Today is the third anniversary of my civil partnership to the fabulous Fiona and on this lovely sunny day, we went to see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition at the Natural History Museum. Before we left the house, I changed my handbag twice - the first was too small for what I wanted to carry, the second too like a business bag.
While I was on the tube, I looked at the contents - my reading glasses, enormous purse (fat with no end of credit, debit and loyalty cards), the note book I jot thoughts in, my diary (paper, small, slim and I fear slightly inadequate in these electronic times), my iPhone, a lipstick (I took out the whole make-up case, it wouldn't fit) and finally my Kindle in case I got bored on the tube.
I wondered why I had so much stuff. Just ten years ago, I wouldn't have had this amount of paraphernalia. Now, I think I cram my bags with things to do in case I have a spare moment - papers to read, emails or blogs to write, my diary to plan.
So - is this the gradual erosion of "down" time, where you do nothing at all except let your mind go blank or - at a pinch - daydream? Which means of course, that you never have a spare moment and this, I think, is damaging. I recognise in a wired, connected world that such thinking is old-fashioned, heresy even, in a world where work never stops.
But work should stop. This gives tired brains the time to recuperate and in that recuperation, comes renewal. Research indicates that the time people are most creative when they are most unconscious. Daydreaming and "doing nothing in particular" is crucial - it's said that Nolan Bushnell, the founder of the Atari company, was inspired for what became a best-selling video game while idly flicking sand on a beach. What wonderful ideas could we all have if we stopped working all the time, and started staring into space?
So throw away the big bags - go out with money in your pocket and a phone which you need for emergencies only. Watch people and interactions rather than stare at electronic games or bury your nose in a paper. Let thoughts float around your mind and let it drift into new waters.
It may not only be better for your creativity, but having a lighter bag will probably benefit your posture too!
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
A bucket list of possibilities
Heard of the phrase the 'bucket list'? This is a list of things you want to do before you die - or kick the bucket.
The idea is, of course, that when you make the list and see what is really important to you, the question to ask is why - if these things are so important - you're not doing them now.
I was talking to my partner about this, discussing what it is that makes people continue on the hamster wheel, rather than concentrating on doing what they really want, what will really make them happy. And it struck me that fear has a lot to do with it.
Fear of doing something other than the norm. Being on a hamster wheel, while it might be dull, is at least predictable. You know how to turn the wheel, it doesn't threaten your competence because you know how to do it. Getting off the wheel might mean you have to do something new and different - and the potential for failure goes up.
The other fear, of course, is fear of mortality. While you continue to do what's habitual, the grim spectre of mortality is hidden by all this movement. It's only when you stand still, think of doing something different, that the passage of years comes into sharp focus and the chill breath of death can be felt on your neck. The noise of the day-to-day hides this - and the silence of stopping it can be so unnerving that many people choose not to. It can often take something catastrophic to force that pause, the reassessment, the enlightenment.
And finally, the bucket list may not be all that it's cracked up to be. Part of the problem may be that individuals really don't know what will make them happy. A bucket list which promises so much but delivers little would be a massive disappointment, particularly in the still and quiet as we move away from the sound and fury of everyday life.
So is the answer to the fear of the bucket list to do it? Or not? I think the answer is probably somewhere inbetween. Do small things to give you respite from the hamster wheel, to challenge your mortality but not necessarily meet it head on. To stretch, but without letting go - until you perhaps find that the music of possibility is louder than the din of habit, and therefore harder to resist.
The idea is, of course, that when you make the list and see what is really important to you, the question to ask is why - if these things are so important - you're not doing them now.
I was talking to my partner about this, discussing what it is that makes people continue on the hamster wheel, rather than concentrating on doing what they really want, what will really make them happy. And it struck me that fear has a lot to do with it.
Fear of doing something other than the norm. Being on a hamster wheel, while it might be dull, is at least predictable. You know how to turn the wheel, it doesn't threaten your competence because you know how to do it. Getting off the wheel might mean you have to do something new and different - and the potential for failure goes up.
The other fear, of course, is fear of mortality. While you continue to do what's habitual, the grim spectre of mortality is hidden by all this movement. It's only when you stand still, think of doing something different, that the passage of years comes into sharp focus and the chill breath of death can be felt on your neck. The noise of the day-to-day hides this - and the silence of stopping it can be so unnerving that many people choose not to. It can often take something catastrophic to force that pause, the reassessment, the enlightenment.
And finally, the bucket list may not be all that it's cracked up to be. Part of the problem may be that individuals really don't know what will make them happy. A bucket list which promises so much but delivers little would be a massive disappointment, particularly in the still and quiet as we move away from the sound and fury of everyday life.
So is the answer to the fear of the bucket list to do it? Or not? I think the answer is probably somewhere inbetween. Do small things to give you respite from the hamster wheel, to challenge your mortality but not necessarily meet it head on. To stretch, but without letting go - until you perhaps find that the music of possibility is louder than the din of habit, and therefore harder to resist.
Saturday, 14 January 2012
Getting better - minute by minute
As I sat on the bus at 7.37 on Monday morning - no small event in itself, I'm not an early riser if I can get away with it - I noticed a faint glow in the sky, catching the glass panels of the Shard in the distance. The sun, starting to rise. Earlier than yesterday, later than tomorrow.
I'm a massive fan of 21st December, the winter soltice. It heralds the arrival, in increments of a few minutes, of longer days, and shorter nights.
It comes without fail and without fanfare, bringing - albeit slowly - light into our darkness.
I've seen a lot of blogs with New Year resolutions - mostly about being more direct, more healthy, more honest and having less tolerance for bullshit. All of this is laudable, some of it profound, much of it entertaining.
But this year, after a fairly stressful 2011, with too much worry and insufficient money and the pain of loss among my extended family, I've decided to try and simplify.
Rather than make several resolutions which I may/may not keep, I thought I'd endeavour to be like the winter soltice instead.
Arriving quietly, mostly unobserved, and making things brighter and warmer.
I'm a massive fan of 21st December, the winter soltice. It heralds the arrival, in increments of a few minutes, of longer days, and shorter nights.
It comes without fail and without fanfare, bringing - albeit slowly - light into our darkness.
I've seen a lot of blogs with New Year resolutions - mostly about being more direct, more healthy, more honest and having less tolerance for bullshit. All of this is laudable, some of it profound, much of it entertaining.
But this year, after a fairly stressful 2011, with too much worry and insufficient money and the pain of loss among my extended family, I've decided to try and simplify.
Rather than make several resolutions which I may/may not keep, I thought I'd endeavour to be like the winter soltice instead.
Arriving quietly, mostly unobserved, and making things brighter and warmer.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Time to be a tourist again?
I was at Birkbeck College during the summer, saying farewell to the fantastic Rob Briner, scourge of ill thought through management fads and staunch upholder of the critical approach as he moved to Bath University. As I walked past the lovely Russell Square park in the golden evening sunshine, I saw some people practising T'ai Chi under the trees. They moved to the beat of hand-held drums.
If I'd seen this in Central Park in New York, I would have been delighted, but not surprised. But because it was in London, I was a bit taken aback - delighted yes, but was this London? Where things of beauty and tranquillity happen as though completely normal?
Well, yes. And as a result, it made me wonder what else was happening under my nose which was unexpected and more lovely than I had assumed. So I've started to look more closely.
And saw a homeless man shuffling along the street wearing a huge red rose on an indescribably dirty coat. A smile exchanged between a youth and an ancient old lady as he allowed her on to the bus first in one of the roughest areas of London. A gurgle of delight from a toddler playing with - of all things - an empty crisp packet.
Now I don't want to go all sentimental and positive psychology on you, but it really is this sort of stuff which makes life rich and glorious. And I'll bet if you looked at your employees in the workplace, you'd find equally wonderful examples. Like the restaurant waiter in Leeds who, seeing me stagger to my table with a streaming cold, brought me - unasked - hot water, lemon and honey. Or the post officer worker who posted my glasses to me from the States when I'd left them on the counter.
Quite a lot of performance management appears to work from a deficit model - we try to fix what's wrong rather than celebrating what's right, and indeed, are so used to looking for what's wrong, we no longer see what's very, very right. Like the T'ai Chi practice under the trees on a summer's evening.
Is it time to perhaps stop expecting to see the worst and start noticing the best?
If I'd seen this in Central Park in New York, I would have been delighted, but not surprised. But because it was in London, I was a bit taken aback - delighted yes, but was this London? Where things of beauty and tranquillity happen as though completely normal?
Well, yes. And as a result, it made me wonder what else was happening under my nose which was unexpected and more lovely than I had assumed. So I've started to look more closely.
And saw a homeless man shuffling along the street wearing a huge red rose on an indescribably dirty coat. A smile exchanged between a youth and an ancient old lady as he allowed her on to the bus first in one of the roughest areas of London. A gurgle of delight from a toddler playing with - of all things - an empty crisp packet.
Now I don't want to go all sentimental and positive psychology on you, but it really is this sort of stuff which makes life rich and glorious. And I'll bet if you looked at your employees in the workplace, you'd find equally wonderful examples. Like the restaurant waiter in Leeds who, seeing me stagger to my table with a streaming cold, brought me - unasked - hot water, lemon and honey. Or the post officer worker who posted my glasses to me from the States when I'd left them on the counter.
Quite a lot of performance management appears to work from a deficit model - we try to fix what's wrong rather than celebrating what's right, and indeed, are so used to looking for what's wrong, we no longer see what's very, very right. Like the T'ai Chi practice under the trees on a summer's evening.
Is it time to perhaps stop expecting to see the worst and start noticing the best?
Sunday, 14 August 2011
A Sheriff rode into town.....
So - 'supercop' Bill Bratton from New York is coming to tell us how to manage our gangs, is he? Thankfully, the post of Metropolitan Police Commissioner is only open to Brits, so our beleaguered police are spared the final humiliation of having an American tell them how to do their jobs. It's one of the few times I've felt grateful to Theresa May.
It's possible that Sir Hugh Orde, seeing that police work in the capital may be guided by someone essentially acting as a consultant, has decided that being Commissioner will be a sacrifice too far, and is sniping from the sidelines as well as he can - loudly supported by Boris Johnson, who always has an eye for political opportunism. I note that Bratton is Chair of security consultancy Knoll and it would be interesting to know what fee is being paid to him. Or indeed, the consultancy.
The fury of the Met, (who have reduced gun crime in London) can only be imagined at this move by David Cameron to bow to the popular demand for a crackdown. This demand, from an equally unpleasant mob now rampaging through the streets of England, is driven by powerful emotions against those people who have looted and caused criminal damage. The emotion is only to be expected; what's less to be expected is a knee jerk reaction from number 10.
Why someone to sort out 'gangs'? When everyone arrested by the courts has been processed, it will be interesting to see who, exactly, has been caught up in the riots. I would bet my rapidly shrinking savings that they're not all council house tenants, on the dole, or under the age of 21. Which begs the question - why this sort of expert?
And it also brought to mind the resigned anger of many people in organisations, who have a consultant thrust upon them. It may be that they're doing a good job, but perhaps more slowly than management wants, and in order to accelerate the programme, a consultant is parachuted in.
They often have the same sorts of issues that Bill Bratton will have; different experience, an outsider's view of the situation (which may not be right), a different culture. Plus, they will be facing the irritation of the existing staff who've been dealing with the situation for months, if not years.
The difference between a successful and an unsuccessful consultancy assignment is often down to the communication of the introduction of the consultant - and being hailed as an 'expert' can sometimes be the kiss of death. You can imagine existing employees folding their arms and sitting back, waiting to be impressed.
And this situation has made me understand why existing employees can be hostile towards consultants - you can see why when you look at the response of senior Met police officers who aren't short of experience. Hugh Orde helped deal with sectarian violence in Northern Ireland, for goodness' sake.
Bill Bratton hasn't helped himself in his interview in the Daily Telegraph in his positioning - tough guy coming to enforce order. From this 'know it all' stance, any movement looks like a climb-down, but really, a little humility wouldn't go amiss. The British don't, after all, subscribe to the idea of the wild west and a sheriff riding into to town to sort out the bad guys.
It's possible that Sir Hugh Orde, seeing that police work in the capital may be guided by someone essentially acting as a consultant, has decided that being Commissioner will be a sacrifice too far, and is sniping from the sidelines as well as he can - loudly supported by Boris Johnson, who always has an eye for political opportunism. I note that Bratton is Chair of security consultancy Knoll and it would be interesting to know what fee is being paid to him. Or indeed, the consultancy.
The fury of the Met, (who have reduced gun crime in London) can only be imagined at this move by David Cameron to bow to the popular demand for a crackdown. This demand, from an equally unpleasant mob now rampaging through the streets of England, is driven by powerful emotions against those people who have looted and caused criminal damage. The emotion is only to be expected; what's less to be expected is a knee jerk reaction from number 10.
Why someone to sort out 'gangs'? When everyone arrested by the courts has been processed, it will be interesting to see who, exactly, has been caught up in the riots. I would bet my rapidly shrinking savings that they're not all council house tenants, on the dole, or under the age of 21. Which begs the question - why this sort of expert?
And it also brought to mind the resigned anger of many people in organisations, who have a consultant thrust upon them. It may be that they're doing a good job, but perhaps more slowly than management wants, and in order to accelerate the programme, a consultant is parachuted in.
They often have the same sorts of issues that Bill Bratton will have; different experience, an outsider's view of the situation (which may not be right), a different culture. Plus, they will be facing the irritation of the existing staff who've been dealing with the situation for months, if not years.
The difference between a successful and an unsuccessful consultancy assignment is often down to the communication of the introduction of the consultant - and being hailed as an 'expert' can sometimes be the kiss of death. You can imagine existing employees folding their arms and sitting back, waiting to be impressed.
And this situation has made me understand why existing employees can be hostile towards consultants - you can see why when you look at the response of senior Met police officers who aren't short of experience. Hugh Orde helped deal with sectarian violence in Northern Ireland, for goodness' sake.
Bill Bratton hasn't helped himself in his interview in the Daily Telegraph in his positioning - tough guy coming to enforce order. From this 'know it all' stance, any movement looks like a climb-down, but really, a little humility wouldn't go amiss. The British don't, after all, subscribe to the idea of the wild west and a sheriff riding into to town to sort out the bad guys.
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Calm down, dear - it's only a loft conversion...
This, more or less, what what my normally wonderful brother said to me after the latest potential show stopper to our loft conversion.
We'd applied for planning permission at the end of January, had it refused, re-submitted plans for permitted development (which moved the wall of our loft a whole six inches back from the edge of the existing wall) and finally - finally - got the all clear to start the work. Except of course for the solar panels which should have been on the plans for the original application, and weren't.
The man from the solar panel company told us our local authority was being difficult and unclear about the angle of the solar panels (to be above the line of the roof, or not to be above the line of the roof, that is the question) and we might need to go back for planning permission for the panels, rather than through permitted development. Which meant another twelve? eight? weeks which meant that we might need to pay for the scaffolding again if the main contractors had finished.
Then the builder queried the position of the steels supports - he was a bit worried that they might be going through the chimney stack. This might have been less irritating if the structural engineer hadn't airily dismissed our suggestions that he might visit us and look at the loft space. "We do work like this all the time" his email stated. "Our experience in these sort of houses should be sufficient." Our builder sucked his teeth and was unconvinced.
So far, we've been patronised by a variety of contractors - the floor fitter who told us the floor we'd chosen was too 'thick'; the structural engineer who did our calculations on the basis of his "extensive experience" without bothering to come and view the property - well, Wimbledon IS a long way from North London; and finally, our architect who suggested we were asking too many questions and taking up too much of his valuable time - which we had paid for.
All this from a bunch of - let's face it - blokes - who smiled benignly at us and told us not to worry our pretty little heads about it all. So far, our architect has submitted incomplete plans; the structural engineer has not taken into account the fact that our chimney breast isn't symmetrical and the steels don't fit where they are supposed to - as a result, we're having to have a 'bulkhead' which certainly isn't in the plans, to make it all work; and the flooring we've chosen is entirely appropriate given that we're having the office there. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite so galling if my partner and I were air heads. But we're not; we just no speaka da building lingo. Although I have to say, we're learning fast.
This frustrating experience had me thinking about words and meaning, laziness and power, exclusion and responsibility. For most people, to know the planning process isn't hard; it's on most local authority websites and most times, it's written in plain English. What's less explicable is the 'black box' of phrases such as "considering your application" which takes ten weeks in which you wonder just how much consideration your one-room dormer with an en suite actually warrants. Laziness in this sort of situation is an art form - from those who can't be bothered to explain in non-technical terms, to those who design the processes to be opaque and mysterious.
The power issues are just as prevalent - from builders who spout jargon to architects and structural engineers who don't translate because it suits them not to. That which needs detailed explanation will always command a fee. This can essentially reduce our involvement to discussions about the wallpaper, or the shape of the loo. And of course, without proper information, we are being asked to take ultimate responsibility without proper understanding.
Sadly, this sort of befuddlement is not limited to the building trade, it's everywhere. People who work together have their own jargon which serves as shorthand and saves time, and also binds people together as they recognise other people 'like them' speaking the same language.
Unfortunately, alongside these qualities it can also serve to exclude people and, if they accept their exclusion, they can also abdicate responsibility.
Given that this is our house, and our money, my partner and I have decided that either we get up to speed on the building world, or negotiations and discussions have to take longer as our various professionals explain in words a five year old could understand precisely what's happening, and the implications of our decisions. We've chosen the latter, but with some sneaky Internet work on the side to meet the builders half way. This enables us to share responsibility and the power inherent in the discussion is evenly spread.
Thankfully, our builders also make their own tea, most of the time.
We'd applied for planning permission at the end of January, had it refused, re-submitted plans for permitted development (which moved the wall of our loft a whole six inches back from the edge of the existing wall) and finally - finally - got the all clear to start the work. Except of course for the solar panels which should have been on the plans for the original application, and weren't.
The man from the solar panel company told us our local authority was being difficult and unclear about the angle of the solar panels (to be above the line of the roof, or not to be above the line of the roof, that is the question) and we might need to go back for planning permission for the panels, rather than through permitted development. Which meant another twelve? eight? weeks which meant that we might need to pay for the scaffolding again if the main contractors had finished.
Then the builder queried the position of the steels supports - he was a bit worried that they might be going through the chimney stack. This might have been less irritating if the structural engineer hadn't airily dismissed our suggestions that he might visit us and look at the loft space. "We do work like this all the time" his email stated. "Our experience in these sort of houses should be sufficient." Our builder sucked his teeth and was unconvinced.
So far, we've been patronised by a variety of contractors - the floor fitter who told us the floor we'd chosen was too 'thick'; the structural engineer who did our calculations on the basis of his "extensive experience" without bothering to come and view the property - well, Wimbledon IS a long way from North London; and finally, our architect who suggested we were asking too many questions and taking up too much of his valuable time - which we had paid for.
All this from a bunch of - let's face it - blokes - who smiled benignly at us and told us not to worry our pretty little heads about it all. So far, our architect has submitted incomplete plans; the structural engineer has not taken into account the fact that our chimney breast isn't symmetrical and the steels don't fit where they are supposed to - as a result, we're having to have a 'bulkhead' which certainly isn't in the plans, to make it all work; and the flooring we've chosen is entirely appropriate given that we're having the office there. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite so galling if my partner and I were air heads. But we're not; we just no speaka da building lingo. Although I have to say, we're learning fast.
This frustrating experience had me thinking about words and meaning, laziness and power, exclusion and responsibility. For most people, to know the planning process isn't hard; it's on most local authority websites and most times, it's written in plain English. What's less explicable is the 'black box' of phrases such as "considering your application" which takes ten weeks in which you wonder just how much consideration your one-room dormer with an en suite actually warrants. Laziness in this sort of situation is an art form - from those who can't be bothered to explain in non-technical terms, to those who design the processes to be opaque and mysterious.
The power issues are just as prevalent - from builders who spout jargon to architects and structural engineers who don't translate because it suits them not to. That which needs detailed explanation will always command a fee. This can essentially reduce our involvement to discussions about the wallpaper, or the shape of the loo. And of course, without proper information, we are being asked to take ultimate responsibility without proper understanding.
Sadly, this sort of befuddlement is not limited to the building trade, it's everywhere. People who work together have their own jargon which serves as shorthand and saves time, and also binds people together as they recognise other people 'like them' speaking the same language.
Unfortunately, alongside these qualities it can also serve to exclude people and, if they accept their exclusion, they can also abdicate responsibility.
Given that this is our house, and our money, my partner and I have decided that either we get up to speed on the building world, or negotiations and discussions have to take longer as our various professionals explain in words a five year old could understand precisely what's happening, and the implications of our decisions. We've chosen the latter, but with some sneaky Internet work on the side to meet the builders half way. This enables us to share responsibility and the power inherent in the discussion is evenly spread.
Thankfully, our builders also make their own tea, most of the time.
Thursday, 14 July 2011
The Faustian version of Take That...
With apologies to those who do this professionally and for a living, I thought I'd stray somewhat to report on a concert I went to last Friday. Take That at Wembley.
Now, while I've hummed along to Relight my Fire with the best of them, I haven't been a fan since they started. I'd heard that their live show was worth seeing, my mate Lorraine needed a Christmas present, and - well, here we were.
Because it was at least fifteen minutes into the show that I decided that I had to record this for posterity, I'm a bit ashamed to say I can't remember the name of the first song (I think it was Shine).
However, I was wide awake when we were asked to sing along to the National Anthem, which struck me as so cheesy I was surprised you couldn't smell in Oxford Street. Embarassment out of the way, this was followed by Patience and the relief was palpable. The band looked fit and confident although I thought Mark Owen looked knackered.
We then moved into Disneyworld as roller skating bees, a pink caterpillar and a rapid change of costume accompanied a Beatles number (Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds? - I was seriously thrown by the caterpillar), the sun shone, people were happy and yellow ticker tape floated from the sky. Parents smiled, kiddies clapped and middle-aged ladies bounced.
And, as the Fab Four wandered off, the sky seemed to darken, the volume increased and dropping like a malevolent spider from the top of the huge set, Robbie Williams arrived.
With a blast of fire I could feel from the second tier of Block M, the atmosphere changed in a second, and Mr Williams, appropriately dressed in black tails and black everything, leered into the camera and snarled his way through Let Me Entertain You. In his role as Mephistopheles, Williams alternatively made love to the audience and stuck his finger up at them, and those who could lip read might have been a little taken aback at his vehemence, if not his language. Play time for the kiddies was indeed over with skating insects replaced by bikini-clad women, and the Beatles turned into Beetlejuice who was quite plainly here to spoil the party.
At the end of his second number, he treated us to some doggerel which included the Donne-like lines:
Study Shakespeare and be quite elite
Or be an Essex girl and just piss in the street
as well as reference to some of their Sunderland fans who's got completely hammered at the North East gig. The audience laughed, some of us a bit nervously. And what's more, you couldn't tell just how serious he was.
Some of the dialogue to the audience declared his patriotism, hand on heart, O to be in England, at Wembley and doing seven shows...or was it eight?...to all their marvellous fans. The Sun would have been proud. And then he winked to camera and you wondered if this wasn't all ironic and like the Devil, he was simply leading us a merry dance.
As if the chasm between his short set and before it wasn't obvious enough, he then went into Walk on The Wild Side, with a punch-drunk audience providing the Do, do, dos.
He repeated, with appropriately inserted expletives, the number to call if people didn't like Uncle Robbie's language, and then, lying flat on a steel platform, swung low over the standing audiences, leering from the platform, touching hands and posing to the camera. For an ugly man, he can look devilishly handsome.
And then, finishing Feel, we were back on stage and back to panto as he urged the crowd to start a mexican wave. Such was the sense of theatre that to actually believe in Angels, dedicated to four people who Williams had lost recently - was a bit of a struggle. But if the mask slipped at all during his performance, it was here.
The crowd loved it. Disappearing - again like a panto baddie - down a trap door in the stage, Williams left the stage to some shadowy monk-like figures, waving fire baskets and wafting incense. We were then treated to a Cirque de Soleil interlude (to give him time to change, presumably) with spider-man figures climbing the wall of the 50 foot set. Seconds later, they were on the scaffolding at the top of the set, and The Flood provided an appropriate soundtrack for the various spider-men to get a thorough soaking as water poured down the walls.
The whole show seemed to me to be a power battle for the band. The smart, blonde (but somehow rather dull) Gary Barlow against the full throated, wicked and sparkling Robbie Williams. He changes the dynamic of the band so much - it's a like a different band. The rather anodyne love songs (pretty enough, don't get me wrong) simply don't stack up against the cynical lyrics, sex and heavy beat of Williams' numbers. And what's more, Barlow looked like a choirister suddenly playing with the bad boys - enjoying himself hugely, but would he love himself in the morning?
The final song before the encore was - predictably enough - Never Forget - and the stadium thundered to the sound of 85,001 people clapping their hands. Back on stage via a huge sliding stage, the final song - preceeded by a couple of lines of Williams' No Regrets (more irony?), a group hug and a reprise of we are the lads - was Relight My Fire. No Lulu this time, this was a boys party, with Williams singing her part.
Although they did look like a five piece band by the end of the concert, you can't help but wonder if the struggle for the soul of Take That would ever be resolved without tearing the band apart. But certainly, there is no going back. Williams' influence is evident in the more jagged-sounding new albums. There was some light-hearted fooling around the piano while they did a few old TT numbers - but the lack of punch (and musicians) for them indicated that they were part of another life, another country.
Now, while I've hummed along to Relight my Fire with the best of them, I haven't been a fan since they started. I'd heard that their live show was worth seeing, my mate Lorraine needed a Christmas present, and - well, here we were.
Because it was at least fifteen minutes into the show that I decided that I had to record this for posterity, I'm a bit ashamed to say I can't remember the name of the first song (I think it was Shine).
However, I was wide awake when we were asked to sing along to the National Anthem, which struck me as so cheesy I was surprised you couldn't smell in Oxford Street. Embarassment out of the way, this was followed by Patience and the relief was palpable. The band looked fit and confident although I thought Mark Owen looked knackered.
We then moved into Disneyworld as roller skating bees, a pink caterpillar and a rapid change of costume accompanied a Beatles number (Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds? - I was seriously thrown by the caterpillar), the sun shone, people were happy and yellow ticker tape floated from the sky. Parents smiled, kiddies clapped and middle-aged ladies bounced.
And, as the Fab Four wandered off, the sky seemed to darken, the volume increased and dropping like a malevolent spider from the top of the huge set, Robbie Williams arrived.
With a blast of fire I could feel from the second tier of Block M, the atmosphere changed in a second, and Mr Williams, appropriately dressed in black tails and black everything, leered into the camera and snarled his way through Let Me Entertain You. In his role as Mephistopheles, Williams alternatively made love to the audience and stuck his finger up at them, and those who could lip read might have been a little taken aback at his vehemence, if not his language. Play time for the kiddies was indeed over with skating insects replaced by bikini-clad women, and the Beatles turned into Beetlejuice who was quite plainly here to spoil the party.
At the end of his second number, he treated us to some doggerel which included the Donne-like lines:
Study Shakespeare and be quite elite
Or be an Essex girl and just piss in the street
as well as reference to some of their Sunderland fans who's got completely hammered at the North East gig. The audience laughed, some of us a bit nervously. And what's more, you couldn't tell just how serious he was.
Some of the dialogue to the audience declared his patriotism, hand on heart, O to be in England, at Wembley and doing seven shows...or was it eight?...to all their marvellous fans. The Sun would have been proud. And then he winked to camera and you wondered if this wasn't all ironic and like the Devil, he was simply leading us a merry dance.
As if the chasm between his short set and before it wasn't obvious enough, he then went into Walk on The Wild Side, with a punch-drunk audience providing the Do, do, dos.
He repeated, with appropriately inserted expletives, the number to call if people didn't like Uncle Robbie's language, and then, lying flat on a steel platform, swung low over the standing audiences, leering from the platform, touching hands and posing to the camera. For an ugly man, he can look devilishly handsome.
And then, finishing Feel, we were back on stage and back to panto as he urged the crowd to start a mexican wave. Such was the sense of theatre that to actually believe in Angels, dedicated to four people who Williams had lost recently - was a bit of a struggle. But if the mask slipped at all during his performance, it was here.
The crowd loved it. Disappearing - again like a panto baddie - down a trap door in the stage, Williams left the stage to some shadowy monk-like figures, waving fire baskets and wafting incense. We were then treated to a Cirque de Soleil interlude (to give him time to change, presumably) with spider-man figures climbing the wall of the 50 foot set. Seconds later, they were on the scaffolding at the top of the set, and The Flood provided an appropriate soundtrack for the various spider-men to get a thorough soaking as water poured down the walls.
The whole show seemed to me to be a power battle for the band. The smart, blonde (but somehow rather dull) Gary Barlow against the full throated, wicked and sparkling Robbie Williams. He changes the dynamic of the band so much - it's a like a different band. The rather anodyne love songs (pretty enough, don't get me wrong) simply don't stack up against the cynical lyrics, sex and heavy beat of Williams' numbers. And what's more, Barlow looked like a choirister suddenly playing with the bad boys - enjoying himself hugely, but would he love himself in the morning?
The final song before the encore was - predictably enough - Never Forget - and the stadium thundered to the sound of 85,001 people clapping their hands. Back on stage via a huge sliding stage, the final song - preceeded by a couple of lines of Williams' No Regrets (more irony?), a group hug and a reprise of we are the lads - was Relight My Fire. No Lulu this time, this was a boys party, with Williams singing her part.
Although they did look like a five piece band by the end of the concert, you can't help but wonder if the struggle for the soul of Take That would ever be resolved without tearing the band apart. But certainly, there is no going back. Williams' influence is evident in the more jagged-sounding new albums. There was some light-hearted fooling around the piano while they did a few old TT numbers - but the lack of punch (and musicians) for them indicated that they were part of another life, another country.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)