Tweaky

It said in the paper that among the cheating techniques used by the recently heavily fined game show broadcaster ITV was the pre-selection of contestants based on an assessment of ‘whether they would be suitably lively on camera.’ On one occasion, ‘a winner who was already known to the production team was chosen because they were considered “bubbly”‘. I think there may be some tips available here.

While it’s clear that ‘bubbly’ is a gendered quality I see no real reason why men should not effervesce in their own manly way. It is obviously better to bubble than be an ill-dressed, hesitant, soup-flecked party whose intellect and accompanying non-aspergised (see previous post) knowledge specialisms have depth and texture that would enable them to sweep the game show floor. It may be the case, however, that some readers, while drawing a line at identifying with the soup element in the profile submitted above might feel, nevertheless, that all that has hitherto lain between themselves and nationwide small screen exposure is a deficit in the outgoing department.

It would be good, then, to be able to imitate bubbly even if one were essentially saturnine. It may be that one would say privately, to oneself, ‘I pooh-pooh bubbly’ but this need not stand in the way of its affectation. To do it well we must work on our body image. Not what the body looks like but how it is seen in the mind. If, say, one often thought of oneself as a wad of damp, abandoned fabric being passed peristaltically through a dark, interminable tube made of insufficiently greased asbestos then it should be possible, and cognitive behavioral therapists will support me warmly here, to tweak the image so that it becomes something upbeat. Even the word ‘tweak’ has bubbliness and we’ve barely begun!

What do I feel when I bubble (apart from fabulous)? Well – currents of joie, for one thing. They tinkle along the arms and legs, pixillating my very fibres and inducing a slightly jumpy and erratic muscular activity which translates as shrugging, eyebrow raising, eye widening and the delicious like. It’s a force, really, and when you let it flow it shows people how alive you are. The bubbles actually shape the way your lips move so that, like a goldfish, words escape encased in bubbles that force your mouth open gradually then allow it to close smoothly over the receding curvature.

Some people say that bubbly is a form of depression. What do they know? A friend told me that she had been chatting with a man who worked as a fitness trainer for a prominent chain of health clubs. The company had been taken over by another well known and tentacular company so the latter had to give all the staff new uniforms in a different colour and retrain them so that the logos on their mental imagery reflected the vivacity of the new parent.

The staff were instructed to attend a retraining day in a big hall. On stage were a small number of uniformed boosters, wearing the tee shirts that would soon be given to the massed employees. Lively pop music was playing as the trainees gathered. It was known that the boosters were looking for new people to work as managers of various teams in the clubs.

Most of the employees were depressed and resigned because that’s what spray-on ebullience does to you, so they stood around looking interested and trying on various versions of alertness. There then bounced into the hall a young woman in shorts, tee shirt, a peak cap and spotless sneakers. She too, like the sullen figures around her, was a staff re-trainee. The young woman, to the despair and fascination of her colleagues, proceeded to dance around the room to the beats of the popular upbeat music. She emitted small but excited yipping noises and smiled continually.

The boosters invited her up onto the stage and told her she had exactly what it took to be a team leader. And lo, she became one.

11.05.2008

Nerdly

The Guardian runs a piece about the rash of current imported US TV series featuring the adventures and misfortunes of nerds. Bryan Fuller, the creator of Pushing Daisies feels, according to the article, that “…in America, we need heroes. There is a lot of powerlessness given our current administration.”

An inverted logic suggests, it seems, that an administration by the powerless would therefore be preferable. Peter Sellers, in Hal Ashby’s Being There (1979) plays Chance, a gardner whose blank simplicity is mistaken for elliptical wisdom. He ends up being President. Bush’s simplicity has intermittently elliptic qualities but it is clear his inscrutability is not an effect of wisdom.

Neither Bush nor Chance are nerds, however. Nerds know a lot about certain things and bring to their knowledge a great precision. Their characteristics may even be locatable on a continuum that features degrees of Asperger’s syndrome, wherein knowledge and interest are focused on unusually narrow topics, such as railway timetables or historical cricket scores.

Were one affected with just a hint of Asperger’s one might fail to detect it in others and think to oneself “My – if his grasp of the ways of humankind is as developed as his knowledge of petrol-driven lawnmowers then he’s the man to lead us out of the current shit!”

When leaders expound in abstractions the air grows thin and dangerous. With a nerd, however, you get two for one – they’ll get the trains running on time because they love trains plus they get agoraphobic in the presence of abstraction.

The pressure on the non-Asperger individual to aspergise is considerable – the consumer, for example, must resist the Argos catalogue of everyday life (see here) by acquiring expertise in matters of classification and specification. The more you know about mobile phones the less likely you are to get stiffed by those who would (virtually) mobilise you. The internalisation of such data brings the satisfactions of mastery and distinctiveness. Ballard felt that in the 21st century the most successful psychological type would be the psychopath – it may be that the backlash features the rise of the nerd.

05.05.2008

We Can Can

Leake Street, round the back of Waterloo Station, Sunday after London votes for a clown to be Mayor. Thousands enter Banksy’s tunnel for the Cans Festival.

Banksy has invited can artists from all over. Keen crowds necessitate heavy polite presence. The arcade beckons.

As far as the eye. All the way down. Not just Banksy’s sharp stencils but wrecked car installations, sculptures and pavement pieces.

The last time I felt like a citizen in this way was at one of Ken’s big riverside festivals in the GLC days. Not that the Cans Festival feels civic – more that this zone, 300 metres from Parliament, holds people from the streets, the estates and the houses quite comfortably. Oxford Street with nothing to buy. They’re sealing it off after Bank Holiday Monday.

04.05.2008

Wordly

Strength Weekly looks in upon itself and affects surprise at the uncharacteristically long interval between this notelet and the previous essay-length disquisition. The publisher notes, in this notelet, that he has been, throughout the months of March and April, reading 52 undergraduate dissertations, each one of which is 5000 words, give or take 10 per cent, in length. A quarter of a million words, readers. Is it any wonder?

Strength Weekly will now reconnect with the blogarium, bringing its mix of puzzles, quizzes, well-formed sentences, apt snaps and joie de vivre back to the boil. Today I saw a tiny fox cub in the back garden. It was about this long, excepting the tail.

23.02.2008

Lots: Extract II

Another extract from a script that I lost for 24 years. To get the backstory on this publishing phenomenon please start reading here.


The detectives Jean Pool and Max Cope, with their client Anna Domino (rhymes with casino), arrive in Australia in the middle of the night. The have flown there in order to locate Mister Cook, whose name has been found at the top of a chain letter circulated to, amongst others, Anna. Anna has engaged the services of Max and Jean in order to locate Peter, with whom she is in love. Peter has disappeared but is mentioned in the chain letter and Anna is convinced he may be its instigator. Mister Cook may know his whereabouts.


Jean, Max and Anna have been given a car because they needed a car. It was given to them by an Australian man called Tom. They find a pleasant, empty house well stocked with food. They stay in the house. Despite the great heat, one night it snows and


WE SEE THROUGH THE KITCHEN WINDOW INTO THE NIGHT, WHERE LARGE SNOW FLAKES SWIRL IN THE PURPLE DARKNESS.
ANNA I love snow. It’s like a great white carpet.
MAX I’d never thought of that.
JEAN Go and get some, Max.
MAX What for?
JEAN It’ll look nice on the table.
MAX Okay.
MAX GETS UP AND LEAVES THE KITCHEN.
ANNA Have you had any experiences with snow, Jean?
JEAN I spent many of my earliest years in temperate zones and as a consequence was no stranger to the flurries. We couldn’t leave the house for days sometimes. I used to stand in the garden and wish I wasn’t an only child.
ANNA I didn’t know.
JEAN My parents were quite superstitious. My father told my mother that there was a fifty percent chance of having a boy if they tried again.
ANNA That’s accurate, I think.
JEAN Yes. He said that if she had a boy it would only turn round and kill him and then go off in a blind rage, so what’s the point?
ANNA He sounds a complex man.
JEAN I wanted a brother, Anna.
ENTER MAX, CARRYING A SNOWBALL.
MAX I made up a ball. They carry better.
JEAN Put it on the table, Max.
MAX Do you want it on a dish?
JEAN Just on the mat will be fine.
MAX PUTS THE SNOWBALL ON A TABLE MAT, IN THE CENTRE OF THE TABLE.
JEAN GAZES AT IT WISTFULLY.
MAX We should stick something in it.
JEAN It looks lovely, Max.
ANNA Jean told me about her garden.
MAX About her brother, you mean?
JEAN Yes.
MAX We’re both only children, Anna.
ANNA I didn’t know.
MAX My first bicycle was a tandem. I imagined that my sister was behind me.
ANNA Why behind?
MAX You can only steer from the front. I would have fallen off.
ANNA Is that why your legs are so strong?
MAX Yes. We used to go on cycling holidays together.
DISSOLVE TO LATER IN THE MEAL.
THE MAIN COURSES HAVE ALL BEEN EATEN, AS WELL AS THE VEG.
THE DINERS ARE SITTING BACK IN THEIR CHAIRS, WIPING THEIR MOUTHS WITH SERVIETTES, SIPPING WINE ETC.
THE SNOW BALL IS INTACT.
A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.
ANNA MOVES TO THE DOOR AND OPENS IT.
TWO SNOW COVERED FIGURES ARE STANDING IN THE DOORWAY.
THROUGHOUT THE ENSUING ACTION THE SNOW DOES NOT MELT.
ONE OF THE FIGURES, A WOMAN, IS WEARING SMART SUMMER CLOTHES OF THE 1910 PERIOD, WHILE THE MAN HAS AN ELEGANT, EXPENSIVE AND SIMILARLY SUMMERY ENSEMBLE IN A CONTEMPORARY MODE. BOTH HAVE SUN TANS AND DARK HAIR AND ARE CARRYING CASES OF SOME SORT.
ANNA Can I help you?
SILVIA Is Max Cope in ?
ANNA Yes. He’s right here. Who is it?
SILVIA I’m Silvia Cope. His sister.
ANNA How nice!
SILVIA INTRODUCES THE MAN BESIDE HER.
SILVIA This is Victor Pool.
ANNA You must be Jean’s brother.
VICTOR That’s right. How did you know?
ANNA Something about the eyes, I think.
VICTOR Is she here?
ANNA She most certainly is. Jean! Max!
JEAN & MAX What?
ANNA What a surprise! Some people to see you!
JEAN AND MAX RISE FROM THE TABLE.
ANNA USHERS THE VISITORS IN.
Do come in!
THE SIBLINGS CONFRONT EACH OTHER.
SILVIA Hello Max.
MAX Good heavens.
VICTOR Hello Jean.
JEAN I don’t believe it.
SILVIA How are you?
MAX It’s extraordinary.
VICTOR You look great.
JEAN I don’t believe it.
THE SIBLING PAIRS EMBRACE.
MAX Silvia!
JEAN Victor!


A few pages later…

MAX’S ROOM.
LATER THAT NIGHT.
MAX AND SILVIA ARE LYING ON THE BED TOGETHER. THEY HAVE THEIR ARMS AROUND EACH OTHER AND ARE GIGGLING AND WHISPERING TO EACH OTHER.
THERE IS NO HINT OF DARKER PASSIONS HERE, ONLY THE FONDNESS OF FAMILIAL FAMILIARITY.

Followed by


JEAN’S ROOM.
LATER THAT NIGHT.
JEAN AND VICTOR ARE ASLEEP UNDER A BLANKET ON THE BED. THEY ARE CLOTHED. THEY LOOK SERENE, CONTENT AND RELAXED WITH EACH OTHER.

03.03.2008