A Spaceman's Blog - Philippe Rose

Friday, 28 April 2006

I don't care for such things

I say, "In London, the quality of life is relatively low, but the cultural offering is fabulous." He says: "What if I don't care for such things, what are salaries like?" I laugh at the Swiss man and ask him where he's from. "Biel", he says. (thinking he'd fit perfectly in a field milking cows).

And sitting here in the library, updating this blog, I've just noticed one familiar face come in. This time, my memory reaches back nearly 7 years. This guy is a fresher who used to take the bus at the same stop as me many years ago. I used to watch him because he was so small and was always carrying such a large bag, with a small studious face. He's now bloody tall and reminds me that 7 years is the time most teenagers take to grow up and go to uni. Damn, strange feeling.

[28 April]

Tuesday, 25 April 2006

Another day...

Falcon It's 4.40pm at the clock on the wall. My laptop says 3.40pm. I realise my mistake. I'm late, and should have left at 4pm. Local time, not laptop London time. I rush out and jump in a cab. Aziz greets me. I tell Aziz we've got 30min to be at the airport. As he's driving off, he glances at me nervously. I feel we may have a problem. The rush hour traffic is clogging up the roads. I notice Aziz is getting more nervous and keeps changing lanes. As we slowly progress out of the city and onto the highway, minutes are ticking away fast. I ask how much time is left. Again, Aziz glances at me and mumbles something. He asks me if he can light a cigarette. I don't mind. He relaxes a bit, and I flash a smile. We're doing 30km/h at most now, and we're already late.

Then, Aziz then does what I knew Aziz would do best. Aziz moves over to the emergency lane and becomes my favourite cabbie. Instants later, we're off the highway, the airport finally in sight. Aziz asks me when my flight takes off. I try to explain that it's not a normal flight. It won't wait for me. At the airport, I tell Aziz not to stop at the terminal. I need the Jet Centre. But I don't really know where it is. Neither does he. I then tell him to stop, tip him, and run out of the vehicle. I got off too early. I run to a nearby Mercedes and tell the driver to drive me. Finally arrived, I pay him and rush inside the building. Luckily, I'm not too late.

Falcon cabin In the waiting lounge, I pretend I'm relaxed and in control now. The customs officer politely checks my passport. I wait briefly, admiring the waiting jet (and taking this picture). Then, I am told the flight is boarding. The passenger arrives. I follow him straight onto the plane and we both board. We greet the crew. I sit down next to him. The powerful jet quickly pins me against the back of my seat and in seconds we're airborne. As we're gliding through the clouds, dinner is served. We chat. I feel good.

The flight ends quickly. The passenger kindly offers me a ride. His driver can drop me off. I decline, I'm going in another direction. I thank him for the comfortable flight. He smiles. As I set off towards the DLR station, waiting for a break in the traffic to cross the road, I instantly become a normal person again.

[25 April]

Sunday, 9 April 2006

Visit Palestine

Katy Barlow's film on Caoimhe Butterly's presence in the Occupied Territories was shown at the Curzon cinema this afternoon. Before it started, there was a bit of a scramble for seats, with people trying to reserve entire rows for their friends, and pretending half the seats were already occupied. One person was discussing her veggie diet and organic mean. One other exclaimed, "Oh, this will be nice and cheerful". All very middle-class. But all these concerns vanished as soon as the film started... Official website

[09 April]

Saturday, 8 April 2006

Jungle

In the club Another guestlist for me tonight at a famous jungle-themed club, quite a week it is. No masks though, although I expect the unmasked people will be acting very scripted roles this time. A shame I couldn't just dash to Carnaby Street to buy the appropriate apparel - theatre lessons would have been required. Many lovely creatures helped make it a good night...

[08 April]

Friday, 7 April 2006

Masked

Masked Ball at the Rock, Mean Fiddler
Landed on the guest list for Friday's Rock night - a Masked Ball! I quickly found a couple masks on Carnaby Street: Beckham, Victoria, Blair, Bush, Bin Laden, and Saddam Hussein all neatly sitting on a shelf. I opted for Bin Laden and Saddam - Beckham and Victoria were out (very uncool), and I thought Blair or Bush would get me punched in the face.

The event was fabulous, but really blew me away was the adoration that Osama received. People litterally came to pay their respects, to have their picture taken, and we even had a couple of really rough looking guys give us their special handshakes and "knowing" hugs. Girls loved it, wanted to dance along...

Bin Laden and beer-drinking girl Masked

I thought of Prince Harry who'd be lambasted for wearing a Nazi SS uniform at a party, and here I was, wearning the face of the symbol of vicious terrorism and bombs and 9/11 and London bombs (remember I was on the underground on that day). Was it because people hate Blair and Bush and the US so much, that the only symbol of successful resistance against them must be popular?

As Saddam and Osama walked out of that club, the guys at the cloakroom didn't bother asking for our initials, just handed our coats back, and even the taciturn security guys openly laughed and made way. A cool night - but not sure quite what it all meant morally and all that.

[07 April]

Thursday, 6 April 2006

A nice place

I was at the British Library today. Quite a nice place. It could nearly have been Switzerland. The sun was out, a pleasant breeze. I had an tasty orange juice, sitting at the terrasse. It was nice. There are also many nice students reading books there. I'll be visiting again.

[06 April]

Wednesday, 5 April 2006

Attempt

Self I just wanted to say it, my all-time favourite blog since I started mine in late 2003 is Olivia Fairweather's magnetic kid liv. Olivia doesn't update it often, but I can look back until 2002 for her posts (which I do). I don't check Olivia's site often. Not because updates are infrequent or because I forget to, but because every time I read it I'm blown away by its superiority. (I should admit I mean to say her blog is just so exceptional I'm a little embarrassed about my own). Even Liv's gallery (blurred pictures of her friends) is mind-blowing, the idea behind it.

So what's so great about it all? Hard to say it better than she does! But if I try to abstract, I think it's Liv's ability to describe things that happen to her and paint them up in something that moves me (and everybody else) really deep. Uh? I know, I know, but it just does. And it's something I try to do myself a little, but I get all tangled up in complicated words when I try, I change my mind about what I want to say in mid-course, so the result is confused, superficial and doesn't mean much to whoever reads it.

What I also realised is that Olivia's writing and words are so amazing that you can hardly post any comments. What do you want to say about something that's said perfectly and captures all the feelings and thoughts that can be had about something?

So Olivia's is at the same time the pefect blog that inspires me to write and the perfect blog that makes it hard to continue to blog, because frankly, I don't have anything interesting to blog about. So I think that maybe, one day, I'll be really good with my camera, shoot really exceptional pictures or films of my travels or whatever, and they'll convey something really powerful and all. But I don't really think so. First I don't travel that often. And second I'm never immersed enough to come up with more than a couple good shots. And then I have nothing to say about the shots, they're just isolated snaps of a moment that I never fully experienced or understood, giving the impression there is something special behind them. They're not Liv's cleverly articulated shots with two words that say it all so well and have me swearing at their impossible artistic prettiness coming out of nowhere.

So what should I do? Maybe I should turn this site into a publishing house, pay for Liv's writings to be printed and sold here (or given away, that'll be my value added). Or maybe I'm crazy - seeing something that isn't there... The Guardian spotted Liv though, didn't they? Who else?

[05 April]

Tuesday, 4 April 2006

Saving the world

How can you tell this is a dead insurgent?
Because it's dead... (hm, isn't this an elderly woman in her nightgown?)

I was reading this article on the BBC website extolling the glory of elite military units when I came across this sentence: "The recent public resignation of former SAS trooper, Ben Griffin, 28, who refused to return to Iraq and has now joined the anti-war lobby, reminds us of their presence in the Gulf." I was surprised I hadn't heard about it, as this is exactly the kind of news I tend to pick up.(maybe it had happened last year and I had forgotten). It brought back memories of Scott Ritter (former UN inspector) who had been very vocal about the lack of WMDs in Iraq, but whose professional record had been criticised.

Guess my surprise when I found out that Griffin's resignation happened last month. He had told his commanding officer that he was refusing to return to Iraq because he felt the war was morally wrong. And the only consequence for his action was to receive a honourable discharge, with the testimonial that he is a "balanced and honest soldier who possesses the strength and character to genuinely have the courage of his convictions". (!)

Griffin's account of the reality on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan explains many things - even if we leave aside the decision process of military intervention, then at least the disconnect between top-level policy of "winning hearts and minds", and how it all works on the ground when you have a bunch of young soldiers with big guns in a hostile, unknown environment. I mean it makes sense. Sending soldiers to do "reconstruction" and building a peaceful environment seems a bit contradictory. Especially when they're armed and don't speak the language and don't want to be there.

The following articles paint this reality quite well:
Original Telegraph article | Counterpunch | Hartfordadvocate

And it also made me think about Denis Donaldson's murder (British spy), reported today. Trying to familiarise myself with the Stormont affair, I couldn't help having the feeling that in Northern Ireland, same as in Iraq, it's not really about fixing stuff and making things "better" for people (warm fuzzy feeling). It's like it's more about who's in control of what, or something. Or is this just another of my comments on stuff I know nothing about?