Hello Bastards!

Poem: Ordinary madness

Ordinary madness, 
that's what she called it. 

Huddled under the duvet 
calling to someone for answers 

God is hiding everywhere 
Banal and baffling and broke 

He is scabbing for change 
in a cash machine vestibule 

He is out in the market shouting 
about the cheap deals on oranges 

He is dancing at the Waterfront 
to the Stone Roses and laughing to himself 

Ordinary madness, 
that's what she called it. 

When she cut her arm 
into a red ragged tube map of trauma 

And God was in the trees 
perched beside the birds 

And God was on the A11 
in a multi-car pile up 

And God was teaching Physics 
to kids who never listen 

And God was wondering why 
she was asking him 

Ordinary madness 
that's what she called it 

When the bandages 
were crimson Soviet standards 

Ordinary madness 
that's what she called it 

When God detuned her mind 
to static and not stations

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Your child's been abducted? Best hope The Sun likes the look of you

In an alternate universe, a black single mother leaves her three children alone in her hotel while she has dinner with friends. When she returns to check on them, one of them has been abducted. The police are unable to find the girl. The trail goes dead. The mother becomes a suspect then is cleared.

What little press attention the case gets castigates her with questions about her fitness to look after her remaining children, wondering why she left them alone in the first place. There is no high profile campaign.

No slew of charitable donations follows. No visit to the Pope is arranged. No book deal to fund an ongoing search. The woman's missing child is just one of the 70,000 minors who go missing in the EU every year. Four years later, the case is utterly forgotten. 

Back in reality, four years after the disappearance of Madeleine McCann, her mother has published a book on the case in the hope of refocusing public attention on the search.

An open letter from the McCanns published in The Sun has led the Prime Minister to request – though coming from him it is effectively an order – that the Metropolitan Police take up the search and committed extra financial support to the effort.

If you've lost a child, you'd better hope that you're what The Sun and The Daily Mail consider the right sort because they have the power to make the Prime Minister listen.

Of course the disappearance of Madeleine McCann is a tragedy but it is not the unusual case that the Prime Minister's spokespeople claim it is. It should be left in the hands of professionals, not toyed with by politicians who hope to curry favour.

It is reported that the Met had examined the case but ruled out any chance of significant developments if it reopened the files. David Cameron has reversed that decision to placate The Sun. He has allowed himself to be guilted into action by the open letter.

The McCanns have become public figures with a press team and the clout of News International going into bat for them. The Prime Minister's move implies that the McCann case is extra special because the media deems it to be.

The thousands of other children who are abducted every year are consigned to filing cabinets far more quickly. Many disappearances are never even publicised beyond the local papers. In death, as in life, if your face isn't right and you don't create the picture the tabloids crave, you're out of luck.

Kate McCann told The Sun: "I hope Mr Cameron will take responsibility for one of his most vulnerable citizens. Madeleine is not disposable. She should not be dismissed and brushed aside as just one child from just one family."

But the sad fact is, Madeleine is one child from one family and the resources of the Metropolitan Police should not be assigned on the basis of how much attention you can get and what amount of newsprint will be dedicated to the decision in the The Sun.

For other parents of missing children, viewing the way the media and politicians have treated the McCann case must be an uncomfortable experience. The media encourages Kate McCann to continue to fling out new theories (about her other children being drugged and Madeleine's new outfit tempting the abductor) while other more recent cases go unreported.

No good parent would ever give up hope that their child will be found but the idea that the McCann case, besides the incredible level of media attention, is somehow more deserving of police time is terribly wrong.

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Thinking about Stephen Hawking’s voice

”Audio clips of some of his answers are available in the article’s sidebar. Interestingly, despite the advances in text-to-speech audio and upgrades to his writing hardware and software, Hawking’s voice remains the same.”

That’s an aside from Kottke’s post linking to the recent New York Times interview with Stephen Hawking.

I’m not surprised that changes in hardware and software capabilities haven’t led Hawking to alter the synthesised voice he uses. Despite its artificiality, that sound is Stephen Hawking’s voice.

Asking why Professor Hawking hasn’t used the opportunities of hardware or software upgrades change the sound of it is almost like pondering why someone with an accent hasn’t chosen to get rid of it.

Stephen Hawking’s voice is one of few conduits he has to translate his ideas to the world. The sound of that voice is tied to his identity now in a way that no ordinary software ever could be. The technology is there to render a more realistic sounding voice but it wouldn’t be his voice then.

Professor Hawking changed his voice synthesis software provider in 2010 but the clips presented with the New York Times story show that the actual voice he uses has not changed a great deal. His assistant, Sam Blackburn, explained last year:

“He could have a voice that is more realistic and more easy to understand and would use less power and wouldn’t break so often but the one he has is recognised all over the world and it’s the one he wants to keep.”

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Mic the Incredible Anxious Boy in…The Saga of the Incredibly Late Paying Clients

Warning: this post is comprised of thinking out loud

I spend approximately 65% of my life feeling anxious. It's like the low hum of a detuned television or background radiation. Sometimes I walk down the road and I don't feel anxious and for a moment it feels like I'm the boy in the bubble, free from the germs of uncertain thoughts and a queasy stomach feeling, but it doesn't ever last long enough.

For a period of maybe 4 months last year, my anxious feelings got to a really crippling point. That's hard when your job is putting words on a page. When you're intensely anxious, every sentence seems like a string of broken Christmas tree lights, every word a loose bulb.

Anxiety vs the swimming pool

In the past few weeks, I started swimming again and that helps a lot. It's an hour in the day when the worry of unpaid invoices and the creeping fear that all my clients will drop me at once in some kind of weird rebellion is pushed to the back of my mind and it's just me doing lengths and trying to avoid having to have a conversation with the guy who has a massive IRA tattoo on his back.

Swimming and doing other exercise is still a better solution that the pills that the doctor tried to point me towards when I confessed that I was wracked by anxious feelings last year. He only mentioned talking to someone when I came back again with the prescription unfilled.

I suspect that money is the biggest source of anxiety for people. My job is nominally to write articles for clients and work on other writing projects. In reality it's a little bit of that coupled with a lot of chiding and chasing.

Goddamn it, pay me…

Freelancers live in a precarious world where you sometimes have to practically beg someone to give you the cash they owe you and then appear grateful when they finally stump up the money you have been chasing for weeks/months/years. Another good trick is for them to suddenly decide to pay you with a cheque, further pushing the point when you'll actually get your money into the middle distance.

One solution to this pulsating ball of anxiety would be to work in an office again. The upside of that is that I like working in a team. My co-workers at places like Q and Stuff were generally really fun to work with and the low-level chatter of an office space can be really inspiring.

The trouble is, I'm not necessarily brilliant at dealing with a certain kind of suit who assures you that you're being hired because of your creative ideas and then expects you to suddenly just drop into a slot marked "this is how we've always done it".

Bacon kills anxiety

I think the best solution to making myself less anxious is to keep getting more work. If I can sell my graphic novel, get another column, write more Wired features and keep producing, I will feel better. Doing things makes me less anxious. Bringing in the bacon and the means to purchase more bacon makes me less anxious.

In the saga of the Incredibly Late Paying Clients, the solution is also about me being tougher. It's not about getting someone else to do it for me as a contractor on Twitter tried to pitch me yesterday. Anxiety is a horrid little monster that lives in my gut but focusing on it just feeds it and I'm working hard to stop that for good.

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The same old story: a girl dies, the Daily Mail blames the Internet, rockstars and Russell Brand

A young girl's death after experimenting with drugs is the perfect Daily Mail story (Istyosty link), particularly if, like Isobel Jones-Reilly, she was a girl from a well-to-do background. It allows the Daily Mail to indulge in some of its favourite "it could happen to your daughter/niece/the girl next door" antics and wild finger pointing.

In one short news story, the Mail manages to put the blame on "drug taking rockstars", Russell Brand and MySpace. Nothing in Daily Mail world is just an unfortunate accident or a common or garden crime. Like the worst episodes of The Bill, The Daily Mail likes the plot to tie up neatly…

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Reporting through a telescope: Stokes Croft and Laurie Penny on the 'frontline'

"Less than a year after the election, we're now having inner-city riots. Wake the fuck up, Britain. #solidarity"

Laurie Penny on Twitter

I wasn't in Stokes Croft on the night of the riot. Neither was Laurie Penny but she put together a report for the New Statesman based on eyewitness testimony. That's a laudable aim but read it and you'll probably notice that the only voices present are those who support Penny's default position – that the police are oppressors and that there is an inherent nobility to squat dwellers and protestors in general…

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The Airborne Toxic Event: a band battles the blackhole

"Singer Mikel groans and splutters like a man performing something my – ahem – mate's last girlfriend dubbed 'thirsty dog cunnilingus'. Then again, this lot probably can't be bothered to engage in that practice either…"

All At Once album review by Jazz Monroe, NME, 23 April 2011

Imagine you're in a band. Imagine you've toured for nearly three years on the back of your debut album. Imagine that record did pretty well despite abuse from Pitchfork and only an independent label in the US backing it and no label in the UK at all.

Pictured that? Right, you're now close to imagining how The Airborne Toxic Event must have felt when their PR had the unfortunate task of telling them how the NME review of their second album was. It took 300 words for Jazz Monroe to dispatch the product of a few thousand miles on tour and weeks in the studio…

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Spotfy was feeding you grapes, now it wants you to settle for lettuce

I recently interviewed SCVNGR founder Seth Priebatsch. Talking about managing a company's relationship with users, he used this analogy: "Imagine feeding a money lettuce every time you ring a bell. It's happy, it likes lettuce. But then you ring the bell and give it a grape. It'll be ecstatic. But next time you give it lettuce and it's furious. It expects the grape."

Spotify was feeding free users grapes, now it's had to go back to lettuce and the monkeys are furious. The more reasonable component of the Spotify audience makes the point that even with the limits, you're getting 10 hours of free music a month but it's the restriction on playing a track more than five times that's really made the lettuce less appealing…

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The Royal Wedding: this deference delusion makes me sick

It'll be a great day for the editor of Monarchy magazine (never heard of it? Neither had I until the BBC began wheeling her out at the drop of a hat) and a massive opportunity for those political power houses Fearne Cotton and Edith Bowman but for most of us, the Royal Wedding is at best a day off and at worse a colossal and expensive irritation.

And yet, the media and our politicians have been almost universally deferential as if Prince William excretes gold coins and it would be unwise to upset the baldy goose by suggesting for a minute that his marriage to another moneyed work-dodger is irrelevant in a country going through cuts and social strife.

When the engagement was announced, David Cameron unsurprisingly went off like a coke bottle stuffed with Mentos, fizzing with excitement about the "fantastically important and exciting news". Important for who outside commemorative plate makers, our creaky monarchy and the kind of deluded Tories who love to wave a little flag on a stick?

Of course, Ed Miliband was similarly gushing, virtually shrieking like an over-excited One Direction fan: "The whole country will be wishing them every happiness." It's been apparent for a while but clearly Ed needs to get out more because I sure as hell don't see a country gushing over the Royals, no matter how many loons the TV are able to pluck from the inevitable crowds…

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On reading Laurie Penny's diary aka Wolfie Smith goes to Pret

When I was a teenager, I went through the Beat Poet phase as lots of people do. I trudged through On The Road's tedious stream-of-consciousness (I realised Capote was right: "That's not writing, that's typing.") and was thrilled by genuinely firecracker moments in Lawrence Ferlinghetti poems. Any hot-headed teenager reading Howl can twist Ginsberg's words to define their over-dramatised existence. What moody adolescent wouldn't want to be "angel headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night" instead of a sullen kid in a Nirvana hoodie loitering near the covered market swigging nicked booze and smoking badly done roll ups?

I had to grow out of that. Most of The Beats were playing at it. Burroughs lived it but living it meant a life of smack, pain and confusion, slowly becoming this cadaverous grey ghost playing host to the next generation of junkie writer types after a bit of his black stardust. Kerouac was riding on the back of Neil Cassidy, a guy who was out there doing it too hard to write it down. Ginsberg's body ballooned to a size that matched his ego, speeding away from his talent like the outer reaches of the solar system from the sun. It's fun to play the rebel until you realise that self-destruction never hurts just you. I had years in my late-teens and early-twenties when I always placed myself in the protagonist's role. I soon realised that didn't even entertain me.

While I've started to make my living from writing about other people's stories and inventing others, some people are still getting paid for putting on that thoroughly kiddy-plays-Johnny-Rotten schtick. The chief proponent of the self-obsessed rebel poet school of writing right now is Laurie Penny (aka Penny Red) who I've written about before. I criticised her reporting of the cuts protests and I'm going to take another swing. I have just finished reading her Evening Standard diary column. It's another episode in an epic saga with her at the heart, another scene from her half-baked reimagining of La Haine…

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