The big issue

The Empowerment of Women

If you get obsessed with one phrase then please make it this one. Personally I cannot understand the person who fails to get goose-bumps at the mention of it. It may be the old Rolling Stone in me, but I have always had a passion for the company women can provide. It may be nothing more than the desire to hear an alternate opinion to contrast with the default Y chromosome’s, but I adore it. I may have to concede that my own entanglements with the fairer sex have left me spoiled, and that I have been cursed with rose-tinted lenses for being such an undeserving fool.  On the other hand, I know that the fight for equality is not just justified, but necessary. And like the civil rights movement, there is room for some well meaning idiots to get involved. I do not reference the civil rights movement light-heartedly by the way. What could be more serious than fairness for 50% of the population? 

I'm already ready for the jeers claiming we sorted this out with the suffragettes. If you are a humanist you look at every race and culture with the same eye you use on your own. It’s a strange concoction of liberalism and racism to smile when a tribe treats its’ women as slaves. A female MP may fight for the wearing of the Burka in order to present her views on religious freedom; but she fails to realise that it is not imposed by Islam but by sadistic men. The view that contraception is evil was accelerated by Mother Theresa and we do nothing more than politely agree or disagree. It may be intimidating to stand up and say: “Sorry you old bitch but we don’t want everyone in Africa to die no matter how Holy you consider your plan”. What does it say about the power of our male ancestors that a Romanian woman in this century can oppose methods that may save the lives and dignity of her fellow females?

Even if we forget Africa’s problems, we find an even more problematic system in our most recent history. Under the Taliban, Afghanistan was a shining beacon of what happens when women really become second class citizens. They could not have been oppressed anymore without actually being buried alive. You name it, they did it. They couldn’t study at school, couldn’t interact with men, and they couldn’t even show their faces in public. The result: a life expectancy of 44, record lows of literacy, record highs of burnt out eye-sockets. If we take this example as the lowest we could be achieving on this subject then why can’t we strive for the opposite? Check out your average office in England, and observe the 50% of ladies creating fantastic profits for multi-national companies. You may be anti-capitalist but you have to smile at the progress we have made.

I am in no way advocating forcing other cultures to follow suit. I would never wish to enforce a cultural revolution on a country that wasn’t an immediate danger to life on Earth. I simply suggest that we all unite and speak our minds about this issue. You may not feel as angry as when you heard Mexicans were dying on the state-line, or when you heard Mandela had another ten years to go. However, this is a much bigger issue than human beings have ever encountered.

The one negative comment I expect from this post be can summed up in one word, “patronising”. I can only talk what I feel, and I have made a pact not to lie at any point. I suppose if I am patronising I will have to deal with that. Perhaps I may prematurely defend myself and say that although I may be worthy of all criticism, I am not the biggest danger to women today. I must confess though, that I await wrath with a certain amount of expectation. The sisters are a glorious group, but just as diverse as us men. Funny that.

 I am happy to list a few things that would cease to exist if every society was up to scratch. As we speak you can observe: arranged marriages (obviously a ploy to subject a woman to a life of servant-hood), genital mutilation (not the foreskin, but the clitoris), the forced rape and procreation by the ultra-theocratic (something that has been introduced to Iranian law), and the stoning of rape victims in places such as Afghanistan. I’ll let you pray to as many imaginary friends as you want, I’ll even let you protest about meat production. But mess with my female friends.....No. That is not allowed.

I am not fighting for equal prize money for Wimbledon champions. I don’t care about the intricacies of politics resulting in fewer female MPs.  Making poverty history is a slightly bigger issue I think. We all say it, we all mean it, and we all slightly consider it. Want the quick answer? Empower women! Let’s not shy away here, populations are growing and we can’t deal with it. We do have a duty as humans to look after every living person, but we are afraid of saying certain things. We will not discuss contraception in a third world country because it comes across as population control by westerners. The other side of the argument is doing well however; the Catholics have convinced perishing tribes that condoms increase the chances of HIV. When will we wake up and realise that population is controlled perfectly well when the woman has power over her own womb? I sometimes scream inside when this concept is introduced as a revelation to some people. Is it not common sense? I would usually blame religion here, but I’m talking about more than that. It’s male domination, and it hasn’t ended.

Again, I feel this post being slipped into the category “Provocative”. I may have accepted such an accusation for previous posts but this is surely different. Any self-respecting heterosexual man knows the joy of seeing his girlfriend smile. Any intelligent woman knows that happiness derives from equality. Any decent scientist, statistician, philosopher, mathematician, politician knows that progress comes from the duality of genders. We can compromise on many things, but our allegiance with women is non-negotiable.  

You may notice that I wrote this from a male perspective, I referred to women in fairly detached way. Want to know why? I am a man. If you expect any more then you will only receive phonies.   

Mister Galloway, you might want to give this post a miss.

In my humble opinion, no major figure of this generation has fooled as many people as George Galloway. He’s used his skills as a demagogue to deceive the masses who fear their own government. He also has a knack for rallying support from pacifists who fear combat of any kind. Criticism and satire of the government is a good thing of course, and the desire for peace is an admirable aim. However, these are not ideals that compliment the gullible or idiotic. 

Galloway is both very smart and very stupid. He knew that the young demographic were largely anti-war, so he appears on Celebrity Big Brother. You may think this would be career suicide no matter how well he came across, but it worked. That same year, he won Q Magazine’s ‘Politician of the Year’, The RESPECT party sent representatives to every college in the country, and every Gulf War II sceptic appointed him as their new Messiah. The attitude he instilled in these people was ridicule for his cat impersonation, but more importantly, a new awareness of the side he wanted to present; a hardcore pacifist. He was now being judged by his reputation, not by his actions; the hallowed ground of any public figure, from JFK to Ghandi. 

This reputation as an anti-war figurehead means he can turn up to any debate and know there will be a large faction of the audience with hands already poised to clap. His voice has developed a certain power that can inspire hoots of support for the simple achievement of uttering the words “Illegal War”. Other panellists need to work out facts and figures, moral conundrums, political grey areas, but old Gorgeous can simply shower them in a spit-laden yell of “Dick Cheney!”, and guarantee himself applause. Why can he survive the damning retorts laid upon him? Retorts so damning that were they pinned upon Nick Griffin, his own party would swiftly arrange a mutiny. Why has this generation been happy to immerse themselves in such a swamp of credulity? Why can no amount of character-suicide lay this man's career to rest?

In 1994, a video was examined by courts in which George addressed Saddam Hussein by saying, “I salute your courage, your strength, your indefatigability.” He says he was taken out of context. It has also been revealed that he gave a speech in Syria in July 2005 calling Basher al Assad the “last Arab ruler”. He backtracked claiming that he was referring to Syria’s stand against Israeli fascism. In the most recent campaign to be (successfully) elected in Bradford, he used the slogan, “God knows who’s a Muslim”; boasting how he didn’t drink compared to another candidate. He denies this was a tactic to play on religion, but a way of pointing out the dishonesty of another candidate. He said in 2006 that a suicide-murder attack on Tony Blair would be “justified”. He claimed we misunderstood and that he meant that if he were an Iraqi child, he might feel this way. Am I painting the picture of a straight talker putting the world straight? Or does it sound like the classic politician dodging questions? Or even worse, does it sound like a renegade MP who is actually a hindrance to peace in this country?

I am of the old fashioned opinion that there is a difference between our elected officials of the West, and the unelected dictators of rogue middle-eastern states. Another Galloway quote: “Nato is worse than Al-Quaeda.”. I do not think that a US president, who makes a questionable decision on protecting his country, is in the same league as one who murders his own people. Tony Blair brought in a few nice things like education reforms, and then admittedly went to war against many of the publics’ wishes. Bashar al-Assad employs secret police, death squads, and torturers to punish those who speak against him. George’s opinion is: “Blair’s murder would be justified”, and “Syria is lucky to have (Assad) as their president.”  I surely don’t need to point out the absolute moral bankruptcy this suggests. Do I really need to deal with the countless other respectable politicians and news networks that have drifted in and out of the same views? I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about the anti-war MP of our time, condemning civilisation and praising medieval theocracy.

I mentioned earlier that as well being very clever, this man is also very stupid. That is; clever from a conniving point of view, but dumb and dumberer from a personal point of view. A couple of years ago, Ricky Gervais caused a storm on Twitter for using the word “Mong”. It was clear that he was using it in place of the word “Idiot” for comic effect. It was pointed out that some “idiots” were still using “mong” to insult Down’s syndrome. Gervais noticed that enough people had chosen to be offended by it, so he dropped it from his act. At no point did any journalist accuse Ricky of ridiculing Down’s syndrome sufferers; it was simply decided he should drop the word out of sensitivity. Before long though, Gorgeous George had to come steaming in. “What’s this?!" he screamed at the luckless listeners of his radio show, "Ricky Gervais has been insulting Down’s syndrome children?!!!”. This doesn't say much for his supposed gift for insight. Nor does it suggest a talent for discussing morality. 

A hero of mine, Christopher Hitchens, also came under fire. To be fair, the feeling was mutual. Their debate on the Iraq War stands as possibly the greatest of our time. Hitchens, in his calm baritone, regaled the impassioned crowd with Galloway’s accomplishments, including the Oil for Food scandal, his careless anti-war stance, and his fondness for blood-thirsty dictators. George’s repost, however, was much more evocative. He described how Christopher had performed a reverse metamorphosis, from a “butterfly, back into a slug”. I couldn’t help notice the other language too. He explained how his opponent used to “write like an angel but is now working for the devil” and closed with “Damn you!” I really have to bring up the Hitch’s other famous stance here; the fact that angels and devils do not exist. George believes they do, and judging by his debating strategy, this cannot be irrelevant. He was going for every angle of attack, and that is where he made me mad. Who is the greater evil in such a debate? The man who aims to free people from religious ecclesiasticism, or the one who tells secular countries to compromise in the face of theocratic fascism?

I will give his most chilling quote in full before I conclude. It is from the aforementioned debate, and it is regarding the attacks on September 11^th. It goes:

“Some people think those planes flew out of a clear blue sky. I believe they came from a swamp of hatred created by us.”

Are you interested in masochism offered to you by sadists? 

From the most cynical bone in my body, I might suggest that Mr Galloway is nostalgic for the old-school version of his Catholicism and thinks he’s found a fitting replacement in the Middle-East. A slightly less out-there accusation, on the other hand, could be that he is anticipating a losing struggle. As apocalyptic rhetoric rains down upon British streets, as Iran defiantly continues its search for nuclear weapons, as Western policy fails to balance the Middle East: Gorgeous has sorted out his position. I can picture the smoke ridden streets of London and New York, with the new Ayatollah of the world surveying the surviving Infidels. A balding man with a thick Scotch accent raises his head, drops down on his knees, and whispers, “Remember Assad? Hussein? I've really of been on your side all along; and a man like me could be fairly useful round here.”

They listen as they look through his papers. The communist card falls out. Two sighs of resignation are let out. One is George Galloway’s. The other is an even more disappointed Michael Moore. 

Wilko Johnson

The Gig Review

For a year or so now, after brushing up on my British musical history, I have come to the conclusion that if I could go back in time to see any band live, that band would be Dr Feelgood. The chance to see the classic line up of Lee Brilleaux, Wilko Johnson, John B Sparkes, and The Big Figure, perished in 1977 when Johnson departed. The chance to see Feelgood Mk II went with Brilleaux’s death from cancer in 1994.

The next best thing for the fans must surely be the still touring current line-up of the band. They go by the equally catchy names of: Robert, Steve, Phil and Kevin. Basically, the band presented in the Julian Temple documentary Oil City Confidential is a snapshot. The years since ’77 have seen a hyper case of rock ‘n’ roll Darwinism resulting in no original members. Is this really the next best thing? Or is there a troubadour named Wilko Johnson still playing the club circuit to devoted followers up and down the country? Thankfully, yes, there is. 

I caught him at the Tunnels, underneath Bristol Temple Meads station. A little glimmer of what to expect was provided earlier on Later….with Jools.  The newly honed trio (the other two thirds being Blockheads Dylan Howe and Norman Watt-Roy, drums and bass respectively) raced through the calling card 'She Does it Right'. The Whistle Test feel of the show was slightly hampering the raw energy that you see in Wilko’s eyes. I knew I could expect something better in a darkened room.

Before we get to the main event, I must spare some time for the support act: Virgil and the Accelerators. What an unusually entertaining way of killing the time before the band. From the first notes squealed out on the front-man’s strat, we were in Stevie Ray Vaughan territory. This is an incredibly good thing when the guy can play, and, boy, this guy can play. I can’t take anything away from the other two guys, they are a good little rhythm section, but it’s clear the choice to lead with Virgil in the title wasn’t just because it referenced Thunderbirds. There were hints of Hendrix, ZZ Top, Jeff Beck, a touch of Peter Green, and it totally gripped my attention until I remembered where I was. I looked around and immediately knew the crowd were waiting for the short haired inventor of minimalist punk-R&B. This band was a first-rate, hard-edged, blues rock outfit. I would certainly recommend them, just not to this crowd.     

So then, after a drink and chat with the thoroughly charming Accelerators, it was time to return to the show. Seeing Johnson in the flesh is equal, in my mind, to seeing Joe Strummer, Brian Wilson, Van Morrison, Noel Gallagher, etc. He is not only a legendary guitarist, but also blessed with a face that can transfix the audience with a composite of theatre, comedy, and rebellion. As the set begins, I can’t help but grin at the familiarity of it all.

After the urgency of opener 'Down by the Jetty', an early stormer was the electrifying ‘Goin’ Back Home’; a song featuring a winning guitar part that grabs the collars of the rhythm section and drags it along until the brakes kick in. The harmonica is originally the lead instrument in this tune, so there was a noticeable difference to the arrangement. However, Lee Brilleax’s gone and you’re going to have to get used to this feeling if you want to enjoy yourself. Luckily, the hooks in this song are undeniable so you don’t actually feel like you’ve missed much. The Howling Wolf-esque vocals aren’t present these days as Wilko has taken over vocal duties full-time. Limited as they are, they still fit amongst the sonic construct as his voice was always in the mix; only usually as backing and occasional lead.     

Before too much time had passed, so had highlights such as 'Sneakin' Suspicion', 'You Shouldn't Call the Doctor' and 'Back in the Night'. Hearing each of these lined up alongside each other was an almost academic study in how to write infectious riffs. They aren’t Zeppelin complex, or Townsend melodic. It’s more like the kind of thing a guitarist thinks of while he’s trying to reach for more; and then forgets he had a good rhythm part all along. That may sound like a minor achievement, but very few composers know where that point is. Wilko has that ability in so much abundance that it has held him back when progression was requested of him. Time passes though, history judges, and no one would be foolish enough now to demand anymore from this back-catalogue. Another pleasure is to see those Muppet like eyebrows reaching for the rafters as he stiffens his neck like a general. That’s a moment you will not grow tired of however many times you see him play.

Casting your eyes to the other side of the stage reveals the iconic under-bite of Norman Watt-Roy: the bass genius behind the other pre-punk legends ‘Ian Dury and the Blockheads’. He’s a virtuoso jazz player at heart, but for some reason he can play these songs without reigning himself in. The look on his face is also priceless, eyes dancing and lips pouting as he realises how good he is. Not since Entwistle has a bassist successfully put that many notes inside a simple twelve-bar. His little moments of glory are firmly tongue-in-cheek, but if it wasn’t for Wilko’s puzzled, pantomime gaze you would only be in awe of the creativity.

Current Blockhead drummer Dylan Howe supplied the beats. He’s another session man with serious chops and clearly has perfected the relationship between himself and Watt-Roy. It has obviously been honed to such an extent that he only needs to watch Johnson for cues, tempo changes, and shifts in energy. His eyes didn’t move once from the darting figure in front of him, and it was very clear that he was the glue that held together this band of pirates.

There was a moment mid-set in which a local vocalist/harp player was introduced to the stage. They proceeded to run through a storming version of Roxette, with Brilleaux-esque harmonica, if not vocals. It was a nice moment, Wilko’s most famous riff cutting through as if he double tracked his Telecaster while strumming with a two-pound coin. It only lasted two songs though, and I feel like this was a wise decision. While it may have provided a twinge of nostalgia to those who chose to squint their eyes, it was rather like seeing a tribute to Dr Feelgood, and took away from the fact that this was a Wilko Johnson gig.

Before I knew it, Watt-Roy was removing his bass from around his neck, Howe rose from his stool, and Johnson was machine gunning the crowd. In other words, the set was over and it was time for the audience to give the applause that demands re-emergence. The band had a nice break of about 7 seconds before coming back to play us out. The encore was the Chuck Berry song ‘Bye Bye Johnny’. Wilko’s version pulled it even closer to its musical cousin ‘Johnny B Goode’; the tune that closed Feelgood’s masterpiece ‘Stupidity’. After that though, it was really over.

As I wrote earlier, just seeing Wilko in the flesh was special enough for me. What a bonus it is that he can still put on a good pub rock show. After all, that is a genre in which he has no equal. 

The Hand and Flowers

The restaurant review

For a fan of the program The Great British Menu, a visit to Tom Kerridge’s pub is the stuff of dreams. The big man has won two main courses, two series in a row. Not only this, he also came across as the only contestant you would invite out for a few jars of Barnstormer. His restaurant is the only pub in the world to be awarded two Michelin stars. When you equal Raymond Blanc star-wise, you can expect to be taken seriously. Even if you are a perpetually smiling man from the west-country, and built like the bear in the big blue house. Not only this, but the online menu reads like a shopping list of ingredients you crave once you finish watching Masterchef and realise you need to settle for tuna pasta bake.    

 We arrived at the Hand and Flowers at 7pm, already in a pleasant mood from the charming surroundings provided by Marlow. The pub itself is an unassuming little joint slightly away from the high street. Pleasant of course, as an impeccably turned out British pub will always be, but also whiffing of quality (partly down to the awards that fight for wall space outside). A birthday card greeted my dining partner Helen on arrival. It was her birthday, but how they knew was another matter. The atmosphere was great. A couple of recent reviews had complained about the clientèle the place attracts; either two rowdy for a restaurant or two stuffy for a boozer. I guess we got lucky, sensing freedom of volume, and minimal hooligans. The room itself was furnished nicely, possessing the unmistakable essence of the public houses of old. One noticed a local perched at the bar; only instead of nibbling on scampi fries he was enjoying a bowl of the most famous chips in Buckinghamshire.

After immediately ordering a bottle of Pinot Noir, and a pint of beer, the waiter (who was to prove himself almost slave-like in the hour to come) presented us with a board of rather fine sliced white and brown with seasoned butter. There was also a dainty cone of Whitebait, mercilessly free of any throat scraping bones, inserted into the customised bread board. What a nice thought? Especially for a bait-lover like myself. 

I ordered the Crispy Pigs Head with Artichokes and Pancetta. It was essentially what I had expected from Mr Kerridge; and I kind of knew it would be. Slowly cooked head meat, meticulously removed and woven together inside a cube of breadcrumbs. The result was a little crisp die of salty pork flesh: doubling up as a stand for a wand of brittle crackling. It was served with the artichoke garnish and a little nugget of black pudding which was a welcome note. I suppose if my jaded palate noticed the salt then others may cringe, but if you don’t like salt then don’t order pig’s head. Highly satisfying overall, and I imagine many would agree.


Helen had the Braised Pearl Barley with Smoked Poultry and Foie Gras. From what was immediately visable, there was a bed of the titular pearl barley with what looked like a sizable chunk of chicken breast, accompanied by a modest piece of the controversial goose liver. Once we realised the reverse was true, both of our moods improved (I was secretly expecting a forkful). The dish was a very generous piece of crowd pleasing. It was what so much good food is: three elements simply prepared with thought and intelligence.

After the promising opening we were rather looking forward to our mains. We had made a deal that one of us would order the Slow Cooked Duck Breast with Savoy Cabbage, Duck Fat Chips and Gravy. It was a champion on the aforementioned Great British Menu, and the chips were a mainstay of any potential order from us. Unfortunately they are only available with the duck dish, and not as a side. However, standard chips are on the side menu so we sought to compare both and promptly ordered both. I got lucky with the main, but Helen had previously been eyeing up the Whole Lemon Sole with Fine Herb, Smoked Puy Lentils, Bacon, Pistachio and Swiss Chard, so I didn’t feel too guilty when she was left with this as her top choice.

As far as I could tell, the duck breast had been rendered, slow cooked, pan-fried, brushed with a sweet glaze, and finally served on a wooden board alongside two pots of side dishes, and a gravy jug. The result was a very tender breast, with all the effects of those cooking techniques ringing through every mouthful. Again, they are liberal with salt in there, but it is little crunches of sea-salt; nothing from the same planet as your ready meals. I poured a little of the gravy into the pot containing savoy cabbage and realised it was also riddled with scraps of crisp skin. I noticed more of the bird had been used to make a little meatball, or perhaps a faggot, which was clearly offal heavy and considerably up my street. The last of the duck (the fat) was used to fry the chips. I would not trust Oscar Wilde to describe these in any better way as: the greatest chips ever. This is a filling main course, a whole duck breast with trimmings. Perhaps the faint of heart should opt for my partner's choice.  

Helen’s lemon sole was presented as very much the centre point of the dish. I was hoping it would, recalling Rick Stein’s sadness when he was told: ‘you’ll never get a Michelin Star for grilling a fish’. It was nice to see some counter evidence. The flesh flaked apart effortlessly, and the quality of the fish itself meant the flavour survived the smoke in the bacon and lentils. The side order of chips was incredible too; maybe the second best portion ever. Again, it was a decent size plate, and made us feel rather stupid for forking out for a side of vegetables. The portion control (ours’ not theirs’) was leaving us in a dilemma. We soon found ourselves contemplating finishing after two courses. A little sip of wine makes all things better though, and before we knew it we had ordered Tonka Bean Panna Cotta, with Poached Rhubarb, Ginger Wine Jelly and Rhubarb Sorbet, and the Passion Fruit Soufflé with Kaffir Lime Ice Cream and Warm Toffee .

They soufflé greeted Helen as though it was trying to escape, it had risen so successfully. The colour was fresh and light, which proved to be a forecast for the flavour and texture respectively. Once the initial burst of passion fruit had fled the taste-buds, the lingering feel of candy floss was still delivering a tingle. This may sound like it was overly sweet, but that’s the failure of my language, and perhaps you can just about imagine what I mean.

My dish of the panna cotta arrived looking like a small work of art. So many colours competing, and ultimately conspiring to produce a Gainsborough-esque sensation for the eyes. Reds and pinks can be very evocative when you know they are caused by the inclusion of rhubarb. Feeling fairly full when I ordered it, I had really thought of a rhubarb dessert as also serving as a bit of a palate cleanser, but that is being very mean. Each mouthful was an explosion of different combinations of freshness. Texture was supplied by little crunches of meringue and honeycomb. The meringues were a welcome interruption to the softness of the rest of things, but the honeycomb was one flavour too far in my view. Everything was so harmoniously sweet and fresh, that a bitter piece of crunchy was a bit like being nudged everytime I took a mouthful. That really is a minor criticism though; some people like honeycomb.

A rave review is hardly ground breaking for a two-star restaurant, but this is more than that really. It’s a two-star pub, in England, with a lovely bloke behind the stove and quality service. All that for £150 including: service, wine, two beers, and some unnecessary side dishes. Come on, treat yourself!

The Hand and Flowers,

126 West Street  Marlow, Buckinghamshire SL7 2BP
01628 482277