As I write this article we are about to see one of most potentially controversial presidents in living memory, being “sworn in” This is a term that is quite apt, as most of the world is thinking, “what the bloody hell happened there?” America has raised a star spangled middle finger to political elitism and voted for a man of the people.
Yes, to the rest of us he’s a figure of ridicule, a wig wearing toddler with a temper problem and a penchant for grabbing females in their unmentionables, but to many Americans he is a blueprint of the American dream. A self-made man, one of their own, you can see this in that famous family photograph. He, sat on a gold throne in a tailored suit, Ivana draped in fur and precious gemstones and his youngest son riding on the back of the lion.
In an eerie parallel with our own Brexit vote, I can understand how it happened. Poor opposition, campaigns embroiled in dirty tactics and lies and a desire from the electorate to regain control and kick out at the establishment. Americans have voted for change and this is much easier to sell than more of the same. It’s hard to tell what will happen when Trump takes over.
As a comedian people have said it must be a gift from the gods having him in charge. In truth, yes he is perfect comedy fodder, I mean which other president fires out tweets at four in the morning in a slanging match with an Oscar winning actress? He’s like an angry, drunken uncle with a broadband connection.
To be honest though I would prefer some stability in the world, comedians are not that masochistic, that’s like saying a lifeguard only does the job because they want to watch people drown. However I do think the world has changed. I hate the way that showing compassion nowadays brands you as a “lefty” or “snowflake.”
Since when was this trait categorized as a bad thing? I’m interested to see what happens over the next few months, Trump may trigger Armageddon, but I think they’ll be plenty of laughs along the way.
No more dramas
It was the finale of the series Sherlock last weekend and I must admit I am a fan. It’s all about that 9pm Sunday evening slot now and it’s a firm favourite in our household. I like to watch the Antiques roadshow first, because I’m basically a pensioner trapped in a 37 year-old’s body, Imagine, if you will a Yorkshire Benjamin Button. I like to watch it on catch up, that way you get the extra frisson of excitement knowing the items are worth even more.
Anyway I’d love to tell you about the series finale of Sherlock, I would, but I’m still utterly confused. There is an irony in a detective show being so baffling you need a degree in criminology just to be able to follow it. It appears Sherlock had a long lost sister, who had been dressing up as various characters and stalking him. It was like an episode of Scooby Doo. The final straw for me was seeing Paul Weller (of the Jam) laid out on the floor dressed as a Viking, I don’t know why and I don’t think he does either; utter twaddle.
Television drama is having a renaissance at the moment. Ever since the mumblefest that was Wolf Hall, I said ‘WOLF HALL!” it’s all about the feature length drama. Apparently people are writing in to complain about the lack of diction from some of the main characters in these dramas. I think they should have an interpreter, like they do late night for the deaf community. They could bring in Brian Blessed, a man who’s known for vocal projection skills so impressive they could start an avalanche. You wouldn’t be able to have your television volume above eight but at least you’d be able to follow the plot.
The latest hit is Taboo starring the intense and brooding Tom Hardy, (“cheer up son, give us a smile!”) I haven’t seen it but my father-in-law offered a succinct but devastating review; “It’s all filmed through chair legs and mist.” They turned it off and watched “How stuff’s made” on Quest instead.
It’s not the winning it’s the taking part
It’s a natural thing for parents to think their child is unique and wonderful. It’s true some children will go on to achieve great things, future leaders, scientists who have moments of genius and cure diseases. However statistics dictate that some of them will reach the dizzy heights of middle management in an estate agents in Wigan and stay there until death brings the freedom they crave; but there is absolutely nothing wrong with either of those scenarios.
It’s in the environment of the kids club we see this competitiveness magnified. Parents of children in the junior football team, screaming at their first born from the touch-line “mark him” “spread the ball” and my favourite “let me live my dreams vicariously through you!”
In the case of my daughter we had to endure the nightmare that is ballet lessons. I’ve sat through hours of recitals and paid thirty odd quid a month to essentially watch her bow in pumps. She enjoys it but she’s not a natural, she’s clumsy, which is an issue for the ballerina. Yesterday she fell over on a lino floor, just collapsed into a heap like a controlled demolition, she’s passionate and enthusiastic but she’s no Darcey Bussell.
But it doesn’t matter, it’s all about confidence. I myself did karate as a child, albeit only for two weeks. I failed to see how doing my little routines up and down the floor of a working man’s club in Yorkshire, taught by a man who I’m convinced had just been recently released from prison, was going to help me in a real time combat situation. Imagine it kicks off in the middle of Nottingham, fists are flying, men wrestling each other to the ground, broken glass everywhere and then here I come, doing my little moves, “stop everyone, look at this, we appear to have been joined by an angry line dancer!”
I’m not worried about my daughter. She’s already an independent thinker. I realised this last week when I tried and failed to put the fatherly foot down. “Olivia,” I said, “if you don’t get dressed this minute, mummy, daddy and your sister will all go out and you’ll be left here at home all on your own!” She looked up at me from her My Little Pony magazine, thought for a moment and replied, “Okay daddy that sounds great!” “No!” I said, “that’s not how this should go!” She continued, “You’re right daddy, I need to be punished, I’ll just stay here in bed with my magazine and think about how bad I’ve been.” I tried again, the desperation evident in my voice. “This isn’t right Olivia, you’re meant to be scared!” “I think you’re the one that’s scared daddy,” she said smiling. ”It’s Sunday morning and you’ve got to go to IKEA.”