Month: February 2025

ONE MONTH DOWN, TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN MONTHS TO GO

I’m not afraid to say it – I was wrong.  In fact, I’ll go further – I was spectacularly wide of the mark and profoundly mistaken when I brazenly, if not recklessly suggested that the world order would be upended, and any sense of global stability would sink into a soup of self-inflicted chaos under President Donald Josephat Trump.  Rather than spiralling into a pit of turmoil and pettiness, we have, instead, witnessed the glorious resurrection of a once-great Nation.  It’s not just what he’s done so far that’s fantastic, it’s what he’s going to do next that’s truly exciting.

Next week, President Trump will sign an Executive order banning the use of prime numbers.  To those who would argue that such an action might be divisive, I would simply point out that this is impossible, as not being divisive is kind of what prime numbers are all about.  This is a move that’s long overdue – the refusal of prime numbers to play nicely with the other digits marks them out as elitist and, as such, they must be eliminated.  Granted it may have a minor effect on inconsequential things like computer programming and mathematics more broadly, but it’s a small price to pay (and either Mexico or Canada should pay it).

After the glorious triumph that was the unilateral decision to rename ‘The Gulf of Mexico’ as ‘The Gulf America’, it’s high time to take the next logical step.  The song ‘Spanish Harlem’ by Ben E. King will, here forthwith be known as ‘American Harlem’, ‘English Ham’ will now be known as ‘American Ham’ and ‘the Dutch Oven’ will be done away with completely.  By Executive Order, the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ will be replaced by a Kid Rock song.  I’m not sure which Kid Rock song and I doubt that it matters.

If there was a defining issue in last year’s election, it was undoubtedly concerns over the leadership of the Kennedy Centre for the Performing Arts.  And so it was that an anxious nation was delivered the glorious news that the Board had been sacked and President Trump had installed himself both as the Board Chair and its principal dancer.  His debut performance will consist of a three-hour version of ‘YMCA’.  A lot of people are saying that it’s the greatest dance routine they’ve ever had the good fortune to bear witness to, and who are we to disagree? 

We can expect a complete overhaul of the performance program.  Gone are ballets and operas, replaced by proper cultural pursuits like championship wrestling and hot dog eating competitions.  About time.

Tired of fumbling around for the correct change?  Not anymore!  After dispensing with the penny, the President’s next big move will be to abolish regular currency altogether and make a permanent shift to crypto.  Sound confusing?  If so, then you’re part of the problem and should immediately hand yourself in.   

Golf will remain an Olympic sport.  In fact, golf will remain as the only Olympic sport and team USA will comprise of one person and one person only, Donald J. Trump.  Having other countries win medals represents a serious trade imbalance that must be addressed as a matter of urgency.  That’s why nations seeking to compete in the Olympics will be confronted with (naturally) an Olympic-sized tariff as a means of either evening up the competition or, preferably, eliminating it altogether. 

Obviously, podiums will have to be redesigned to have one tier only (for the winner), disposing of the tiers for second and third place getters which are both unnecessary and distasteful, given that these people are, by definition, losers.  One tier avoids needless waste.  This is a key philosophical shift, where the new administration refuses to recognise mediocrity with the notable exception of cabinet appointments.

If you thought that annexing foreign lands would end with Canada, Panama, Greenland and Gaza, think again.  Tuesday mornings will now be devoted to a lottery in which the next country to join America will be chosen. But it’s not all take, take, take.  In the interests of fairness, the administration is selling (or, at least, selling out) Ukraine by redefining notions of sovereignty to whatever takes Vladimir Putin’s fancy at the time.

You may ask why I’m writing about another country.  It’s often said that when America sneezes, Australia catches cold.  Or, given that we’re talking about Donald Trump, if America sneezes, Australia needs a visit to the GP and a dose of penicillin.  It may well be I’m reacting to the ‘shock and awe’ of the last few weeks.  But stability in government is a good thing and, dare I say it, entertainment is to be avoided.   My hope is that the current madness is a phase, but it seems unlikely.  There seems to be no boundary that won’t be breached, no gutter that won’t be danced in.  I am now counting down the remaining one thousand four hundred and thirty days of the remaining term and crossing my fingers that there isn’t a Constitution-defying third.  Here’s hoping.

The Tale of a Middle-Aged Dance Machine

I’ve been to plenty of concerts in my time – big stadium shindigs where one end of the room inhabits a different postcode to the other, through to venues so intimate that the performers are, for all intents and purposes, sitting in your lap.  They’re very different experiences but each enjoyable in their own way.  And I’ve also learned that there are certain rules that should be adhered to when attending a musical performance.

Firstly, don’t try and ‘level jump’ on your friendship with the artist.  That’s especially important when attending a small gig and the first thing that happens is that you run into members of the band you’ve come to see.  A nod of acknowledgment or a subtle tip of the hat are both entirely acceptable, but squealing like a child and asking for a hug may see you escorted from the venue before a note has been played. 

A few weeks back, we saw one of my all-time favourite bands, The Burning Hell, who’d travelled from Canada.  As we raced indoors and out of the rain, we almost collided with the group.  Knowing that I had to keep my cool, I nodded sagely in their direction.  They nodded back.  Nothing was said – no words were required.

Things only became awkward later when we ordered bar snacks, including a gigantic bowl of potato wedges.  Because seating was limited, everyone I’d come with was sitting down along a wooden siding whilst I hovered, a metre or so away, trying to simultaneously blend in with the gathering throng and remain connected to my group.  Then the unthinkable happened – I leaned over to get a potato wedge.  As I pulled myself upright, I came face to face with the lead singer of The Burning Hell. 

In standing up, a fistful of steaming potato goodness clenched in my fist, I had inadvertently blocked the singer’s passage as he attempted to make the all-important journey from the stage to the bar.  To break the deadlock, we each moved to get out of the way of the other but moved in the same direction.  Then we did it again.  From his perspective, I doubt he saw someone doing their best to be helpful but, rather, someone that was actively seeking to obstruct him from getting through.  He may even have considered it a hostage situation.  I saw a flash of panic in his eyes as I realised that this fleeting interaction had suddenly driven a (potato) wedge between us.

After being restrained by security, I enjoyed the subsequent gig from outside the venue.  Given a choice, I’d have rather remained indoors, but at least I wasn’t hungry. 

Last week we trekked over the Festival Hall to see The Flaming Lips.  For the uninitiated, there’s no experience on earth quite like a show by The Flaming Lips.  It’s a unifying, uplifting, multimedia extravaganza that soothes the human spirit.  Unless, of course, you are terrifyingly drunk.

It’s been a while since I’ve stood in the ‘general admission’ area of a large music concert.  Things have changed.  Whereas once, general admission was a sea of steaming sweat in which individuals clung to their beers like they were the last floatation device left, now it’s mobile phones.  I’ve never seen a concert filmed on a phone that I’d ever want to see a second time but, nevertheless, people seemed compelled to record the concert they were ignoring so they could watch an inferior version of it at some future point.

I don’t know where he came from – he simply appeared.  Of stocky build and wearing a ‘Regurgitator’ t-shirt, he took up position right in front of us within a distance that means, technically speaking, I may well now be married to him.  He hugged his friends, he pointed towards some indeterminate point in the ceiling, he splashed beer all around and danced like a man possessed, if not by the devil, then certainly by beer.

It was then that I realised I was in trouble.  Here was a man determined to dance as if he was alone in a paddock and not squashed in with thousands of other human beings.  He jumped around.  He flailed.  Worst of all, he danced backwards towards me.  He then seemed surprised when he stood on my feet and even more surprised when I looked unhappy about it.  He quickly turned away.

It got worse.  At one point, he was so overwhelmed by the moment that he started running up to strangers and demanding that they give him a ‘high-five’.  If there’s one thing that strangers don’t appreciate, it’s a high-five from a random drunk person.  When they didn’t reciprocate, he then reprimanded for failing to display that right level of enthusiasm.  Frankly, he was being something of a jerk.

We were all silly back when we don’t know any better.  But, at some point, you leave it behind.  The concert – which was spectacular – ended and as we departed Festival Hall, I could see the middle-aged man throwing himself about an empty room.   For him, it seems, the music simply never stops.