Greece is the word

Siestas, frappes, dirty sandwiches, gyros, ruins, myths, beaches, temples, bars, fans that squirt water and the amendment I'm currently negotiating to my employment contract with CC:

Yep, I hardly need to tell you that Greece is heaven.


We started off with a home cooked Greek meal with Alex's parents and my friends from work, Susan and Mark. While Alex and his mother were setting the table, Paul, who has an amazing knack for not being able to tell north from south but being able to read maps, asks which direction the acropolis is in. Suddenly Alex's father is rather confusingly escorting all the Aussies upstairs to the top floor of the family apartment... We stepped out onto the balcony and....















So Alex had failed to mention that his house has a view of the acropolis. Probably not a big deal to Greeks I guess.... But this has pretty much set the standard for our accomodation going forward. Unless it (a) is free and (b) has views of the relevant city's featured attraction - count us out.
Our first night in Athens also set the standard for the nights to come, when dinner finished at about 11 we hit the town. A walk around the acropolis (as close as Susan and Mark managed to get) followed by drinks on a number of terraces, also with fantatic acropolis views. Some of which you may or may not have had to enter through somebody's kitchen....














The first few days we explored Athens and its surrounds, the parthenon, Pareaus (the port) - all the while taking appropriate breaks for sietas and frappes.

By Tuesday Alex had dealt with Greek bureaucracy and was fairly sure that he was licensed to drive and we headed down to the Temple of Poseiden for some ruins and waves....
For Paul's birthday we transformed ourselves into gods (and easier task for some of us than others as you'll see from the photo below) and indulged in the degustation at Spondi.














And in an effort to get this blog published before we head off on our next adventure - I'll let the islands speak for themselves.....

Going Gaga

"Last year, Lady Gaga picked up a new tattoo. It's a quote from Rilke in his Letters to a Young Poet... The quote Gaga chose from Rilke is about the need to write, a need that is akin to death. "In the deepest hour of the night, confess to yourself that you would die if you were forbidden to write. And look deep into your heart where it spreads its roots, the answer, and ask yourself, must I write?" That's a pretty serious sentiment to have tattooed on your own body...You can say that Lady Gaga is the newest next thing. I say that she is one with the ancients."

Morgan Meis, founding member of Flux Factory, an arts collective in New York. He has written for The Believer, Harper’s, and The Virginia Quarterly Review. Morgan is also an editor at 3 Quarks Daily, and a winner of a Creative Capital | Warhol Foundation Arts Writers grant.

"Just a second; it's my favorite song they're gonna play and I cannot text you with a drink in my hand, eh? "

Lady Gaga, Telephone

Post-modernism has done a lot for our willingness to critically assess all forms of culture, and to assess them by their own standards, rather than those imported from "high-art". At times though, that open-mindedness leads not merely an expansion of critical judgement to popular culture, but to a complete suspension of artistic assessment when it comes to the next big thing.

Meis' essay makes a powerful, if largely unconscious, argument against the makeup of the Warhol foundation's selection committee, but seems much less willing to be drawn on the question of whether Lady Gaga's near-fatal drive to write has produced anything that's, well, any good. Because, as the next thousand or so words will demonstrate, either Gaga is keeping her best work under her impressive array of hats, or her compulsion to write is more a mechanical itch than a

creative one.

Because I suspect this:

"Just a second; it's my favorite song they're gonna play and I cannot text you with a drink in my hand, eh? "

is not what Rilke had in mind.

Now, I'm well aware that the lyrics to dance-wallpaper like Gaga's tend to be an afterthought, but this is a couple of revisions away from qualifying even as "tossed-off". If you're going to cover your body with reminders of how much you love writing, you'd better be capable of something more than just putting pen to paper. You'd better be capable of producing something that doesn't make Oasis' "slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannonball" sound like an intriguing, Lenonesque paradox by comparison.

What is it, exactly, about that couplet that makes it so terrible? Gaga opens with an inversion - "my favourite song they're going to play", rather than the more natural "they're going to play my favourite song". It's not a terrible inversion, as these things go, certainly not on the level of Joe Strummer's "into action, everybody sprang", but it's clearly been forced to fit the

rhyme scheme. An inversion like this is the lyricist's down-payment on the second half of the couplet, the payoff that justifies the somewhat awkward setup, like telling everyone that your wife is "going on holiday to the home of raggae", so you can pounce when they ask "Jamaica?".

So, what's Gaga's humdinger of a follow-up to "it's my favorite song they're gonna play"? How does she reward her listeners' tolerance?

"I cannot text you with a drink in my hand, eh?"

Two things Gaga. Two things.

One, "cannot", "eh"? I haven't been this disappointed with the failed payoff to a strained lyrical setup since T-pain expressed his excitement with the bar-based avail

ability of electronic fund transfer technology with "buy you a drank, I got money in the bank".

Two:

yes you fucking can, Gaga. Yes. You. Fucking. Can. Unless you're wearing some sort of lobster outfit, as I suppose might be the case, communication while holding a drink in a loud room is pretty much the fucking point of text messaging.

Not only are those two lines just awful, they do not logically follow from each other. If they are about to play your favourite song, presumably it is irrelevant whether or not you can text one-handed, like a human, because you will be dancing to your favourite song; unless it's one of yours, in which case you'll be standing, slack-jawed, marvelling at the banality of the lyrics.

Now, it's a rare pop song that can stand up to too much logical analysis, but Lady Gaga's paid a pretty horrendous price, lyrically speaking, to share with us her difficulties communicating (which, now that I think about it, is sort of ironic - I suspect the person calling her wasn't missing much by way of conversation) only to come up with two apparently randomly-selected observations about different troubles you can have with your phone in a nightclub.

When you're writing about the most workaday phenomena imaginable, you should at least be able to bring some spark of wit, some Pulp-like perceptiveness to the enterprise. It's as if I sat down to stave off my writing-cramps with a poem about brushing my teeth and came up with:

"Paste on my brush, water does spray

into the sink, toothbrushing Yay!"

If you're going to dial-down the degree of difficulty on your subject matter, you'd better be capable of at least one astute observation or, at a minimum, rhymes which don't rely on inverting one line and ending the next with "eh?".

So, it's a terrible lyric. Are there worse lyrics out there? Probably. There's the (sadly defunct) South Queensland Crushers' theme song for instance, the full text of which is as follows:

"Let me hear you say onya, onya, onya, onya,

Onya South Queensland Crushers (repeat)"

and which is, perhaps not surprisingly, preserved nowhere online. Now, that's a bad song, but one that's at least tuned correctly to the intellectual level of the institution (and, let's be honest, the region) it seeks to venerate. It's the work of a hack-for-hire pushed out into the creative wilderness of rugby league theme songs, and left to fend for himself after artists higher up the food chain have already picked the landscape clean of synonyms for aggression.

So, while the writer might have sported the odd tattoo, it was much more likely to be a heart that said "Mother" or a XXXX logo than a reminder of the physiological consequences of failure to write with sufficient frequency. The author, if pressed, would admit his work was awful and, probably, he'd blame the choice of subject matter forced on him by the commission.

“On my tour I’m going to be in my bubble dress on a piano made of bubbles, singing about love and art and the future."

Lady Gaga, interview with New York Magazine

"Hello, baby; you called

I can't hear a thing
I have got no service in the club you see, see"

Lady Gaga, Telephone

Lady Gaga, on the other hand, has chosen her present milieu - songs about the difficulty of obtaining mobile reception - freely. While she appears to understand that unlike, say, the South Queensland Crushers, love, art and the future are rich lyrical seams, she's chosen instead to mine the less obviously promising territory of a Nokia user's manual.

So while the promise of the bubble dress, and the bubble piano were delivered on just fine, we're still waiting for a clear lyrical statement outlining Lady Gaga's views on the future, other than an implied hope for improved signal quality in her night spots of choice.

And this gulf, between the accoutrements to her music and the music itself, is something of a pattern. Critics praise Gaga's film clips for referencing Lang and Tarrantino, without noting that the clips bear no relation to the songs themselves. Imprisonment, sex, murder and revenge are all pretty good subjects for a song, and they've inspired some fantastic ones over the years, but they are not reasonably seen as relating, even metaphorically, to the difficulty of conducting a telephone conversation when things are loud.

When Madonna, to whom Gaga is often compared, scandalised audiences with Like a Virgin and Like a Prayer, the shock value of the clips played to something thematically close to the shock value of the songs themselves. This is the challenge associated with making a film clip shocking, or otherwise artistically valuable. Not pasting together borrowed images like a film student with scissors and a scrapbook, but in some way integrating them into the overall experience of your music. This, and only this, is why we don't judge a film clip by the narrative standards of a short film - because it is intended to play off, and is therefore restricted by, the song it accompanies.

But what if, while voiding your morning urge to write, you have shat out a song so banal, so devoid of interest that no amount of money, no amount of silly hats, no amount of cribbing from the critic-approved canon can provide you with even a single arresting image? Do you, the artist, then have a licence to make an incoherent short film about something else entirely and call it a film clip? No. All this means is that you, the artist, have written a song which is too banal even for MTV. It means that you, the artist, have to start again, and if images of murder and prison excite you, as well they might, try writing the fucking song about them next time.

This is why fawning profiles of Lady Gaga devote so much time to the stuff near her music, to the giant fish in her stage show, to the proclamations of artistic integrity scratched into her body, to the unrelated pastiche of her clips and, most of all, to her fucking hats.

At the bottom of the fourth page of an eight page profile, New York Magazine slips this in:

"Gaga also throws in our face something we’ve known all along but numbly decided to ignore: American celebrities have become very, very boring. (The fact that she has done this at the same time that much of the actual music she makes herself is somewhat boring is another feat.)"

When I write my ironic dictionary entry for "burying the lede" I'll open with several paragraphs of irrelevant background and colour, and then, just when the reader is about to skip over the entry entirely, I'll point to that quote from New York Magazine. Because, in eight pages of serving largely as Lady Gaga's stenographer, we only once, half way through, hear that the musician being profiled sucks at making music. This, then, is the suspension of critical standards I complained of at the outset, and in its way it's much more offensive to pop music than the "I suppose they call it music"-sneering from the opera-lovers of yesteryear. Because, if you value an art form, the fact that one of its famous exponents does it really, really badly ought to at least rate a mention somewhere in the first half of your story.

I'm mostly pretty skeptical of dance music about dancing to music. It's like an edible plate, or a painting of a gallery wall - there's a frisson of metatextual excitement, but it's wrapped around a gigantic declaration of creative bankruptcy. Or, to put it another way, writing about music is famously like dancing about architecture, meaning, transitively, that music about dancing is like writing about architecture: fucking boring.

It is, though, possible to write a good song about dancing which is, itself, a good song to dance to. Frightened Rabbit wrote a whole concept album about dance floors and sex, a combination which interview-Gaga would admit just edges out dance floors and telephones in the artistic interest stakes. But when Frightened Rabbit write something like

"Well we can change our partners, this is a progressive dance,

But remember it was me who dragged you up to the sweaty floor."

They're employing what Rilke would call a "metaphor", so that the dancing stands for both itself and for something larger, something about, well, art, and love, and the future. So it is possible, but it's just not as easy as telling a journalist you're going to do it.

“What I’ve discovered,” said [Gaga], with a photo-ready tilt of her head, “is that in art, as in music, there’s a lot of truth—and then there’s a lie. The artist is essentially creating his work to make this lie a truth, but he slides it in amongst all the others. The tiny little lie is the moment I live for, my moment. It’s the moment that the audience falls in love.”

New York Magazine

"Cause I'm bluffin' with my muffin
I'm not lying I'm just stunnin' with my love-glue-gunning
Just like a chick in the casino
Take your bank before I pay you out"

Lady Gaga, Poker Face

Careful readers will note that the above excerpt does, in fact, contain a lie: typically, in casino-run Texas hold 'em games, the love glue gun is deployed only when the river card is an ace and no player is bluffing with their muffin (although some home games will allow the dealer use of the love glue gun on any face card, regardless of the muffin-bluff).

This then, is Lady Gaga's experimenting with metaphor, and like her take on inversion it's a doozy. Rather than constructing a detailed image which is simultaneously about knowing what to do when you're, say, out of both literal and metaphorical aces, Gaga follows the "include some words having vaguely to do with card games" route:

"I wanna hold em' like they do in Texas Plays
Fold em' let em' hit me raise
Lovegame and intuition play the cards with Spades to start
And after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart"

Careful readers will once again note that Gaga has subtly deviated from traditional hold `em - or "Texas Plays" - rules. Typically, after a hold `em player has elected to "hit", he must then play hearts first, before requesting that the player to his left "go fish". Because, after all, if a tiny little lie causes us to fall in love, how much more potent must complete gibberish be?

"the difference between her and, say, Madonna, is that you don’t penetrate Gaga. Her songs and videos are – while sexual – about dysfunction and neuroses and alienation and self-discovery."

Caitlin Moran, The Times of London

"cause I'm out in the club
and I'm sipping that bubb"

Lady Gaga, Telephone

Let's be clear, Caitlin, while Lady Gaga's videos might be about all manner of things, for sufficiently small values of "about", the only dysfunction tackled in her actual songs, in the music she, a musician writes as part of her life-prolonging ritual, is patchy mobile phone reception. You might enjoy Gaga's instantly-dated, sub-autotune-the-news vocal stylings, you might rather like it when she borrows liberally from Ace-of-fucking-Bass but let's not pretend she's anything other than a guilty, stupid pleasure. Because if you actually learned anything about neurosis from, say, Bad Romance, then you may wish to pursue further studies by more conventional means, because you're starting from a very low base indeed.

"Uncle Joe is very nice,

He bought us both a chocolate ice"

Emma and Grandpa, Uncle Joe

"Got my flash on it's true,

need that picture of you"

Lady Gaga, Paparazzi

Like the gentleman in charge of selling us on the South Queensland Crushers, the writer behind Emma and Grandpa has a hell of a job - he's constrained by narrating the action on the screen and bound by the vocabulary familiar to five year-olds. The result is pretty awful doggerel, of which "very nice/chocolate ice" is but a representative example.

Lady Gaga, on the other hand, is creatively free, but, sadly, it's in the Bobby McGee sense of having absolutely nothing to lose. She'd clearly benefit from a strong, or even literate editorial hand when she writes, records and releases a line which conveys two pieces of information:

1) She has her flash on; and

2) Yes, she really does have her flash on.

Had the perspective character established a reputation as an unreliable narrator by that point in the song, the "it's true" might have added meaning, but that kind of depth is reserved for the songs interview-Gaga claims to have written.

So what ought our eight-page profiles of Lady Gaga to say? Well, they could draw attention to the yawning chasm between her pretensions and her production. They could stop treating her videos and performances as an alternative to her musical output. They should ask her whether it's not a bit wanky to tattoo yourself with a warning that a failure to churn out incoherent summaries of card games may lead to your premature death, and perhaps challenge her to put the theory to the test.

But since, as a headline, "Dance Musician Vapid" is a bit "Dog bites Man", we get sycophantic defences based on her borrowed images, expensive stage shows and her hats, her hats, her hats. And if that's her defenders' ultimate gambit, that she is as culturally significant as a woman with a truly astounding array of hats, I suppose we all, ultimately, agree.

Slovenia

"Correction: European map

The map in last week's special report on EU enlargement stupidly muddled up Slovakia and Slovenia."

The Economist, 5 June 2008

Slovenia, like nearby Slovakia and distant Rodney Dangerfield, don't get no respect. When a magazine which regularly covers goings-on in the Gambia can't quite place you on a map, your claims to nationhood are ripe for re-examination. And who better to conduct such a reappraisal than the heroic leaders of the Paulisario Front?

Now, Slovenia can reasonably argue that international ignorance of its existence is a good thing. Its government, unlike many in the region, is admirably free of gangsters and genocidaires and the economy has been chugging along so nicely that it's been able to adopt the Euro and return antiquated farms to nature. "Slovenia getting along nicely" is a pretty "dog bites man" headline, and when the regional competition is "dog murders man's entire race while singing nationalist songs" it's easy to see why Slovenia tends to get bumped from the front page.

Still, it's not all about headlines, and Slovenia's relatively low profile means one is much less likely to attempt the murder of Italian tour groups than in, just to pick a random example, Prague (coming soon!). Given that one is never more than a couple of hours from the nearest border it's a stretch to call Slovenia's open spaces "wide", but what they lack in scale they make up for in their almost ridiculous beauty. Rolling hills, tiny country churches, dappled woodlands and rushing rivers. And, most importantly, acres and acres of sweet, life-giving vines - fuelling the nations unlikely ranking as the world's third biggest consumers of wine.

And every Sunday, what appears to be the entire male Slovenian population lines up along a river to go fishing:














Slovenia's capital, Ljubljana, is the seven-time winner of the international hard-to-spell competition (edging out Antananarivo and Djbouti) and otherwise resembles a famous Eastern European capital (Budapest, Belgrade, Prague, take your pick) that has been shrunk in the wash. It's pretty by day and gorgeous by night - all tastefully lit white marble and tastefully dressed Slovenes getting through their daily allotment of wine, decorated by a winding river and overlooked by a midget castle.

There is some debate as to which of the river's bridges four - cobblers bridge, triple bridge, dragon bridge and the unnamed or "shitty" bridge - is the most appealing, but only among the stupid. Everyone who knows anything about bridge-assessment agrees on dragon bridge's overall superiority, not least because the titular dragons are said to wag their tails when a virgin crosses, an event which is apparently the Slovenian equivalent of a blue moon.












Triple, Dragon and Cobbler's Bridges (not shown, Shitty Bridge).

Rural Slovenia, as befits a nation barely big enough to have a countryside, is very rural indeed. Here is a main street, which even the bus driver looked a bit shamefaced when describing it as the "centre of town":















And here is the next street over:














Still, when one is within striking (and biking) distance of wine cellars cut into the very earth and hot springs made-up to look like how Slovenia imagines the tropics it's hard to complain too loudly.















Overall impressions of Slovenia as tourist destination and would-be nation? Fairytale beauty, solid infrastructure and dinky size make it easy to love, easy to get around but hard to defend as an independent entity. Let's go to the criteria:

The Criteria
(a) Population - Delightful. There's the usual European emphasis on getting drunk early and often, together with friendly advice and quirky tourist attractions. An easy yes.

(b) Territory - As noted, strikingly beautiful and stunningly small. Unless we're considering nationhood for Hyde Park we probably shouldn't give them this one.

(c) Government - Quietly efficient almost to a fault. You can spot the nations whose birth-pang weren't too agonising from their willingness to stick a piece of student sculpture on the front of an office block and make it their parliament.















Their "independence monument" isn't doing them any favours either...















As noted, it seems harsh to penalise them for an absence of scandal, but anyone who's visited a Slovenian nightclub can't help wondering whether it's for want of anything naughty to get up to.

(d) Diplomacy - Well I guess they've got the number of the Economist's correction department, and a notional veto over EU policy. A narrow yes.

(aa) Delicious or hilarious food - Slovenia lies at the point in one's journey North from delicious Turkey to uninspiring Russia where things start to go bad. There's plenty to like, particularly the balkan-style grilled meats near the Croatian border, and nothing as dire as Austria's infamous sausage dumpling soup (which I once ordered on the basis that it must be truly delicious in order to survive in spite of that description), but in general, in Slovenia, we're starting to shade towards the creamy stew and "look, I killed a pig" meat platters.

As for the odd; well after a few wines one is frequently so hungry one could eat a horse, which, as it turns out, is quite a useful skill in a Slovenian restaurant. No, it doesn't taste like chicken.

Then there are the desserts, which range from the Hungarian style "pile of sweet ingredients in the general shape of a cake", which will disappoint you and hasten your death, to the bizarre; ice cream with your choice of pumpkin seed-oil and pumpkin seeds (oddly delicious, really) or mushrooms, which deal a fatal blow to the "sounds bad, must be good" principle. It works about as well as you'd imagine.


























(bb) Fauna - Plenty of cats and dogs, mostly of the cute variety. This dog is happy because he works in a winery, and I can only imagine that I would feel the same way.















Also police horses which have been, delightfully, provided with little woolen ear covers. This must significantly decrease their ability to intimidate. Poor blighters probably ended-up getting eaten.















(cc) National customs - Basketball which, sadly, the local team had lost the night before, leading to an almost empty all-Serbian grand final and a symbolic victory for Milosevic's dream of a greater Yugoslavia. Slovenia did, however provide the half time entertainment, of which the less said the better.

(dd) Around a hundred pounds return to fly, smooth, reasonably-priced train travel to anywhere in the country. A definite yes.

The verdict

Six out of eight and an easy entry into our league of nations for plucky Slovenia. Let's each have a bottle of wine to celebrate!!

Rye observations

This post represents something of a departure from our stated methodology, but if my co-writer is going to start using this space to comment on the lower-classes' response to warm weather I suppose anything goes...

Rye is a small, ancient town in South East England which, through the magic of engineering, lost a beach and gained a marsh. This swap happened long enough ago that Rye's denizens seem to have come to terms with what seems, to my mind, like a pretty uneven trade. You don't see anyone sitting forlornly at marsh-edge with a beach towel and an optimistic tube of sunscreen the way you might on a beach or inner-city housing estate.

One does notice that Rye isn't willing to surrender its long-lost maritime heritage completely without a fight, though. For people of an aquaphobic but nautical bent, Rye seems to represent a kind of non-sailers' yachting paradise, forever free from motion-sickness, or motion of any kind for that matter.

Beyond the unjustified obsession with the long-departed sea, Rye projects a carefully burnished timelessness - an essence of carefree country life painstakingly distilled and reapplied as necessary.
















There are sweet-shops and coloured doors and ancient stone walls and ancient stone pubs with darts and Fosters. There are cobblestones and kippers and cream teas and families up from London 'how's the serenity'ing their way through the lot.

It's all delightfully England-through-English-eyes, and it tells you as much about nearby London's own receded, re-engineered past as it does about English village life. The easy accessibility of places like Rye, with their B&B's and bacon and eggs and Suffolk Best Bitter, are the reason the English don't feel very much need to take in alleged culture of the continent. The old stones and new greenery that so excite Australians abroad are available here for a fraction of the price and without the need to do battle with Johhny-Foreigner and his unusual gastronomic proclivities.


Mine's a pint, and a big piece of black pudding, if you please barkeep.







Bonus content: The Paulisario Front prepares for combat

Thanks to its then seaside status, Rye played a near starring role in the Norman conquest of England, and continues to style itself as "1066 country" which is a bit like French tourist board running with "the home of the Maginot line", but there you go.

The Paulisario front decided to strengthen its quest for nationhood by making use of the tools that made William the Conqueror such a successful, well, conqueror. I, for one, will be "pretending" to run away like an enraged French infantryman at every opportunity, and my co-leader has a nice, new, Norman hat shown here in backwards and, after some consideration, forwards modes:

Dickens Estate

On my walk to the tube each morning, I am sadly reminded that "estates" are not a concept reserved for police chases on the Bill as I walk past block after block of these drab, square, low rise flats. And I'm not sure what Dickens (and a host of other English writers) would have thought of lending his name to these estates that provide the background to my morning walk. But recently, with the emergence of some warmth and much pollen - these estates have been providing me with some insight into the mannerisms of the English which seem to be brought on by the warmer weather....


Case 1: During the first round of 20+ degree days (and yes, they do seem to exist), a number of the families residing in the lower floor apartments decided to pretend that the strip of grass between the edge of their flat and the footpath (which is immediately next to a 6 lane road) was in fact a beach. As early as 9 am I would see the kids running around with the hose, supervised by dad in speedos and mum in her bikini with straps pulled down, sunglasses on, cigarette between her fingers, thumbing through a magazine. When I'd walk home in the evenings, it was as if the family hadn't moved.

But, it seems, that one family in particular has wisened up to the unpredictability of an English summer and so....

Case 2: This week, a shade cloth gazebo type structure with pale green edgings has emerged on the section of the grass in front of one flat. Matching green deck chairs and tables have materialised. But I'm yet to see this incongruous structure in use.... I'm waiting and watching with bated breath (although am also kind of scared given said family's already exhibited lack of prudishness - who knows what sins they believe shade cloth capable of concealing).

I really wish I could take a photo to post but the Bill has educated me too well....

The Corporate Republic of Canary Wharf

Claims to statehood don't come much more drab or dubious than this - coming soon!!

A Wale of a time

So, as I was saying, the Welsh have a curiously strong belief in their ability to speak a language entirely different from the rest of Britain, or the rest of humanity for that matter.

Now, in the complicated world of international relations it's rare for a claim of cultural independence to be rebutted solely through the use of pictures, but in view of Welsh standards of education one ought to at least try:
















Careful readers, up to and including the Welsh (one hopes), will note that the Welsh "language" contains some inconsistencies, and that, in particular, the Welsh have not, as yet been able to agree on the word for "Wales". This, needless to say, is pretty fatal to the claim that "Welsh" represents anything more than a linguistic theme-park attraction - and one that's more Cockington Green than Big Thunder Mountain.

This gentleman at least has taken an admirably firm stance on the whole "so what are we calling our country today then?" controversy, but when your attempts at nationalism have all the permanence of Johnny Depp's relationships, actual independence is going to leave some unsightly scars.



Distinguishing features part two: Cardiff

And speaking of unsightly scars... Cardiff bills itself as "Europe's youngest capital" and, circa 1950, this was probably true. Today though, Cardiff relies on the complex strain of geographical, historical and literal illiteracy signalled by those who choose to visit it in favour of its newer and prettier rivals. All twenty eight of them.

From its catch phrase to its vast, unpopulated waterfront, Cardiff is a city out of time. People amble about without urgency, roads are blocked without explanation, and huge billboards exhort consumption of the local ale and support for the local team who are, unsurprisingly one and the same:

"Brains".

The irony here is too cheap a shot even for the Paulisario Front, so I'll simply note that, combined with the absent and inactive population, the ever present demand that one consume more brains gives Cardiff the feel of a literal zombie capital. Perhaps that ought to have been the slogan.

As part of England's ongoing efforts to underwrite Wales' dissatisfaction with the English, Cardiff's waterfront has been extensively redeveloped - the centrepiece of post millennial Cardiff is an enormous national culture hall or something similarly oxymoronic.


It's big, certainly, and it has welsh poetry on it, which must have gone over a treat with the Welsh nationalists and their English paymasters. What no one, apparently, had the heart to point out though is that the "poetry" in question is, in fact, an acrostic.

So when handed the enormous blank canvas that is Cardiff, the best Wales' finest could come up with was a form of poetry whose artistic validity lies somewhere between that of limericks and haiku. I can only assume Rolph Harris wasn't available. (That's one member of the Paulisario Front standing in the front there)

And another thing... Karaoke:

It's always dangerous to make fun of a nation on the basis of its karaoke. It's a standard that would make the Japanese the most ridiculous people on earth, (they're actually third, behind Yemen and Bulgaria, according to most reputable rankings) and we've all got some karaoke skeletons in our closets, perhaps in the form of an otherwise laudable attempt to impress some Japanese school girls with a rendition of Sir Mixalot's "Baby got back".

You can, however, tell a lot about a people from how they behave once they've sunk a couple of Brains, had dinner at a pub whose name apparently translates as "the homosexual" and eaten a couple of slices of a cheese inexplicably known as the Stinking Bishop.

You can't blame a liquored-up Welsh person for wanting to go to a seedy bar and crank out some old favourites into a battered microphone. What was surprising, to the members of the Paulisario Front at least, was that the "old favourites" they chose to reproduce were drawn exclusively from the oeuvre of Alvin and the Chipmunks.

Now I have nothing against Alvin, though I always thought the other Chipmunks were holding him back somewhat. The Paulisario Front's old housemate (who will be pleased to learn there's a Welsh pub named after him) once owned a copy of their album (or it may have been their old rivals, the smurfs) and it was greatly enjoyed by all. But even the most ardent Chipmunk fan has to concede that they make a poor choice for karaoke in anything but the most helium-rich environment.

The result, as you will see below, was awkward silence on the part everybody but the Welsh, which is the closest this post will come to a unifying theme.

The Criteria

(a) Population - It's life Jim, but not as we know it. I suspect rescue is more appropriate that recognition here. Keep an eye on your Brains and speak nonsense in a slow, lilting voice as you back away slowly.

(b) Territory - Actually quite beautiful, once you decode Cardiff's not-so-carefully concealed message about running for your life. Abandoned abbeys, abandoned coal mines, abandoned country roads. It's consistent if nothing else.

(c) Government - It's there, but given that the seat of parliament appears to be an abandoned office block (there's that word again) you get the sense that even they're not entirely convinced. They're probably waiting to build the real thing until they can agree how it's spelled - a wise strategy but one lacking in the signature passion of successful secessionists.

(d) Diplomacy - Given that no one's called them on the whole "Europe's youngest capital" thing in the three decades since it ceased to be accurate, I'm guessing not.

(aa) Delicious or hilarious food - I'll spot them the stinking bishop, but take those marks back for a failure to produce Caerphilly, the famous cheese of Caerphilly, anywhere near the eponymous Caerphilly. After that we're left with leeks, sausages of dubious originality and the apocryphal but hilarious limpet stew (take a sack of limpets and a rock and boil them very slowly for at least 24 hours. Then eat the rock.)

(bb) Fauna - Dragons, which don't exist, and badgers, which might not. Cool at least in theory though, and we did spot an owl.

(cc) National customs - Well there's Alvin, and the Brains, and the "language" and "poetry". I think they've got this one sown up.

(dd) Three hours in a hire car via Slough and Swindon, which more or less justify the trip by themselves.

The verdict

I count four from eight, the sort of narrow failure which is neither spectacular nor cause for congratulations. Croeso i Gymru.