Wednesday, 13 May 2015
The Great General Election Surprise
There have been speculations in the media about the temporal correlation between the recent lack of posting on this blog and the political campaigns preceding the general election in the United Kingdom, prompting some to suggest that I have been too occupied on the latter activity to have time to spare for the former. The unexpected re-election of David Cameron as Prime Minister, which suggests the intervention of a political manipulator of unparalleled cunning and potency, has provided further fuel for the media rumour machine. In response to the direct questions that have been put to me via my legal representatives by the so called news programme 'Today' on BBC Radio 4, I can neither confirm nor deny my involvement in the outcome of the election, owing to gagging clauses in my contract with a certain party.
Sunday, 12 April 2015
AJP McCoy
A.J.P. McCoy. B. 1906, Southport. Fiercely Germanophobic historian and jockey. Educated Oriel College, Oxford, and Bolger's racing yard, Coolcullen C.Kilkenny. Notable for books on 19th and 20th century European history (eg The Origins of the Second World War, The Italian Problem in European Diplomacy 1847-49, etc) and for holding title of Champion Jockey a record 19 times.
Friday, 3 April 2015
Legal Project Management
Earlier this week I noted from the output of my web-crawler an explosion of writing on 'legal' project management. Contrary to my initial expectations, I discovered that the label 'legal' was not intended to draw a distinction with illegal project management (which seems an as-yet untapped field for the management consultant) but instead denoted the proposed application of project management techniques to the field of law. Heavens!
I thought it best to subject this new mischief to a brief survey. As one might expect when a term as nebulous as project management is discussed in a context as broad as law, the scope for misunderstanding exceeds the mental capabilities of the participants in the discussion. Indeed the number of words produced on the subject appears inversely proportional to the clarity of thought preceding their production. In my superficial perusal of the topic I noted instances of all but three of the 58 distinct categories of logical fallacy which I enumerated in my first PhD thesis. (Brushes away a sudden tear of nostalgia at the recollection of those innocent teenage years at Heidelberg.)
What will the pedlars of project management methods next try to target- love making? opera? games of chess? I never heard the like. How can an art as mercurial and capricious as the practice of law be... be... managed? Before we know it they will be asking us to provide a breakdown of our billed hours.
I thought it best to subject this new mischief to a brief survey. As one might expect when a term as nebulous as project management is discussed in a context as broad as law, the scope for misunderstanding exceeds the mental capabilities of the participants in the discussion. Indeed the number of words produced on the subject appears inversely proportional to the clarity of thought preceding their production. In my superficial perusal of the topic I noted instances of all but three of the 58 distinct categories of logical fallacy which I enumerated in my first PhD thesis. (Brushes away a sudden tear of nostalgia at the recollection of those innocent teenage years at Heidelberg.)
What will the pedlars of project management methods next try to target- love making? opera? games of chess? I never heard the like. How can an art as mercurial and capricious as the practice of law be... be... managed? Before we know it they will be asking us to provide a breakdown of our billed hours.
Friday, 27 March 2015
Sloppiness Galore on Radio 4
Notwithstanding my stern letters of admonishment, standards of journalism at the BBC continue to plummet. A presenter on its current affairs programme Today today described a certain European head of state as 'looking visibly shaken'. Call me pedantic, but at least one of the words 'looking' and 'visibly' was unnecessary, and one might argue that both were.
The same presenter went on to report criticisms made of The Who for doing too little to prevent the spread of Ebola in Sierra Leone. Why the BBC should single out that music group is quite beyond me, given that no other aged rockers appear to be helping contain the virus. Surely some allowance should be made for the fact that there are only two surviving members of the band, both in their seventies and currently hampered by a busy tour schedule. It all seems utter nonsense to me.
And then there is the Clarkson debacle, its immediate cause being a failure to impose boundaries and discipline on unruly talent. These incidents may seem individually trivial, but collectively they confirm an insidious weakening of management at the BBC. How can that be, you ask, given the rocketing increase in the number of managers at the ailing broadcaster. It is, of course, all a matter of leadership. Allow a weak, woolly-minded, self-obsessed, effete clique to award to its members the top jobs in a large organisation, and plummeting standards inevitably follow.
It was all very different in my day. Few now remember the time when I, a BBC outsider, was brought in to hot-house a new generation of talent. Discipline was my watchword. Each branch of the broadcaster had its own boot camp for would-be presenters. The trainees for the Today programme where inculcated with my principles at a defunct RAF training camp on the exposed south coast of the Isle of Wight, at which we drummed-in the three Rs: reading, writing and Reithianism. I can remember the weedy and pallid body of the young John Humphys- his tee-shirt, shorts, and pumps drenched by the rain off the Channel- struggling to complete fifty press-ups, his punishment for a split infinitive.
For all his corporeal feebleness Humphries at least had a certain mental toughness, which could not be said for all of his fellow trainees. As the chef du camp it was to the carpet in front of my desk that especially incalcitrant individuals were brought, either for punishment or encouragement. A tearful Melvyn Bragg was one such case. He could no longer face the thought of completing the course, he told me through his sobs. He wanted to leave. He didn't care that he might be throwing away a golden opportunity. And the trigger for this outburst? One of the teachers at the camp had overturned his bed and his locker a moment before the provo-master was to begin his inspection, resulting inevitably in two day's isolation in the cooler. It took all of my eloquence and charisma to instil some iron into his mind and persuade him to stay. I recall that the teacher's action had been intended to deter the young Bragg from his tendency to pretention. Alas our techniques were not universally successful.
Sadly, it has all changed. Nowadays the trainees at the BBC sit around a table with iPads and lattes, completing questionnaires on diversity and multi-culturalism. That none of them can spell hardly seems to matter, just as long as they adhere to the corporation's policies of political correctness. I can understand why Clarkson lost his head. Doubtless he will be on the 'phone again soon, asking for advice. I shall tell him he's well off out of it.
The same presenter went on to report criticisms made of The Who for doing too little to prevent the spread of Ebola in Sierra Leone. Why the BBC should single out that music group is quite beyond me, given that no other aged rockers appear to be helping contain the virus. Surely some allowance should be made for the fact that there are only two surviving members of the band, both in their seventies and currently hampered by a busy tour schedule. It all seems utter nonsense to me.
And then there is the Clarkson debacle, its immediate cause being a failure to impose boundaries and discipline on unruly talent. These incidents may seem individually trivial, but collectively they confirm an insidious weakening of management at the BBC. How can that be, you ask, given the rocketing increase in the number of managers at the ailing broadcaster. It is, of course, all a matter of leadership. Allow a weak, woolly-minded, self-obsessed, effete clique to award to its members the top jobs in a large organisation, and plummeting standards inevitably follow.
It was all very different in my day. Few now remember the time when I, a BBC outsider, was brought in to hot-house a new generation of talent. Discipline was my watchword. Each branch of the broadcaster had its own boot camp for would-be presenters. The trainees for the Today programme where inculcated with my principles at a defunct RAF training camp on the exposed south coast of the Isle of Wight, at which we drummed-in the three Rs: reading, writing and Reithianism. I can remember the weedy and pallid body of the young John Humphys- his tee-shirt, shorts, and pumps drenched by the rain off the Channel- struggling to complete fifty press-ups, his punishment for a split infinitive.
For all his corporeal feebleness Humphries at least had a certain mental toughness, which could not be said for all of his fellow trainees. As the chef du camp it was to the carpet in front of my desk that especially incalcitrant individuals were brought, either for punishment or encouragement. A tearful Melvyn Bragg was one such case. He could no longer face the thought of completing the course, he told me through his sobs. He wanted to leave. He didn't care that he might be throwing away a golden opportunity. And the trigger for this outburst? One of the teachers at the camp had overturned his bed and his locker a moment before the provo-master was to begin his inspection, resulting inevitably in two day's isolation in the cooler. It took all of my eloquence and charisma to instil some iron into his mind and persuade him to stay. I recall that the teacher's action had been intended to deter the young Bragg from his tendency to pretention. Alas our techniques were not universally successful.
Sadly, it has all changed. Nowadays the trainees at the BBC sit around a table with iPads and lattes, completing questionnaires on diversity and multi-culturalism. That none of them can spell hardly seems to matter, just as long as they adhere to the corporation's policies of political correctness. I can understand why Clarkson lost his head. Doubtless he will be on the 'phone again soon, asking for advice. I shall tell him he's well off out of it.
Wednesday, 25 March 2015
Super Spuds
Since the news broke this morning about my involvement in the project to develop a genetically engineered 'super spud' I have received several items of correspondence from members of the public seeking clarifications about the properties of the new potato. One is from a celebrity chef. To protect her identity I will refer to her only as 'N'. She asks if there is truth in the rumour that 'super spuds' may be engineered to contain cocaine, and if so will they grow in east-facing window boxes.
The terms of my contract with the Monsanto corporation specifically forbid me from answering the first of N's questions, but an east-facing window-box will be fine as long as the potatoes are well watered. My charitable research foundation expects to launch a new brand of powdered potato, Smashed, early next year.
The terms of my contract with the Monsanto corporation specifically forbid me from answering the first of N's questions, but an east-facing window-box will be fine as long as the potatoes are well watered. My charitable research foundation expects to launch a new brand of powdered potato, Smashed, early next year.
Monday, 16 March 2015
Unfair to Blair
Nassau. The professor has just finished breakfast, a concoction of esoteric super-foods prepared to his own recipe. The priceless porcelain, the antique Nubian silver-ware, and the Chinese silk napkin have been cleared away. The professor stares past the open French windows to the views of the harbour below. On his desk the scattered newspapers bear signs of his critical inspection, with savage under-linings in red pencil. The cool of his study, the subdued panelling of rare tropical hardwoods, and the sympathetic spirituality of the surrounding objets d'art are clearly insufficient to soothe the professor's mood, as a frown of disapproval mars his noble brow. Imperiously he beckons a waiting stenographer to enter his presence so the dictation of the day's blog may commence...
Censorious waggles of the den Sushing head met the news this morning that Tony Blair was to leave the post of Peace Envoy owing to his complete failure to achieve any notable positive results in the eight years since he was appointed to it. It was not the failure of Blair himself which drew my disapproval, you understand, but the failure of judgement that led to his selection for the role. In 2007, when the rumours of his impending appointment began to circulate, I wrote in the sternest possible tones to those responsible. Blair was hopelessly ill-equipped for the role they had in mind, and I told them so. Yes yes yes, they agreed, but it was now out of their hands. Certain promises had been made. Monies had changed hands. In short, it was too late for aught but hope that the best might be made of a bad job.
And a truly forlorn hope too. It should have been obvious to any idiot that Blair was not up to the job of brokering peace in the middle-east. Consider the ideal candidate for the role. A figure of vast intellect, of unplumbed reserves of patience, of granite integrity, a figure universally revered and respected as an impartial and objective judge of man's affairs, fluent in all languages, a trusted mentor to the world's leaders, charismatic, imperturbable, stern and gentle in equal measure...
(Connoisseurs of literary humour the world over: You can see where he's going with this one. Putting himself up for the job any minute now, I'll bet.)
Eight years ago I would have taken the call. Today I am not so sure. The comforts of a long-overdue retirement beckon, and there is still much to be done in my other fields of endeavour.
The professor waves away the stenographer, who departs with nods of deference. He searches among the scattered newspapers for one that demands special attention. The Racing Post. "Blair's the Boy" 11:1 for the 2.30 at Wincanton.
(Connoisseurs of literary humour the world over: Sure, you never know what to expect. Isn't that just like him.)
Censorious waggles of the den Sushing head met the news this morning that Tony Blair was to leave the post of Peace Envoy owing to his complete failure to achieve any notable positive results in the eight years since he was appointed to it. It was not the failure of Blair himself which drew my disapproval, you understand, but the failure of judgement that led to his selection for the role. In 2007, when the rumours of his impending appointment began to circulate, I wrote in the sternest possible tones to those responsible. Blair was hopelessly ill-equipped for the role they had in mind, and I told them so. Yes yes yes, they agreed, but it was now out of their hands. Certain promises had been made. Monies had changed hands. In short, it was too late for aught but hope that the best might be made of a bad job.
And a truly forlorn hope too. It should have been obvious to any idiot that Blair was not up to the job of brokering peace in the middle-east. Consider the ideal candidate for the role. A figure of vast intellect, of unplumbed reserves of patience, of granite integrity, a figure universally revered and respected as an impartial and objective judge of man's affairs, fluent in all languages, a trusted mentor to the world's leaders, charismatic, imperturbable, stern and gentle in equal measure...
(Connoisseurs of literary humour the world over: You can see where he's going with this one. Putting himself up for the job any minute now, I'll bet.)
Eight years ago I would have taken the call. Today I am not so sure. The comforts of a long-overdue retirement beckon, and there is still much to be done in my other fields of endeavour.
The professor waves away the stenographer, who departs with nods of deference. He searches among the scattered newspapers for one that demands special attention. The Racing Post. "Blair's the Boy" 11:1 for the 2.30 at Wincanton.
(Connoisseurs of literary humour the world over: Sure, you never know what to expect. Isn't that just like him.)
Friday, 6 March 2015
World Book Day
Among the school teachers of today there does indeed appear to be a lamentable lack of consistency towards literature. Yesterday being World Book Day, pupils were encouraged to attend their classes dressed as characters from books. This morning I hear the news that some pitiable young man had been shunned by his school for appearing as the lead character from a popular work of fiction entitled Fifty Shades of Gray, on the grounds that the book was unsuitable reading for schoolchildren.
I wonder, therefore, what reasoning led to similar treatment being heaped upon my great grandson, Essay den Sushing IV, who attended school in the guise of Monsignor Auban du Fornette, the disputatious Jesuit sophisticate who famously appears towards the end of the particularly humourous tenth of Pascal's Provincial Letters to argue that 'sufficient grace' could indeed be insufficient. In tears he told me how he had entered the classroom aglow with happiness, expecting applause and encouragement for his exemplary choice of childhood reading matter, only to be met with blank looks from his teacher. They can't have it both ways.
I wonder, therefore, what reasoning led to similar treatment being heaped upon my great grandson, Essay den Sushing IV, who attended school in the guise of Monsignor Auban du Fornette, the disputatious Jesuit sophisticate who famously appears towards the end of the particularly humourous tenth of Pascal's Provincial Letters to argue that 'sufficient grace' could indeed be insufficient. In tears he told me how he had entered the classroom aglow with happiness, expecting applause and encouragement for his exemplary choice of childhood reading matter, only to be met with blank looks from his teacher. They can't have it both ways.
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