Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘entertainment

‘It’s amazing how absurd it seems…’  Russell Brand and the GQ awards…

Russell Brand was ejected after cracking a joke about sponsor Hugo Boss

He gives his side of the story in The Guardian, this September 13, 2013

“I have had the privilege of scuba diving. I did it once on holiday, and I’m aware that it’s one of those subjects that people can get pretty boring and sincere about, and sincerity, for we British, is no state in which to dwell, so I’ll be brief.

The scuba dive itself was nuministic enough, a drenched heaven; coastal shelves and their staggering, sub-aquatic architecture, like spilt cathedrals, gormless, ghostly fish gliding by like Jackson Pollock’s pets. Silent miracles.

What got me, though, was when I came up for air, at the end. As my head came above water after even a paltry 15 minutes in Davy Jones’s Locker, there was something absurd about the surface.

How we, the creatures of the land, live our lives, obliviously trundling, flat feet slapping against the dust.

Russell Brand at the GQ awards at the Royal Opera House

Russell Brand at the GQ Men of the Year awards at the Royal Opera House. Photograph: Richard Young/Rex Features

It must have been a while since I’ve attended a fancy, glitzy event, because as soon as I got to the GQ awards I felt like something was up.

The usual visual grammar was in place – a carpet in the street, people in paddocks awaiting a brush with something glamorous, blokes with earpieces, birds in frocks of colliding colors that if sighted in nature would indicate the presence of poison.

I’m not trying to pass myself off as some kind of Francis of Assisi, Yusuf Islam, man of the people, but I just wasn’t feeling it.

I ambled into the Opera House across yet more outdoor carpets, boards bearing branding, in this case Hugo Boss, past paparazzi, and began to queue up at the line of journalists and presenters, in a slightly nicer paddock who offer up mics and say stuff like:

Who are you wearing?”

“I’m not wearing anyone. I went with clobber, I’m not Buffalo Bill.”

Noel Gallagher was immediately ahead of me in the press line and he’s actually a mate. I mean, I love him: sometimes I forget he wrote Supersonic and played to 400,000 people at Knebworth because he’s such a laugh. He laid right into me, the usual gear: “What the fook you wearing? Does Rod Stewart know you’re going through his jumble?”

I try to remain composed and give as good as I get, even though the paddock-side banter is accompanied by looming foam-tipped eavesdroppers, hanging like insidious mistletoe.

In case you don’t know, these parties aren’t like real parties. It’s fabricated fun, imposed from the outside.

A vision of what squares imagine cool people might do set on a spaceship. Or in Moloko.

As we come out of the lift there’s a bloody great long corridor flanked by gorgeous birds in black dresses, paid to be there, motionless, left hand on hip, teeth tacked to lips with scarlet glue.

The intention, I suppose, is to contrive some Ian Fleming super-uterus of well fit mannequins to midwife you into the shindig, but me and my mate Matt just felt self-conscious, jigging through Robert Palmer’s oestrogen passage like aspirational Morris dancers.

Matt stared at their necks and I made small talk as I hot stepped towards the pre-show drinks. Now, I’m not typically immune to the allure of objectified women, but I am presently beleaguered by a nerdish, whirling dervish, and am eschewing all others.

Perhaps the clarity of this elation has awakened me. A friend of mine said: “Being in love is like discovering a concealed ballroom in a house you’ve long inhabited.” I also don’t drink, so these affairs where most people rinse away their Britishness and twitishness with booze are for me a face-first log flume of backslaps, chitchat, eyewash and gak.

After a load of photos and what-not, we descend the world’s longest escalator, which are called that even as they de-escalate, and in we go to the main forum, a high ceilinged hall, full of circular cloth-draped, numbered tables, a stage at the front, the letters GQ, 12-foot high in neon at the back; this aside, though, neon forever the moniker of trash, this is a posh do, in an opera house full of folk in tuxes.

Everywhere you look there’s someone off the telly; Stephen Fry, Pharrell, Sir Bobby Charlton, Samuel L Jackson, Rio Ferdinand, Justin Timberlake, foreign secretary William Hague and mayor of London Boris Johnson.

My table is a sanctuary of sorts; Noel and his missus Sara, John Bishop and his wife Mel, my mates Matt Morgan, Mick and Gee. Noel and I are both there to get awards and decide to use our speeches to dig each other out. This makes me feel a little grounded in the unreal glare, normal.

Noel’s award is for being an “icon” and mine for being an “oracle”.

My knowledge of the classics is limited, but includes awareness that an oracle is a spiritual medium through whom prophecies from the gods were sought in ancient Greece. Thankfully, I have a sense of humor that prevents me from taking accolades of that nature on face value, or I’d have been in the tricky position of receiving the GQ award for being “best portal to a mystical dimension”, which is a lot of pressure.

Me, Matt and Noel conclude it’s probably best to treat the whole event as a bit of a laugh and, as if to confirm this as the correct attitude, Boris Johnson – a man perpetually in pajamas regardless of what he’s wearing – bounds to the stage to accept the award for “best politician”. Yes, we agree: this is definitely a joke.

Boris, it seems, is taking it in this spirit, joshing beneath his ever-redeeming barnet that Labour’s opposition to military action in Syria is a fey stance that he, as GQ politician of the year, would never be guilty of.

Matt is momentarily focused. “He’s making light of gassed Syrian children,” he says. We watch, slightly aghast, then return to goading Noel.

Before long, John Bishop is on stage giving me a lovely introduction, so I get up as Noel hurls down a few gauntlets, daring me to “do my worst”.

I thanked John, said the “oracle award” sounds like a made-up prize you’d give a fat kid on sports day – I should know, I used to get them – then that it’s barmy that Hugo Boss can trade under the same name they flogged uniforms to the Nazis under and the ludicrous necessity for an event such as this one to banish such a lurid piece of information from our collective consciousness.

I could see the room dividing as I spoke. I could hear the laughter of some and louder still silence of others. I realised that for some people this was regarded as an event with import.

The magazine, the sponsors and some of those in attendance saw it as a kind of ceremony that warranted respect. In effect, it is a corporate ritual, an alliance between a media organization, GQ, and a commercial entity, Hugo Boss.

What dawned on me as the night went on is that even in apparently frivolous conditions the establishment asserts control, and won’t tolerate having that assertion challenged, even flippantly, by that most beautifully adept tool: comedy.

The jokes about Hugo Boss were not intended to herald a campaign to destroy them. They’re not Monsanto or Halliburton, the contemporary corporate allies of modern-day fascism; they are, I thought, an irrelevant menswear supplier with a double-dodgy history.

The evening, though, provided an interesting opportunity to see how power structures preserve their agenda, even in a chintzy microcosm.

Subsequent to my jokes, the evening took a peculiar turn. Like the illusion of sophistication had been inadvertently disrupted by the exposure. It had the vibe of a wedding dinner where the best man’s speech had revealed the groom’s infidelity. With Hitler.

Foreign secretary William Hague gave an award to former Telegraph editor Charles Moore, for writing a hagiography of Margaret Thatcher, who used his acceptance speech to build a precarious connection between my comments about the sponsors, my foolish answerphone scandal at the BBC and the Sachs family’s flight, 70 years earlier, from Nazi-occupied Europe.

It was a confusing tapestry that Moore spun but he seemed to be saying that

a) the calls were as bad as the Holocaust and

b) the Sachs family may not have sought refuge in Britain had they known what awaited them. Even for a man whose former job was editing the Telegraph this is an extraordinary way to manipulate information.

Noel, who is not one to sit quietly on his feelings, literally booed while Charles Moore was talking, and others joined in. Booing!

When do you hear booing in this day and age other than pantomimes and parliament?

Hague and Johnson are equally at home in either (Widow Twanky and Buttons, obviously) so were not unduly ruffled, but I thought it was nuts.

The room by now had a distinct feel of “us and them” and if there is a line drawn in the sand I don’t ever want to find myself on the same side as Hague and Johnson. Up went Noel to garner his gong and he did not disappoint: “Always nice to be invited to the Tory party conference,” he began, “Good to see the foreign secretary present when there’s shit kicking off in Syria.”

Noel once expressed his disgust at seeing a politician at Glastonbury. “What are you doing here? This ain’t for you,” he’d said. He explained to me: “You used to know where you were with politicians in the 70s and 80s cos they all looked like nutters: Thatcher, Heseltine, Cyril Smith. Now they look normal, they’re more dangerous.”

Then, with dreadful foreboding: “The dangerous politicians move among us.”

I agree with Noel. What are politicians doing at Glastonbury and the GQ awards? I feel guilty going, and I’m a comedian. Why are public officials, paid by us, turning up at events for fashion magazines?

Well, the reason I was there was because I have a tour on and I was advised it would be good publicity. What are the politicians selling? How are they managing our perception of them with their attendance of these sequin-encrusted corporate balls?

We witness that there is a relationship between government, media and industry that is evident even at this most spurious and superficial level. These three institutions support one another. We know that however cool a media outlet may purport to be, their primary loyalty is to their corporate backers. We know also that you cannot criticise the corporate backers openly without censorship and subsequent manipulation of this information.

Now I’m aware that this was really no big deal; I’m not saying I’m an estuary Che Guevara. It was a daft joke by a daft comic at a daft event. It makes me wonder, though, how the relationships and power dynamics I witnessed on this relatively inconsequential context are replicated on a more significant scale.

For example, if you can’t criticise Hugo Boss at the GQ awards because they own the event, do you think it is significant that energy companies donate to the Tory party? Will that affect government policy? Will the relationships that “politician of the year” Boris Johnson has with City bankers – he took many more meetings with them than public servants in his first term as mayor – influence the way he runs our capital?

Is it any wonder that Amazon, Vodafone and Starbucks avoid paying tax when they enjoy such cosy relationships with members of our government?

Ought we be concerned that our rights to protest are being continually eroded under the guise of enhancing our safety?

Is there a relationship between proposed fracking in the UK, new laws that prohibit protest and the relationships between energy companies and our government?

I don’t know.

I do have some good principles picked up that night that are generally applicable:

the glamour and the glitz isn’t real, the party isn’t real, you have a much better time mucking around trying to make your mates laugh.

I suppose that’s obvious. We all know it, we already know all the important stuff, like: don’t trust politicians, don’t trust big business and don’t trust the media.

Trust your own heart and each other.

When you take a breath and look away from the spectacle it’s amazing how absurd it seems when you look back.

Websites to cost users by 2010; (October 18, 2009)

 

            The search for an economic model to generate profit is driving many web developers to charging users for information gathering. It seems that publicity is no longer generating enough resources for the printed media. In 1998, 48% of the US readers got their information from papers versus 13% on the web. Ten years later, 37 % use the web versus 34% paper journals and dailies. 

            The successes of iTunes Stores and Amazon is for selling digital music on the Web are encouraging movie and written press businesses to testing paying diffusion modes.  Two years ago, selling music records on the web amounted to 20% of the music market. In 2008, 1.4 billion records were sold on the web; by 2010 this mode of selling will far surpassing the physical CD sales. Last FM, Yes FM, and Spotify are revolutionizing the market and making “streaming” the preferred option for consumers; the paying option does not contain advertisement.  Virgin Media is offering a new legal telecharging “for the price of two CDs you may have access to the entire music catalogue.”

            Daniel Ek, founder of Spotify proclaimed that “the consumer doesn’t give a damn of owning or telecharging CD; what he wants is to be able to have access.”  The networks for sharing files via Torrent and eMule, the “streaming”, or direct telecharging sites such as Rapidshare and Megaupload have doubled business for the second year in a raw.

            Browsing cultural, editorials, and special investigative pieces in dailies will no longer be free. The New York Times got on the web in 2005 and charged its subscribers; it backed off two years later and is now reconsidering payment. Google is receiving advertising benefits through Adsense and Adwords to Google News; the information associations are charging Google to benefit from the labor of other journalists without their consent.  Google is studying a formula and it presented it to Newspapers Association of America that would allow dailies to charge its Google’s users for articles read.

            Louis Gordon Crovitz, co-founder of Journalism Online stated: “The future is for mix models of free and charged. Authors of numerical books will receive their dues.”  Rupert Murdoch, mogul of News Corporation which include Wall Street Journal, Times, and the Sun is leading the charge on account that “an industry that offer its product for free cannibalizes its capacity for producing good journalism.”

            The Economist is going to charge micro payments within 6 months; basically there will be two kinds of payments: Essential formula at half price of the Premiere formula where users can read the journals the night before publication.

            Paramount, Lions Gate, and Metro-Goldwyn-Myer are uniting to launch on the Epix market high definition movies in streaming mode. YouTube is negociating similar deals with the studios of Hollywood.

A Happy Meal (March 10, 2009)

This girl, I love.  I like to give her pleasure.  I feel like inviting her for lunch. I love to sit by her and look at her profile.

She said: “All right, but we go to MacDonald. It has been so long…”  She craves nuggets dipped in ketchup

If our relationship last, I will teach her many other things, many other kinds of fine meals. I won’t argue now: I know how girls are; they are just promising.

Along the way, I compliment her shoes. “Don’t tell me that’s the first time you noticed them. I got them in Christmas” she replied. I then compliment her socks.  She berates my stupidity.  She is the most beautiful girl on the street.

I feel a surge of disgust as I enter MacDonald. The women are ugly and fat people stays in line.

This girl is gently holding my hand and her little finger caresses the inside of my palm. My heart is in turmoil. 

She changes her mind several times before settling for nuggets and a caramel sundae. I pick up the trays and she preceeds me and selects a quiet corner.

You prefer a smoking section, don’t you? Yes, I do. know” she said. 

Faces turn on her passage; she does not even notice them. She sits and slowly unties her scarf.  She nods her head trice before I can see her slim neck. I am standing and waiting for her to invite me to sit down. 

“Why don’t you sit down?” she said.  I say: “I was looking at you” 

“You will look at me later. The food is getting cold”.  I said “You are right” 

“I am always right” she said.  She is right almost always.

She elegantly opens her magic box of nuggets. I contemplate her hands and fingers.  She has a fresh coat of paints on her nails. She arranged her blonde hair with tiny “barrettes”. I can’t help but think that she has gone into so much trouble just for me. She dips her nuggets methodically in the ketchup.  I said “You really like that?” “Yes, I love them a lot.  They taste good” she said

She does not talk much but I am accustomed to her habits. 

All sorts of people fascinate her.  As she is engaged at looking around I take advantage studying the details of her beauty.  I love the shape of her eye lashes, her tiny nose, and the lobes of her ears and then she noticed that I was scrutinizing her face.

She eats the tiny crunches of peanuts on her sundae and the caramel but does not touch the ice cream. I tell her to get a refill of caramel but she refuses saying “I know they won’t” I am thinking what we are to do next?  Where shall I take her?  Will she give me her hand? She wants to know where we might spend summer vacation.  The best I can do is figuring out where to take her next after lunch.

She folds her napkin before cleaning her mouth. She smooths her skirt and readjust the collar of her shirt.  She takes her bags and nudged her head to me in the direction where I should dump the plates. I open the door for her. She ties her scarf and takes her hair out of her jacket.  She decided to take my arms. 

This girl, I love.  She is mine.  She is seven of age.

Note:  An abridged and slightly edited translation from French by the author Anna Gavalda.  This story could have applied in its mechanics to the behavior of one of my nieces with minor modifications.


adonis49

adonis49

adonis49

December 2021
M T W T F S S
 12345
6789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Blog Stats

  • 1,484,996 hits

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.adonisbouh@gmail.com

Join 816 other followers

%d bloggers like this: