The Force Wasn't So Strong

Maybe the Force wasn't as strong in young Anakin Skywalker/Jake Lloyd as we were led to believe...

As seen here

Hoarding

I am, by nature, a hoarder. I'm one of those people who can't bear to throw things away 'just in case'.

Thankfully, the limited space available in Groanin' Towers, and Mrs Wife's more ruthless streak, mean that I amn't now surrounded by great piles of what I would call valuable possessions, but that others would term 'useless crap'.

Inspired by this post at Erica's site, I recalled a hoarder of even greater ability than even myself.

Edmund Trebus, the most famous star of the TV show A Life of Grime, was one of those rare people who was happy to live his life in the way in which he chose, regardless of how it was perceived by others around him.

Upon his death, a lengthy obituary in The Guardian said:

'At first, his obsession took the form of mild eccentricity. He filled the upstairs rooms of his four-storey Victorian house with the spoils of hunts through local builders' skips and junk shops. One room was packed with vacuum cleaners, another with cameras. Trebus bought every recording he could find by Elvis Presley.

'As time passed and his children moved out, the collections piled one on top of the other, like sedimentary layers, until each room was full to the ceiling. Trebus would push a small cart around the streets of Crouch End, gathering discarded building materials, which he carefully arranged in the garden, doors in one corner, windows in another. There were washing machines, wood, motorcycles and bicycles. There was even one of musician Dave Stewart's old synthesisers, retrieved from the back of his recording studio. Like all the objects, it came to be forgotten about and covered up over time.'

I can imagine that, left to my own devices in my dotage, I could become a 21st century Edmund Trebus. Whilst I may not have a penchent for discarded doors and windows, I could seriously see myself surrounded by vast mountains of magazines and newspapers, CDs and DVDs.

I can imagine this all too well, as Mrs Wife and I have begun the process of emptying Groanin' Towers ahead of our move eastwards. And in every nook and cranny, under every bed and in every wardrobe, piles of magazines wait for the day when they will once again be read.

Perhaps the most worrying aspect is that, in our quest to find New Groanin' Towers (or Dungroanin'), Mrs Wife and I are looking at properties with twice as many rooms as our current abode - which is room for a LOT more magazines.

Rural affairs

It must take a special kind of person to join the Scottish Rural Women's Institute (SWRI).

I've just been sub-editing a few reports on meetings of local SWRIs, and it seems that they really are an unusual bunch.

For example, what sort of group of people makes such a thing as Red Onion Marmalade?

And then runs a competition to judge how good each batch of this vile-sounding product is?

This very same organistion simultaneously ran competitions for a crocheted blanket and for each member's favourite jug.

That's right, these women have favourite jugs.

I can't imagine ever reaching a stage where I care enough about jugs to have a favourite. Nor can I seriously ever see myself thinking: 'Hmmmm, I wonder if my friends also have favourite jugs? Perhaps we should run a favourite jug competition.'

I wonder upon what criteria the judging will be based? Are extra points awarded for intricate patterns, or is it design, craftmanship and functionality that wins the day in a jug-judging contest?

Publish and be damned

Today's post has a conscience. The text underneath the photograph to the left makes for harrowing reading.

I was sent the photograph by email yesterday. I'd heard the story of Kevin Carter in the past, firstly through the Manic Street Preachers song of the same name.

But until yesterday, I'd never seen, nor especially wanted to see, the photograph.

However, when I saw it, it was hammered home just WHY Carter ended up taking his own life - how could anyone live with themselves having recorded that image, knowing they could have done something to save the child?

In an archive interview shortly after the image was published, Carter said: "My first instinct was to make the picture. After the child moved on, I felt completely devastated."

Such was the outpouring of interest in the child that after the photo ran, the New York Times was forced to run an editor's note to say that though Carter saw the emaciated girl resume her journey to the feeding center "it is not known whether she reached the center."

Carter said he chased away the vulture. Afterwards, he told an interviewer, he sat under a tree for a long time, "smoking cigarettes and crying". His father said: "Kevin always carried around the horror of the work he did."

As a journalist, this issue intrigues me; at what point should one's duty as an employee be superceded by one's duty as a human being?

Carter's photograph brought him the highest recognition in his field, but it also brought him unimaginable misery and in the end cost him his life.

So where do we draw the line? Was the New York Times right to publish the photograph? Or did it cross a line that should never have been crossed?

The old rhetoric of 'publish and be damned' still seems to hold fast. But should it?

Personally, I don't think I would have been able to take the photograph that Carter did, nor leave the girl to crawl onwards towards her potential saviours. But in different circumstances, such as the hanging of Saddam Hussain, I would probably have been primed and ready to capture the image.

Which I suppose means that in all situations, the person involved must weigh up their own thoughts on the issue and make the decision that sits best with them. Kevin Carter made that choice.

Royal farce

One thing that I believe will set me apart from most of the readers of this esteemed electronic catalogue of moans is that I have been (mildly) threatened by royal security guards.

In the course of my work, I have on two occasions been sent to cover royal visits, once to snap the bumbling heir to the throne and once to secure some pictures of his sister.

On the latter occasion, I was the only member of the press there. Princess Ann arrived in a convoy of black vehicles and with a police escort - this despite the fact that the engagement was not an official public occasion.

I was primed and ready to fill a 96MB digital memory card with as many photographs as my fingers could take.

As I took the image to the left, standing barely two metres from the horse-faced horse rider, a member of the mysterious Special Branch stepped in front of me and stated that: 'You do not take a photograph of a lady when she is removing her jacket.'

Why?

Princess Ann is probably amongst the most photographed women in the history of publishing. The paparazzi have taken photographs of her on countless occasions. So why should a photograph of her removing her jacket (which was never going to see the light of day in any medium until now) be so taboo?

Granted, she is no stunner - but the camera doesn't lie.

Anyway, to avoid being drugged and dumped in a nearby loch by MI6, I agreed to take no more photographs until the Princess had removed her jacket. It just seemed a strange demand that I have never quite been able to fathom, although I think it may just have been a bored security guard exerting a little bit of misplaced authority.

Goo Goo Ga Joob

Today is the 26th anniversary of the murder of John Lennon.

Since I was in my mid-teens, The Beatles have been my favourite band, and Lennon my favourite songwriter.

The colour, imagination and inventiveness of Lennon's work have always intrigued me, especially the way he could go from writing She Loves You to Tomorrow Never Knows in the space of only five years. This is a man who was almost simultaneously working on Dear Prudence, Sexy Sadie and Revolution #9, during a two-year period in which he became the greatest songwriter ever to have lived.

From the end of 1966 until the start of 1969, Lennon and McCartney were simply unassailable - quite a boast when competing with Dylan, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Simon and Garfunkel and The Beach Boys. In this short period of time, in which most modern bands would struggle to complete a solitary album, The Beatles released Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Magical Mystery Tour and The White Album.

Lennon's contribution to the band's output in this period was frankly astonishing: Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds, Being For The Benefit of Mr Kite, I Am The Walrus, All You Need Is Love and The Beatles' two finest moments, A Day In The Life and Strawberry Fields Forever.

True, his solo work never truly recaptured the scope of that recorded with The Beatles - but whose could? Imagine, as an album, is strong, though Phil Spector's over-the-top production does take a little of the lustre away from the songs. A flick through his 'greatest hits', including Instant Karma!, God and Mind Games, shows a gifted songwriter simultaneously carving his own niche whilst attempting to escape his own legcay.

So what would a 66-year-old John Lennon be doing were he alive today? The easiest answer is that no-one knows. Given that he was riddled with contradictions throughout his life, I doubt whether he would have fitted neatly into any of the boxes which he is commonly placed in.

Yes, he may have been at the forefront of campaigns such as Live8 - but suggested wisdom is that he didn't really enjoy performing. Would he simply have lived a quiet life as a house husband, living off royalties from his halcyon days? Maybe, but chances are the simple life would grate after a while. Would he have continued to churn out solo albums as Paul McCartney has done? We will never know.

That Lennon's work continues to have signifigance more than a quarter of a century after his untimely death shows how much he is still missed to this day.

Hedging your bets

One of my favourite quotes of all time popped into my head the other day, and it still makes me smile a few years after I first heard it.

For the last 10 years of his life, Elvis wore both a Christian cross and a Jewish star on chains around his neck.

When asked why, the drug-addled, obese rock'n'roll legend replied:

"I don't want to get kept out of Heaven on a technicality."

One-legged gold-digger

In the pre-fight build-up to the biggest showbiz divorce trial EVER (at least in monetary stakes), Heather Mills isn't coming across too well.

Celebitchy gives an update on the story here.

Who needs Love?

That paragon of virtue, clean living, common sense and decency, Courtney Love, is at it again.

Let's face it, Courtney is to role models what Lemmy is to the sufragettes, but even by her own warped and very low standards, this photograph take some beating.

Shameless.

A fitting tribute

Today I heard that one of my younger brother's friends had been killed in a car crash over the weekend.

Although I didn't really know Eck, I remember him as a wee smiling blond boy in my brother's football team way back when they were just young teenage boys.

It's frightening to think that any of us could be gone at any point.

Within hours of Eck's death, tributes were pouring into his Bebo homepage from those who knew him well, and not so well.

People from across Scotland were given a place to join together to share their grief and their memories of a friend who will be sorely missed.

The internet is often cast as a villainous, faceless entity where man's darker side can flourish in the supposed anonymity.

But what is often forgotten is that it can also unite people, bring them together and overcome whatever hurdles life puts in their path.

Rest in Peace Eck

Isn't she a beaut....

I awoke this morning to some tragic news - Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin has been killed by a stingray whilst diving at the Great Barrier Reef.

Until this morning, Steve was the greatest living Australian, a title now held by Rolf Harris. I first remember seeing him on TV in the mid 90s, when he would grab crocodiles by their tails with only scant regard for his own safety. He was brillaintly parodied in South Park and even launched a questionable movie career.

Mrs Wife and I actually saw the great man in the flesh whilst travelling around the world a couple of years ago. We took a day trip to Steve's Australia Zoo at Beerwah,Queensland, where we expected to see plenty of crocodiles, but not the world-famous Crocodile Hunter himself. After a morning wandering around the vast park, we heard a commotion from one of the nearby pools. Rounding the corner, we were treated to the site of Steve standing on the banks of the crocodile's pond, explaining that you should never get this close to a croc, and never get between a croc and her eggs. Then, fully clothed, he dived into the pool and proceeded to thrash around, getting between the croc and her eggs in the process. As expected, the croc went crazy, and made a beeline for the hastily departing Steve.

It's not entirely unexpected that Steve was killed by a dangerous animal, given that he has spent his entire life antogonising them. Though normal concepts suggest we should pray that he rests in peace, surely he'd much rather rest in chaos, getting chased by an angry black bear which he has just poked in the eye.

"And now, if I grab him by the tail, that'll make him go REALLY mad." Genius.

Scalded testicles

Preparing to watch Scotland's heroic victory over the Faroe Islands yesterday, I was perusing The Scotsman's preview of the match. Picking over the bones of Scotland's sorry draw with the puffin eaters in 2002, Allan Patullo conducted a 'Where Are They Now?' study of the squad that 'achieved' the 2-2 in Toftir.

Reaching erstwhile Sunderland striker Kevin Kyle, Pattullo writes: "Perhaps best known for his off-field dramas. Missed a match for Sunderland last season after scalding his testicles with boiling water while feeding his son."

What the hell? How does a fully-grown man manage to spill boiling water on his testicles whilst feeding his son? And why was he feeding his son boiling water? Footballers, generally, aren't the sharpest tools in the box, but surely that is quite an achievement.