Back from a very enjoyable, and predictably pricey weekend in London. As dutiful bourgeois, Moira and I shelled out for a bit of the Great Wen's cultural attractions, in the form of the Velázquez exhibition running in the National Gallery and Trevor Nun's "musical theatre" adaptation of the Gershwins' Porgy and Bess. I am glad I went to both, although the experience of attending both was coloured by a factor rarely mentioned by professional critics: other people (who can be, if not quite Sartre's Hell, than at least passingly irritating).

First, the four rooms that comprised the Velázquez exhibition in the National Gallery were as crowded as a nightclub at 1 AM. The thing that made such congestion tolerable was that the fellow viewers were not actually like people you would meet in a nightclub at 1 AM. Most, in fact, seemed sober. Still, the profound questions to be addressed when faced with masterpieces such as the portrait of Pope Innocent X and the "Rokeby" Venus--what mental processes should be triggered by these images? and how can you correctly pronounce "Velázquez" without sounding like a prat?--were sometimes elbowed aside by more mundane ones, such as will that guy with the backpack chattering away in German move his dummkopf out the bloody way?

Similarly prosaic thoughts flitted through my mind during the performance of Porgy and Bess. The show is staged in the Savoy Theatre, which as that surprisingly entertaining film, Topsey-Turvey recorded, was built by impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte to stage the works of Gilbert and Sullivan. The narrow, art-deco auditorium is among the most steeply raked I've ever entered, and after we reached our seats in the dizzy heights of the Upper Circle, looking down into the tube-ticket-sized maw of the orchestral pit far below was enough to bring on vertigo.

During the performance, the dodgy sightlines meant that you had to crane forward to catch the action. And whatever the effectiveness of Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt in highlighting the artificiality of the theatrical spectacle, nothing is quite as powerful in reminding you that you are not, in fact, sitting on the edge of Catfish Row than the combed-over pate of the person in front suddenly eclipsing Porgy's crippled legs.

But I did enjoy the show. Honestly.

In a misjudged effort to hear some "analysis" of Budget 2007, I tuned in last night to Vincent "Vincenzo" Browne's show, broadcast at 10PM on RTE Radio One.

What a shambles...

The guests, especially the array of political hacks, were bad enough as they squabbled over percentages like trainspotters disputing a locomotive's serial number. But what gave proceedings a truly farcical air was Browne's oral histrionics. With the sigh of an oul' wan shortchanged, he gave the impression that he was chairing the discussion under duress--hardly a vibe to encourage the causal listener to linger. When he wasn't telegraphing his derision of his panel's views--he dismissed one contributor as "crackers"--he was parading his membership of the Law Library by doggedly focusing on apparently minor points. Perhaps he's watched one too many episodes of Judge John Deed, but did Vincenzo think his witness, I mean guest, would crumble in the face of his jurisprudential skills and 'fess up?

I have to say if I had been on the show I hope I would have walked out--but not before being sorely tempted to take a pop at the ludicrous Browne.

From The Brown Daily Herald:

The audience at Production Workshop's "The Flies," which is slated to run from Dec. 8 through Dec. 11, will feature an element perhaps more appropriate for the hit NBC show "Fear Factor." As they gather to watch Jean-Paul Sartre's 1943 adaptation of the Greek drama "The Oresteia," audience members will be surrounded by 30,000 live fruit flies.

[...]

The flies were bred specifically for the production by Sara Naylor '07, a biochemistry and molecular biology concentrator, Rutherford said. The flies will circulate within a box tent made of netting - a small space that will also enclose the audience and the 7 feet by 7 feet stage. The effect will immerse audience members and draw them into the action onstage, Rutherford said. "The audience is actively participating in the symbolism of the play," he said. "They are the citizens of Argos."

Can't see a transfer to Broadway somehow...Link via The Literary Saloon.

The Grauniad and the Torygraph both feature stories about the Rt Rev Tom Butler, the Bishop of Southwark, who apparently became rather tired and emotional after attending a Christmas drinks function at the Irish Embassy in London. According to eye witnesses, the bishop was afterwards found in the back seat of someone else's Mercedes, chucking toys out the window. When the owner of the occupied car inquired, reasonably, what the bishop was up to, Mr Butler apparently replied "I'm the Bishop of Southwark, it's what I do."

Butler then apparently fell out of the car onto the pavement, picking up a pretty nasty black eye in the process.

It seems the Right Reverend should have been on his guard. The Guardian report noted that drinkies at the Irish Embassy ". . . are events not noted for their abstemiousness. MPs have been known to leave on their hands and knees."

You have to wonder whether there isn't a whiff of latent Republicanism animating these diplomatic pissups, where increasingly debilitated members of the British Establishment are gleefully plied with potent Portuguese wine. Because I'm sure the embassy staff remains the epitome of ambassadorial sobriety throughout...

A spectre is haunting the Web--the spectre of the comeback. The off-hand comment and the casual dismissal will be noted, and, if erroneous or slipshod, you will sooner or later be brought to book.

For example, several weeks ago, I made a fairly niggling criticism of Claire Messud's novel, The Emperor's Children, on the basis that she gratingly described a character (Ludovic Seely, in fact) as sporting a "Nabokovian brow." The blogger Disillusioned Lefty noted my precious quibble, but came across the following in V.N.'s novel, Glory:

Online poll question over at RTE.ie:

"Are you concerned about the level of gun crime in Ireland?"

Would a "no" seem a bit complacent?

As fears over the impact of climate change mount (the Arctic to be ice free by 2040?), we are being barraged with messages to change our ways. Various concerned parties (many of them, oddly, large oil companies) tell us: enough with the frivolous short-hop flights, how about a hybrid?, and turn the damned lights off after you!

Meanwhile, Wired magazine, in a multimedia article that seems as gee-willikers upbeat about "progress" as a GM Futurama exhibit, reports that:

"Between 2001 and 2012, almost as many skyscrapers will be constructed as were built in the entire 20th century."

This can't be good news for polar bears, can it?

From page 41 from the 700+-page charge sheet against Charles J. Haughey that is the Moriarty report:

"The reference to a debt of honour outstanding free of interest in the sum of £110,000.00 to be paid within a reasonable time throws an interesting light on the true meaning of both the letter and the terms of settlement. Apart from the fact that bank never requested the sum, no steps were ever taken by either Mr. Haughey or Mr. Traynor to comply with this element of the settlement. Mr. Haughey, in acknowledging that he had never paid the outstanding amount stated that he had never been called upon to make payment. When it was suggested to him that it may have been expected, that as a man of honour, he would pay the amount, Mr. Haughey responded that much stress was being placed upon honour, and he did not know what significance the Bank attributed to it, but it had never been sought from him or mentioned by the Bank: frankly, he had forgotten about it."

So one wonders whether Charles J. was the man who introduced our current Taoiseach to the conveniently elastic concept of the "debt of honour"--which in both Ahern's and Haughey's cases meant debts they hadn't the faintest intention of paying.

On Morning Ireland today there was a short piece previewing tonight's Prime Time Investigates programme on lending practices in Ireland. It seems that one of the reasons why financial institutions are so eager to shower us with cash is that the punishment for bad debtors can end up like something out of a Dickens's novel. One of the cases reported involved a single mother who was locked up in Mountjoy prison for 16 days because she fell behind in her payments on a 1600 euro loan. And she was still expected to pay off that loan following her release.

Given the week that's in it, it's difficult not to compare the unforgiving treatment of those belonging to what financiers euphemistically describe as the "sub-prime market" with the deference AIB displayed to our mini-Mobutu, Charles J. Haughey. Of course, the Moriarty Tribunal's findings merely confirm the widely held view that when the amount outstanding reaches a certain level, it's actually the debtor who has the upper hand. This is assuming the debtor has a brass neck, but then there was never any doubting C.J.'s nuchal fortitude.

But such is the scope of Haughey's corruption and venality, his defenders are driven to ever-more absurd strategies. On the phone-in show, Liveline, yesterday, a caller asked for some perspective on the former Taoiseach, asserting that whatever else he was, Haughey wasn't Pinochet. Well, if you have to highlight a leader's qualities by pointing out that he didn't have his enemies shot in football stadia, then the debate is drowned out by the sound of barrels being scraped.

Meanwhile, the government's current leader--who should really be dubbed Bertie-san because of his fondness for Japanese-style apology rituals (formalized and hollow)--remains in power despite his role as Haughey's "enabler." For let's face it, if we accept that Haughey was not merely a charming rogue but a criminal, who should have served jail time, then Ahern's role can be seen as analogous to that of a "fence," someone who handles or launders stolen property. In essence, that is what Ahern did when he signed blank cheques for his leader. Now Bertie can claim that he had no knowledge that Haughey was misusing these literal cartes blanches, but ignorance, especially wilful ignorance, is traditionally no defence against the law.

There is a lot of debate whether the culture epitomised by Haughey still exists. The fact that Bertie Ahern remains Taoiseach as Christmas 2006 approaches confirms that it not only survives, but it is in rank good health.

The BBC Radio 4 programme, In Our Time, presented by Melvyn Bragg, is a perfect show for a bluffer like me, as it covers some weighty topic, such as the political philosophy of Thomas Hobbes or China's Warring States period, in a cut-to-the-chase 30-minute format. Bragg is an able moderator, asking questions that a reasonably educated but non-specialist listener would like answered. And there are always a few nuggets that enliven the worthy explication.

For example, yesterday's show on the History of Hell gave an intriguing explanation on why hell has been traditionally been seen as a place of fire. It seems that the Christian iconography was shaped by the Jewish tradition, which held that the dead were punished for their sins in a place called Gehenna. Prosaically, Gehenna actually referred to a real locale, a rubbish dump outside the walls of Jerusalem where criminals were also executed. The site's incessant fires--a basic rubbish incinerator service--along with the stigma of being a killing ground, made Gehenna the perfect candidate for a venue of eschatological torment.

So, armed with this trivia, you might want to impress your fellow hell-dwellers, should you ever have to misfortune to be dispatched to the place you believed didn't exist. Surveying the lakes of fire and prancing demons, you could punningly remark, "What a tip!".

Then again, such gags might make an eternity in Hades seem slightly longer...

Please go here for my festive sign-off...