (although when watching a lovely performance of Othello in Oxford the other week I did wonder whether my appraisal of Shakespeare's ability to present characters tethered to real life emotional responses was accurate- Look at me I'm Othello all poised and regal, oh, now I'm rolling on the floor, murdering my number one squeeze being mental) but he sure is blast.

I've been immersing myself in all things Richard this week ready to roll it out to some cynical and weary year nines. I think this update, The Street King would totally help sell it.



So it's essentially Richard III but with Hispanics with guns, in other words, it must be awesome. Possible quotations include-

'My kingdom for a porsche'

'Once more to the beach dear friends'

and

'Hey pappy, you gon get me a burrito?'

I'm assuming the limp will just have become a gangster lean.

If you could visit yourself at a certain point in your life, with the luxury of greater experience and hindsight, what would you actually say to yourself?

This is the question I have been turning over in my head almost endlessly for the past seven minutes since I rediscovered (with some amusement) this aborted blog.
No doubt there was a time when I was a proud and expectant father, my imagination stretched into the future fueled by the wonder of the endless possibilities of the observations and bon mots with which I would no doubt populate my own corner of the internet. But then what?
Well nothing actually, but still something clearly prevented me from plunging into the world wide womb and committing digital foeticide. What was that force that preserved this snap-shot from three years ago for me to discover today? Providence? Rigid Catholic beliefs? (But at what point is a blog really a blog?) I would imagine it was in fact absentmindedness but nevertheless here it stands and thus here I sit, face to face with it.

So, the question remains; if you could visit yourself at a certain point in your life, with the luxury of greater experience and hindsight, what would you actually say to yourself? Well that would of course depend on the person and the moment. Britney might visit herself in the minutes prior to the shaving and say '...yah might wanna think on that for a moment Brits'. Burroughs might visit himself prior to his infamous William Tell act and go '...psssst, Bill. You don't have a William Tell act'. Tom Cruise might visit himself prior to his first Scientology meeting and go '...seriously Tom, best move ever. Better decision than Top Gun and Days of Thunder put together. Oh and Tom, you look great'.

So here lies the crux of the matter; if I were to visit myself at the start of my PGCE course, after my first day, arms loaded down with all those bloody pointless folders what would I actually say to myself?

Don't do it? Well no, probably not. I lack the imagination to do anything else and I still get a kick out of hearing kids say things like '...up your fanny...' and '...sir, what does tea bagging mean?' (Both from today.)

Perhaps I would be able to offer myself a sage piece of advice on an event that would come in the following three years, but what? I literally have nothing. It seems such an opportunity would be wasted on me.

If I ever come face to face with myself during any previous moment in my life I'll probs just leave it, all that is apart from that moment when I must have thought 'Rage against the machine are great, I should definitely grow dreadlocks.' That and the time that I also must have thought '...everyone's doing it and they're all so witty and insightful, you should write a blog too, they'll love it.'