Size matters

The Glory of England

2007-08-14T10:01:00.000Z

The nastiest bar in the capital of Gozo was called the Glory of England. It is ironic that this rather dirty place should be named after the nation that used to rule the waves. The Maltese (and especially the Gozitans), however, have always taken England with a pinch of salt.

Gozo's capital is known to everybody as Victoria, but the locals call it Rabat. The name of the British queen was given to this town in her Golden Jubilee in 1887. The Maltese thanked her profusely, erected a monument and carried on calling the place Rabat. There's no disaffection, though: the Maltese welcomed the British in the early nineteenth century as a way to break with the ancien régime embodied by the rules of the Knights of St John and then the French. In World War II, they fought bravely to protect the islands from German and Italian air raids. Some say they fought for their King.

If not the 'Glory of England' any more, Comino, Gozo and Malta are amongst the jewels of the Mediterranean Sea. Malta is a beautiful tourist spot, the highlight of which is its capital city, Valletta. Visiting the Church of St John (and indeed its museum, which has two amazing Caravaggios) is a must. I prefer the small islands, though. Gozo and Comino are rather unexploited, which makes a visit really worthwhile. In Gozo I enjoyed nine days of sun, swimming and peace and that I would recommend to everyone. Now I'm ready for a year of challenges and willing to do more solitary travelling.

Size does indeed matter

2007-07-22T20:22:00.000Z

"After North American and Asian cities marked their 20th century economic booms with skyscrapers, the Gulf grew eager to show off its success with ever taller buildings. In Dubai, long an oil-rich Gulf symbol of rapid economic growth, the building reflects the city's hunger for global prestige."

Fly it in the face of terror?

2007-07-04T23:10:00.000Z

These days James McTeigue's V for Vendetta takes on new meanings. Originally released in 2006, it tells the story of a coup d'etat staged in Britain in some twenty years. The people, led by a psycho who wants to emulate Guy Fawkes, rebel against a fascist power that won power as a result of the fear people felt after a number of terrorist attacks on the territory.

This fear seems today more patent than ever. Even NHS doctors are under suspicion! As an antidote, The Sun shows a British flag on its cover; its headline reads "Fly it in the face of terror". Such display of nationalism, triggered by recent terrorist threats in Glasgow and London, is not blatant in the case of "serious" newspapers. The Times, however, publishes the testimony of a senior British cleric working in Baghdad. According to him, a leader of Al-Qaeda warned him about doctors in England: "Those who cure you will kill you".

However dangerous terrorism is, hysteria hasn't proved to be very helpful.

On weddings and bus stops

2007-06-24T00:12:00.001Z

Some weddings services are really beautiful. If the priest and the music are nice the whole thing can be really enjoyable. If, on top of that, you can see all your male friends crying like babies while their girlfriends hand them tissue after tissue, the wedding rocks. That was the case with the wedding of Bettina and Ben at Magdalen College. They looked lovely, the priest was cool, the music standards were outstanding and all men cried with only one exception: me. I never cry, anyway, so it doesn't really mean anything. I was saying that the service was so good that it almost made me want to get married myself. Well, not quite, but almost.

What really bothers me about the idea of getting married is being the centre of attention while doing things that are totally out of character. I wouldn't mind having two-hundred people ovationing and cheering me. My ego, in fact, would rather enjoy that. But it'd be good if it happened after I sing or deliver a paper or receive a prize. A wedding is a party you organise and pay. You also choose the claque, so getting an ovation there and being in the spotlight at a party that's costing you a fortune wouldn't be my cup of tea. Especially, after having said all the cheesy things I'd never say in a normal day and wearing clothes that I will also not wear again.

There's no reason to panic, though. Nobody wants to marry me. In fact, since I've been dumped nobody looks at me. When you have a partner everybody fancies you and wants to bed you at once. As soon as you're single, people don't want you anymore. It's like waiting for the bus next to a park. You really need a wee but you don't go because you know that as soon as you walk away from the bus stop, the bus will arrive and you'll miss it. When you have a partner, on the other hand, you have the looks of a man in his fifties who's driving a very fast car very slowly. And you get the looks of all the young ones who think they'd like to be driving that car (or else being driven by you).

Sleeping with the elderly

2007-06-16T22:36:00.000Z

All of a sudden, some of my female friends (most of them in their late twenties) have started dating men in their late forties or early fifties. My female friends tell me that this is the result of their discovery that sex is actually not about acrobatics and erections that defy gravity, but about care. Men in their forties, they seem to imply, know best. I want to believe that my young male friends would have already learned that lesson, but I'm probably deceiving myself.

In fact, I'm going through a self-deceptive phase: a good proof of it is that I also thought the Palestinians deserved to have a state and that Venezuelan president Hugo Chávez was gay-friendly. Well, this is a little lie a (gay) friend of mine told me recently. Needless to say, my extremely intelligent friend is a closet liberal who's still caught up in the radical farce and is finding it very difficult to get over it. This type of person usually finds interesting ways to justify left-wing authoritarian regimes, even if "evil right-wing" and "awfully pro-American" states such as Colombia and Mexico are actually doing more in favour of gay rights than Chávez and his ilk.

Anyhow, I think Chávez is more into the sort of relationship my female friends are looking for at the moment. The should get in touch with him.

So much to tell

2007-06-10T10:16:00.001Z

I'm back! I know, I know I haven't written anything for a very long time. It wasn't certainly because I didn't have anything to say. On the contrary, I've had a hectic term.
I've been busy teaching, traveling to Spain and Switzerland and being elegantly dumped. I've also gone to see sort-of-boring operas and really boring ones. I haven't read much, really, but I survived my confirmation of status in spite of the merciless drilling I suffered during the viva.
But the best of all is that I've been rehearsing for a play. Yes, a play. This is probably the first step of an international career as an actor. Watch out, Brad, watch out. I'm doing it with my friends Dan and Alex at St Catz on Monday 18 June. Please, come. It might not be the best you've seen, but we'll have a good time. Please note that at the entrance there will be a security check searching for vegetables and other sharp items.

La France...

2007-04-17T08:25:00.000Z

French politics are amongst my major interests. I'm mainly interested in their self-deception. The French are people who saw a neo-nazi party ranking second in the first vote in the 2002 presidential elections, but did not find it disturbing enough to reconsider their social and economic policies. Mrs Sacau sent me this morning the most recent example of their sheer self-deception.

French newspaper Libération publishes the results of a poll and concludes that Le Pen and his ideas are massively rejected in France. But the figures read: 13% of the French believe that if Le Pen makes it to the second vote it would improve the image of France abroad. Ready for more? 22% believe that it would be good for the French democracy. The tone of the analysis is self-complacent and almost triumphal: "we French people are great because ONLY 22% of us think that the presence of a neo-nazi party in the second vote would be good for our democracy". Had this poll happened in the UK, the US, Germany or Spain, these countries would be in deep crisis and start debating their situation. In France, they rejoice.

All four candidates in this general election (Bayrou, Le Pen, Sarkozy and Segolene-Royal) talk about reform, but no one challenges the idea that France should still aim at implementing Enlightened ideas. Mes amis, the Enlightenment is over and its ideas, many of which are still valid, need to be reconsidered. France is no longer white, Europe is no longer leading the world and we have to get ready for the challenges of the future. An ultra-nationalist France won't take them anywhere. But they still think they're modern-minded.

There's another issue here. If almost any other country were self-deceptive, it wouldn't get on everybody's nerves simply because no other declining country claims to be the "most modern" and "most wonderful", the one that should be imitated everywhere. Mrs Sacau believes Le Pen should definitely rank second, so the French (and the European centre left in general) eventually realise that France is no longer a model.

Chinese? Arabic? No, Galician!

2007-04-12T19:50:00.000Z

I was born in Galicia, the periphery of the province, one of the poorest European regions. This economic (and cultural) sluggishness is doubtlessly caused by local idiosincrasies. One example should be enough: if you ask a random homo galicianus for an address, s-he will first want to know where you have been, when and why you got lost, etc. The conversation drags on and only at the end, after insisting a lot, you get a "simple" answer: "When you got to that roundabout, you should have turned left (says the homo galicianus pointing to the right). You turned right (s-he says pointing to the left), and now you're lost. Now you can go back to the roundabout and get things right or just carry on 100 yards and you'll get to the place you were looking for". Then, s-he will recommend you "walk in the shade" which is a Galician phrase that in spite of my having lived there for 24 years I still don't understand, especially because it's never sunny in Galicia.

Anyway, it doesn't matter where you are in the world. If you're in trouble, you only need to speak Galician and lots of people will understand you. This morning, for example, I went to have breakfast to Caffe Spettacolo, by far my favourite place in Zurich (probably because of the sandwiches they serve). I have breakfast there very often, but they still don't understand my (three words of) German, nor do I understand anything they say. I was, hence, struggling to get my sandwich and my coffee, pointing at things, smiling a lot and saying things in half-English and half-German when the man next to me winked at the waiter and said in Galician: "Poor boy! he reminds me of myself when I came here 30 years ago!" The girl, in the usual self-deprecatory Galician manner, answered: "At least he speaks English and you can't speak anything, Pepe".

It was the 6th time in 11 days in which Galician saves my live. Needless to say, they didn't let me pay for my breakfast. As soon as I'm back in England, I will brush up my Galician!

Petit Suisse

2007-04-04T11:09:00.000Z

I'm allergic to money. As soon as I get it, I spend it, otherwise I get an awful rash. Zurich, where I've been living for four days, is a particularly good place for those who suffer this terrible allergy. It's a clean, tidy and wealthy city full of cafes, restaurants and shops. Every morning, on my way to the Zentralbibliothek, which is (obviously) very central, I treat myself to coffee at some wonderful place. It doesn't matter how expensive it is: it's always cheaper than the worse cup of dirty water you can buy from the filthiest shop in the most deprived area of London.

After working in the library for three hours, I go out to grab some lunch. In order to avoid the usual chains, and also trying to avoid the most expensive restaurants, I go to places where, I believe, I can meet the locals. I usually end up in terrible bars surrounded by people who are as curious about me as I am about them. Things get worse when, over and over again, I forget that European people don't smile at strangers. Well, good continental people do smile (good meaning, those like Anni who have defected the infectious continent).

The only swiss thing missing in Switzerland is Danone's Petit Suisse, my favourite dessert when I was a boy. All the rest is here: cheese, chocolate and the Swiss (with or without their moustaches), whose English is as unintelligible as their German.

Junior Dean

2007-03-08T11:31:00.000Z

First it was Jesus (Christ) who didn't want me for a sunbeam. Now it's his right hand apostle Peter(house) who doesn't want me either. I'm not bothered, really. I was yesterday on the bus back from Cambridge, but not any more. The only bad thing about all these rejections is that I'm likely to stay around junior deaning. Well, that's a euphemism: I'll be around cleaning vomit, helping people come out of the closet and breaking up parties. Yay!

Standing ovation

2007-03-05T14:11:00.000Z

In order to prepare for my interview at Peterhouse-Cambridge, this morning I had a fake viva with my supervisor. I can only say that he was so good that he made the difference between promising beginners and consecrated divas painfully apparent. I´m blown away!

Jesus doesn't want me for a sunbeam

2007-03-01T14:55:00.000Z

Nirvana's Unplugged came out when I was a teenager. It came as a relief for kids like myself, who wanted to be cool but didn't like modern music. Yes, I was a bit weird: I spent lots of time reading novels and listening to classical music, but my best pals, the ones who still are my closest friends, were all good-looking, sporty and had motorbikes.

Anyway, I was saying that Nirvana's Unplugged was less horrid (as in noisy) than all the crap Cobain & Co had produced so far and therefore I could feel good buying a CD with music written by people who were then alive... if not for too long. My English was... well, I didn't speak English and not even the help of a bilingual dictionary was enough to decipher the nonsensical lyrics. My favourite song was Jesus doesn't want me for a sunbeam, the literal meaning of which was obvious to me only last Saturday when I found out that Jesus's Oxonian alter ego, reified in the form of Christ Church, also doesn't want me for a sunbeam, nor for anything else.

I imagine this is the moment for me to say that Christ Church is crap, their food is inedible and they are pompous and boring. Well, all this is true, of course, but the salary was great, I don't want to leave Oxford and both my cousin and my supervisor had that Junior Research Fellowship before I arrived, which makes my failure a bit like a family business. At least as pompous as Christ Church is Peterhouse-Cambridge. Some of its most prominent alumni are gay members of the tory party, so I definitely belong in there. My interview, on Wednesday. More news soon!

Alpine virgins

2007-02-19T13:24:00.000Z

My supervisor wrote his doctoral thesis on Alpine virgins and opera. Before I read his wonderful book I had no interest whatsoever in the Alps or Switzerland. It seems, however, that in the near future I will see how it feels having a Swiss bank account...
More news, soon!

On the vale of tears… and laughter

2007-02-14T21:16:00.000Z

There’s a Latin-American song I like very much. Its title is Cucurrucucú Paloma and tells the story of a dove who cries endlessly for the love of his life. The thing I like the most is that the lyrics refer to this longing as a ‘pasión mortal’ that eventually kills the dove. But, I say, is not life in general a mortal passion?

On the one hand, yes, you want to live; on the other hand, the more you live the closer you’re to death. It’s like the story Paul Auster tells in his Trilogy of New York about the explorer who was trapped in his igloo for a number of days. Every breath he exhaled freezed to the inside of his igloo. So with each breath the walls got thicker. Not breathing meant dying, and so did breathing.

I don’t want to sound tragic, though. Quite on the contrary, in three hours it will be my twenty-eighth birthday and I like what I see and have. Also, and this is perhaps what proves that life is a mortal passion, I look forward to growing up, travelling much more, eating new dishes, drinking (increasingly better) red wine, reading lots of books, watching many more films and operas and enjoying the company of my friends and relatives. And then, oh well…

On the effects of bad gin

2007-02-09T09:57:00.000Z

Sometimes 30 minutes feel like much more than 140. That happened yesterday at the Royal Opera House. At the end of the second part of Il trovatore, 70 minutes into the performance, I felt that I had spent no more than five minutes in the theatre. That was thanks to Verdi's and Cammarano's wonders and also thanks to the remarkable performance. The interval, however, felt like an eternity. This was partly due to our willingness to go back to the auditorium and to the fact that we had to queue up for ten minutes to be served by a rude barman (something, it must be said, that hardly ever happens at the Royal Opera) who didn't know how to pour a G&T. Things got worse when Maria (who is with Eman my most enthusiastic opera partner) and I tried the drink. It was Plymouth!!!

Whether we like it or not, the UK is an EU country and therefore we are used to being told what to do, what to drink and eat by the bureaucrats who live in Brussels. That makes it even more difficult to believe that those people haven't done anything about Plymouth gin, that tastes like Denene's Splash Cologne. Drinking that crap, and paying 12 pounds for it, made us feel like like British and German tourists in Alicante.

Hotter than Alicante, and a tad more dangerous, is Uganda, where Kevin MacDonald's The last King of Scotland takes place. There, Idi Amin, a more cruel version of Hugo Chavez, seduces a young Scottish man (played by James McAvoy) into becoming his personal doctor. Eventually, the job would entail some more resonsibilities. I won't tell you more: go and watch it. It's a memorable mixture of humour and horror.

Notes on a bore

2007-02-07T12:28:00.000Z

How much make up does it take to make a 43-year-old actor look like a 43-year-old character? If the actor is Brad Pitt, lots! In Alejandro Iñarritu's Babel Pitt plays a convincing middle-aged husband with dark rings around his eyes. The make up, however, is notorious and doesn't help his character. This is not the worse problem of a boring film, wonderfully shot and way too self-indulgent. It's a shame that Iñarritu didn't follow the pattern of his amazing Amores perros (2000) and 21 grams (2003): that is, conciseness. There's something I really liked about Babel, though: despite his being a left-wing film-maker, Iñarritu manages to avoid easy dichotomies and saves us the shame of seeing good/poor characters being oppressed by evil/rich ones.

The only thing that Babel and Notes on a Scandal have in common is gorgeous Cate Blanchett. Otherwise, Richard Eyre's film is an effective psychological thriller that fixes you to the seat. There's nothing left out, nor there's anything unnecesary. The adaptation of Zoe Heller's 2003 novel is wonderful, since it keeps all the essential bits, while remaining free from the constraints of the literary narration. In doing so, Eyre directs a wonderful film that should lead all the spectators to read Heller's book. The acting of Blanchett, Dame Judi Dench, Billy Nighy and super-cute Andrew Simpson (who plays the chavvy boy who sleeps his teacher) is glorious.

Size Matters

2007-02-04T15:55:00.000Z

Reading Antonio Soler's El camino de los ingleses and John Irving's A widow for one year has promted me to start this blog. Also, it's inspired its name: Size matters.

El camino de los ingleses tells the story of a bunch of teenagers whose summer ends tragically. The book is full of great ideas, psychological insights and characters that come to life... but only in the first 100 pages. The next 150 are simply repetitive. The author doesn't cut it short, the story drags on and the final coup is flawed. The same applies to 500-page long A widow for one year, that exhausts itself in 60 pages. It's true, though, that if you are bold enough to keep reading until the end of the first part, the first 50 or 60 pages of the second are also quite good. But then again, it starts repeating itself and annoying the reader. If you are well off, though, by all means buy the hardback edition: it's a wonderful door-stop.

However it's not a politically correct thing to say, I do think size matters, for good and for bad. Leaving sex aside (if probably not for too long), long novels tend to be more boring than short ones, and the same happens to films, plays, lectures and operas. And, actually, this blog will be about things that go on for too long, especially books, films, spectacles, relationships, politicians... I will also talk about some big things that should remain big: steaks, excellent books, interesting films, good shows, perfect relationships and (should they exist) good politicians.