Politics Schmolitics

Politicians. What would we ever do without them, eh? If pontification is an artform (and if it is then I think I should send off an application for funding to the Arts Council immediately - I'm the Tony Hart of pontification) these lads and lasses would get even Watercolour Challenge's Hannah Gordon salivating, and she's a tough woman to please (plus she went to my school - little known fact that). But wait, what's that you say, you haven't warmed to a politician since Lou Carpenter hung up his Erinsborough Mayoral robes for the last time? Well, allow me to introduce you to a politician that, I think you'll agree, we can all admire: step forward John 'J' Neeley Johnson.

This man was an absolute legend. I don't want to get involved in the mirky, labyrinthine world of third-and-fourth party politics in the United States in the mid 19th century, so there will be no discussion here of the merits or otherwise of the nonetheless fabulously-named 'Know-Nothing Party'. Suffice to say, it's an extremely contentious period in American history, the ramifications of which are, arguably, still being keenly felt today - feel free to study it for yourself, although to be honest I've probably read enough on the subject for both of us. No, pah to the politics, I say - JJ sounds like a hoot.

Unfortunately, there's only a tantalizing glimpse of this man available in the public domain, but it's certainly enough to whet the appetite. In case that link didn't work for some reason, or if you simply can't be bothered to click it (credit to you for reading all the way to here if you're that lazy, though), the gist is that he comes across as a bit of a character to say the least. A lovely antidote to today's faceless bureaucrats, and I must say I share his pedanticalness for all things grammatically shoddy (before you say it, smarty pants, that doesn't apply to blog entries). Now, if anyone can tell me if it's his wife whose name was lent to Zabriskie Point (the Floyd connections with which I'm sure you're all aware) then I would be most grateful - not eternally I wouldn't think, but for a few days at least.

Oh, and by the way, while we're on the political theme, did you know that Charles the Bald (numbered Charles II of France and the Holy Roman Emperor, who lived June 13, 823 – October 5 or 6, 877) wasn't actually bald? Maybe he just wanted to be considered 'clean'. The things you learn on NOMW.

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DCW: Over-punctuating like his life depended on it since 1982

They say that we're living in the Information Age these days. (They? I mean the smart folks). The Knowledge Economy. Knowledge is power. Roger Waters may have asked in 1987's hit-and-miss effort Radio KAOS 'Who Needs Information?', but it seems that we all, like Johnny 5, 'need input', and that that input can make not a lot of people a whole lot of money. While the Big Bad World out there might try and tell us that there is no point in searching for absolute truth, it is certainly encouraging us to fill our mind wheelbarrows full to overflowing with pointless trivia. Television, radio, films, magazines, Internet are all supplying it by the bucketload - the cultural plethora is, truly, a veritable one. Well, fear not dear reader because I'm here to provide you with even more of it here at NOMW.

For those of you who may find yourselves from time to time perusing the vast expanses of pap on cable television's less prestige channels, or failing that ITV's interminable Grandstand-busting Saturday afternoon fare ('Hollywood's Greatest Stuntmasters' anyone?), you may be aware of a programme called 'Ripley's Believe It Or Not' presented by Dean 'Superman' Cain. Well, if you are, then this little column follows much the same principle, but without the 'atmospheric' tracking camera shots of the Cainster in a smoke filled studio, more's the pity. And now, with just a little more ado, let's get to our first 'amazing' story.

Passenger 57. Executive Decision (yes, the one where a top-billed Steven Segal dies in the opening scene - I'm still waiting for my refund Warner Brothers). Airforce One. Con 'put the bunny back in the box' Air. Turbulence. And even (to a lesser extent) Turbulence 2. There can surely be no doubt that some of the finest pieces of sophisticated, thought-provoking Cinéma vérité have emerged out of the dramatic set-up of the airplane in crisis. But what happens when there is no Snipes, Russell, Cage, Liota or even the good ol' Mr President himself to save the day? Step forward the intrepid crew of BA flight 5390. (Actually, that sounds more like a Michael Buerk lead-in for a 999 story. Remember that guy who somehow managed to get a javelin through his neck? And how they'd always try and justify their weekly celebration of all things tragic by including adverts for first aid courses? You weren't fooling no one, Buerky). Those were the days. Anyhow, that's the ado taken care of, so let's get to it.

1990. The Berlin wall has just fallen. Iraq invades Kuwait. Italy plays host to the most boring football tournament ever staged. James 'Buster' Douglas knocks out 'Iron' Mike Tyson in Tokyo. At the Toronto Skydome, Hulk Hogan squares off against the Ultimate Warrior in the 'Ultimate Challenge'. Hibs win the Tennents' Sixes. Anyway, even with all this going on, it was just another June morning for the 81 passengers, 4 cabin crew and 2 flight crew on the BA flight 5390 from Birmingham to Malaga. You've seen the films - there's the lovely old couple (she's scared of flying), the young child playing with the toy plane, the amorous couple, the off-duty cop/naval officer/anti-terrorist officer/fireman/soldier heading back to his young wife and child, and the faceless extras. Good grief, that's some fine scene-setting even if I do say so myself. And now, like the lazy hack that I am, I'll let Wikipedia pick up the story:

At 7:33 AM, the cabin crew had begun to prepare for meal service. The plane had climbed to 17,300 feet, and was moving over Didcot, Oxfordshire. Suddenly, passengers heard a loud bang, and the fuselage quickly filled with condensation. The left windshield, located on the commander's side of the cockpit, had suffered a catastrophic failure. Tim Lancaster (the captain) was jerked out of his seat by the rushing air and blown head first out of the cockpit; however, his knees had snagged onto the flight controls. The door to the flight deck was blown out onto the radio and navigation console, while papers and other debris in the passenger cabin began blowing towards the cockpit. On the flight deck at the time, flight attendant Nigel Ogden quickly latched his hands onto the commander's belt. Susan Price and another male flight attendant began to reassure passengers, secure loose objects, and take up emergency positions.
It was immediately apparent that the aircraft had suffered an explosive decompression, so the copilot began an emergency descent, re-engaged the temporarily disabled autopilot, and broadcast a distress call. Due to the rushing air on the flight deck, Atchison was unable to hear the response from air traffic control. The difficulty in establishing two-way communication indirectly led to a delay in British Airways being informed of the emergency and consequently delayed the implementation of the British Airways Emergency Procedure Information Centre plan.
Ogden, still latched onto Lancaster, had begun to suffer from frostbite, bruising, and exhaustion. He was relieved by the remaining two flight attendants. However, by this time, Lancaster had already shifted an additional 6 to 8 inches out the window. From the flight deck, the flight and cabin crew were able to view his head and torso through the left direct vision window.
The co-pilot eventually received clearance from air traffic control to land in Southampton, while the flight attendants managed to free and hold onto Lancaster's ankles for the remainder of the flight. By 7:55 AM, the aircraft had landed safely on Runway 02 in Southampton Airport. Passengers immediately disembarked from the front and rear stairs, and emergency crews retrieved Lancaster, who incredibly had suffered only minor injuries.

The first-hand account of this incident is incredible, and this one, from the Sydney Morning Herald, has one of my favourite photos ever - in my opinion it sums up the indomitable British spirit better than any amount of pseudo-intellectual sociological musing could ever hope to do. Btw, for those of you who despair over the state of contemporary print journalism, give the SMH a try. They have a tendency to give more column inches to alternative news stories than your average rag, and more importantly can always be relied upon to supply fabulous punnage in their headlines, this story being no exception.

Well, that's all for now. If your appetite for the quirky and inane has been only temporarily satisfied, then please come back here again soon for the next installment. Any positive feedback is gratefully received. Any negative feedback should be considered misguided and, hence, remain suitably undisclosed. Peace out.

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Hungry?

'Political correctness'. Good grief, it's everywhere. Just ask the embattled defenders of the Fourth Estate, the purveyors of quality, objective reportage at the Daily Mail. They'll tell you. Fat controllers who can't be referred to as fat, gnomes with big ears who can't be called 'Big Ears' - the whole world has officially gone mad. Oh for a place free from it; a place where you can leave the requisite 21st century guardedness at the door. A place where you can consume food so rich and artery-clogging that it renders you immobile for about three weeks. A place where you can park your horse and 18-wheel truck in the same 'lot'. Oh for the Big Texan.

You heard it here first (probably because it isn't true) - Tony Christie wasn't looking for 'Sweet Marie' when he asked for directions to Amarillo. He was looking for the place where, at least according to the website (I know, I'm not sure I believe it either), 'entertainment is better known as EATertainment'. Hmm. Anyway, not to worry, their punnage gets a lot better in a minute. The Big Texan isn't just about puns, though - oh no. It's about good ol' fashioned American 'family values' - and in particular the family value that focuses on consuming as much beef as is humanly possible, in the shortest amount of time.

Just having a cursory glance at the menu is enough to send your cholesterol level through the roof. A 60-oz. pitcher of whatever beverage you fancy at 7am? No probs- it's on the breakfast menu. As is a 16-oz. T-Bone steak. For breakfast! Then there's the 'appetizers', including that old family favourite 'fried rattlesnake'. No doubt in response to lessons hard learned, the good folks at the 'Texan are quick to warn that deep fried Kaa doesn't contain too much meat, but rather lots of bones - still, at only the equivalent of about three quid, I'd give it a punt.

This place is a certified wild west theme park, except it's still kind of real - I imagine it'd be like spending time on the set of Back To The Future 3. The on-site motel has parking spaces large enough to accommodate everyone, even if 'your rig is bigger than most' (and I bet most of the rigs are already mighty big), there's a shootin' gallery and a dance barn, and even, fabulously, an adjacent 'horse hotel' where you can park your little pony or noble steed for the night. How cool is that? Very. Wouldn't fancy the return journey, though, especially if I'd just tackled the pièce de résistance of the Big Texan, the king of steaks, the one whose 'robust flavour' has earned it 'the Royal title of 'Sir Loin'' (officially the greatest pun of all time), the patented 72-oz. Big Texan steak.

This gargantuan beast started life no, not as a cynical marketing ploy playing on the uniquely American concept of gluttonous endeavour as personal achievement (you cynic you), but as a homage to a cowboy known only as 'a cowboy' who 'came through the front door bragging that he was so hungry that he could eat the whole cow'. As the anonymous but (I would imagine) highly respected Texas food historian continues:

'Bob (R. J. 'Bob' Lee, the founder of the Big Texan) grinned as he put the first one-pound steak on the grill and the contest was on. When the cowboy finally hollered 'calf-rope' (I'm assuming that's Texan for 'Help me, I can't breathe') he had consumed four and a half pounds of tasty Texas beef. Bob vowed (I imagine solemnly) from that day forward the dinner would be served 'free' to anyone who could complete it in one hour. In those days, the dinner - shrimp cocktail, salad, baked potato, bread and 72-oz. steak- only cost $9.95. Today, challengers pay $72.00 for the experience.'

And what an experience. On accepting this grave challenge, you are led to an individual table on a podium, the timer ticking above your head, where all the other diners can watch your struggle. Kind of like the boy in Matilda, except this time you've asked for it. Of course, you can't leave the table, or have any contact with anyone else - to do so, I imagine, would be considered an insult to the memory of the great cowboy. On completion, not only do you get the usual T-shirt, certificate combo that Harry Ramsden's used to do when you finished their insignificant-by-comparison 'Harry's Challenge', but you also have your name placed onto the 'hall of fame', where it will stand for all time alongside some 8,000 other heroes (out of 42,000 challengers), including 'an 11-year-boy and a 69-year-old grandmother'. If you really want to achieve beef-eating greatness, then the all-time record belongs to Frank Pastore, a former baseball pitcher who ate the lot in nine and a half minutes.

Have a look at the website. You can buy Big Texan merchandise, read all about their very own 'epicurean masterchef' Daniel Lee, and see which celebrities have stumbled across the place, presumably while also trying to find Amarillo (Patrick Swayze and James Earl 'Mufasa' Jones are but two). You can even watch people attempting the challenge on a live webcam! It makes you wonder why on earth George W ever left the Lone Star State. Fantastically, you can also now have one of these behemoths delivered to your door -gluttonous fun for all the family. Doubt it would be allowed though, on health and safety grounds if nothing else. It's political correctness gone mad.

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Everyone's Watching The Watchmen... Who's Watching This Rubbish?

The Watchmen is a film which will have people talking for years. Stylish, intelligent and brutal, it is a fitting portrayal of one of the great works of literature of the 20th century. I'm still not sure to what extent I actually enjoyed watching it, but I am glad that I did. But anyway, Imdb's full of thoughtful, well-written reviews from the sort of thoughtful, eloquent people who appreciate graphic/comic art, it needs not another one from me. If NOMW is about anything, it's not about that, so instead a quick look at some other superhero adaptations, testament to a time not so long ago when Marvel (and, albeit to a lesser extent, DC) handed over full control of their cherished creations to the mercilessly crude marketing machines of Hollywood, resultant in dud after merchandise tie-in and product placement-laden dud.

Someone's kindly posted a great rundown of 15 of the worst superhero movies of all time, so I won't bother going over that ground here. Suffice to say, I can't take issue with too much of what the guy says, although it does pain me to see the wonderful Helen Slater featuring, and to be honest, I think if anything he's not hard enough on Superman IV: The Quest For Peace. Jon Cryer's Lenny Luthor is Jar Jar Binks' more irritating stepbrother, and it's hard to believe that even Golan and Globus thought that Milton Keynes would be suitable as a double for Manhattan. As with all cinematic shockers, there was a mound of unused footage, so much in fact that the wise old sages at Cannon films even considered reusing it in a fifth installment (good old Cannon), and the DVD commentary of the film is well worth a listen.

While the comic book adaptations of today are well constructed, faithful to the source material (and its often obsessive fanbase) and feature the obligatory big budgets and almost rope-free FX, we should spare a thought to remember those who gave so much in the cause of earlier efforts, for, ultimately, so little. Step forward Jack Kirby-fanatic Gary Goddard, the erstwhile director of 1987's 'Star Wars Of The 80s' Masters Of The Universe who filmed the final sequence with some mates with his own money, after Cannon (yes, again) did a runner despite the film lacking a finale. So too, the cast and crew of the ill-fated movie to end all ill-fated movies, The Fantastic Four, a film which may or may not have never been even intended for release. Not that that stopped them pouring their hearts and souls into the thing. I'm sure, even when faced with the slick package of an Ironman, some fans of the genre would have it no other way.

Talk about a silk purse from a sow's ear. Messyrs Goddard, Conti and the incomparable LaFontaine, take a bow.

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Moore, more power!

There are few things agreed on in NOMW towers. Surprising, I suppose, given only one person has to live in them. But anyway, one is that Roger Moore IS James Bond, and that all others just borrow his tux. Another is that Christopher Walken's 'leading French industrialist', Max Zorin, is the greatest Bond villain of all time. Now, it just so happens that those statements both refer to 1985's installment, A View To A Kill, thereby making it by process of deduction the greatest James Bond film of all time. Now, there is lots to be said about this film, but as I fear any such writings would take on the grim appearance of the sad fanboy's run-through of all the funniest lines ('I'm trying not to think about it', 'there's a fly in his soup', 'I'm an early riser myself', and just about anything Walken says for example) I'll refrain. For now. Instead, another inspired alternative ending, featuring the late and possibly great Geoffrey Keen as Sir Frederick Gray, delivering one of his classic chortles. Sorry for the lack of embedding, I couldn't do it for this for some reason.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5g8_KequV8

PS: It must be said that this ending is far preferable to the inexplicably awful one tacked on to the final cut by John Glen.

PPS: And for more high-brow fun, check out this bit of spacey hilarity!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdUHtIyz1j8&feature=related

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That's Your Stick Buddy?

Cover versions are ghastly things. This is almost always the case. Whether it's Ronan Keating covering 'If Tomorrow Never Comes', Ronan Keating covering 'Time After Time' or Ronan Keating covering some other turgid ballad, there is nothing of any note added to the original other than a couple of extra layers of insincerity. Or, in the case of Madonna's 'American Pie', something far worse. And of course, if the artist in question actually does fundamentally change the original version, then it's even more pointless. A true hiding to nothing.

Of course, there are exceptions. Some songs seem to lend themselves toward being reinterpreted. Two which immediately spring to mind would be the groundbreaking Cameo funk/R and B classic 'Word Up', which Scots-rock merchants Gun managed to make sound equally as good with crunching guitars and gruff vox (although the less said about the Mel B hatchet job the better);and The Byrds 60s anthem 'Eight Miles High', covered by just about every band in history but most notably by Roxy Music, Golden Earring (they stretched it out to almost 20 minutes) and, in perhaps the most unlikely cover version of all time, AOR prog/poppers 3 (sure to be featuring not for the last time in NOMW), whose power-funk synth interpretation words cannot describe.

Anyway, a point to all of this. Robert Downey Jr, who really should have taken Heath Ledger's oscar this year for Kirk Lazarus/Lincoln Osiris (a comedic interpretation that will be celebrated 100 years from now), is also a surprisingly accomplished singer, as anyone who bought his 2004 solo album The Futurist will be aware. More excitingly to NOMW, he enlisted the production talents of Jonathan Elias, helmsman for Yes' 1991 mess Union (it wasn't his fault). Even better, it seems Mr Downey is himself a big fan of the great band, and so offered his own take on the first part of their 1971 hit (it did feature on the trailer for Tim Burton's Big Fish, so I'd say it qualifies), 'I've Seen All Good People', featuring (in a rarity for a cover) original vocalist Jon Anderson backing. And what do you know, it's even pretty good. More importantly, if this gets even one person to check out some real Yes, it'll have been worth posting.

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Nobody Loves Raymond

Is there a more underrated era in the storied history of Genesis than that of Ray Wilson? True, the pairing of the gruff-voiced Scot, known for growling all over jeans adverts, with the Charterhouse boys known for their love of pullovers was always a curious one, but somehow, they captured musical lightning in a bottle with their debut, Calling All Stations (in contrast, the last Phil Collins-led effort We Can't Dance was more like light drizzle in a bottle).

Unfortunately, a combination of a completely ignorant US fanbase (most of whom had never heard of Peter Gabriel, let alone Anthony Phillips, and simply could not fathom a lineup not featuring Collins) alongside Banks and Rutherford's steadfast refusal to be seen interacting with their new frontman in any way other than as somewhat distrusting and disapproving guardians (check out the video to Not About Us) if you want evidence) meant for a relatively disappointing commercial return, and before too long the old boys' insecurities about the whole project (along with Wilson's own concern as to whether he belonged in a band he had loved growing up, but who he found liked to spend their time backstage playing table tennis and discussing their stock portfolios) got the better of them and the new Genesis was no more. Europe, to its credit, responded far more warmly to CAS, the album going multi platinum and the tour generally well received. Thankfully, two of the first shows were filmed and can now stand as a fitting testament to all that was good (and all not so) about this curious amalgamation.

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The Revenge Of Travers

Stallone vs Lithgow. Surely, a match made somewhere between heaven and hell (earth?). NOMW's favourite action star pitted against uncle B.Z. himself. For those familiar with Renny Harlin's finest hour, a wonderful alternative ending, courtesy of the good folks at Youtube. And to anyone who knows which other Stallone vehicle features in this clip, give yourself a big pat on the back or a similar self-congratulatory gesture.

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The Top Whatever - The Last Bastion Of The Desperate Journalist

It can't be easy being a a magazine journalist. Trying to fill all those pages, yet limited by the particular scope of your publication (thank goodness for the far-ranging scope of NOMW). Hence, since time immemorial the Q's, Classic Rock's, Empire's and Narrowboat Magazine's of this world have turned to the wonderful space-filling realm of the list in order to do just that. And in so doing, so the theory goes, provoking the sort of heated discussion amongst interested parties that will ensure readership remains high. Of course, most of these top-whatevers are absolutely ridiculous (a case in point - this month's GQ rundown on the top 100 most powerful people. George Osbourne is NUMBER SIX. Enough said).

Anyway, it may smack (or at least lightly brush) of hypocrisy but, despite being not even one post old, NOMW is going down the list route. But before you say it, it's been borne out of extreme provocation, in the form of IGN.com's outrageous 'Top 10 prog guitarists'. Now, this touches on topics extremely close to the heart, so I cannot just let it slide. For those who missed it, this was their attempt. I mean, Greg Lake? Talk about a Lucky Man.

01. Steve Howe
02. Robert Fripp
03. Martin Barre
04. Alex Lifeson
05. Greg Lake
06. Peter Banks
07. Jan Akkerman
08. John Pretucci
09. David Gilmour
10. Steve Hackett

Now, the NOMW definitive top ten. Criteria not open to discussion or debate, the list is final.

01. David Gilmour
02. Steve Hackett
03. Allan Holdsworth
04. Steve Howe
05. Robert Fripp
06. Frank Zappa
07. Adrian Belew
08. John Petrucci
09. Alex Lifeson
10. Trevor Rabin

Look out for more non-desperate lists, coming soon to a blog near you (ie this one).

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