This week I have been running around campus with a video camera strapped to my hand as I attempt to be a television reporter.
The good news is that I have finally found an idea for my three-minute package. The bad news is that I have as much technological wizardry as a potato.
That may be a slight exaggeration but my prowess with a video camera leaves a lot to be desired.
My more technologically-advanced friend showed me how to extend the legs on the tripod otherwise I would have been hoisting it up above my head with camera on top trying to get a better angle.
I have also discovered that there is a certain skill to being able to assemble the tripod and camera fixed on top at a moment’s notice.
I have as yet to be able to do this either gracefully or inconspicuously. On the plus side I haven’t accidentally whacked anyone with it.
Once I learnt where the on/off and record/stop buttons were I began my journey as an intrepid reporter extraordinaire.
My brilliant idea was to report on One World Week which is a week-long series of events to enhance multiculturalism.
Since Brunel University has around 120 different nationalities with sixty per cent of students being an ethnic minority I had myself covered for camera fodder.
With tripod legs akimbo and electrical eye open I captured footage of a literature event, international food and some Sikh martial arts.
Not bad for a last minute idea that only really came together on Tuesday.
The fun bit is trying to figure out how to edit it all together. I am slowly getting to grips with Final Cut Pro after having another session on it the other day.
I have another two video assignments to complete so I think I may need to go out and do some more filming.
By the end of this term I will submit: a three-minute video/audio/online package; a news story via one of those mediums; and three vox pops totalling 45 seconds also using one of the three media options on offer.
I have decided to use video as my medium of choice for each assignment. Hopefully, I will be able to master it. I shall monitor my progress and report back the results: disastrous or otherwise.
I may be no Michael Moore but I will give it my best shot (no pun intended).
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I'll cry you a river
We all cry now and again don’t we? I mean, everybody has a little cry sometimes, right? But I think you can end up crying too much, or at least I do.
After getting my heart broken in the first year of university I proceeded to spend the next two years bawling my eyes out.
I would go to sleep with a face wet with tears and wake up puffy-eyed with a blocked nose. After realising I was still alive I would start wailing again.
I’ve got over that part of my life. But as a lingering consequence of those depressing days I seem to blub at the slightest thing either happy or sad.
Before first year it would take me a lot to shed a tear. I would have to either be incredibly emotionally distressed or in severe pain.
Now though the slightest thing can set me off. It’s ridiculous.
I will be watching the advert for Channel 4’s Secret Millionaire and I start sniffing at the kindness of humanity. It’s difficult to even sit through an episode without a packet of tissues.
I cried when a guy and a girl get back together. She walked out on him after getting fed up of his constant lateness but then he sends her text and they fall back in love. This was a 40 second advert for Blackberry. It’s pathetic.
While watching another Channel 4 favourite How To Look Good Naked, I get horribly emotional.
It’s at the bit where the person sees themselves in the mirror post-make over and realises that they were always beautiful. I weep along with them during their moment of self-discovery.
I also mourn with them in the pre-make over mirror sequence when they are stripped down to their underwear. I can feel their low self-esteem.
Saying this, I would probably cry if I had to display my unclothed body on national television.
My mum says that you become more empathetic after you have kids. I am still a childless twenty-something so I don’t know where all this crying has come from. Maybe it’s the years of crying I denied myself. Who knows.
I dread to think what sort of state I will be in when I do eventually become a mother.
I will probably be dabbing my eyes with baby wipes while changing my offspring’s nappies. Or I will have a roll of kitchen towel in one hand, to mop my tear-streaked cheeks, while feeding my gurgling tot carrot puree with the other.
After getting my heart broken in the first year of university I proceeded to spend the next two years bawling my eyes out.
I would go to sleep with a face wet with tears and wake up puffy-eyed with a blocked nose. After realising I was still alive I would start wailing again.
I’ve got over that part of my life. But as a lingering consequence of those depressing days I seem to blub at the slightest thing either happy or sad.
Before first year it would take me a lot to shed a tear. I would have to either be incredibly emotionally distressed or in severe pain.
Now though the slightest thing can set me off. It’s ridiculous.
I will be watching the advert for Channel 4’s Secret Millionaire and I start sniffing at the kindness of humanity. It’s difficult to even sit through an episode without a packet of tissues.
I cried when a guy and a girl get back together. She walked out on him after getting fed up of his constant lateness but then he sends her text and they fall back in love. This was a 40 second advert for Blackberry. It’s pathetic.
While watching another Channel 4 favourite How To Look Good Naked, I get horribly emotional.
It’s at the bit where the person sees themselves in the mirror post-make over and realises that they were always beautiful. I weep along with them during their moment of self-discovery.
I also mourn with them in the pre-make over mirror sequence when they are stripped down to their underwear. I can feel their low self-esteem.
Saying this, I would probably cry if I had to display my unclothed body on national television.
My mum says that you become more empathetic after you have kids. I am still a childless twenty-something so I don’t know where all this crying has come from. Maybe it’s the years of crying I denied myself. Who knows.
I dread to think what sort of state I will be in when I do eventually become a mother.
I will probably be dabbing my eyes with baby wipes while changing my offspring’s nappies. Or I will have a roll of kitchen towel in one hand, to mop my tear-streaked cheeks, while feeding my gurgling tot carrot puree with the other.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Work experience
Day 3 in the humble life of a workie at the Harrow Observer and I had my first unpleasant experience.
I answered the phone to an enraged woman who became further infuriated as soon as I uttered the words “work experience”.
She lambasted me for not being a proper journalist because I wasn’t part of the National Union of Journalists. (I just haven’t got around to it yet.)
Clearly, in her world if you don’t belong to the NUJ then you’re not actually a journalist.
She then grilled me on why the NUJ didn’t train reporters properly and how people like us were allowed to man the phones.
She was about to say something about media law to which I could have responded curtly with the fact that I do have Part 1 which the NCTJ not the NUJ requires. But I thought it was best to leave it.
I swiftly passed her over to a real journalist who got an interrogation about whether his shorthand was up to scratch.
There was also something about the NUJ needing to train reporters in the Mental Health Act and unfair dismissal. (We do learn about the latter.)
When the reporter I had foisted her onto realised that she was on a pay phone, he kept her talking until the change ran out and the phone cut off.
I might hasten to add that the woman was calling to air her grievances about being illegally sectioned in a mental hospital.
So that is just another day in the life of a workie. I hate saying that I am on work experience because of the connotations that go with it.
As soon as I say that I’m on work experience I can feel the warmth fade from the voice on the other end of the line.
Suddenly, they are ten thousand levels above you and you are just amoeba to them: a barely sentient being with the IQ of minus one.
They assume you are incompetent, a liability. With PR people their schmoozy and sycophantic veneer cracks and the cynical flak emerges.
Today’s incident was mildly amusing to say the least. She was a little less rude than the agent of a now Q-list celebrity who used to host an adventure game show in the nineties. The agent’s charisma might also be the reason why this celebrity has faded into obscurity.
It’s taken a while but I’ve learnt not to take it personally. As my friend from the Indy said yesterday, you need a thick skin to survive in this industry…and a hard nose as I was told by someone before being jabbed on the nose.
I answered the phone to an enraged woman who became further infuriated as soon as I uttered the words “work experience”.
She lambasted me for not being a proper journalist because I wasn’t part of the National Union of Journalists. (I just haven’t got around to it yet.)
Clearly, in her world if you don’t belong to the NUJ then you’re not actually a journalist.
She then grilled me on why the NUJ didn’t train reporters properly and how people like us were allowed to man the phones.
She was about to say something about media law to which I could have responded curtly with the fact that I do have Part 1 which the NCTJ not the NUJ requires. But I thought it was best to leave it.
I swiftly passed her over to a real journalist who got an interrogation about whether his shorthand was up to scratch.
There was also something about the NUJ needing to train reporters in the Mental Health Act and unfair dismissal. (We do learn about the latter.)
When the reporter I had foisted her onto realised that she was on a pay phone, he kept her talking until the change ran out and the phone cut off.
I might hasten to add that the woman was calling to air her grievances about being illegally sectioned in a mental hospital.
So that is just another day in the life of a workie. I hate saying that I am on work experience because of the connotations that go with it.
As soon as I say that I’m on work experience I can feel the warmth fade from the voice on the other end of the line.
Suddenly, they are ten thousand levels above you and you are just amoeba to them: a barely sentient being with the IQ of minus one.
They assume you are incompetent, a liability. With PR people their schmoozy and sycophantic veneer cracks and the cynical flak emerges.
Today’s incident was mildly amusing to say the least. She was a little less rude than the agent of a now Q-list celebrity who used to host an adventure game show in the nineties. The agent’s charisma might also be the reason why this celebrity has faded into obscurity.
It’s taken a while but I’ve learnt not to take it personally. As my friend from the Indy said yesterday, you need a thick skin to survive in this industry…and a hard nose as I was told by someone before being jabbed on the nose.
Monday, February 15, 2010
A decade under the journalistic influence
Ten years later and I am back at the place I first started.
I am doing a week’s work experience at the Harrow Observer but due to the shrinking budgets of local newspapers, the paper has relocated to Uxbridge.
I trudge up the two flights of stairs my 15-year-old self did a decade earlier with a strange and knowing sense of déjà vu. I am going over old ground and it all feels slightly depressing.
I remember the excitement of my teenage self. My first break into the exciting world of journalism: in a news room and learning the ropes from the hacks themselves.
I have gone so far and yet ended back up at the same place. I feel wiser than before in the years that have passed but simultaneously like I haven’t moved at all.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone back but I need 10 days of work experience to meet the course criteria. If I get the placement I will take it.
I have already had three days over Christmas where I worked remotely from home while the snow fell silently outside.
But now here I am, physically present. Nothing seems to have changed except that there are far fewer people and the news room has become the territory of the sales staff.
The reporters have been relegated to a section near the training room. The carpet it still the same shade of faded brown, like a tea stain that refuses to leave.
There are people the same age as me who are fully-fledged reporters and there I am. I feel a childish helplessness.
It feels like all those times when I was a teenager in room full of twenty-somethings desperately trying to attain a sense of self-worth and validation, that I had a right to be there.
There are times when I have to hold my tongue in case I come across as arrogant or ungrateful or just plain rude.
I want to convey intelligence with all my years of knowledge and experience but it doesn’t seem to translate.
Then again what have I really learnt since the last time I was here?
I used to think I wanted to be a reporter on a local rag but I seem to be making the simplest mistakes.
My terrible habit of needing to call a person back repeatedly still follows me around like a piece of chewing gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe.
Sometimes I wonder what I am doing wrong, why I haven’t made it yet. Sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for all of this but then I remind myself that I love it.
I love the interaction with people, the thrill of chasing a story and the careful construction of words. It is the satisfaction of seeing the words I have written: black upon white. My name printed on the page.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better and I will have had time to reflect upon my mistakes.
I am doing a week’s work experience at the Harrow Observer but due to the shrinking budgets of local newspapers, the paper has relocated to Uxbridge.
I trudge up the two flights of stairs my 15-year-old self did a decade earlier with a strange and knowing sense of déjà vu. I am going over old ground and it all feels slightly depressing.
I remember the excitement of my teenage self. My first break into the exciting world of journalism: in a news room and learning the ropes from the hacks themselves.
I have gone so far and yet ended back up at the same place. I feel wiser than before in the years that have passed but simultaneously like I haven’t moved at all.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gone back but I need 10 days of work experience to meet the course criteria. If I get the placement I will take it.
I have already had three days over Christmas where I worked remotely from home while the snow fell silently outside.
But now here I am, physically present. Nothing seems to have changed except that there are far fewer people and the news room has become the territory of the sales staff.
The reporters have been relegated to a section near the training room. The carpet it still the same shade of faded brown, like a tea stain that refuses to leave.
There are people the same age as me who are fully-fledged reporters and there I am. I feel a childish helplessness.
It feels like all those times when I was a teenager in room full of twenty-somethings desperately trying to attain a sense of self-worth and validation, that I had a right to be there.
There are times when I have to hold my tongue in case I come across as arrogant or ungrateful or just plain rude.
I want to convey intelligence with all my years of knowledge and experience but it doesn’t seem to translate.
Then again what have I really learnt since the last time I was here?
I used to think I wanted to be a reporter on a local rag but I seem to be making the simplest mistakes.
My terrible habit of needing to call a person back repeatedly still follows me around like a piece of chewing gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe.
Sometimes I wonder what I am doing wrong, why I haven’t made it yet. Sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for all of this but then I remind myself that I love it.
I love the interaction with people, the thrill of chasing a story and the careful construction of words. It is the satisfaction of seeing the words I have written: black upon white. My name printed on the page.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better and I will have had time to reflect upon my mistakes.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Creative thinking: there is no box
My final lesson of the week was about how to think creatively when coming up with feature ideas.
Along with the three-minute video project, I have to write a human-interest feature due at the beginning of March. It is one of the seven projects that will partly induce my foreseeable nervous breakdown. It’s inevitable given the amount of pressure and lack of time I feel I have to do the best job I can.
To help the class think outside the box our incredibly sweet and endearingly geeky lecturer talked us through several different creative thought processes.
It all started with how many different uses we could think up for a paperclip. From our lists, there are more than a couple of things this small piece of stationery is useful for (apart from holding sheets of paper together). A paperclip cluster bomb was one and a sparrow’s ice skate was another.
I liked my idea that a paperclip could be a friend. If you don’t have Facebook and you’re as imaginative as a tube of toothpaste, then why not have paper clip for a friend? It could work. It’s cheap, easy-to-use not to mention environmentally-friendly.
Anyway, it’s interesting how just the idea of uses for a paper clip can spark creativity. I guess it’s all about thinking outside the box and looking at things in a different way. Also, it is about not restricting yourself and just seeing where that train of thought takes you, although preferably not off a cliff and into the abyss of despair.
But I digress. Semantics and word play is another method to get those creative juices flowing. Think of words that are similar to the topic you are looking at: synonyms, connotations, metaphors, clichés, puns, association, etc. Don't forget antonyms.
Then there’s mind-mapping.
The who, what, where, why, when, how of a topic.
The political, economical, social, technological aspects of an issue.
It’s just different ways of thinking around a topic. It’s all useful.
Although my inspiration seems to come from random thoughts I might think or things I see. Then there is feasibility. For example, for this human interest piece I am planning on interviewing someone who went on the Obama campaign trail. I know it’s hardly breaking those journalistic boundaries but it’s good for now.
Who knows, in six months I might be putting together a feature about the socio-cultural effects paperclips have had on social networking.
Along with the three-minute video project, I have to write a human-interest feature due at the beginning of March. It is one of the seven projects that will partly induce my foreseeable nervous breakdown. It’s inevitable given the amount of pressure and lack of time I feel I have to do the best job I can.
To help the class think outside the box our incredibly sweet and endearingly geeky lecturer talked us through several different creative thought processes.
It all started with how many different uses we could think up for a paperclip. From our lists, there are more than a couple of things this small piece of stationery is useful for (apart from holding sheets of paper together). A paperclip cluster bomb was one and a sparrow’s ice skate was another.
I liked my idea that a paperclip could be a friend. If you don’t have Facebook and you’re as imaginative as a tube of toothpaste, then why not have paper clip for a friend? It could work. It’s cheap, easy-to-use not to mention environmentally-friendly.
Anyway, it’s interesting how just the idea of uses for a paper clip can spark creativity. I guess it’s all about thinking outside the box and looking at things in a different way. Also, it is about not restricting yourself and just seeing where that train of thought takes you, although preferably not off a cliff and into the abyss of despair.
But I digress. Semantics and word play is another method to get those creative juices flowing. Think of words that are similar to the topic you are looking at: synonyms, connotations, metaphors, clichés, puns, association, etc. Don't forget antonyms.
Then there’s mind-mapping.
The who, what, where, why, when, how of a topic.
The political, economical, social, technological aspects of an issue.
It’s just different ways of thinking around a topic. It’s all useful.
Although my inspiration seems to come from random thoughts I might think or things I see. Then there is feasibility. For example, for this human interest piece I am planning on interviewing someone who went on the Obama campaign trail. I know it’s hardly breaking those journalistic boundaries but it’s good for now.
Who knows, in six months I might be putting together a feature about the socio-cultural effects paperclips have had on social networking.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Shorthand Blues
At the moment Teeline shorthand is the bane of my existence. As part of my NCTJ qualification I am required to be able to write at 100 words per minute in shorthand. When reporting on legal proceedings it is essential because no recording devices are permitted in court. Needless to say I am not even hitting 80wpm yet.
My dad reached 100wpm in Pitman shorthand, which I have been told is harder than Teeline, with English as a second language. So, in theory if my dad was a shorthand genius I can master it.
For me it’s one of those things you just have to keep working away at, like learning to play an instrument or training for a sporting event. The more you practice, the better you will get. Unfortunately, I am terrible at playing the piano and I don’t think Wimbledon is missing a tennis starlet.
Each day when I get back from university I spend an hour practicing outlines and speed building by listening to the ancient NCTJ recordings my teachers used to pass their exams.
The “dictation pieces” (as they are called) are four minutes long with a 30 second interval in the middle.
The subject matter of the passages is thrilling. From cat rescue centres to re-building church roofs, it’s the stuff wannabe journalists dream of. Forget about exposing major companies illegally dumping toxic waste or corrupt bankers stealing billions from investors, it’s all about saving the annual village fair.
They also attempt to spice things up with some gore. There is one piece about a car crash where a vehicle slips off the road and into the bushes. Weeks later the driver’s body is found along with the car. Apparently, from the colour of the corpse the police can tell it’s been there a long time. I guess that’s as exciting as it gets for now.
So there you have it, another snippet into the bizarre world of the NCTJ.
I am still at a loss with this video package but I have about six other assessments to worry about as well.
For those considering undertaking a course in Teeline shorthand here is a list of some of the dangerous side effects:
- blisters
- dented fingers
- deterioration of handwriting
- deterioration of spelling
- frustration/anger
- could cause crying
- long periods of isolation
- dreaming in outlines*
(I have suffered from most of these.)
* Outlines are the signs/symbols used in shorthand. In Teeline they correspond with letters in the alphabet. A lot of other shorthand systems are based on phonetics.
My dad reached 100wpm in Pitman shorthand, which I have been told is harder than Teeline, with English as a second language. So, in theory if my dad was a shorthand genius I can master it.
For me it’s one of those things you just have to keep working away at, like learning to play an instrument or training for a sporting event. The more you practice, the better you will get. Unfortunately, I am terrible at playing the piano and I don’t think Wimbledon is missing a tennis starlet.
Each day when I get back from university I spend an hour practicing outlines and speed building by listening to the ancient NCTJ recordings my teachers used to pass their exams.
The “dictation pieces” (as they are called) are four minutes long with a 30 second interval in the middle.
The subject matter of the passages is thrilling. From cat rescue centres to re-building church roofs, it’s the stuff wannabe journalists dream of. Forget about exposing major companies illegally dumping toxic waste or corrupt bankers stealing billions from investors, it’s all about saving the annual village fair.
They also attempt to spice things up with some gore. There is one piece about a car crash where a vehicle slips off the road and into the bushes. Weeks later the driver’s body is found along with the car. Apparently, from the colour of the corpse the police can tell it’s been there a long time. I guess that’s as exciting as it gets for now.
So there you have it, another snippet into the bizarre world of the NCTJ.
I am still at a loss with this video package but I have about six other assessments to worry about as well.
For those considering undertaking a course in Teeline shorthand here is a list of some of the dangerous side effects:
- blisters
- dented fingers
- deterioration of handwriting
- deterioration of spelling
- frustration/anger
- could cause crying
- long periods of isolation
- dreaming in outlines*
(I have suffered from most of these.)
* Outlines are the signs/symbols used in shorthand. In Teeline they correspond with letters in the alphabet. A lot of other shorthand systems are based on phonetics.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Confessions of an aspiring journalist
As my “About Me” section says, I am an aspiring writer and journalist. Like most people aspiring to something there are often periods of self-doubt, self-loathing and general misery. Instead of keeping it all to myself I thought I should attempt to channel it into something positive-ish.
So here is my attempt to blog, if somewhat sporadically, about my misadventures in journalism. There will be other random thoughts along the way and maybe some anecdotes recounting tales of a tenuously-linked journalistic nature.
Since you’ve got this far, maybe I should tell you a little bit about myself first. From the age of five I wanted to be a writer and by the time I was 14 I decided I wanted to be journalist.
I have been doing a masters degree with the National Council for the Training of Journalists' (NCTJ) accreditation since September. For those unfamiliar with the NCTJ, it’s a nationally recognised journalistic qualification.
It can be a helpful first step onto the media ladder but it isn’t essential. Some of the best journalists I know haven’t needed it but formal training can be useful.
Apart from this degree I have worked for two local papers, my university paper, a now-defunct magazine, a mid-brow film web site, niche financial market newsletters and a hospital radio station. But that’s history.
Today I learnt the basics of Final Cut Pro. It’s a programme which allows people to edit video footage. Easy to use and non-destructive, i.e. your original copy is left untouched.
I am supposed to be putting together a three-minute package to hand in at the end of term. I know it isn’t exactly a feature-length motion picture but following my disastrous relationship with an Edirol voice recorder last term I have my doubts.
As I recall my friend and I were carrying out audio vox pops across campus. We were quizzing various people about Fairtrade products. Lots of quotes about spending that little bit extra to help the third world and helping through trade not aid.
It all sounded great until we got into the editing suite and found we only had a couple of crackles followed by silence. Luckily, she had taken notes and we were able to submit something.
So this video project will be a steep learning curve to say the least. Now all I have to do is find a story.
So here is my attempt to blog, if somewhat sporadically, about my misadventures in journalism. There will be other random thoughts along the way and maybe some anecdotes recounting tales of a tenuously-linked journalistic nature.
Since you’ve got this far, maybe I should tell you a little bit about myself first. From the age of five I wanted to be a writer and by the time I was 14 I decided I wanted to be journalist.
I have been doing a masters degree with the National Council for the Training of Journalists' (NCTJ) accreditation since September. For those unfamiliar with the NCTJ, it’s a nationally recognised journalistic qualification.
It can be a helpful first step onto the media ladder but it isn’t essential. Some of the best journalists I know haven’t needed it but formal training can be useful.
Apart from this degree I have worked for two local papers, my university paper, a now-defunct magazine, a mid-brow film web site, niche financial market newsletters and a hospital radio station. But that’s history.
Today I learnt the basics of Final Cut Pro. It’s a programme which allows people to edit video footage. Easy to use and non-destructive, i.e. your original copy is left untouched.
I am supposed to be putting together a three-minute package to hand in at the end of term. I know it isn’t exactly a feature-length motion picture but following my disastrous relationship with an Edirol voice recorder last term I have my doubts.
As I recall my friend and I were carrying out audio vox pops across campus. We were quizzing various people about Fairtrade products. Lots of quotes about spending that little bit extra to help the third world and helping through trade not aid.
It all sounded great until we got into the editing suite and found we only had a couple of crackles followed by silence. Luckily, she had taken notes and we were able to submit something.
So this video project will be a steep learning curve to say the least. Now all I have to do is find a story.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Why the Boosh is Mighty
Over the past two and a half weeks I have been binging on 'The Mighty Boosh'. I have now seen all the adventures of Howard TJ Moon and Vince Noir from Zoouniverse to Nabootique and everything in between.
After hearing so much about it and seeing Noel Fielding's (one half of the Boosh) stints on 'Nevermind the Buzzcocks' it seemed worth casting an eye over at the very least.
For people who have never seen the show I can only describe it as is a surreal comic concoction with some pretty funky music. But it is difficult to describe the phenomenon that is The Mighty Boosh. In each episode the main characters Vince and Howard embark on a strange adventure be it ending up on a desert island and being abused by coconuts or defeating a demon dressed as a sweet old lady. It all sounds very bizarre, I know.
You may be wondering why I would watch the series so obsessively. Apart from the fact that the internet is a wonderful thing and gives immediate access to shows no longer being broadcasted, the Boosh makes for compulsive viewing. If I was still a student I would have probably had a 10 hour Boosh-a-thon. Sadly, since those have long since gone and I rationed myself to a couple of half hour episodes a night.
Unlike most comedy shows, the programme doesn't even pretend that it is set in our world. There is black magic, beige magic, a man made of cheese, shamans, talking gorillas, and so much more. The different places Vince and Howard visit and the quirky characters they meet in each episode provide perfect escapist fantasy. Nothing in the Boosh realm is questioned it is just accepted and rightly so. We do not need to know why a creature made of Shammy cloths has disco balls for balls or why the Hitcher has polo over one eye (he has minty vision). And to try to figure out why the humour works would unravel it. It works because it does.
Which brings me unseamlessly to the visual and musical elements of the show.
All the episodes are richly textured and each time you watch an episode you are likely to spot something new. The costumes, sets and props are intentionally Blue Peter style-sticky back plastic-toilet roll creations, made with the same love and attention as a papier-mâché
The use of animation and music reminded me of Monty Python, which the Boosh have cited as an influence of theirs. In some ways I feel that the Boosh is the new Python. Both share a similar fan appeal and to some small extent style. (You would be just as likely to see Vince slapping Howard around the face with a fish as you did Michael Palin to John Cleese in 'Monty Python's Flying Circus'). However, the Boosh seems to have penetrated the national consciousness even further than Python did with a diverse fan base including adults and children, emo and chavs alike.
I love the music for its mish mash and the way in which it crosses-genres. In my humble opinion Julian Barratt is genius, his songs are wonderfully catchy. He does not restrict himself one genre and succeeds in whichever kind of music he decides to write a song in. 'Future Sailors' is a personal favourite.
Then there is crimping which has been described by some as 'the new poetic form'. I can only explain it is as bizarre singing rhymes with corresponding moves – it is one of those things you have to see. Crimps are just as catchy as the songs and part of the originality of the show. According to Fielding once you remember a crimp you never forget it, so much so that Sugar Puffs decided a crimp would be a lucrative advertising tool. Surely, if a big food company wanted to steal the crimp there must be something to it and these are not completely the rantings of Boosh fan?
Watching the Boosh for me is like walking into a sweet shop for your eyes and your ears and being allowed to try a little bit of everything. The humour is simple and surreal. The collision of a multitude of genres keeps it fresh and may be one of the reasons that I think the show could go on and on without getting stale.
So go with Vince and Howard on a journey through time and space to the world The Mighty Boosh…
A Charlotte Lucas for our times
One of my childhood friend recently got an arranged marriage and for some reason I was horrified. I suddenly felt sick and I went through a negative rainbow of emotions: fear, sadness, anger, pity.
A part of me kept thinking: “How could she go through with it? She didn’t even love him.” I thought it was something that our parents did but we as the next generation wouldn’t. Then again although she may have born been here she spent her formative years in
I have met her husband and he is lovely. I know that she is very happy and that they get on well. Of course I am pleased for her but the thought of marrying someone I didn’t love just fills me with dread.
Clearly, I have been psychologically scarred by all those Disney films I saw as child. For example, in ‘Aladdin’ Princess Jasmine ends up with Aladdin even though in his pre-genie days, he didn’t even have two pence to rub together let alone a lamp.
The West dictates that you marry for love. If you don’t marry someone who you love and have a blissful existence together then somehow you’re not “normal” - whatever normal is. But what happens when the dream ends and you wake up?
You get divorced and try to re-create that ideal with someone else?
Maybe I should let go of my Western sentimentality and idealism that marriage is based on love and instead try to embrace the practicalities. After all marriage is a legally and financially-binding contract with another person.
With an arranged marriage, you are walking into an agreement with your eyes open. There are no delusions or expectations. You both know what you’re getting and what you want out of it. There is no emotion to cloud your judgement. You will be financially secure. You know they will support you come what may. You will get on with your partner even though they may not be your soul mate.
Maybe the East has got it right with their tea and lentils and the importance of education. Could it be that arranged marriages (which are consensual on both sides) are the way forward?
Although they are financial arrangements, there is more to it than that. Your parents play a part in deciding your future partner. They want the best for you, so they will try to find someone who will make you happy. It’s sort of like a dating agency’s filtering process. Surely, your parents know you better than yourself?
Unfortunately, my parents’ idea of what makes a good husband does not correspond to mine in the slightest. But it does seem tempting given that my romantic decisions have thus far ended in emotional turmoil.
In the very, very distant future, if push comes to shove and I am surrounded by married couples, maybe I will take the plunge instead of waiting for Mr. Darcy to never come.
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