The Iraqi President Jalal Talabani has announced plans to send a contingent of soldiers on a UN peace-keeping mission in Afghanistan.
2,000 troops will be deployed in the North-East of the country for six months beginning in February 2006.
Said Talabani, "It is a proud moment for the Iraqi people. As President Bush has said, Iraq is now a strong ally against terror and a force for democracy in the Middle East. Having completed the path to democracy, we are prepared to share our experience of peaceful reconstruction and help the Afghanis build a society that will hopefully one day enjoy the same level of peace and prosperity as we enjoy in our completely normal Middle-Eastern democratic republic."
In an unrelated incident, the Vice-President of Iraq, six of his bodyguards, seventeen members of the new Iraqi police force and all eighty-two units of the Iraqi army were blown up in a massive car bomb blast Sunday evening.
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Although my life has of late been blessed in some ways by a certain amount of serendipity, that has certainly not been the case in financial terms. You get paid less money for teaching English in Spain than the average monkey in a Chinese zoo, which is causing me to seriously reconsider my options ie. you might find me working in Starbucks in London before too long.
In fact it was the realisation that one of my best options for avoiding a life of monkey wages or the need to become a barista and learn how to bombard stoopid people with a seemingly endless succession of daft questions about loyalty cards and biscuits entailed taking an exam which I failed twice half a lifetime ago, and which there is no guarantee whatsoever of me passing this time (I still haven't figured out what the numerical value of X is supposed to be. I mean, to me, it's always been more of a letter than a number. I'm quite happy to admit that my mathematical genius is not of Noble Prize-winning standard, I mean I can count to twelve but it takes a fucking long time) that brought me to a level of deep deep despondency on the way back from my insufficiently-rewarded job on Friday afternoon, when I received a rare stroke of financial good fortune - I got a message from my mobile 'service provider' (am I the only person who finds that phrase sickening, and its ubiquity quite so depressing?) saying that, for no reason whatsoever, they were going to give me €65 of free credit.
Woo-hoo! You might say. I skipped into the Chinese shop, splashed out on some butter (not literally I should stress) and had a cheery conversation with the less reticent of the two weirdos who work there about different words for broccoli, and positively beamed my way up to the door to my building, where I.
dropped.
my.
phone.
Which started to beep wildly and say something about a 'error de tarjeta'.
Now I am not in any way a god-fearing person, but I did for an instant get a clear image of a vindictive and scornful bearded face cackling at me from between the darkening clouds overhead. The bastard, or in all sobriety probably just the bastards, had given to me with one hand and then gleefully swept my fortune from me with the other, er, claw. I shook, rattled, swore beautifully at, and eventually fixed! my phone.
Which was a relief.
My confidence boosted, I decided to take my mobile 'service provider' (AAARRRRRGGGHHH!) up on one of the promotional offers they have been, despite my very best and at one point even temporarily successful attempts to get them to stop, deluging me with over my last two penurious months. One of those things where they let you phone five numbers for a slightly less outrageous price. This required, along with three spare euros of credit, huge reserves of patience and moral courage, given that to get through to actually speak to someone at Movistar is about as easy as finding your way out of a maze the size of the world, or passing a GCSE Maths exam, if you're me, except that it takes a lot longer than the seventeen years it's taken me so far.
I digress. Over 30 separate calls later, and after one mind-bendingly long wait, I got to actually speak to someone. After a brief contest about who could speak Spanish faster, in which after a few minutes I was forced to admit defeat, I asked to speak to someone in English.
When I'd waited quite a bit longer and explained to an extremely German-sounding person what I was after, she asked me to hold on while she got the details, and she seemed to be taking a fairly long time. And when she finally came back on the line she sounded a bit surprised, in that slighty shrill German way, and asked me when was the last time I'd put money on my phone.
I can't quite describe the level of angst and regret that took hold of my entire head at hearing this question. Evidently by making this torturous phone call, which had by this point drained me of such reserves of time and energy that I would have been pathetically grateful just to be told that the promotion was no longer valid, or just have someone blow a whistle down the phone and hang up, I had drawn the attention of the empresa to the fact that they had inadvertently granted a misplaced windfall to one of their least lucrative clients, and they were about to take my now cherished sixty five euros of credit away from me. For the second time in a handful of hours I, rather than fate, had seemingly just, as they say, totally pissed on my own chips.
I mumbled something as unspecific and incoherent as possible, and she buggered off once again to 'check out some details', while I waited, feeling as distraught as someone lost and parched in the desert who has just absent-mindedly upended his water bottle in an misguided attempt to pass his Maths GCSE.
And so to the end of the story, which is ... nothing. No more mention of the free credit; I gave her four phone numbers, because it turns out that I don't know five people in Spain with Movistar phones, which is a bit dismal when you consider that it's by far the biggest network, and that like in most European countries a population of forty million people somehow shares about 137 million mobile phones between them. And no less than two days later I now have, let's see, €42 of credit left, because our perceived need to be in constant and immediate contact with other people, and to be seen to be so, blinds us to the fact that we are paying ferocious amounts of money that we simply don't have for something that, at the level of landlines, is basically free, just like people who live in countries with clean drinking water who 'only ever drink bottled water', and whose boundless idiocy is a constant source of awe to me. But, you know, Richard, why don't you tell us what you really think for a change.
Ho hum. The moral to the tale, then, is don't look a €65 gift horse in the mouth, or don't tempt fate when it comes in the form of an serendipitous SMS. And speaking of free gifts, if anyone out there has it within their power to gift me a Maths GCSE, I would be humbly and profoundly grateful. Now how do I set up one of those wishlist things that girls have...
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For anyone who thinks that this blog should probably have something to do with teaching, like I do, here is a lesson plan I made up in my head while I was 'Just Sitting There' thinking hard about shoplifting and what the hell I'm gonna do tomorrow in class...
Shoplifting Lesson
Show students something you can claim to have stolen - bananas or Ipods work wonders. Ask them how much they think it cost. Tell them you it didn't cost you anything, and try to convince them that you nicked it.
Say 'No, haha, of course it's not stolen' and show them the receipt ('ask for 'un recibo, por favor'' (Time Out Madrid, 2002)) (unless of course you did steal it, that is, in which case Hey hey!, well done, I'm jealous).
See if they know any other words for 'steal' - teach them nick, swipe and 'five-fingered discount'. Elicit Shoplifting.
Ask them if they've ever taken anything from a shop without paying. If no, tell them you understand they might be shy, and put them in groups to 'share their secrets'.
In pairs or threes or whatever, give them the following questions to discuss:
Have you ever stolen anything from a shop?
Do you know anybody else who shoplifts regularly?
Would you ever nick anything from a shop? If so, under what circumstances?
Get feedback on questions - get one in each group to 'report' back and try to find some way of getting the others to contribute instead of just staring at you when you're not the one talking.
Have a quick vote on who thinks it's right or wrong to shoplift. If you have someone who is opposed to it under any circumstances whatsoever, try not to spit on them as you put them in the same group with the one who you most suspect of having a criminal record. Or alternatively, stick them in a pair with the one who hardly ever....says..............any........................
thing.
Give them the following questions:
Do you think it's right or wrong to shoplift? Why/why not?
Is stealing from local shops the same as stealing from supermarkets? Why/why not?
Do you know anyone who's ever get caught shoplifting? Did you feel sorry for them?
See if anyone knows about the €350 thing. Briefly ask them what they could steal 'for' €350. Tell them that all the things they've mentioned are basically free if you're prepared to maybe lose face a little in your local community.
Tell them they're going to practice their shoplifting skills. Because they're just practising, they will have to take it in turns to be the thief and the shop assistant, or if you have or prefer threes, the third one can be the manager.
EITHER tell them you didn't have time to prepare properly, and hand them some post-it notes so they can write role-cards for the other pairs. Remind them that you want to practice as realistically as possible, so they should think of a variety of people in different shopping places - supermarkets, chinese shops, newspaper & porn kiosks, off-licenses, the fucking Body Shop, and so on.
Get down into your Tefl Crouch and help them write their role-cards.
OR alternatively you could use these ones I made earlier.
Swap round the role-cards and tell them to get practicing...
..and then all you have to do is wander round giggling and waiting for the bell to ring, which, what with my appalling sense of .... timing, should have been about 35-40 minutes ago.
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The eyes of the world are being opened to a tragedy far, far greater than that in Sudan, and with more disturbing implications for our planet than the war on terrorism or global climate change: the tragedy of the 40 million jumpers, 50 million pairs of trousers and one billion bras being piled up in European warehouses and ports as a result of the restrictions on Chinese clothes imports into the EU.
All over Europe shoppers are terrified of the very real possibility of the shelves of Zara, Mango and H & M having slightly less cheap Chinese-made garments. Says recently laid-off factory operative Edna Typical, 22, a woman who already owns more clothes than the entire population of Jiangsu Province, "Am I to wander the cavernous empty shopping centres of my land unshod, with nary a stitch of clothing, bereft of accesories? Can not the Governments of the world see a way to resolving this catastrophe to the benefit of consumers?!"
The crisis is being watched anxiously in the clothes' home villages in China. The China Daily quotes one woman as saying, "I work 12 hours a day in basically inhumane conditions for the equivalent of three dollars a day to produce those clothes, and it breaks my heart to think that those poor Western consumers might soon only be able to make four as opposed to twelve separate clothes purchases on a single Saturday afternoon. Long live Chairman Mao."
Pressure is indeed mounting on those governments to take immediate action to Free The Chinese Clothes. According to one real person on the radio who I have honestly not just made up, "the priority now is to find some way to get those garments onto the shelves in time for the Winter Collection".
One solution that has been mooted is to move forward next year's quota of Chinese clothes imports. However, this will inevitably lead to problems next year, when the 2007 quota will have to be brought forward to 2006, and so on, and so on, until the world ends, or Peter Mandelson dies, whichever happens first.
In the meantime millions and millions of human beings who are happy to do nothing whatsoever with their free time apart from eating junk food, watching home improvement shows and shopping for that perfect £6.99 spangly green top are in for an uncertain weekend.
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Several of my students don't know or have already forgotten who Zhao Ziyang was. But they have all heard of Da Shan. Da Shan is 'China's favourite foreigner', renowned in every corner of the Middle Kingdom for his dashing good looks and his complete mastery of the Mandarin Chinese of Beijing. He arrived here from Canada in 1988, and since then, according to his very informative webs...excuse me just a moment, one of the students has a question.
Yes, you there, you had a question?
"Yes, sir."
Don't call me sir. My name's Richard. What's your name again?
"Jamily, sir. Er, Mr. Richard."
Jamily? Your name is Jamily?!? What's your question, Jamily?
"Well, sir, it's just that...I was thinking about that story you made us read, sir, Mr. Richard. The one about the picture. By that guy, er, Oswald Wo-'
Oscar Wilde, Jamily. What about it?
"What, sir?"
Don't say 'what, sir?' It's ... oh it doesn't matter. What's your point, Jamily?
"Well, I was thinking, because, you know, Da Shan came to China in 1988, sir, and that other guy, the one you asked about yesterday? I did some research, and I found out that he was locked up under house arrest, sir, Mr.Richard, in 1989, so I thought-"
Are you suggesting that Zhao Ziyang was like the picture in the attic, while Da Shan is like the-
"Yes, sir, exactly, Mr. Richard, sir! And Da Shan is like the guy who couldn't, I mean doesn't, get any uglier!"
That's bollocks, Jamily.
"Thank you, sir"
No, I mean it's preposterous. It's one of the stupidest things I've ever heard in my life.
"But sir, just think how much better things would have been! And just imagine all the wonderful things he could have done on behalf of other gay people in Ch-"
Jamily, I never said that Zhao Ziyang was gay!
"Well, sir, maybe just a little bit bi-"
Jamily! This is just too silly for words. Sit Down! Stop calling me Sir!
And change your name!
"Sorry, Mr. Richard, sir."
Right, sorry about that, now where were we? Ah yes, the blog. According to Da Shan's very informative website...
Just a moment. I need to think.
You know, maybe that kid Jamily - Jamily! - has a point.
It does kind of all make sense.
In fact the more I think about it...
Right! I've thought about it.
It's time for the Chinese people to stand up once again!
Down With The Da Shan Dynasty!!!
It's time to establish a People's Republic of China!
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At the height of the recent anti-Japanese protests, a lot of my students told me that they were going to Lushun for the weekend. Their explanations were a bit confusing, but I gathered that it had something to do with Japan. Lushun is a sensitive area, off-limits to foreigners. In addition to a huge naval base, it apparently features museum commemorating Japanese war atrocities - the whole peninsula was occupied by them in the 1930s and '40s. Naturally I assumed that they were going for some sort of protest.
I was completely wrong. They were actually going there to see the Cherry Blossom Festival - just like in Japan, they told me, when this flower blooms huge numbers of people go for a day trip just to take a look.
When China blooms it can look really beautiful. Out of the window while I write, I can see a large apple blossom tree blocking out the dull view that kept us depressed those long winter months. Let a thousand flowers bloom!
Another thing I'll really miss here is the parks in the summer. Without ever really seeming crowded, they teem with people, singing screechy opera numbers and playing those instruments that I never got round to learning the names of, playing badminton and that ubiquitous shuttlecock-kicking game that all Chinese people can play a thousand times better than me, or gathering under the trees for a game of Mah Jong, Chinese chess or cards. It makes for an enchanting and very friendly atmosphere - people seem so content that I often feel I've just blended into the background, sitting on a bench soaking it all in.
Just yesterday I was sitting watching someone's hilarious attempts to dislodge a mis-hit shuttlecock by throwing the same rock up into a tree again and again, when a young guy sat down beside me with a book. We had a fascinating conversation for about 20 minutes about the different books we were reading. At least, that's what I was talking about - it's quite possible that he was telling me that he'd just failed his driving test for the third time and was thinking of buying a canary.
You sometimes see odd sights in the park. In Beihai Park in Beijing a few weeks ago I was startled to see what looked like an entire army unit with their riot shields and truncheons drawn, all marching in formation behind two soldiers carrying between them a flat-screen TV!
The simple friendliness of some of the people who've been part of my everyday life these last ten months is a memory that I'll cherish. The woman who sells me pineapples and bananas, and who used to sell me strawberries until they were suddenly replaced by cherries, exhibits remarkable patience with my Chinese, and astonishing dexterity at cutting up pineapples. The old man in my local shop is also relentlessly enthusiastic about my Mandarin, even though all I ever really say to him is 'me want two beers/four eggs/one big bottle water/one small cold bottle water', thank you and 'Bye Bye!'.
And this cafe I'm sitting in right now is quite a find - friendly, efficient and cool. They also finally helped me to learn the word for cheese. Just a shame I only discovered the place yesterday.
好, that's it. I'm off to the beach.
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The great Irish satirical rebel Ding Dong Denny O'Reilly had many songs in his repetoire about the struggle to free his beloved Ireland from the hated British. One of them was called 'Spit on the Brits', and during his raucous concerts he would encourage the audience to participate by coughing their guts up before joining in with the chorus, which went as follows:
We'd spit on the Brits
Spit on the Brits
And we'd shower them in a lovely sea of green,
We'd spit on the Brits,
Spit on the Brits
And then they'd blow us all to smithereens
In the West spitting is usually interpreted as an act of aggression; if you're standing at the bus stop and someone loudly spits on the floor, it's natural to move away. Not because you think that they might spit on you, but because someone who displays such an obvious lack of respect for social convention and basic hygiene might be either dangerous or diseased or both.
The Chinese habit of regularly clearing their lungs in public is therefore an affront to Western sensibilities. Ironically, the Chinese, as Paul Theroux points out, are not among the world's great spitters, because for all the fanfare that precedes the act of expectoration, the end result tends to just dribble out of their mouths and on to the pavement. It's quite distinct from the kind of pinpoint projectile spitting familiar from John Wayne movies.
Another classic complaint amongst Western visitors to China is the staring. Often, for a Chinese peasant, seeing a foreigner is akin to us finding Chief Running Bear in full costume directing traffic. However, for us staring, however harmless the intention of the starer, is also easy to interpret as a hostile act. It seems to say: I'm here, you're there, and I've just decided I don't like you.
It has been said that the Chinese would benefit enormously from the introduction of Spitting and Staring as events in the 2008 Olympics. I don't think that's either accurate or fair. Not accurate, partly for the reasons mentioned above, and not fair because all nations have bad habits. The Americans, for example, would do very well if there was an event for invading other countries and forcing them to release a statement announcing that they are now democracies, while the gleeful minions of the World Bank and the IMF run around cackling and grabbing anything that isn't nailed down. The English would sweep the board in any event which rewarded moving of their own volition to other countries and then spending all their time writing very very long sentences complaining about everything around them, while never forgetting to include the odd self-deprecating remark to mitigate their bigotry and anticipate criticism. Ho hum.
Where the Chinese could put their habits to good use is in the intimidation of opponents in other sports. It would be off-putting to a swimmer if the person in the next lane coughed up a big greenie straight into the pool right before they all dived in. And if your opponent in tennis spent the entire time between sets with their chair turned round so they could stare straight at you if might well put you off your serve.
One of the other potential uses of staring, spitting and other generally anti-social behaviour is in the field of International Relations. A logical and non-violent way of resolving the territorial disputes of the world is in the same way that cats do - if Saddam Hussein had had the foresight to piss all over Kuwait in 1990, the Americans would have been understandably less keen to go in and remove him. Similarly, as Ding Dong Denny O'Reilly suggested, if when Mao Zedong had sent all those young Chinese soldiers to North Korea in 1950 armed only with the simple order to stand on the border and spit, maybe one million lives could have been saved.
It's easy to stand on the border of one country and spit into another. However, for long-range warfare nuclear weapons, although immoral, are probably more effective. Next week I'm off to England, hopefully out of range of the Chinese spitting brigades. It will be interesting to see, though, if in 2008 the Olympic pools will be fitted with those spit buckets they have at each end of the lanes here. Whether or not they do, I have a feeling that the Chinese will do very well indeed in all the swimming events.
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One of the most useful tips in the not-always-reliable Rough Guide to China 2002 edition concerns Chinese television. You would, it points out, have to be desperately bored to resort to it for entertainment. Well, I have to confess that very occasionally, when I am extremely bored in hotel rooms or at home, I do find myself watching CCTV9. I'm not proud of it, and it never lasts very long, but there is a certain perverse fascination with some of the 'useful idiots' that present the shows. Unlike Edgar Snow and the British spy circle, however, I think it probable that a lot of the people on CCTV9 genuinely are idiots. At least you can say with some certainty that people like Snow, Burgess and Maclean were extremely intelligent individuals who had probably drawn some of the right conclusions about their own societies; they just seem to have been tragically misguided about the nature of the regimes they crossed over to (with the possible exception of Israel Epstein, who as far as I can tell was a great deal more Chinese than anything else). However, the ex-pats on Chinese TV are not quite in their league.
You have this guy, for example, who preens and stammers his way through some pretend economics programme, accompanied by a Chinese woman whose attempts to pronounce the word 'aluminium' brought tears of pity to my eyes - although I hasten to add that he didn't do much better. There is a young American woman who, during an incisive piece I saw on the important subject of how mobile phones, like, exist?, and how, like, people in China use them?!? changed her clothes no fewer than seven times, which is more costume changes than in an average Kylie Minogue concert. Then there is a fairly geriatric guy who provides the links between the domestic news (propaganda) and the foreign news (footage from international news agencies with all the interesting bits cut out), and whose exclusive qualification for the job seems to be an Australian accent. Also, viewers are treated to the sight of a team of wide-boys in ill-fitting suits who tell us about China's weather. They do it surprisingly quickly considering the size of the country. They also bounce in a jolly and wide-eyed fashion around the screen, and I could try and think of something nice to say about them but to be absolutely honest what most comes to mind is the word wankers.
I have to admit that with a lot of these people I don't actually know what their voices sound like, because I find the only way I can abide CCTV9 is with the sound turned right down and the PC picking its way through my Kate Bush mp3s. The full stereo effect of the programmes is a bit too much to bear.
It would be interesting to know whether or not any of these people have ever worked in news media before. I suspect that in most cases they haven't, partly on the basis of this very enlightening, often hysterically funny and surprisingly moving account of behind-the-scenes life at CCTV:
We lead a broadcast with a Xinhua item stating that 2,500 people have died as a result of the Falun Gong’s influence. The writer makes a mistake, it’s read on the air as 25,000. I’m the only one to notice, because it happens I read the same item that morning in the China Daily. We strike out a zero for the next broadcast and never hear from the audience or management. We report on an 8:00 a.m. broadcast that China will definitely launch a manned space mission in 2003. On the noon broadcast, “the launch date is still uncertain,” and the writer tells me it may be years away. Once again, writers of the source material at Xinhua or CCTV-1 are unavailable or irresponsible and there’s no one in our newsroom who knows or cares enough to pick up a phone for clarification. We don’t strive for it either; just change the story according to the latest copy and trust that no one expects any better.
The question I'm interested in is what happens when they leave China. Do they then try and put their journalistic experience to good use and try and find work in the media? Apart from the ignomy of working for an organisation called CCTV ("what, you were a Security Guard?!?"), there is a world of difference between the Disney Channel or CNN on the one hand, and totalitarian state media churning out nothing but state propaganda on the other.
Actually, on that last point about CNN, I suppose on the face of it they could always try applying for a job there!
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When Mark Rowswell (aka Da Shan) is back in Clark Kent mode in suburban Canada, perched on the edge of the sofa chez les voisins politely sipping coffee, how does he explain what he does in life?
Does he say anything like “I’m the fresh-faced poster boy for the post-1989, post-WTO, pre-2008 Chinese Communist Party Government?” I can imagine the reaction. Because, let’s face it, he’s not quite pretty or memorable enough to make a convincing icon for revolutionary struggle, is he?
Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m not the best judge of this. So, to any women, or gay men, reading this, I would ask: which of the two pictures above is more likely to make you start perspiring slightly and feel a bit faint? And for everyone, male or female, I’d be interested to know, which of the two photos would make you feel more like manning the barricades and storming the palace? And which, while we're at it, would be more likely to cause you to splash out 1,000 Kwai on a fairly crappy copy of a PDA?
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When I take the thoroughly modern local tram from our campus towards Carrefour to stock up on cheese and Alpen, I don't actually get to see much of Dalian. What I do see is mile after mile of huge billboard advertisements for new condominiums called things like Your Marjesty (sic) and Tycoon's Paradise Village. The developments themselves take up an increasing amount of space both in Chinese cities and in the countryside (I especially noticed it on the way from Beijing to the Great Wall), and in addition to the huge, huge billboards blotting out a lot of the landscape, adverts for them also take up page after page in in-flight and ex-pat magazines.
In fact it often seems like wherever you turn in China you're faced with marketing of some kind, if not with those red banners which I never know if they display marketing, propaganda or a happy mix of the two. Waiting for the lift in the electronic department store where I go to pick up my weekly three dozen or so DVDs, there is a TV screen on the wall which shows adverts and nothing else. On the bus home the TV intersperses the same Tom & Jerry cartoon with adverts, adverts, adverts and the occasional karaoke video. It's sometimes difficult to get into the local supermarket because of the crowd gathered around the stall outside handing out free samples of those really quite odd tasting milk tablets.
I'm prepared to accept that this is a sign of progress and there is not much in this that I didn't have to put up with in Europe (apart from the karaoke and Tom and Jerry, that is. And the milk tablets, of course). However, advertising in China has taken on a new and particularly aggravating form: stickers prominently displaying a phone number and some sort of service (no, I don't think it's the obvious one so ubiquitous in London telephone boxes) for sale. These stickers don't just attach themselves to lampposts and any available vertical surface - in an innovative move that I really hope hasn't caught on elsewhere, they are stuck on the pavement.
I guess the people trying to drum up trade in this way have realised that if they hand people a leaflet it will just end up on the floor unread, so they have started advertising on litter, and litter that can't be removed (the stickers they use are of that extremely irritating type that they stick directly onto the CDs in a lot of record shops, which you need washing up liquid and a brillo pad to remove) and cannot be avoided. Once a sticker is stuck, it stays there for quite some time, and probably does get its message across.
Now I've mentioned before that there are lots of things in China that make me angry or depressed, but which I know I've got no hope whatsoever of ever doing anything about. It's the same with these things; here in China my opinion counts for nothing, and I'm leaving very soon anyway. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that this innovative new advertising medium - sticker litter - might well begin to catch on in other countries, if it hasn't already. And I've got a good idea about how to do something about it.
My idea involves two very common items: one, a mobile phone, obviously very common indeed these days. The second thing is not so common, but very cheap, even lighter to carry and very easy to get your hands on: a simple ordinary whistle.
Imagine the scene: Poor Unfortunate (although she doesn't know it yet) Receptionist is sitting tapping on a keyboard, looking for pictures of kittens on the internet and trying to avoid doing any actual work. The phone rings.
PUR: Hello, this is Tiny Tim Chimney Sweep Services, how can I help you?
ME (or maybe YOU): Hi, I saw an advert, is this the right number? It was stuck in the street, 'We Clean Any Chimneys, Very Cheap Price, Very Small Chimney Sweep Gets Into All Nooks And Crannies, Does Not Soil Fireplace?'
PUR: Yes, that's us, how big is your chimn..
ME (or maybe YOU): PHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
PUR: AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!! (Slams down phone, holds ears).
Phone rings.
PUR: I'm not ******* well answering that. BOOOOSS!!!
You know, at first it might be difficult for them to make the connection, but given time and persistence the message should get through. As I say, I don't know yet if sticker litter advertising has taken off elsewhere, but I'm going to invest in a whistle, just in case. And I'm thinking of snapping up www.howbigisyourchimn.com before anyone else can.
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This summer I’ll be spending three months in the UK. It’ll be a welcome relief to be in a place with such an exceedingly free press. Unfortunately, though, more and more space in British newspapers is taken up by items of questionable news value, mostly concerning the adventures of that subspecies of micro-celebrities of whom there seem to be about 300,000 in the UK alone.
One of the people responsible for this is Max Clifford. For those fortunate enough never to have heard that name before, he is a celebrity agent - for any Chinese readers who aren’t familiar with the term, I might add that he is 比 日本人 好*, but only just. His important life’s work is promoting formerly famous and mostly notorious clients, who pay huge sums to ensure that they will never have to deal with the shame of nipping out to Tesco’s for some cat food without getting recognised and causing a commotion.
It’s not just the press that is the object of his attention. He also places clients on those TV shows where desperate celebrities are locked or sent away together and subject themselves to all sorts of debasements to create ratings and headlines. Unfortunately this doesn’t seem to grab ratings in the same way as it used to – it seems that no amount of humiliation or unlikely celebrity affairs is able to sate the public’s lust to see genuinely pathetic people suffer for media exposure.
So I had an idea that might just work. Basically, you get a group of these people, hungry to stay in the public eye, and put them in an average-sized Chinese city (Dalian would do just fine) for ten months. They needn’t put up with any discomforts of the kind that people enjoyed watching so much in that show that was set in the jungle – they could stay in the best hotel in town, eat Western-style food, watch CNN occasionally – and there would be no need for any humiliating stunts to attract the viewers.
So what would attract the viewers? Well, the real selling point is that it would put their appetite for fame to the test. How much would they really want attention, and how much attention would they really want?
Would they really want people following them round the supermarket, gasping with wonderment at the things they fill their trolleys with? Would they feel honoured to find people’s eyes tracking the progress of the chopsticks to their mouths and back to the bowl? Would they cherish the admiring gazes of fellow pedestrians, wondering just what their secret is as they totter in the middle of the road while traffic hurtles past in both directions? How would they feel about not being able to take two steps down the street without someone bellowing ‘HELLO’ at them, as every single passing taxi pulls in to the side of the road at the very sight of them? And would they feel that all the hard work had been worth it when dozens of gawping waiting and kitchen staff crowded round their table as they tried to decipher exactly what ‘Freezing Shark’s Bait’ was supposed to mean in actual English?
I suspect that as a result many of them might well decide that they preferred a quiet life, away from the spotlight of public acclaim. But for the winners, those who really value the attention given them, fabulous prizes would await. They could even challenge Da Shan in the lucrative and ever-growing Asian market for Western celebrities!
Obviously I’ve not yet had the chance to perform any detailed research into possible audiences. Consider this, if you will, as a pitch. All I can say is that personally it’s the kind of programme I’d love to see on UK television this summer.
Of course, for obvious reasons, Ken Ho and Vanessa Mae need not apply.
* - Not quite as bad as the Japanese
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rwillmsen's journal