Don't Mention The War

Battle-scarred and shell shocked: how else to describe my condition after 460 pages of blood, sweat and tanks? Antony Beevor’s book documenting the siege of Stalingrad is not for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach. What with bombing raids, grenade attacks, hand-to-hand combat — to say nothing of frostbite, typhoid and malnutrition — I’m lucky to have escaped with my life.

It’s received a crouching ovation from critics and sold half million in the UK alone. But although there’s no doubting its colossal impact, I have two big problems with Stalingrad.

First, it’s unrelentingly grim. You wouldn’t expect many laughs in a war history, but Stalingrad stands out as one of the most depressing books I’ve ever read. Death stalks every page. Yet even the grim reaper seems preferable to the appalling conditions endured by troops and civilians. If it’s not starvation it’s dehydration; if it’s not infestation it’s amputation. This is war in the raw, where no-one is spared: deserters are shot, women are raped, children are massacred, horses are eaten. It’s not the author’s fault; he’s only recording how inhuman humans can be. But it’s still heavy going.

Then there’s the overwhelming technical and military detail. Of course, for battle buffs this is paradise alley. Tank spotters will salivate at the description of panzers trundling triumphantly across the steppe, while armchair strategists will relish every bomb and bullet. But, just like the Germans, I got bogged down. Encircled by tanks and bombarded by planes, on more than one occasion I had to bail out before sinking in military minutiae.

Keeping up with the cast of characters in the theatre of war was another challenge (the index names over 70 generals). And it didn’t help that both Hitler and Stalin kept replacing officers who were foolish enough to tell them unpalatable truths.

Amidst the doom and detail, the book has some absorbing sections, notably the chapter on the enemy within. Fighting the invaders was challenging enough, but the Russian forces also had to contend with Stalin’s secret police in their midst. The slightest whimper amounted to treachery, and at Stalingrad 13,500 paid the price of doubt with their lives. Well, they did if the firing squad wasn’t incompetent or drunk. Stories of soldiers getting up and scarpering after being executed are not as incredible as they might seem.

Eyewitness accounts and soldiers’ letters vividly capture the mood swings on both sides. These testimonies are never more powerful than in the final weeks of the siege. While expressing confidence in the face of encircling Soviets, between the lines the German troops prepared their loved ones for the worst.

But as the days turned into weeks, the mood of these starving, exhausted, diseased and demoralised men changed. If the early letters home were defiant, the last ones were desperate. As they prepared to face the final Russian onslaught, a few still clung to the hope their Führer would send help. Hitler acknowledged their plight by abstaining from champagne at dinner.

The author uses unemotive language in his assessments of Hitler and Stalin, but it’s obvious that he thinks both were utter nutters. Before a single Nazi jackboot crossed the Russian frontier, a paranoid Stalin had already done away with the cream of his general staff.

Meanwhile, Hitler’s management skills shouldn’t have got him further than running a bratwurst stall in Mönchengladbach. Certain of a swift victory in the Russian campaign, he refused to provide winter clothing for his own troops. We’re left to contemplate the pride of the Reich going into battle wearing fur coats and woolly hats donated by the German public.

The book concludes with a chapter on the aftermath of the siege, but I could have done with more about Stalingrad beyond the bombing, and something of its pre-battle history. And yes, I know Stalingrad was primarily about the clash of two armed forces, but surely some of the finer points of military strategy could have been sacrificed for more on the civilians? A thousand of them, mostly women and children, somehow survived the siege of Stalingrad, and their stories will have been every bit as gripping as those on the front line.

Long before the term was coined, Stalingrad defined “shock and awe”. It was a turning point that saved Stalin’s bacon at home and earned him new respect abroad, with far-reaching consequences for us all. Over a million of the 26 million Soviets killed in the Second World War died at Stalingrad. The staggering scale of the loss gave the Soviet leader an emotional blackmail card to play when it came to dividing up the spoils of war in 1945.

As a battle, Stalingrad left its mark on the world. As a book, Stalingrad had a similar effect on me. Battle-weary and out of ammo, I’ve had to surrender this review and concede defeat. I’ve got post-war fatigue.

Stalingrad: the fateful siege: 1942-1943

by Antony Beevor

Publisher: Penguin, 1999
ISBN-10: 0140284583
ISBN-13: 978-0140284584

When Flemish Eyes Are Smiling

Last year I spent a relaxing weekend in Belgium. What’s that you say? Relaxing? In Belgium? Surely that’s an oxymoron! Like mountain climbing in Holland, or doing anything remotely interesting in Luxembourg.

But, no. It was nice. Brussels was brilliant, Antwerp was amazing, and Zaventem was, well, where they put the airport. And then there was Bruges.

Heavy with history, but easy on the eye, Bruges was my kind of town. The gothic buildings were strewn with Christmas lights, and snow covered the canal bridges like a light dusting of icing sugar. Which was strange, because this was at the end of an especially mild February.

Turns out director Martin McDonagh was making a movie in the city, with the head-smackingly original title of In Bruges. I’m guessing that the lights and fake snow were to enhance the fairy tale atmosphere of the city, although it hardly needed that sort of tarting up.

So, a syopsis: Ken and Ray (Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell), two Irish hit men, flee London after a murder goes terribly wrong. Harry, their gangster boss (Ralph Fiennes), despatches them to Bruges to await further instructions. Meantime, they do the tourist things. Ken is entranced by the fairtytale town, but Ray is more interested in using his weapons of crass seduction on local beauty, Chloe (Clemence Poesy).

There’s a lot of laugh-out-loud comedy, and a fair amount of politically incorrect humour, mostly aimed at Americans. But while Ray is getting to know Chloe better, and simultaneously encountering the darker side of Bruges, Harry is giving Ken the awful truth of why they’re in Bruges.

The three principals - Gleeson, Farrell, and Fiennes - act their socks off. And there’s more than a hint of a Father Ted vibe going on between Gleeson and Farrell. For those not in the know, Father Ted was a ludicrous sit-com set on a remote Irish island, where a priest and his gormless curate got into the most preposterous of scrapes. Certainly, Farrell seemed to adopt some of the more clueless expressions of the dim-witted Father Dougal, which lightened the movie's more brutal aspects.

And there is graphic violence aplenty. But you’ll be pleased to learn that no Belgians were hurt in the making of this movie, so you can sit back and enjoy the bloodfest. Enjoy the acting, too, and the dialogue (the screenplay is written by McDonagh), and the music, and the cinematography. And enjoy it in the cinema rather than waiting for the DVD. Because In Bruges is a piece of theatre. It’s an experience best enjoyed while laughing and gasping in the company of strangers in a darkened room.

And it’s not often you can say that about Belgium..

The In Crowd

Fucking in fiction: are you for or against? I only ask because Roddy Doyle's frequent use of the F-word might cause even Gordon Ramsay to turn salmon-pink. Bad language as a shock tactic often falls flat, but sometimes profanity signals credibility. So thumbs up for The Deportees; If you're looking for the real Dublin, forget Bono, Riverdance and Dustin the Turkey, Doyle has the Irish capital to a T. And an F.

The Deportees is a compilation of short stories written by Doyle for Dublin's first multicultural daily newspaper. These tales of the uninvited show what happened when a small nation suddenly became a honey pot for the world's dispossessed.

It was during the 1990s that Ireland started booming. The Celtic Tiger roared, and from Lagos to Latvia, they responded. Ireland experienced a greater percentage increase in immigration in a single decade than Britain had experienced in half a century. As Doyle himself observes, "I went to bed in one country and woke up in another."

The book is about encounters between immigrants and home-grown Dubliners. Humour is never far away, even in the darker stories, and there's a liberal helping of the craic.

In "I Understand," a Dublin waiter gives the kitchen help a masterclass in the gentle art of Irish cursing.

"I have a new one for you, he says - Ready?"
"Yes."
I take my hands from the water.
"Me bollix," he says. "Repeat."
"My.."
"No. Me."
"Me. Bollix."
"Together.""Me bollix."
"Excellent," says Kevin, "Top man."

Meanwhile, in "75% Irish," a graduate student hits upon a novel test of citizenship. His device records the user’s response to a replay of Robbie Keane's goal against Germany in the World Cup. For a government minister scrambling to defuse the political impact of a demographic time bomb, it’s a gift.

Preposterous? Of course. But let's remember the Tory Party chairman, who contended that Britishness could be determined by which cricket team you supported when England played the West Indies. Under those criteria, I'm 100% Antiguan.

Pride and prejudice, stereotype and stigma loom large in "Home to Harlem." Declan, a black Irish student, hopes a literature course in New York will resolve his identity crisis. Explaining his quest to an unsympathetic professor, Declan is both eloquent and to the point.

"He tells her about first reading The Souls of Black Folk, about the question repeated in the first paragraph of the first chapter: "How does it feel to be a problem?" "The problem is, he says, "I'm black and Irish, and that's two fuckin' problems."

Back in Dublin, the immigrants have problems aplenty. An African boy is bullied at school, an illegal immigrant is the victim of blackmail; and a Polish childminder is spooked by the unlikeliest of ghosts.

The centrepiece of the book resurrects Jimmy Rabbitte, erstwhile godfather of The Commitments. This time, he's putting together a new band, with assorted imports from Romania, New York and Nigeria, plus a couple of Dubliners. After a shaky start, The Deportees find their feet and harmony reigns.

But just when we’re starting to view things through emerald-tinted glasses, the author brings us back to reality. There's enough menace in Roddy Doyle's stories to show that behind the alive, alive-oh of Dublin's fair city, there's a rattle and hum of racism

The Deportees
by Roddy Doyle

Publisher: Viking Adult (January 10, 2008)
ISBN-10: 0670018457

Fully Booked

While the rest of the world blogs about what they had for breakfast, book lovers have other fish to fry. Covering everything from crime to horror, Henry James to Harry Potter, bibliophiles are producing some of the most stimulating and entertaining work on the web. Not incidentally, they're at the forefront of the forces revolutionising the publishing industry. From Web sites to Weblogs, podcasting to social networking, book lovers have shown there's more to the internet than a dancing dog on YouTube.

The Bookaholics' Guide to Book Blogs celebrates the individuals who have taken their shared love of literature into cyberspace. Authors, booksellers, publishers and reviewers are feted, while the big corporations seeking control of the written word are confronted. Little-reported issues are addressed, such as the radical writers, disillusioned with mainstream publishing, who have found outlets for their work on the web. There's also an absorbing piece on the brewing civil war between newspaper critics and book bloggers. The book's upbeat, informal style captures the spirit of these exciting times.

Sadly, the message is obscured by the medium. Throughout the book, typographical errors keep stubbornly appearing. It's nothing dramatic, but just enough to irritate. Even the final sentence can't escape a distracting typo.

Misplaced letters aren't the only problem. Rebecca Gillieron's sixty, seventy, and (in a couple of horrific instances) ninety-word sentences make some passages heavy going. The book’s usefulness as a reference work is limited by an inconsistent use of web addresses and the absence of an index.

What rescues the book are the extracts from literary blogs themselves. Knowledgeable, witty and wordy-wise, book bloggers are clearly a talented bunch. Some may be brutally honest, but most are as ready to shower roses on writers they like as they are to deliver raspberries to those they don't. I especially enjoyed the plain-speaking Dovegreyreader and the entertaining book/daddy, but all of the bloggers featured in the book deserve to be there.

Voices from the web are welcome distractions from this book's shortcomings. Yet even here, the authors can't help meddling. A Finnish blogger's exuberant post about one of his favourite horror authors is reproduced. His enthusiasm is infectious, even for those who may not be fans of the genre. Why the authors feel the need to reprint part of his blog in the original Finnish is one of this book's enduring mysteries, another is the decision to reprint nine consecutive pages from Toby Litt's blog. I'm all for giving readers a taste of the author, but this takes spoon feeding a ladle too far.

Why make so much of so little? What's a misplaced letter here, an elongated sentence there? Perhaps it's the old "if a job's worth doing..." mentality. But more than that, the authors of this book should know better. The opening page trumpets their credentials as industry insiders, as experienced in editing as they are in typesetting. And if attention to detail does justice to a book's subject and signals respect for its readers, the opposite is also true.

The publishing house which produced this book is a small, independent press, and it gives me no pleasure to decry their work. If it weren't for the flaws, I'd have no hesitation in recommending it. As it is, the best investment of any revenue generated by this project would be the employment of a sharp-eyed proof reader for the next one.

A New Leaf

Let me just get this right: a tree was chopped down to make a bookshelf in the shape of a tree to hold books made from chopped down trees. It comes from a website that wasn't made from chopped down anything.

Monetary Madness

"A year ago I agreed to give a lucrative speech and, once the date was booked, I felt rich and spent the fee. On delivering the speech, I felt I had actually earned it, so spent it again. Subsequently the company got into financial difficulty and failed to pay me, which was a shame as I had already spent the money twice. Six months later, out of the blue, the money arrived. As I had mentally written it off, this counted as a windfall, so I spent it all over again."

Lucy Kellaway on the monetary madness that visits her personal finances.

Strangers on a Train

To pass the time on the long train journey back from London this week, I listened to a double bill of plays by Alan Bennett.

"Forty Years On" is set in an English public school, with John Gielguid the very pith and sinew of an old style headmaster. During the school play, he's outraged by his students' use of improvisation: "I'm all for free expression," he says, "but only if it's rigidly controlled." It's a fine reflection on an age that was already passing into history when it first appeared in 1968.

The other performance on the CD was a monolgue titled "A Woman of No Importance". Patricia Routledge plays Miss Margaret Schofield, an office worker whose only ambition is to reach the canteen before the lunchtime rush. Her futile, boring life is described in mind-numbing detail. But, this being Bennett and Routledge, magnificence is wrought from the mundane. Taken into hospital for a stomach complaint, her inevitable decline fails to dim her own sense of self-importance. Even the most tenuous connections to the great and the good are sucked into her maw: "This is the bed that Princess Alexandra stopped at when she came here, apparently."

In such good company, it's hardly surprising that, before I knew it, the train was drawing into the station.

Wise Words

Seven years after his death, his words still ring true:

I never give my work to somebody else and say, "What do you think about that?" I just don't trust anybody. If I think it's funny, or if I think it's silly, I send it in anyway because I'm just trying to please myself. I never try to please a certain audience. I think that's disastrous. There's no way in the world you can anticipate what your reader is going to like or dislike.
Charles Schulz

Book Now

Among the top ten book shops in the world named by The Guardian is none other than Glasgow's city centre branch of Borders. Sean Dodson says few readers can fail to be beguiled by its neo-classical facade. "People reading on the steps outside have become as much a feature of Glasgow as the traffic cone on the head of Wellington's statue."

Not any more. Legions of Goths have been swept from the steps and security guards now patrol them to ensure that Borders is a Goth-free zone.

The other bookshops on the list are also worth a second look. Among them, the reconstituted church that is the Boekhandel Selexyz Dominicanen in Maastricht (above) and the majestic Livrario Lello in Porto.

You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but I'm pretty sure these magnificent bookshops live up to their first impressions.

Season's Readings

As a coda to the festive season, here's my round-up of the books that accompanied me through the past twelve months.

2007 was the year I discovered Alan Bennett. I'd been aware of his work before, but it's only this year that I've come to explore and fully enjoy his writing. His short stories, monologues and plays have entertained and inspired me throughout the year, and I look forward to reading more from this brilliant writer in 2008.

But before closing the door on another year of reading, here, in reverse order of enjoyment, are my bite-sized book reviews of 2007.


Title: The Collectors
Author: David Baldacci
Review: A thriller that wasn't from a writer who couldn't. Awful.
Score: 1/10

Title: JPod
Author: Douglas Coupland
Review: Follies in geekland. Disappointing.
Score: 3/10

Title: This Book Will Save Your Life
Author: A. M. Homes
Review: Silly satire on Californian suburban life. Puzzling.
Score: 5/10

Title: The Edifice Complex
Author: Deyan Sudjic
Review: Deliciously gossipy insight into architecture as a weapon of mass seduction. Entertaining.
Score: 6/10

Title: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
Author: Jonathan Safran Foer
Review: A youngster unravels a mystery left behind by his father when the Twin Towers fell. Moving.
Score: 6/10

Title: The Outsider
Author: Albert Camus
Review: Bleak story of a man who appears indifferent to his fate. Depressing.
Score: 6/10

Title: Be Near Me
Author: Andrew O'Hagan
Review: A parish priest's ministry turns tragic in a decaying Ayrshire town. Poetic.
Score: 6/10

Title: In God's Name: an investigation into the murder of Pope John Paul I
Author: David Yallop
Review: Dodgy doings at the Vatican. Compelling.
Score: 6/10

Title: The Plague
Author: Albert Camus
Review: Thought-provoking story of human responses to a deadly threat. Contagious.
Score: 6/10

Title: The Weather Makers: how man is changing the planet and what it means for life on Earth
Author: Tim Flannery
Review: An SOS for Earth. Convincing.
Score: 6/10

Title: And Now on Radio 4
Author: Simon Elmes
Review: Celebrating 40 years of a jewel in the BBC crown. Cosy.
Score: 6/10

Title: Basil Hume, the Monk Cardinal
Author: Anthony Howard
Review: Eminently absorbing biography of a man whom the Queen called "my cardinal". Insightful.
Score: 7/10

Title: Hatless Jack: the president, the fedora and the history of American style
Author: Neil Steinberg
Review: How JFK didn't kill the American hat industry. Offbeat
Score: 7/10

Title: Life of Pi
Author: Yann Martel 7/10
Review: A boy, a boat, adrift, alive. And a tiger called Richard Parker. Surprising.
Score: 7/10

Title: The Interpretation of Murder
Author: Jeb Rubenfeld
Review: History and mystery with a dash of psychology and a ration of passion. Excellent.
Score: 8/10

Title: Beyond Words
Author: John Humphrys
Review: Incisive and entertaining look at how language is shaping our lives. Revealing.
Score: 8/10

Title: Seminary Boy: a memoir
Author: John Cornwell 8/10
Review: Reflections on life inside a boarding school for trainee priests. Evocative
Score: 8/10

Title: Perfect Hostage
Author: Justin Wintle
Review: Powerful biography of Burmese prisoner of conscience, Aung San Suu Kyi. Inspiring.
Score: 8/10

Title: The Berlin Wall: a world divided: 1961-1989
Author: Frederick Taylor
Review: Scholarly, but highly readable story of an icon of the Cold War. Gripping. Score: 9/10

Title: Nul Points
Author: Tim Moore
Review: Bellowing Balts and likeable Liverpudlians go to Eurovision with the highest of hopes and return with the lowest of scores. Winning.
Score: 9/10

Title: Martin Lukes: Who Moved My Blackberry?
Author: Lucy Kellaway
Review: Slick slice of office life, starring a sharp-suited bullshitter. Plausible
Score: 9/10

Title: Redemption Falls
Author: Joseph O'Connor
Review: Complex, confusing and utterly brilliant Civil War novel. Superb.
Score: 9/10

Title: Desperadoes
Author: Joseph O'Connor
Review: Drama on the road to Managua. Unputdownable.
Score: 10/10

Title: Four Stories
Author: Alan Bennett
Review: A funeral, a burglary, a hospital and a bag lady. Magnificence in the mundane. Outstanding.
Score: 10/10

Title: Talking Heads
Author: Alan Bennett
Review: Masterful monologues from the spectator of suburbia. Stunning.
Score: 10/10

As for 2008, I've already finished The Book Thief and a biography of Liberace, both excellent. Next stop is Charlie Brooker's Screen Burn - a very different kettle of fish.

Show and Tell

It’s not often that Marlene Dietrich, Marcel Proust, Ronald Reagan and Dante appear in the same chapter, let alone the same book. But here they are, in Darden Asbury Pyron’s biography of Liberace. The book, part of my holiday reading this festive season, reaches into every nook and cranny of the showman’s life. But it also makes some interesting diversions, such as an exploration of homosexual culture and the history of Las Vegas.

What’s most striking is how polarising a figure Liberace was. The adulation he received from his fans was only equalled by the revulsion of his critics. After interviewing Liberace, Edward R. Murrow remarked: “In your whole life did you ever see anyone so obnoxious!” The great reporter, who covered the devastation of war and the horrors of the concentration camps, seemed to find an over-the-top entertainer far more offensive. He need three scotches before he could utter another word.

Neither hatchet job nor hagiography, Pyron’s book gives a balanced account of the entertainer’s improbable life. And given the nature of the subject, that's an achievement in itself.

Viennese Whirls

A sublime start to 2008, watching the New Year's Concert from Vienna. The Vienna Philharmonic was in sparkling form, as was the golden hall of the Musikverein. Grinning from ear to ear, Georges Prêtre waved the baguette. At 83, he's the oldest person to preside over this special occasion, and the first Frenchman. With a twinkle in his eye, the masterful jockey guided the thoroughbred professionals over the hurdles, polkas and waltzes.

In tribute to the Beijing Olympics, a Chinese polka was played, while Austria's co-hosting of the European Football Championships this summer was celebrated with a sports polka. Red and yellow cards were exchanged between conductor and leader, and the ensemble donned Austria football scarves in a bit of undisguised patriotism.

As ever, the hall was clothed in floral splendour, with poinsettia, lilies and orchids from the city of San Remo. Austrian television excelled itself with pictures of dancers whirling their way across Vienna, with palaces and parks forming the perfect backdrop.

It all brought to mind a balmy September evening five years ago. On my fortieth birthday, I attended a concert by the Vienna Phil at the Musikverein. The first half was magical enough - Mozart performed in period costume. But after the interval, the Chancellor of Austria arrived, escorting a Chinese statesman for a little night music. At the end, the orchestra played the Blue Danube and the Radetzky March. I left the hall with a tear in my eye and a song in my heart.

And so, each January 1, when the conductor raises the baton in the golden hall, I always remember that golden night.

Prosit Neue Jahr!

The Year That Was

So, as 2007 sputters its way to the finishing line, here are some of my favourite quotes from the past twelve months.


I'm a fairly wide guy... I tend to spread my legs when I lower my pants so they won't slide.
Senator Larry Craig

Welcome to Scotland
The exciting new slogan greeting visitors to Scottish airports, created at a cost of £125,000.

In Iran, we don't have homosexuals, like in your country.
Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, at Columbia University.

I want to be like Gandhi and Martin Luther King and John Lennon – but I want to stay alive.
Madonna

I've had worse press than a pedophile or a murderer and I've done nothing but charity for the last 20 years.
Heather Mills, Paul McCartney's former wife, attacks the news media.

The planet is in distress and all of the attention is on Paris Hilton. We have to ask ourselves what is going on here?
Al Gore

Why don't you just shut up ?
— King Juan Carlos of Spain, to Hugo Chávez after the Venezuelan President called former Spanish Prime Minister José María Aznar a fascist.

I gave her my all-American smile, where I show wall-to-wall teeth and said, pathetically: 'Hope you like your trip to America'. I was quickly moved on like some old wilted tuna on the conveyer belt at Yo! Suchi.
Ruby Wax on her meeting with Britain's Queen Elizabeth.

This is Glasgow, we'll just set about you.
Airport worker John Smeaton, with a message for terrorists threatening Scotland.

Muslims know that if they attack a woman they will burn in hell.
Benazir Bhutto

Some people sing opera, Luciana Pavarotti was an opera.
Bono on death of the Italian tenor.

It wasn't a fortune. It cost me the price of one-and-a-half Hermes handbags.
Anne Robinson on her cosmetic surgery.

Today, society does not talk about hell. It's as if it did not exist, but it does.
Pope Benedict XVI

Less Dressy? What do you think this is?
Queen Elizabeth II after photographer Annie Leibovitz suggested she remove crown for photo shoot.

The guilt that we feel will never leave us.
Gerry McCann

When I'm looking for something I've dropped on the carpet, I have a bit of a problem.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel saying energy-saving light bulbs are not bright enough.

I used to act dumb. That act is no longer cute.
Paris Hilton

This House has noted the Prime Minister's remarkable transformation from Stalin to Mr Bean in the past few weeks.
Liberal Democrat stand-in leader, Vince Cable, turns the knife in Gordon Brown’s wounds.

Have you got anywhere with McDonald's? Have you tried getting it banned, that's the key. Prince Charles suggests cure for obesity on visit to United Arab Emirates.

We don't airbrush to that extent.
Hugh Hefner scuppers Kelly Osbourne's chances after she admits in an interview that she would like to be a nude Playboy pin-up.

Too Much Information

"I met the Dalai Lama in my office but I meet everyone in my office. I don't know why I would sneak off to a hotel room just to meet the Dalai Lama. You know, he's not a call girl."

Stephen Harper, Prime Minister of Canada, showing why he didn't enter the diplomatic service.
From the New Zealand Herald.

Lab, Actually

The words "science" and "humour" don't usually go hand in hand. But in a bit of festive frivolity, this week's New Scientist has published the results of a competition to find the best chat up lines for scientists.

The editors subjected the data to intense scrutiny, applied general principles, built prototypes, tested hunches and gathered evidence.

And the winners are:

Would there be any resistance if I asked to take you ohm?

Would kissing you increase global warming and damage the Arctic irreversibly, or is it just enough to break the ice?

I’ve had my ion you.

Hello, I’ve just taken part in a clinical trial of a new drug to help memory loss; could you tell me, do I come here often?

Your are definitely the woman of my REM phase.

Not much I can add to that. Apart from, of course: Is that a test tube in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?

The Spice Girls Cometh

Apart from "Drain Trader", possibly the last place I would have expected to see a review of the Spice Girls' comeback tour is in the Financial Times. But here it is, composed by someone rejoicing in the decidely unpoptastic name of Ludovic Hunter-Tilney. Double-barrelled he may be, but spiced up he certainly ain't.

"...their glittery set left me feeling empty. In spite of the flashiness and energy, it lacked life."

Going on to describe each of them as "differently bad", he reserves his barbiest barb for Posh:

"Victoria Beckham, skeletal in voice and body, was cheered each time she sang. Perhaps intended as sisterly solidarity by fans, or appreciation of her will to fame, the cheers had the happy effect of drowning Posh out."

What with this and a weekend story suggesting the sub-prime mortgage crisis has parallels with the Harry Potter stories, it looks as if the FT is scrambling for a younger demographic.

What next, I wonder? A campaign to bring back the Teletubbies?

The White Collar Tramp

In another life, he interviewed Margaret Thatcher and took holidays in Goa. Now, he sleeps on the street. Ed Mitchell, a former television journalist, has been homeless for the past year, after losing his £100,000 job at CNBC.

It's a sad tale of drink, debt and despair, but according to Mitchell, he's far from being the only "white collar tramp", and the worst may be yet to come:

"There is a tsunami of bad debt about to hit this economy," he said."Pandora's box has been opened."

In the meantime, Mitchell survives on the kindness of strangers and a philosophical outlook on his new life.

"Now I look at each day and think 'what is going to happen today?'," he said. "It is an existence that makes you appreciate small luxuries and kindnesses." On Thursday night he returned to his bench to find a wrapped Christmas present containing a bar of Dairy Milk, hat, gloves, a razor and deodorant."

Net Gains?

Is the internet good for writers?

That's the question on webzine 10zenmonkeys. And answers came there many:

I'm really sick of opinions and of most of what passes for online debate. Even the more artful rhetorical elements of argument and debate are rarely seen amidst the food fights, the generic argumentative “moves,” the poor syntax, and the often lame attempts to bring a “fresh take” to a topic. This is not an encouraging environment from which to speak from the heart or the soul or whatever it is that makes living, breathing prose an actual source of sustenance and spiritual strength.

We're drowning in yak, and it's getting harder and harder to hear the insightful voices through all the media cacophony. Oscar Wilde would be just another forlorn blogger out on the media asteroid belt in our day, constantly checking his SiteMeter's Average Hits Per Day and Average Visit Length.

The web enables us to write in public and, maybe one day, strike off the shackles of cubicle hell and get rich living by our wits. Sometimes I think we're just about to turn that cultural corner. Then I step onto the New York subway, where most of the car is talking nonstop on cellphones. Time was when people would have occupied their idle hours between the covers of a book. No more. We've turned the psyche inside out, exteriorizing our egos, extruding our selves into public space and filling our inner vacuums with white noise.

The internet has made research much easier, which is both good and bad. It's good not to be forced to go libraries to fact check and throw together bibliographic references. But it's bad not to be forced to do this, since it diminishes the possibility of accidental discovery. Physically browsing on library stacks and at used bookstores can lead to extraordinary discoveries. One can also discover extraordinary things online, too, but the physical process of doing so is somehow more personally gratifying.

Used to be I sat at an alphabet keyboard (called typewriters in my day) when I had an assignment or inspiration. Now it's all I do. Go to a library? Why? You can get what you need on the internet. Which means I've been suffering from Acute Cabin Fever since 1999 (when I tragically signed up for internet access). Sure, I could get off my ass and go to a library, but the internet is like heroin. Why take a walk in the park when you can boot up and find beauty behind your eyelids or truth from the MacBook? (Interesting that the term 'boot-up' is junkie-speak.)

J.K. Rowling wrote her first manuscript on paper towels and napkins. You may as well ask the question “Is tissue paper good for writers?”. The answer is the same. Sure it is, if they can write and get it to their audience.

My own feeling is that while the internet offers a huge amount to the writer - especially in terms of fact checking and communicating with other writers - it is immensely distracting. And on that note, excuse me while I go and play online Scrabble.

Biblioblob

There's been a right old stooshie in the Czech Republic over the design for the new National Library. The work of Jan Kaplicky and his London-based design team, it follows the new free-form style sometimes known as blobitechture. Not surprisingly, the radical design has ruffled some feathers in the baroque old city.

Many of the city councillors don't want it so close to the revered Prague Castle, preferring a site out in the suburbs. But others say the national library of a country should be close to the centre of the capital.

As is the way of these things, the decision's been outsourced to a committee of "experts". So, it will be a while before this blob on the landscape sees the light of day.

Phew, What A Scorcher!

My current reading has taken me across the airwaves of Radio 4, one of the BBC's crown jewels. "And Now On Radio 4" celebrates 40 years of the channel, and includes some behind-the-scenes stories from its presenters.

In the early days of Radio 4's World at One programme, reporter Sue McGregor was asked by presenter Bill Hardcastle to do a story about the sizzling heat that had been enveloping Britain that summer. But he wanted a different angle for the story, and insisted she take some eggs out to Piccadilly Circus and attempt to fry them on the pavement. Of course, nothing happened, apart from a gloppy mess.

"So I nipped into Boots and bought a bottle of meths and lit it and then fried the egg. It made a splendid noise, and I remember at that point there were rather a lot of unwashed hippies gathered round the base of Eros and they got very interested in all these eggs and scooped them up and ate them. And when Bill discovered that I'd cheated he was furious. He reckoned we'd let the listeners down. I thought it was rather funny."

You can imagine the furore such subterfuge would cause now. The papers would be in uproar over the great fried egg cover-up. "Is this why we pay our licence fee?", Mr Angry from Tunbridge Wells would rant, while The Guardian would worry about the waste of food and the Financial Times about the waste of money. And I can just see the headline in The Sun: "You Must Be Yolking!"