All you guitarists out there, I spent hours working out "Do Angels Cry" by Lynden David Hall from scratch. It wasn't, and still isn't, to my knowledge, anywhere else on the internet...sacrilege.
Here's the link : go try and learn it, message me for any questions.
Also, do me a favour and even if you decide against learning it, go there and rate it. A meaningless, yet fitting reward for my finger picking skills.
http://www.ultimate-guitar.com/tabs/l/lynden_david_hall/do_angels_cry_tab.htm
Thursday 26 November 2009
Book Club: The Quiet American
James Cox reviews “The Quiet American” By Graham Greene
Greene's work is a master-class in how to write morality and his 1955 novel “The Quiet American” is a perfect example of this.
His characters display a sense of ethical realism and ambivalent character traits that help to destroy the readers’ sense of good and evil and display both an intimate observation of human interaction and a macro-cosmic epic on a geopolitical scale.
The story takes place in Saigon in the early 1950’s towards the end of the first Indo-China dispute that would escalate into the Vietnam War until 1973.
Protagonist Thomas Fowler is a veteran, English journalist who reports events devoid of opinion or political persuasion. He is Green’s vision of Englishness: logical, calculated, and cynically realistic. Fowler inhabits the kind of purgatory in which Greene thrives. He is at the end of life, and just as he refuses to side with either faction in the war, he too has found a level of comfort in his job and his personal life.
His Vietnamese lover, Phuong, is a purveyor of balance and harmony. She is portrayed sympathetically by Greene as a free spirit who exists unencumbered by any symbolic weight outside of Fowler’s journalistic, narrative ego. She prepares his opium pipes and is an object of desire, but rather than be demoted to a two-dimensional plot device devoid of any personal, or intelligible thought, she emerges as a mystery, a foreign body immersed in a culture neither Fowler, nor Greene, wishes to divulge.
“Sometimes she seemed invisible like peace.”
The equilibrium is destroyed when Fowler becomes acquainted with the eponymous “Quiet American” Alden Pyle who is in the country on an Economic Aid mission, and whose boyish naivety and democratic righteousness represent Greene's own observations of Americans during his time serving in Saigon. Pyle is a fervent advocator of imperialist writer York Harding and his steadfast loyalty to Harding’s writing paints him as a fundamentalist whose idea of establishing Americas democratic structure in Vietnam appear higher on his agenda than establishing peace.
Pyle’s allegiance to Harding’s literature arouses suspicion in Fowler that he may be involved in a mysterious “Third Force” operation through which the U.S. are promoting rebel leader Minh Thé as a potential ruler of Vietnam by initiating devastating bombings which are then used as anti Communist propaganda.
It is this subplot of political deviancy that has earned Greene's novel the label: “prophetic”. By the time “The Quiet American” was published in 1955 Americas “Third Force” had actually installed a puppet dictator in Saigon in the form of brutal leader Ngo Dinh Diem. Indeed, Green had met an enthusiastic member of the Economic Aid mission whilst serving in Saigon who had sermonized the benefits of a Third Force democracy – a character template for Alden Pyle.
In a fantastic example of Greene’s ability to digress between the ‘big picture’ and a much more intimate study of the human condition, Pyle’s political dissidence soon becomes personal when he announces to Fowler that he is in love with Phuong.
This can be seen as Greene’s way of drawing parallels between Pyle’s conduct and America’s overall policies in Vietnam, but I also believe the honest and touching depiction of love, and its different interpretations, are a main narrative focus for Greene, who handles the subject matter sensitively and artistically.
On one hand we have Pyle who has a projected image of Phuong as the ‘Eastern beauty’, his love encapsulated in a romanticised memory of her dancing in a white gown. He sees her through the naïve eyes of a man who has spent very little time in her home nation. He has the money to marry her and satisfy her desire to see America, and this meets to great approval with her over controlling sister.
Fowler, however, loves Phuong as a man at the end of life. Despite living in a time of seemingly endless war, they have found each other and he is reluctant to let her go. His fear of loneliness and Pyle’s colonial intentions highlight “The Quiet American’s” Jungian subtext – that of personal desires and motivations that drive the plot.
Fowler displays a desire to protect Phuong from Pyle’s “idea” of her, realising that with him she will no longer be able to function as a free spirit, but as an American’s trophy.
“The hurt is in the act of possession: we are too small in mind and body to possess another person without pride, or to be possessed without humiliation.”
Fowler is unable to marry Phuong as he is still married, and in one heart stopping section, receives a letter in answer to his request for divorce, proving again, that Greene can create suspense on a very personal level, as well as the political and theological issues for which he is usually credited.
Greene converted to Catholicism in 1926 in order to marry, earning him the self-rejected title of “the Catholic novelist”.
By the time of “The Quiet American” the thick ethical boundaries imposed by his Catholic discipline had faded to a grey area of personal motivation, and his struggle with his faith spills onto the page. In Greene we have an adulterer, a man who played Russian roulette as a youth, yet who has earned a legacy as a Catholic thinker. Just as Fowler gravely miscasts Alden Pyle as a Quiet American, the irony of Greene himself screams out here in theological debate:
“If I believed in any God at all, I should still hate the idea of confession. Kneeling in one of your boxes. Exposing myself to another man. You must excuse me, Father, but to me it seems morbid – unmanly even.”
“The Quiet American” is a success on all levels, portraying a touching and astute observation of interpersonal turmoil and love (and the loss of) as well as being chillingly poignant prophecy of America’s imperialistic intentions in Vietnam which will leave potent images of the recent, chaotic events in Afghanistan and Iraq firmly in the readers’ awareness.
Greene's work is a master-class in how to write morality and his 1955 novel “The Quiet American” is a perfect example of this.
His characters display a sense of ethical realism and ambivalent character traits that help to destroy the readers’ sense of good and evil and display both an intimate observation of human interaction and a macro-cosmic epic on a geopolitical scale.
The story takes place in Saigon in the early 1950’s towards the end of the first Indo-China dispute that would escalate into the Vietnam War until 1973.
Protagonist Thomas Fowler is a veteran, English journalist who reports events devoid of opinion or political persuasion. He is Green’s vision of Englishness: logical, calculated, and cynically realistic. Fowler inhabits the kind of purgatory in which Greene thrives. He is at the end of life, and just as he refuses to side with either faction in the war, he too has found a level of comfort in his job and his personal life.
His Vietnamese lover, Phuong, is a purveyor of balance and harmony. She is portrayed sympathetically by Greene as a free spirit who exists unencumbered by any symbolic weight outside of Fowler’s journalistic, narrative ego. She prepares his opium pipes and is an object of desire, but rather than be demoted to a two-dimensional plot device devoid of any personal, or intelligible thought, she emerges as a mystery, a foreign body immersed in a culture neither Fowler, nor Greene, wishes to divulge.
“Sometimes she seemed invisible like peace.”
The equilibrium is destroyed when Fowler becomes acquainted with the eponymous “Quiet American” Alden Pyle who is in the country on an Economic Aid mission, and whose boyish naivety and democratic righteousness represent Greene's own observations of Americans during his time serving in Saigon. Pyle is a fervent advocator of imperialist writer York Harding and his steadfast loyalty to Harding’s writing paints him as a fundamentalist whose idea of establishing Americas democratic structure in Vietnam appear higher on his agenda than establishing peace.
Pyle’s allegiance to Harding’s literature arouses suspicion in Fowler that he may be involved in a mysterious “Third Force” operation through which the U.S. are promoting rebel leader Minh Thé as a potential ruler of Vietnam by initiating devastating bombings which are then used as anti Communist propaganda.
It is this subplot of political deviancy that has earned Greene's novel the label: “prophetic”. By the time “The Quiet American” was published in 1955 Americas “Third Force” had actually installed a puppet dictator in Saigon in the form of brutal leader Ngo Dinh Diem. Indeed, Green had met an enthusiastic member of the Economic Aid mission whilst serving in Saigon who had sermonized the benefits of a Third Force democracy – a character template for Alden Pyle.
In a fantastic example of Greene’s ability to digress between the ‘big picture’ and a much more intimate study of the human condition, Pyle’s political dissidence soon becomes personal when he announces to Fowler that he is in love with Phuong.
This can be seen as Greene’s way of drawing parallels between Pyle’s conduct and America’s overall policies in Vietnam, but I also believe the honest and touching depiction of love, and its different interpretations, are a main narrative focus for Greene, who handles the subject matter sensitively and artistically.
On one hand we have Pyle who has a projected image of Phuong as the ‘Eastern beauty’, his love encapsulated in a romanticised memory of her dancing in a white gown. He sees her through the naïve eyes of a man who has spent very little time in her home nation. He has the money to marry her and satisfy her desire to see America, and this meets to great approval with her over controlling sister.
Fowler, however, loves Phuong as a man at the end of life. Despite living in a time of seemingly endless war, they have found each other and he is reluctant to let her go. His fear of loneliness and Pyle’s colonial intentions highlight “The Quiet American’s” Jungian subtext – that of personal desires and motivations that drive the plot.
Fowler displays a desire to protect Phuong from Pyle’s “idea” of her, realising that with him she will no longer be able to function as a free spirit, but as an American’s trophy.
“The hurt is in the act of possession: we are too small in mind and body to possess another person without pride, or to be possessed without humiliation.”
Fowler is unable to marry Phuong as he is still married, and in one heart stopping section, receives a letter in answer to his request for divorce, proving again, that Greene can create suspense on a very personal level, as well as the political and theological issues for which he is usually credited.
Greene converted to Catholicism in 1926 in order to marry, earning him the self-rejected title of “the Catholic novelist”.
By the time of “The Quiet American” the thick ethical boundaries imposed by his Catholic discipline had faded to a grey area of personal motivation, and his struggle with his faith spills onto the page. In Greene we have an adulterer, a man who played Russian roulette as a youth, yet who has earned a legacy as a Catholic thinker. Just as Fowler gravely miscasts Alden Pyle as a Quiet American, the irony of Greene himself screams out here in theological debate:
“If I believed in any God at all, I should still hate the idea of confession. Kneeling in one of your boxes. Exposing myself to another man. You must excuse me, Father, but to me it seems morbid – unmanly even.”
“The Quiet American” is a success on all levels, portraying a touching and astute observation of interpersonal turmoil and love (and the loss of) as well as being chillingly poignant prophecy of America’s imperialistic intentions in Vietnam which will leave potent images of the recent, chaotic events in Afghanistan and Iraq firmly in the readers’ awareness.
Best Man
Being a best man is a bit like being called up for the army.
A great honour, but scary as hell.
I was chuffed to bits by being asked to join my good friend Samir, and his wife-to-be, Frances, at the alter, but almost instantly the fear of the dreaded speech set in. I had well in advance of a year to write the thing, but suddenly, it seemed like the most oppressive deadline I had ever encountered.
I must admit, I fell short in arranging his stag. Mercifully, Samir picked up the pieces himself, and I vowed to make the speech memorable, romantic, funny and poignant. 10 seconds after this claim, I realised I had set myself up for a catastrophe.
The night came and I was shaking like the proverbial leaf.
Then the most amazing thing happened. I delivered the speech. People laughed. Some even cried. I got rapturous applause and my usually unforgiving mates gave me plaudits enough to make a porn star blush.
I'm sure wedding audiences are kind, and sure also that my memory is providing a Hollywood sheen to a semi successful piece of public oration, but it is a moment I am extremely proud of, and one that seemed to genuinely add to the couples day.
Even if, a year later, I did forget their 1st anniversary...whoops!
Below is my speech in full (minus a few ad lib embellishments). Feel free to plagiarise:
Thank you that was overwhelming…
Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, my name is James and I’m deeply honoured to stand here as the best man this afternoon.
Let me first say how beautiful the bridesmaids look today, only rightly outshone by our bride, Frances. And, I'm sure you'll agree with me fellas, today is a sad day for single men everywhere as another beauty leaves the available list. And ladies, I’m sure you’ll agree…that today's passing by without much of a ripple.
I’m very flattered to be best man but I’m finding this speech very difficult. It involves public speaking and saying nice things about Samir and I’m really not used to doing either, so please do bear with me.
And also because like all good friendships, the majority of our stories aren’t really suitable for public functions.
Up until now, there hasn’t been much I’ve envied Samir for. After all a beer belly and a camp run are not high on my wish list. But standing here today on this beautiful occasion, surrounded by family and friends and the way these two look at each other, it is hard not to be a little bit jealous. Also, I wanted to hold the cane! But no…
When Samir started talking about this girl called Frances who he had this amazing affinity with I thought “How will he muck it up this time?”
Thankfully he didn’t and has convinced Frances to marry him in what can only be described as a ‘shock victory’.
Previously our friendship was forged through our love of music, our passion for terrible action movies, but most importantly…our failure with women. Of course, our conversations on this subject have suffered since Samir met his lovely wife and I‘ve had to feign an interest in motorbikes to dispell the awkward silences. Frances has genuinely changed his life for the better, and managed to convert a hopeless bachelor into a hopeless husband. She has not only managed to cure his distrust of women but also instil an interest in curtains. There’s nothing more tragic than a grown man in Habitat!
I’ve been best friends with Samir since we met on a job induction weekend for Reebok. I sat in front of him on the coach for a three hour slog to Bolton whilst he played air guitar to the Stereophonics the entire trip. I thought “this guys an idiot.”
Over time he proved me right, many times. But we also realised we were as useless as each other when it came to the ladies and after many years he has become my wingman. The Apollo Creed to my Rocky, the Turk to my J.D. He’s always the first one there to celebrate our good times and to offer advice and pull me through the low times and if I’m totally honest, he is the real ‘best man’ here today.
That said, he IS all too willing to dress in women’s clothing. There was his stag where he looked liked a middle Eastern Norman Bates. But there was also a party we attended a few years back where, after a few drinks, he swapped clothes with a gay American drag queen called Michael. I’m not sure what gave Michael the wrong impression, but as Samir slipped out of his pleated mini skirt and handed him back his sequinned boob tube, Michael, convinced he was on to a winner turned to him and said “Do you like to play with boys?” Samir insists nothing happened but I still say it doesn’t take half an hour to put some jeans on.
With his patchwork heritage consisting of Arabic roots, his Scottish birthplace, and his Catholic upbringing, Samir has should have the culture, the education, the civility of three men. Instead he has the appetite of three men.
He is the only person I’ve ever met who views eat all you can buffets as a competitive sport. And if Frances wants to make it through this fraught, financial winter she might consider investing in locks for cupboards.
About 70% of Samir’s personality has been formed by Sylvester Stallone movies and
we once met the man himself. Baring in mind this is his all time hero, Samir did not handle himself with grace and poise. He opted instead to dress as Rocky and refer to Sylvester AS Rocky. I will never forget Sylvester staring back in a mixture of confusion and sheer disappointment.
But despite the macho exterior, he does have a softer side. Most of which we were exposed to over the stag weekend.
But he is, also the proud father of two…two house rabbits, of course named Rocky and Rambo.
27 and bunny whipped! What a shame.
It can’t be easy for Frances constantly clearing up after hairy beasts who soil their bedding and munch through everything….you can insert your own joke there.
I have noticed that the rabbits are fast taking on attributes of their master.
They get crabby around meal times, they smell bad and they’re rubbish on the guitar.
Samir has so far written a handful of songs, mostly about bodily fluids.
We can only pray he hasn't chosen "PMT" for his first dance.
They say that the best mans speech is the worst 5 minutes of the grooms day, but fortunately for you Samir it's almost over. Unfortunately, Frances, your worst five minutes will probably come later on.
On a more serious note I am so privileged to be up here along side my best friend as he marries someone who I love just as much. I think Samir and Frances are the type of friends who will always be there when you need them. And together they’re worth more than anything I could put in words.
I’d like to thank the brides family and Mr and Mrs Katcherian for making today possible.
Samir, I’d like to thank you for affording me this privilege, for trusting me with a speech and not sacking me when I lost us the go-karting.
It’s going to be difficult to share your affections with Frances but we’ll pull through.
Frances, good luck! Look after him for me, and maybe loan me him back so we can play squash every now and then. He’s a better man for you being around him and I’m happy you have both found the kind of real love that makes an event like this as beautiful and important as it should be.
So please, can everyone be upstanding and raise your glass to the newly-weds.
Samir and Frances.
A great honour, but scary as hell.
I was chuffed to bits by being asked to join my good friend Samir, and his wife-to-be, Frances, at the alter, but almost instantly the fear of the dreaded speech set in. I had well in advance of a year to write the thing, but suddenly, it seemed like the most oppressive deadline I had ever encountered.
I must admit, I fell short in arranging his stag. Mercifully, Samir picked up the pieces himself, and I vowed to make the speech memorable, romantic, funny and poignant. 10 seconds after this claim, I realised I had set myself up for a catastrophe.
The night came and I was shaking like the proverbial leaf.
Then the most amazing thing happened. I delivered the speech. People laughed. Some even cried. I got rapturous applause and my usually unforgiving mates gave me plaudits enough to make a porn star blush.
I'm sure wedding audiences are kind, and sure also that my memory is providing a Hollywood sheen to a semi successful piece of public oration, but it is a moment I am extremely proud of, and one that seemed to genuinely add to the couples day.
Even if, a year later, I did forget their 1st anniversary...whoops!
Below is my speech in full (minus a few ad lib embellishments). Feel free to plagiarise:
Thank you that was overwhelming…
Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, my name is James and I’m deeply honoured to stand here as the best man this afternoon.
Let me first say how beautiful the bridesmaids look today, only rightly outshone by our bride, Frances. And, I'm sure you'll agree with me fellas, today is a sad day for single men everywhere as another beauty leaves the available list. And ladies, I’m sure you’ll agree…that today's passing by without much of a ripple.
I’m very flattered to be best man but I’m finding this speech very difficult. It involves public speaking and saying nice things about Samir and I’m really not used to doing either, so please do bear with me.
And also because like all good friendships, the majority of our stories aren’t really suitable for public functions.
Up until now, there hasn’t been much I’ve envied Samir for. After all a beer belly and a camp run are not high on my wish list. But standing here today on this beautiful occasion, surrounded by family and friends and the way these two look at each other, it is hard not to be a little bit jealous. Also, I wanted to hold the cane! But no…
When Samir started talking about this girl called Frances who he had this amazing affinity with I thought “How will he muck it up this time?”
Thankfully he didn’t and has convinced Frances to marry him in what can only be described as a ‘shock victory’.
Previously our friendship was forged through our love of music, our passion for terrible action movies, but most importantly…our failure with women. Of course, our conversations on this subject have suffered since Samir met his lovely wife and I‘ve had to feign an interest in motorbikes to dispell the awkward silences. Frances has genuinely changed his life for the better, and managed to convert a hopeless bachelor into a hopeless husband. She has not only managed to cure his distrust of women but also instil an interest in curtains. There’s nothing more tragic than a grown man in Habitat!
I’ve been best friends with Samir since we met on a job induction weekend for Reebok. I sat in front of him on the coach for a three hour slog to Bolton whilst he played air guitar to the Stereophonics the entire trip. I thought “this guys an idiot.”
Over time he proved me right, many times. But we also realised we were as useless as each other when it came to the ladies and after many years he has become my wingman. The Apollo Creed to my Rocky, the Turk to my J.D. He’s always the first one there to celebrate our good times and to offer advice and pull me through the low times and if I’m totally honest, he is the real ‘best man’ here today.
That said, he IS all too willing to dress in women’s clothing. There was his stag where he looked liked a middle Eastern Norman Bates. But there was also a party we attended a few years back where, after a few drinks, he swapped clothes with a gay American drag queen called Michael. I’m not sure what gave Michael the wrong impression, but as Samir slipped out of his pleated mini skirt and handed him back his sequinned boob tube, Michael, convinced he was on to a winner turned to him and said “Do you like to play with boys?” Samir insists nothing happened but I still say it doesn’t take half an hour to put some jeans on.
With his patchwork heritage consisting of Arabic roots, his Scottish birthplace, and his Catholic upbringing, Samir has should have the culture, the education, the civility of three men. Instead he has the appetite of three men.
He is the only person I’ve ever met who views eat all you can buffets as a competitive sport. And if Frances wants to make it through this fraught, financial winter she might consider investing in locks for cupboards.
About 70% of Samir’s personality has been formed by Sylvester Stallone movies and
we once met the man himself. Baring in mind this is his all time hero, Samir did not handle himself with grace and poise. He opted instead to dress as Rocky and refer to Sylvester AS Rocky. I will never forget Sylvester staring back in a mixture of confusion and sheer disappointment.
But despite the macho exterior, he does have a softer side. Most of which we were exposed to over the stag weekend.
But he is, also the proud father of two…two house rabbits, of course named Rocky and Rambo.
27 and bunny whipped! What a shame.
It can’t be easy for Frances constantly clearing up after hairy beasts who soil their bedding and munch through everything….you can insert your own joke there.
I have noticed that the rabbits are fast taking on attributes of their master.
They get crabby around meal times, they smell bad and they’re rubbish on the guitar.
Samir has so far written a handful of songs, mostly about bodily fluids.
We can only pray he hasn't chosen "PMT" for his first dance.
They say that the best mans speech is the worst 5 minutes of the grooms day, but fortunately for you Samir it's almost over. Unfortunately, Frances, your worst five minutes will probably come later on.
On a more serious note I am so privileged to be up here along side my best friend as he marries someone who I love just as much. I think Samir and Frances are the type of friends who will always be there when you need them. And together they’re worth more than anything I could put in words.
I’d like to thank the brides family and Mr and Mrs Katcherian for making today possible.
Samir, I’d like to thank you for affording me this privilege, for trusting me with a speech and not sacking me when I lost us the go-karting.
It’s going to be difficult to share your affections with Frances but we’ll pull through.
Frances, good luck! Look after him for me, and maybe loan me him back so we can play squash every now and then. He’s a better man for you being around him and I’m happy you have both found the kind of real love that makes an event like this as beautiful and important as it should be.
So please, can everyone be upstanding and raise your glass to the newly-weds.
Samir and Frances.
BAND review: Smoke Fairies – Chichester duo ‘wing’ it in style.
Smoke Fairies – Chichester duo ‘wing’ it in style.
James Cox
Half way into their signature tune “Catching leaves” you start to get a hint of deep-South bluegrass about the Smoke Fairies.
This is bizarre considering the smoky vocals, atmospheric harmonies and steam train guitar rhythms, that would lend them selves to anything written by Mark Twain, contrast uncomfortably with their creators, two porcelain faced nymphets from humble Chichester, West Sussex.
It could be the time out the Fairies took whilst at University, where they performed around New Orleans, eventually hopping the greyhound to New York, but the Fairies’ sound defies their origins and their age (both Katherine and Jessica are 22 years old).
Their style lingers somewhere, mysteriously between Nickel Creek and Beth Orton, from the skiffle enduced “I’m so lonely” to the melancholic “I’ll move on”, the sounds are so refreshing and new (yet so old). Close your eyes and listen to “Smoke filled room”, you could be riding a tug down the Mississippi.
But these girls are not a cliché. Mixing mysticism with brooding sentimentality for another place, you’ll be so captivated the pure ambition of the vocal arrangements and the hypnotic melodies that when you stumble from your bar stool onto a damp London high street you’ll question whether you’ve just stepped through the looking glass.
Highly original and hauntingly delicate, Smoke Fairies web site is at: www.smokefairies.com and future gigs include:
James Cox
Half way into their signature tune “Catching leaves” you start to get a hint of deep-South bluegrass about the Smoke Fairies.
This is bizarre considering the smoky vocals, atmospheric harmonies and steam train guitar rhythms, that would lend them selves to anything written by Mark Twain, contrast uncomfortably with their creators, two porcelain faced nymphets from humble Chichester, West Sussex.
It could be the time out the Fairies took whilst at University, where they performed around New Orleans, eventually hopping the greyhound to New York, but the Fairies’ sound defies their origins and their age (both Katherine and Jessica are 22 years old).
Their style lingers somewhere, mysteriously between Nickel Creek and Beth Orton, from the skiffle enduced “I’m so lonely” to the melancholic “I’ll move on”, the sounds are so refreshing and new (yet so old). Close your eyes and listen to “Smoke filled room”, you could be riding a tug down the Mississippi.
But these girls are not a cliché. Mixing mysticism with brooding sentimentality for another place, you’ll be so captivated the pure ambition of the vocal arrangements and the hypnotic melodies that when you stumble from your bar stool onto a damp London high street you’ll question whether you’ve just stepped through the looking glass.
Highly original and hauntingly delicate, Smoke Fairies web site is at: www.smokefairies.com and future gigs include:
British Muslims battle for identity, with little help from the Media. A feature...
Young British Muslims face an identity crisis. Somewhere between the Amir Kahn’s and the Abu Hamza’s lies the slim definition of moderate Islam. We investigate what it means to be a 20-something Muslim in modern Britain, and why many of them are stuck between Iraq and a hard place! By James Cox.
It’s difficult not to feel overwhelmed by the temperate hot-potato that is modern Islam, a faith attracting the kind of publicity that can define a generation.
Even our language has adapted to the climate: Terror, Guantanamo, Shari-ah, Jihad.
A tabloid goldmine of slogans keeping the middle-Brits awake at night, and with one eye on their neighbour.
From the controversial war in Iraq to the terrorist attacks and hate peddling preachers on our own doorstep, we all take a different look at Islam, and we have a new pin-up for ‘evil’.
But, from the ashes of the media hoopla, emerges a generation of people for whom the rules aren’t so clear. For British Muslims in their teens and early twenties, it’s difficult to know how to please everyone.
Here in the West: home of the disassociated youth, birthplace of the teenager, the dynamic of youth is very different from the moralistic ideals involved in a religious upbringing. For a teenager in Britain, the liberal expression of sexuality and the lure of alcohol seem to be as ingrained in our culture as the importance of abstinence in Islam.
Strangely, British boxing champ Amir Kahn, a twenty-something Muslim in the throes of a glittering career has had no problems winning over the public. Khan said he won his world title for Britain, the Pakistani community, and all Muslims. His public persona and his allegiance to his culture are inseparable, tethered together by his public allusions to it. Khan then was Britain's sole representative in boxing at the 2004 Athens Olympics, winning a silver medal at the age of 17 in the lightweight boxing category. He lost in the final to Mario Kindelan, the Cuban who, in 2005, he avenged the two losses by beating the 34 year old Kindelan in his last amateur fight.
Away from boxing he was involved in a TV programme for Channel 4, Amir Khan's Angry Young Men. The programme centred around troubled angry men and aimed to use the disciplines of boxing, coupled with faith and family values, to help re-focus their lives and steer them away from trouble in the future. He is a rare beacon of positivity in the muddied view of modern Islamic Britons, and even a spell of high profile driving offences, and defeat in the ring, have failed to dampen his popularity.
But even with his clean cut regime and success as a role model, Khan has received criticism from extreme Islamic quarters.
In 2008 Radical cleric Omar Bakri Mohammad was quoted in the Daily Mail saying: 'Amir Khan is not a good example for Muslims. He wears shorts with the Union Jack. That is a sin...He should not be wearing the flag because sovereignty is for God. His only allegiance should be to the Prophet Mohammed.'
But even this theological criticism was denounced by Inayat Bunglawala, the assistant secretary general to the Muslim Council of Britain, who pronounced Khan a proud role model.
Whilst Amir Kahn’s own self restraint may be aided (or even initiated) by the necessity for him to be in peak physical condition, does the average person in his demographic make choices on the back of their beliefs or upbringing?
Dee, a 24 year-old student born in Kuwait but raised in London is living proof of the identity crisis.
She is, all at once, a Muslim, a Briton, an Arab and a twenty-something – a colourful heritage made all the more troubling by the current climate.
“I feel incredibly pressured by these two opposing ideals,” says Dee, visibly troubled by her core dilemma. She is dressed in high street fashions, far from the robed extremists and scripture spouting images our media is saturated with.
“I have been raised in a Muslim family, but it is rooted in modern Britain. My parents have never threatened my education, or shielded me from other cultures. I was even educated at a Catholic school. Choices in life come from an individual. You learn things as you grow and interpret teachings in different ways. The choices should come from the individual not a misinterpreted scripture, or societies version of you. It’s a shame the way the media misrepresents modern Muslims. It makes my position even more difficult.”
Indeed, the cultural void imposed upon young Muslims seems married to the way in which we perceive them, and this seems to be the crux of the matter.
The majority of British Muslims come from Indian families, lending a specific weight to how we define what a “Muslim” is. This definition seems flawed when you consider the spectrum of cultures and degrees of belief within the faith.
There is considerable diversity, for example, between Sudanese and Kuwaiti practices.
The faith itself has become co-joined with a culture that exists only as a stereotype.
A faceless foreigner, an alien invader whose ways and customs do not appear to as unilaterally European as we would like.
Dee seems exasperated by this idea that we can define her as a Muslim.
As in any religion around the world some beliefs and practices are shared by all Muslims. Beyond these core elements however, the variations become immense.
“Some Muslims drink, some see pray, some don’t, some enter relationships with non-Muslims, some accept parts of the Qur’an and discard others. Just as some Christians accept homosexuality and the more extreme don’t. How can it not be viewed the same for Islam?
“It is essentially the same as saying you can’t be a Christian if you have had sex before marriage to suggest you can’t be a Muslim and drink.”
In fact it was Arab chemists who discovered alcohol in the middle ages (‘alcohol’ itself is an Arabic word). Islam DOES prohibit consumption, but the Qur’an does this gradually, even attributing, in some verses its beneficial effects. The majority of Muslim countries DO NOT outlaw the sale of alcohol and never have. Only in the more extreme countries such as Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan and Sudan do these restrictions apply.
“It’s a personal choice, that can only be made by someone who is well educated, and confident in their faith” Says Dee.
“It is not for us to judge anyone who decides to drink, or to abstain from drinking.
It’s more complicated than that. And the social pressures to enjoy yourself when you’re out seem linked to alcohol consumption. It’s confusing for anyone who’s been educated to not drink. You’re left feeling, Am I British? Am I Islamic, Am I Arabic...what am I? Perhaps I’m all of these things.”
Islam originated in 7th Century Arabia and after the prophet Muhammad’s death in 632AD, it split into two factions: Shi’ite – who believe the leadership should have passed to Ali Ibn Talib (Muhammad’s closest male relative) and the Sunni – who make up 90% of today’s Muslims and revere the caliphs chosen to succeed the him.
It is a common misconception that either group is more extreme than the other. After all, the fundamentalist leaders in Iran and Shi’ite but the Taliban in Afghanistan are Sunni.
By the 17th Century Islam had been and gone from Spain and Portugal, and was practised as far as India and Indonesia and as wide as Central Europe.
Today the rainbow of traditions and interpretations reflect the colourful past of the religion, a far cry from the image we have branded in our cultural consciousness.
It’s difficult not to feel overwhelmed by the temperate hot-potato that is modern Islam, a faith attracting the kind of publicity that can define a generation.
Even our language has adapted to the climate: Terror, Guantanamo, Shari-ah, Jihad.
A tabloid goldmine of slogans keeping the middle-Brits awake at night, and with one eye on their neighbour.
From the controversial war in Iraq to the terrorist attacks and hate peddling preachers on our own doorstep, we all take a different look at Islam, and we have a new pin-up for ‘evil’.
But, from the ashes of the media hoopla, emerges a generation of people for whom the rules aren’t so clear. For British Muslims in their teens and early twenties, it’s difficult to know how to please everyone.
Here in the West: home of the disassociated youth, birthplace of the teenager, the dynamic of youth is very different from the moralistic ideals involved in a religious upbringing. For a teenager in Britain, the liberal expression of sexuality and the lure of alcohol seem to be as ingrained in our culture as the importance of abstinence in Islam.
Strangely, British boxing champ Amir Kahn, a twenty-something Muslim in the throes of a glittering career has had no problems winning over the public. Khan said he won his world title for Britain, the Pakistani community, and all Muslims. His public persona and his allegiance to his culture are inseparable, tethered together by his public allusions to it. Khan then was Britain's sole representative in boxing at the 2004 Athens Olympics, winning a silver medal at the age of 17 in the lightweight boxing category. He lost in the final to Mario Kindelan, the Cuban who, in 2005, he avenged the two losses by beating the 34 year old Kindelan in his last amateur fight.
Away from boxing he was involved in a TV programme for Channel 4, Amir Khan's Angry Young Men. The programme centred around troubled angry men and aimed to use the disciplines of boxing, coupled with faith and family values, to help re-focus their lives and steer them away from trouble in the future. He is a rare beacon of positivity in the muddied view of modern Islamic Britons, and even a spell of high profile driving offences, and defeat in the ring, have failed to dampen his popularity.
But even with his clean cut regime and success as a role model, Khan has received criticism from extreme Islamic quarters.
In 2008 Radical cleric Omar Bakri Mohammad was quoted in the Daily Mail saying: 'Amir Khan is not a good example for Muslims. He wears shorts with the Union Jack. That is a sin...He should not be wearing the flag because sovereignty is for God. His only allegiance should be to the Prophet Mohammed.'
But even this theological criticism was denounced by Inayat Bunglawala, the assistant secretary general to the Muslim Council of Britain, who pronounced Khan a proud role model.
Whilst Amir Kahn’s own self restraint may be aided (or even initiated) by the necessity for him to be in peak physical condition, does the average person in his demographic make choices on the back of their beliefs or upbringing?
Dee, a 24 year-old student born in Kuwait but raised in London is living proof of the identity crisis.
She is, all at once, a Muslim, a Briton, an Arab and a twenty-something – a colourful heritage made all the more troubling by the current climate.
“I feel incredibly pressured by these two opposing ideals,” says Dee, visibly troubled by her core dilemma. She is dressed in high street fashions, far from the robed extremists and scripture spouting images our media is saturated with.
“I have been raised in a Muslim family, but it is rooted in modern Britain. My parents have never threatened my education, or shielded me from other cultures. I was even educated at a Catholic school. Choices in life come from an individual. You learn things as you grow and interpret teachings in different ways. The choices should come from the individual not a misinterpreted scripture, or societies version of you. It’s a shame the way the media misrepresents modern Muslims. It makes my position even more difficult.”
Indeed, the cultural void imposed upon young Muslims seems married to the way in which we perceive them, and this seems to be the crux of the matter.
The majority of British Muslims come from Indian families, lending a specific weight to how we define what a “Muslim” is. This definition seems flawed when you consider the spectrum of cultures and degrees of belief within the faith.
There is considerable diversity, for example, between Sudanese and Kuwaiti practices.
The faith itself has become co-joined with a culture that exists only as a stereotype.
A faceless foreigner, an alien invader whose ways and customs do not appear to as unilaterally European as we would like.
Dee seems exasperated by this idea that we can define her as a Muslim.
As in any religion around the world some beliefs and practices are shared by all Muslims. Beyond these core elements however, the variations become immense.
“Some Muslims drink, some see pray, some don’t, some enter relationships with non-Muslims, some accept parts of the Qur’an and discard others. Just as some Christians accept homosexuality and the more extreme don’t. How can it not be viewed the same for Islam?
“It is essentially the same as saying you can’t be a Christian if you have had sex before marriage to suggest you can’t be a Muslim and drink.”
In fact it was Arab chemists who discovered alcohol in the middle ages (‘alcohol’ itself is an Arabic word). Islam DOES prohibit consumption, but the Qur’an does this gradually, even attributing, in some verses its beneficial effects. The majority of Muslim countries DO NOT outlaw the sale of alcohol and never have. Only in the more extreme countries such as Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan and Sudan do these restrictions apply.
“It’s a personal choice, that can only be made by someone who is well educated, and confident in their faith” Says Dee.
“It is not for us to judge anyone who decides to drink, or to abstain from drinking.
It’s more complicated than that. And the social pressures to enjoy yourself when you’re out seem linked to alcohol consumption. It’s confusing for anyone who’s been educated to not drink. You’re left feeling, Am I British? Am I Islamic, Am I Arabic...what am I? Perhaps I’m all of these things.”
Islam originated in 7th Century Arabia and after the prophet Muhammad’s death in 632AD, it split into two factions: Shi’ite – who believe the leadership should have passed to Ali Ibn Talib (Muhammad’s closest male relative) and the Sunni – who make up 90% of today’s Muslims and revere the caliphs chosen to succeed the him.
It is a common misconception that either group is more extreme than the other. After all, the fundamentalist leaders in Iran and Shi’ite but the Taliban in Afghanistan are Sunni.
By the 17th Century Islam had been and gone from Spain and Portugal, and was practised as far as India and Indonesia and as wide as Central Europe.
Today the rainbow of traditions and interpretations reflect the colourful past of the religion, a far cry from the image we have branded in our cultural consciousness.
I suggest you get your finger out !
The beginning is as good a place to start at, than any.
It may not be the most original or ornate structure to kick off this blog, but it's traditional. It satisfies the ancient lineage of written narrative and bows to convention with all the courteous nature of a Victorian gent.
"Good day Sirs! Madam! Welcome...may I help you into your carriage? How frightfully delightful it is for you to join me in my humble abode"
I had envisaged a more elaborate, multi-layered, escher-esque introduction; maybe on my death bed, or in the womb, like Tristam Shandy. A relative poioumenon of dream logic and sideways glances at the mundane.
Maybe it'll elevate this blog above all others, I thought. Maybe it'll herald in a new genre bridging the murky waters of art and journalism?
I wanted to deliver 'fact' in the frivolous conventions usually reserved for fiction, like a town cryer who graduated from RADA. I wanted to be a poetry spouting Jeremy Vine, pirouetting through the days events with the grace of Wayne Sleep and the integrity of Martha Stewart.
Only, in practice, I have to be interesting, informative, relate to as wide an a audience as possible. And I can't imagine anyone wanting to decipher a pretentious stream of rhyming couplets in an attempt to retrieve the lottery results.
And so, I leave the fractured rationale, so akin to the world of art and surrealistic vision, to Kauffman, Tarantino and the French.
This I have decided will be a blog, straight as an arrow; as direct as a Roman road.
My mission statement, if I have one, is this: I intend to research, methodically and journalistically, events from my local area, and subsequent areas of interest.
There will be discussions, essays, reviews, news items, features - and all safely below a seven out of ten in the "fun" charts.
It won't be mirthless, but I WILL omit any deliberate belly laughs.
So, I will start here. At the beginning.
Hello,
My name is James.
I am a qualified NCTJ journalist with experience writing for print, on-line facilities and as a reprographic proof reader.
I have set my sights on a career in the local print industry, at a time when jobs are as unstable as spinning plates. Vacancies seem as baron and sparse as frog spawn in the dead sea, and speculative letters are met with oppressive silence and casual disregard.
Finally today I got a response. From a local newspaper, for whom I have worked previously, during a brief tenure as a work experience kid. I enjoyed this period, and impressed enough to get an interview. However, my lack of driving licence was a stumbling block and I was back to the drawing board.
Now, as I sat in that familiar editors office, the walls strewn with front page exclusives and high profile scoops, the only things different were the licence in my wallet and the editor.
A professional, stern looking fellow who looked my CV up and down and then immediately dispensed with the niceties.
"I'm not going to beat around the bush" he said "you need to Pull Your Finger Out!" TM.
So here I am. Pulling my finger out.
And so here are you. At the beginning.
My finger may be muddied... but it is out. And I'm determined for it to stay out.
It may not be the most original or ornate structure to kick off this blog, but it's traditional. It satisfies the ancient lineage of written narrative and bows to convention with all the courteous nature of a Victorian gent.
"Good day Sirs! Madam! Welcome...may I help you into your carriage? How frightfully delightful it is for you to join me in my humble abode"
I had envisaged a more elaborate, multi-layered, escher-esque introduction; maybe on my death bed, or in the womb, like Tristam Shandy. A relative poioumenon of dream logic and sideways glances at the mundane.
Maybe it'll elevate this blog above all others, I thought. Maybe it'll herald in a new genre bridging the murky waters of art and journalism?
I wanted to deliver 'fact' in the frivolous conventions usually reserved for fiction, like a town cryer who graduated from RADA. I wanted to be a poetry spouting Jeremy Vine, pirouetting through the days events with the grace of Wayne Sleep and the integrity of Martha Stewart.
Only, in practice, I have to be interesting, informative, relate to as wide an a audience as possible. And I can't imagine anyone wanting to decipher a pretentious stream of rhyming couplets in an attempt to retrieve the lottery results.
And so, I leave the fractured rationale, so akin to the world of art and surrealistic vision, to Kauffman, Tarantino and the French.
This I have decided will be a blog, straight as an arrow; as direct as a Roman road.
My mission statement, if I have one, is this: I intend to research, methodically and journalistically, events from my local area, and subsequent areas of interest.
There will be discussions, essays, reviews, news items, features - and all safely below a seven out of ten in the "fun" charts.
It won't be mirthless, but I WILL omit any deliberate belly laughs.
So, I will start here. At the beginning.
Hello,
My name is James.
I am a qualified NCTJ journalist with experience writing for print, on-line facilities and as a reprographic proof reader.
I have set my sights on a career in the local print industry, at a time when jobs are as unstable as spinning plates. Vacancies seem as baron and sparse as frog spawn in the dead sea, and speculative letters are met with oppressive silence and casual disregard.
Finally today I got a response. From a local newspaper, for whom I have worked previously, during a brief tenure as a work experience kid. I enjoyed this period, and impressed enough to get an interview. However, my lack of driving licence was a stumbling block and I was back to the drawing board.
Now, as I sat in that familiar editors office, the walls strewn with front page exclusives and high profile scoops, the only things different were the licence in my wallet and the editor.
A professional, stern looking fellow who looked my CV up and down and then immediately dispensed with the niceties.
"I'm not going to beat around the bush" he said "you need to Pull Your Finger Out!" TM.
So here I am. Pulling my finger out.
And so here are you. At the beginning.
My finger may be muddied... but it is out. And I'm determined for it to stay out.
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