Decisions of today

By Julian Sudre


Certain reasons propped up by clarity of mind induce us to a particular state of mind. When this clarity of mind is subtracted, a conflict may occur as a result of misinterpretation of logics.

This is lately what I have become to be afraid of, when a civilisation loses track of clarity and remains stubborn with its ideology, the state of mind is neither here nor there. And the reason is because of the absence of positive criticism, that categorically gives food for thought, alters irreversibly the judgments and actions taken by people.

Precious as it may sound, the little sparkle that fizzles around within our mind is the main generator of analysis and can probe the deepest corners of convoluted data and dissect them with imperturbable concentration. Clarity of mind oozes with vapid, cloudy, un-taut rigour when it is muddled with by external factors such as influences and trend per se.

Arriving at the conclusion that everyone is endowed with clarity of mind is facile and miscalculated.
The point is that clarity of mind is graded into several layers of shades; starting from immaculate white which proffers unblemished judgment to darker shades which describe the degrees of twists and slants of one’s perspectives. I suspect many people are fooled by their own mind into accepting their inevitable sort.
They would come up with heavy-handed affirmation that they maintain who they are and know what they do, resulting to magnified revelations they did not expects as a lack of visceral juxtaposition of the self and the mind.

The busyness of our lives and the absorbing of unsolicited thoughts from our surroundings have gradually gnawed at our attitude to self-reflection and turned the layers of shades into inky hues.
If I were to say that making a decision today has become more challenging than the last century; in so many words the answer would be yes as many more today’s strands get naturally tangled into a bale of confusion.
But unfortunately few people have scratched under the surface to find that the mathematical constituents of a decision-maker – advice skewed across the board – become splashed across a very indeed colourful canvas that conveys too little assurance.

And when we get to vote for a presidential election, it is bestowing the said colourful canvas upon a trustful personality that will orchestrate the hoi-polloi stance on current affairs.
Tony Blair has had his reputation tainted over the cash-for-honours affair ( even though he voiced that New Labour would be whiter than white), the common denominator was the electorate that triggered the actual state of affairs.
George W Bush had Kissinger’s opinions over the steps to take about Iraq but now Kissinger’s reputation is on the line again, over war crimes, business interests.

A decision -- whatever it might be – is filtered through a spectrum of unfounded ideas.
We only can re-assess what we reap when it is too late.
But it seems the build-up of errors and mismanagement of our reckoning will lead us to our own demise.

Position open: computer wanted!

By Julian Sudre


I have baulked at modernisation for fear of being incompatible with the morals of today’s etiquette.
My recalcitrance is exacerbated by the obsessive manner of mine to decamp from public appearance that could belittle my grasp of contemporary evolution. Such action could not have been held off continuously.

When the oyster card made its appearance on the London scene, I thought, it was an evolutionary step that would enable million of commuters to travel smoothly around the capital. And it goes without saying that progress pertains to computers; an avant-garde conception of the dwindling of human beings pointed me in the direction of a world where one day, the only interaction to do business will be with computers.

Backing off from machines was a short-term option; I used to enjoy the quick-fired courtesy to ask for a service at the customer care window; now I hear myself saying: how are you to a computer at Tesco!

Tesco was not the pioneer in the field of self-checkouts. Last year, Asda, an affiliate of the giant Wal-Mart, launched the super-killer employee computer. Reluctantly, and also by force of habit, I nudged my way towards the “normal” checkout to process my sale and managed to steer clear from having to do the grunt work myself!

Across the pond, the service in supermarkets is quasi-excellent; a human feeling is pervasive throughout as well as having our foodstuff bagged for us, which I believe is sensible. Back in Britain, I have come away with the go-get-your-food-and-bug-off-now feeling; the idea of implementing computers to replace people at checkouts irrefutably corroborates my stance over the de-humanised ambiance of a British supermarket.

Now, a digital female voice welcomes us to proceed and scan our items; the chore of doing our shopping has been compounded by filling in for an employee at Tesco.
And to add insult to injury was the time I bought some wine and tried to scan it; the computer voice vocalised that the item required authorisation from a Tesco employee.
It is all very well to take four wages away and replace those cashiers by robots that never call in sick but are big companies expanding their profits by installing robots and sacrificing a potential job? The answer must certainly be yes in the long-term future. Hence the sprouting up of machines versus humans is becoming striking.

It was yesterday my first encounter, or should I say interchange with a self-checkout.
The all-singing and dancing little devil was all fun and games because I did not have to acknowledge the presence of the cashier? or rather because it was a first?

Evidently we are heading into a robotic world that could be sooner that we would believe it to be.

When modern art is fun at Tate

By Julian Sudre


THE ART of taking in the visual aspect of abstract pieces of work is not the attraction du jour anymore. Tate Modern is embracing wall-to wall exhilaration in every sense of the term.

And why using only the faculty of seeing when you can absorb physically the heart-pumping sensation that is thrown into the bargain? For the next six months an experimental [art] is putatively helping people who suffer from depression.

The installation of the Test Site by the German artist Carsten Holler who came up with the idea of designing five fully-enclosed steel and plastic tubes which incontrovertibly are more fun than art, will provide London a parallel as unprecedented as the Eye in Waterloo.

Modern art has become alive and accessible to everyone and Tate Modern’s patter wants us to get on to it and scream for more.

Of course, such infantile approach to the business world creates a fantastic publicity, easily digested by the hoi polloi and consequently will enhance Tate’s profit margin.

To that end, one could infer that a bastion for modern art -- is swallowing the populace and will spit it out into more artistic, if yet reflective tableaux of cognitive human behaviour.

Unfortunately, the emperor of British contemporary art is slicing the apple in half. The first half – the Stakhavonite of modern arts – will always enjoy the diversity of the Tate and remain a stalwart for post-modernism. They, for good measure, are accepting revisionism as a form of creativity and evolution in the mores of a society.
The other half – the Luddites of intellectual advancement – refute incontestably the expansion of modernism in the abstract sense of the word. The enjoyment is purely first-hand and is as air-headed as inhaling helium.

The London eye was not playing for keeps; the structure was temporary. But the idea of blending uniqueness (be it magnificent or grotesque) with stomach-churning vistas was, undoubtedly, a grand stratagem to elicit publicity. It has worked so well that it has overshadowed Tower Bridge as the quintessence of a London postcard – near enough.

Tate is not, well hopefully, taking on an NHS style – good or bad – so as reduce queues or augment them but Holler said that sliding like skiing can help people from depression. So why has Disneyland not advertised itself as a cure for depressive folks yet?

At least Tate seems to distinguish between the virtues of art and therapies, never mind its advertising; but when a funfair is getting incorporated into Tate, it will be high time we drew the line between docile amusement and cerebral activities.

Veiling the untruths

By Julian Sudre


IN our lenient western society, where political correctness and uber-liberalism are surging far above rational ideologies, the candid utterance vocalized by the Leader of the House of Commons unequivocally has sparked fury in the Muslim circle.

Jack Straw declared that Muslim women who wore full veils made relations in the community more difficult and it was “a visible statement of separation and difference” added clearly fuel to the fire. But isn’t it taking a leaf out of France’s book when it comes to banning the veil in schools so as to enhance laicity and merge differences and, inter alia, religions onto an equal-footing, forward-looking society?

Let me take the example of the school uniform, which in this country, has enabled to dissociate pupils with their personal clothing thereafter eradicated the pigeonholing of working class and bourgeoisie into a neutral schooling terrain. Now comes the Muslim dress code into western schools which is accepted with compliant welcome because Britain is democratic.

I believe garments have always had a strong relation with our personality and I respect this as the bedrock of freedom. But here, we are talking about both ends of the spectrum. Either the body is covered up or bare of clothes. Why can't we strike a happy medium?

The law avers that nudity in public is an offence, whatever religion or country; never the less, libertarians assume it should be our rights to wear clothes or not, such sensitive issue revolves round the fact that a society must have a certain etiquette so as to avoid confrontation within. What if the Bible stated the use of clothes as superficial and irrelevant? Would you be comfortable talking to someone naked in your office? Being covered-up by a veil could engineer the same shock to a westerner.

In the Arabic world the Hijab fulfils the Koran’s edict that a woman should cover her beauty except what it is apparent of it – that is the face and hands. Once again, the Hijab is a headscarf and only covers the hair.
Religions are emblematic; evident clothing items worn such as the kipa for the Jews or the garb for the Buddhist monks represent the differences of cultures within religions.

The point Jack Straw was trying to make is our laissez-fair society has encompassed dogmas of diametrically opposite cultures becoming British. And once those doctrines are ingrained in our system, a public appeal for consistency in the freedom to see a woman’s face becomes an act of effrontery, if yet of aggression.

It goes without saying that people should be free to choose what they wear and according to their religion, belief or tradition, a democratic country should, by no means, take issue with this. But what the Leader of the House of Commons wants to highlight is the extreme belief that being covered-up epitomises Islam, in that, such reaction – certainly unorthodox to Muslims – could give food for westerners’ and Islamics’ thought. The Niqab has become part and parcel of a religious set of beliefs that human beings have tolerated and construed as the truss that supports the Islamic roof.

The Koran does not mention the wearing of the Niqab, or worse the Burqa. Its connection has been intertwined into the translation of its scriptures. Niqaabi do believe that being veiled maintains the private zone of their faith. It buttresses their belief in Allah. Chastity in Christianity is what the Niqab is to Islam.

This is where Islamics have crossed the line; being accepted into a country does not mean the democratic thread will weave round their principled pattern. It is high time that someone spoke up for the sake of both beliefs and stressed the inaptitude to interpret the religious message of God. Those [tenets] should in no way be admitted into western cultures as western cultures would not be established in Islamic countries.

Never, whatever religion it is, the divine message will ask to hide the female body behind a swath of cloth. Those who do, should reconsider reading Allah’s Scriptures, revalue the articles of faith and open their mind to the purpose of life.

BABYSHAMBLES

Review ****
Brixton Academy
October 05th, 2006


By Julian Julian



IN ANTICIPATION of Pete Doherty’s gig last night at the Brixton Academy, the exhilaration was running high and the intensity was felt with consistency.

His arrival on-stage with a scrubbed-up appearance, sporting a V-necked purple sweater over a white T-shirt spoke volumes on someone who seemed to portray the antithesis of rock-star eccentricity of attire selection.

Pete Doherty manifestly with his meek deportment that at times, had the semblance of a school-boy that produced first-class marks, perfectly blended into his music style that was stripped of shambolic performance, no less.

Launching into a punchy and well-timed reading of Piping Down from Babyshambles’ first album, the crowd instantly was hooked. But what kept the crowd even more transfixed was the brief cameos of Doherty’s girlfriend, Kate Moss.

The supermodel lent vocals to his song La Belle et la Bete for a split-second but her voice carried light morsel of inaudible murmur. No sooner was Kate done with her fleeting appearance than she scarpered off the limelight.

His performance was laced with harmonica the whole evening, an instrument that he aptly tweaked with, delivered fervently some good improvisations.

If Pete Doherty were to sustain such good-nature in his performances and retain the impact of his delivery as he so well demonstrated it last night
One could start thinking that, genuinely he has sloughed off his lost-in-the-world skin to re-establish an image of professional and career-driven artist.

The writer's block

By Julian Sudre



Stockbrokers in the city would never encounter those vacuous segments of activity in their working days, which inter alia, would be some absurd oxymoron in the logic of their dynamics.

On the other hand, writers do apprenhensively stumble upon the fearful blank screen.
The cringe-worthy hunt for the next piece that indelibly inprints itself on the journalist’s mind can only foment the incessant trepidations of the clock ticking by and a computer screen staring at you without a bit of inspiration.

But by all odds, these latter professions partake in the same streak of impetus; the verisimilitude of crunching figures – or words per se – in a minimal time frame enhances production and precipitates the adrenaline into an existentialism level.

We, writers, gasp for the imaginative fairy hand that taps into the lucrative fountainhead that spurts out fresh ozone to our readers.
While stockbrokers get an instant rush of satisfaction on the equity roller coaster, the degree of impetus is only distinguishable in terms of the rhythm of their enterprise.

Journalists have retracted the word -- weekend – from their lexicon and added incontestably an army of combative words that perhaps know how to stoutly stand in the right place. Those words will become through osmosis the brushes of the artists that elaborate on and bring history to the academician under his magnifying glass.

Stockbrokers juggle with figures the way journalists do with words – trenchantly to the point with respectable leverage. Only they have added the word – weekend – to their lifestyle when the market is put to rest. This is why their rhythm is slightly more structured despite the inevitable capricious nature of the financial world.

Nevertheless, the main trait, they share, as I mention above, is the impetus that their profession involves and also the adroitness at regulating with unflappable concentration, the flow of data that enter their mind to be processed with strict accuracy. A sine qua non of both jobs which is pertinent to their eligibility to handle such positions.

But the main point of this column is to show that words used by journalists and writers can have a definite impact upon the reflective part of the reader. Words are fodder for the mind that steal over you with the puissance of a tsunami. They penetrate your mind and get ensconced for a lifetime in the mechanics of expression and elocution.

Whereas, numbers are computed, quantified and totalised, into unprecedented mathematical analysis. The main difference between numbers and words is the former is used to generate life; the latter will honour it and keep it alive.


I think now, I have come over the cringe-worthy picture of a blank screen thanks to these little words that have embellished my page and I hope the [numbers] of readers will bring life to my column.

MORO

Bar restaurant
34/36 Exmouth Market
London, EC1 4QE
Tel: (020) 7833 8336


By Julian Sudre



The presence of a bare, if yet streamlined canteen-style eatery that pulses with a welcoming crowd at the heart of the pedestrian street in Exmouth Market remains a worthwhile experience to savour a blend of Spanish and Muslim Mediterranean cuisines.

Moro oozes with simplicity amongst a clutter of plain wooden tables and chairs on a polished wooden floor. On one side stretches the long zinc bar where tapas can be enjoyed with a glass of sherry and the open view to the kitchen that reveals wood-burning ovens and charcoal grills emphatically have the feel of a convivial tapas restaurant.

Upon our arrival, we managed to be ushered to the only vacant table and instantly we were served with sourdough bread and olive oil.
The unavoidable glass of Sangria was swiftly delivered to our table. The tapas: Babaganoush, Tortilla and Houmous were all presented in clay plates and the dish of prawn, wheat berry, grilled peppers and yoghurt salad was fresh and simple.
The prevalence of yoghurt in Moorish cuisines is a distinguished characteristic.

The baked Moroccan eggs also came in the way of a clay plate. I felt their only vegetarian dish lacked in enthusiasm and homespun creativity as was reflected with the wood roasted white pork. But the rosewater and cardamom ice cream was subtle and remarkably well balanced.

It is worthy of attention that considering the bustle and cacophony of the place, the staff were undeniably approachable, efficient and courteous.

For a restaurant that opened in 1997 and has kept exploring the Mediterranean culinary of Islamic and Southern European cultures, its spontaneity has been a benefactor amongst the wonted diners but at times, I have come away with the feeling that the dishes were a touch overpriced.

Four days in a restaurant kitchen

BY Julian Sudre



CHOP, whack, wham, and whoosh. Come on guys. Let’s pump it out. Service is on anytime now. Are we all set?
As soon as I climb into my chef’s whites, I was somebody else and had to execute my duties with sharp synchronisation.

My pulse was racing; the stoves were red-hot; the shouting claimed victory over civilised communication and cooking meat and onions were predominating the oppressing scents that turned rapidly into an affront to my senses.

The tension was sizzling with an electrifying simmer and suddenly the head chef – the conductor of an orchestra – erupted with a plume of orders that I was to expedite with military precision.

Salmons and salad were whisked together into dishes and cheesecakes ready to be stung with a mint leaf and off were they dispatched to the servers.
Three main course tarts needed to be garnished with watercress and seasoned accordingly. My hands were flying through the air, thrusting and cutting like martial arts movements so as to deliver the hopefully standardised dishes that the expectant customer would smack his lips over.

The logistics of a kitchen are very well coordinated but speed, first and foremost, is the nucleus of the power-monster that churns out plated-up meals; the chefs stir mechanically gallons of stocks and mash potatoes in brobdingnagian saucepans under the supervision of the head chef.

And the porter gets fobbed off with piles of gargantuan gallimaufry of pots and pans that need being scrubbed clean, but fast.

A kitchen is by all means, not the reflection of those dainty and toothsome dishes that seem to have been prepared with hearty love when you get them at your table. I have, as in point of fact, found in good measure, a degree of discordance in the production and the end product. And to a certain extent, the presentation of a dish stimulates more the imagination than enlivens the taste buds.

Kitchens have become locomotives that grind out half-hearted dishes under the pretence of the aesthetics of the final stroke of the head chef.

So perhaps, I have become like a trainspotter; I enjoyed the feel of the beastie locomotive for those four days but now I have seen her entrails.

I will think twice before the delusional subterfuge of its beauty captivates me into being an admirer of its delivery.

Let's get them emaciated and the clothes will do the rest

By Julian Sudre



ALWAYS critics have had a bone to pick; and this time it is those bone-like top models who strut their stuff on the catwalk.
This time the Madrid Fashion week show has flexed its muscle and banned rail-thin looks from media exposure for the first time

Interestingly enough, when Jamie Oliver promotes healthy food in schools so as to fend off obesity – The number of people who are overweight has tripled in the last 20 years – Culture Secretary Tessa Jowell has called for stick-thin models to be banned from the catwalk.

Obviously, the fault lies neither in the modelling agencies nor the government but simply in the masses. Not to put too fine a point on it, we are feeding pigs with dross and now the critics, aka the powers that be, believe it is high time to readjust the perception we have of a top-level fashion model.

In reality, people should be free to express themselves, be it in the way of fashion or at home, they have the flexibility to choose for themselves what is in their best interests. But when it comes to being thin so as to resemble a model, I, for one, wish good luck to a nation that is more inclined to have a fridge packed with junk food than fresh fruits and vegetables.

The tall, skinny figure has always been the standard-bearer of catwalk fashion but this year the zeitgeist is to promote an image of beauty and health. In a few broad strokes, we are having a nation torn between anorexia and obesity, now the government is stepping in to avoid a case of extremities.

How about striking a happy medium and selecting the adequate fit, that is, the quality of what is seen as sashaying on a narrow platform in view of the most reactionary pockets? The answer would be, in good measure, more relevant to the quintessence of a well balanced, down-to-earth, all-rounded exemplar of mannequins that exude a certain closeness and accessibility to the aficionados.

Fashion has pegged its whimsical taste at a contradictory level. The utensils used to champion tomorrow’s trends have turned, from celebrities into causes célèbres.
Perhaps we should make light work of those people who wear the clothes on the catwalk and prioritize more the obese community that needs focusing on.

After all, we are here to comment and copy their garments; not to strive to identify with a foundling that landed a job in catwalk fashion.

The clothes are what make someone brims with personality and uniqueness not the bare skeleton that shivers under the weight of the media. It is not the law that should ban skinny models off the catwalk but parents who ought to re-educate their children about the dangers of eating disorders.

why fashion is the mirror of our own self

By Julian Sudre


It comes with sui generis flair that the creative, oft-maverick coterie of designers want to canvass, with the most distinguished effects it has on our impressible mind, the trend that will become the fashion du jour.
But then, if fashion becomes trendy, why is it so?

The fine line between street fashion and catwalk fashion is relatively a matter of putting your foot down and expressing with lurid metaphors the acuteness of your style – or the extravagance. Who can anyway afford to spend ridiculous amounts of money on a Versace fur coat weighing in at over £4000 and walk to the office on Monday morning with the glamour of a Hollywood actress?
Although, impressing remains a flattering experience to the ego, being uber chic could be overkill and confined to the catwalk.
The distinction is important; it enables the fashionista to project his sights on a backdrop of Shangri-La minus the strict sartorial utopia that the haute-couture fashion designer has generated. The fashionista will get as close to it by an assemblage of pick and mix that he or she will have garnered off giant fashion retails.

But why, the bland naked human body – which could be an art in itself – needs the comfort of the latest trends launched off the catwalk and pared down once in the high street? Is the fact of being swathed in show-stopping, good-looking rags that makes people more at ease with the ethics of society? Could it boost the socializing aspect or promote their image? It sure does – at least, at first glance.


What I find interesting is the way fashion is advertised and the fusion of the masses that throw themselves into the shops to get the look they have seen in the media and deliberately want to copy. Never mind the inappropriateness of their fitness.
The result can be at the best of times, devastating; not only financially, but more damaging to their own image that they were trying to cast.

Sporting a specific style cannot be forced onto a person; feeling comfortable with it is one thing that adds panache but the real clincher is the element of confidence that blends with the apparel.
Clothes should make one with the dresser. They are only there to complement their personality, that is, to project their self on to a physical appearance.

Trend is the copying of salient ideas. However unsavoury it is, if it catches on, you can be on to a jackpot. But fashion also comes from music and film. People urge to associate themselves with someone or a group.
This association will pertain to the real self as featured by the way they parade their attire.

Nevertheless, as the adage goes: “ You can’t judge a book by its cover.” But the very expression of selecting our clothes goes a long way in terms of how perverse our feminine side is.

This is why fashion is part of the fragmentation of narcissism that we have in ourselves; we enjoy the satisfaction we get by the sweet comforts of being "in", that is, we people, need a form of acceptance that gets embroidered in our mores.

When the mind transcends the impossible

By Julian Sudre

I would have to take a leaf out of her book for her indefatigable determination but most importantly her intellectual stamina and unwavering belief that the light, one day will be seen at the end of the tunnel.
Natascha Kampusch was held in captivity for eight years in a cellar below the garage no bigger than the size of a bed.
She had her teenage years snatched and buried in the gloom of confinement; her dreams of reassuring her parents that she was alive were shattered. The harrowing thoughts of her mother fading away with grief that she was dead ravaged her mind with tempestuous pain. And there stood her captor Wolfgang Priklopil, a paranoid psychopath who had prepared with a methodical modus operandi the kidnapping that will become the most talked about in modern history.

Yet psychologists have voiced their surprise over her fortitude and level-headed frame of mind. Also, she is known for having developed the Stockholm syndrome -- the coping mechanism whereby abductees exhibit loyalty to their kidnapper -- Natascha remains wedged between grief about Priklopil’s death and relief about getting her freedom back.
On a strictly personal level, I believe Natascha has made it through for the simple reason that she persistently believes in herself: “ I promised my future self that I would never abandon the thought of escape.”
In those circumstances, having faith and maintaining a high level of curiosity in terms of why, of all the million people, it had happened to her had enabled her to have an edge over her captor. She was resolute to find the answers and this is what has brought her leverage to fuel her insatiable desire to flee.
Of course I would not go as far as to say that her eight years confined to solitude was a form of meditation but to some extent it has brought her the clarity perhaps about the meaning of life she did not have before she was abducted at the age of ten.

Could it have her given assertiveness and self-confidence that life was more a mental freedom than a physical one? Once she would have grasped the essence of freedom as it is experienced in meditation, no sooner than she would have generated her own physical escape. By all means, she has accomplished a soul-destroying passage of life.
The analysis of her reactions are indeed more complex that that; she’ll have learned over the years to feed off her own dreams and fantasy so as to maintain a certain level of hope. Later on, she realised that her captor needed her more than she needed him and this will become a weapon that she will manipulate with dexterity.

During her first interview I was struck by the poker-faced, stoical mean of a person that possessed the intelligence of a self-composed adult who knew how to remain calm under any circumstances. Her mind is agile, tactical and tacful. She had mastered for all intent and purposes a control over the relationship with her abductor but also with her emotional side. But I would be inclined to say ther logistical approach to men could be affected and any amourous relationships are very probably unconceivable for some time.

Today, Natascha leaps from her dungeon existence to the blinding spotlight of the media. Her life seems to be going from one extreme to another. After learning to acclimatise herself to a near-decade of isolation she will have to learn the aggression and superficialness of the real world.

Lest she interprets the lime light as a sort of satisfying benefactor that provides contentment and reassurance, I hope her team of psychologists do know how to wean her off the attention that she has needed so that she will get hardened up during the wintry period of her self future and appreciate the very liberty of being simply herself.

The Truth About Markets

Written by John Kay


By Julian Sudre

AN EXPLOSIVE content that takes the reader through an economical landscape with gripping perspectives at how capitalism and modern governments have turned around their economies according to social reforms and self-interested moral issues which in turn effect undeliberately market fundamentalism.

Written in an accessible way, Kay explores the American business model – ABM – which emphasizes freedom of contract, light regulations, low taxation, self-interest rules and the minimal state. But here Kay will make no bones about his objection of the ABM, that he regards as a naïve approach to human motivation and a simplistic analysis of structures of property rights.

The author – a Fellow of St John’s College, Oxford – particularly ponders over behavioural impacts on market economies and countries such as Haiti or Nigeria, in which there is an insufficient basis of trust for market institutions to develop.
All along, to the layman in economics, the reader senses how economists interpret political events in the world including the talking heads on Bloomberg Television, the flower market of San Remo in Italy.
We are also taken to the used-car showroom and the corner shop and the control room of the National Grid.

His description of markets does effectively reinforce his witty and laconic style to dissect the core of the issue. Kay intelligently segmented the book into compact and pithy analysis and proves that his work goes beyond economic terms but answers with subtlety why some nations are rich and others poor.

The reader is offered a fresh vision of the way markets operate in the embedded human psychology of the world of today.

FOOL FOR LOVE

* Written by Sam Shepard
* Directed by Lindsay Posner

Apollo Theatre –

***

By Julian Sudre


BURSTING with contradictions, passion and unframed perspective of the actual self, Shepard’s vision of love through the eyes of Eddie and May – Martin Henderson and Juliette Lewis -- divulges the most elusive form of acceptance of a couple that flirt with jealousy and incredible self-delusion.

Masculinity, heavy drinking and a confused relationship with women lead Eddie to be all at sea with reality and the ethics of a healthy bond with his lover, May.
On the other end of the spectrum, May retains the characteristics of a stubborn, yet unstable stance over what she really wants, as her love to Eddie is laced with painful, perhaps irretrievable shards of tumultuous past.

Set on the edge of the Mojave Desert in a shabby motel, where May has been living there for some time now; Eddie barges on to the stage by instigating an emotional jab of obsession and particularly selfish, although destructive at times, romantic narrative.

On a psychological level, one can identify the subtle dysfunctional raison d’etre, that Eddie reflects all the while, by the determined line of reasoning of his own self.
The latter is, by all means, enlightened, when May, refuses to go with him, on the principal that his two-timing with the Countess is not the done thing.

Incompatibility deliberately belies their passionate obsession for each other, which in turn, sparks violence and tragicomic conflicts at the best of times.

But, what is interesting is the disparity of vantage points when it comes to understanding the perspective of each other’s characters. The old man onstage – although only seen through their imagination – turns out to be the dad and unfolds the darkest corners of their childhood.

Juliette Lewis West End debut alongside rising star Martin Henderson gripped us with the typical West Coast romance but would lack at times the depth of a more pungent dialogue.

On The Third Day

Ambassadors, London
****

· Written by Kate Betts
· Directed by Robert Delamere


By Julian Sudre


THE FIRST shot across the bow of post-modern psychodrama theatre by Kate Betts has delivered a punchy, if not indelible mark that not so many critics would have expected.
The exposing writer that won the winning entry in Channel Fours’ The Play’s The Thing series weaves with a very wry sense of humour, the story of Claire, 30 year-old astronomer that has been pockmarked by the loss of her parents, the discordant relationship with her brother that is the incestuous demands of his, will remain to stir her deepest traumatic childhood memories.

Flashes of past and present and constant correlation between Claire’s mindset and how her childhood affected the state of affairs – her 27 year-old brother never had a girlfriend -- and the belief she has seen Jesus reveals and underlying confusion in a tragic, none the less, slightly raw and brusque upbringing. The theatrical result raises the bar in terms of originality.

Claire picked up a man – Mike, who turns out to be Jesus – and in a very apt, if not dextrous manner, the playwright manages to bring a sense of comedy and petulance into his character. The delivery strikes a pleasant note. Betts knows how to balance the banal element with subtle effect and proves to keep the audience wide-awake.

The dramatist whisks us from London to Wales where Mike is taken potholing in the Brecon Beacons and at the Planetarium in Greenwich where Claire works as a presenter. Her debut stage displays a wayward humour that distinguishes her from others. Perhaps at times, Bretts paints a religious picture that could be disproportionate to the actual reality. Still, I believe she skilfully interpreted the meaning of faith, while being light-hearted and satirical.

Kates Bretts’ debut bodes well for the future; her talent should be highlighted strictly on the fact that her work is experimental and unique.
Her style is interlaced with some emotional dynamites and she should ignite our inspiration with it.

Dordogne -- France

By Julian Sudre

If the combination of a cheap flight with a certain joie de vivre is about to send some je-ne-sais-quoi shudders down your spine, a gallic scenery dotted with chateaux and infused with the Hundred Year’s War will certainly create a bouleversement in your attitude towards what the Dordogne has to offer.

Sun-drenched vineyards as far as the eye can see slathered across the notorious clay-chalk soil of the region and its pristine villages peppered along and around the Dordogne River and its valleys are not there, anymore, to battle for supremacy – the British invasion is going great guns – and the Dordogne, as a fait accompli, has become Dordogneshire.

Wing your way down to Bergerac, the market town that is the gateway to the Perigord and take your pick from there. Eymet, the Bastide town that is saturated with history, fantastic markets with fresh locally produced fruits and vegetables or Monbazillac, where the sweet wine is produced as the area benefits a microclimate which is particularly favourable to the development of the “noble rot”.

A word to the connoisseurs – while his statue is highly photographed in Bergerac, Cyrano does not hail from there and tourists, a good chunk of them don’t even take the trouble to open their Rough Guide. So please, before whipping out your camera, do your homework and save some bobs.

Wine tasting and gites, aka, Bed and Breakfast are maybe not your reason d’etre while you holiday in France but they remain the quintessence of a full-on bird’s view of what the Dordogne proffers to the visitor – The sum and substance of simplicity par excellence of a gentle lifestyle.

The perfect spot for a night with a superb view over the valley, and lo and behold the Monbazillac chateau as a neighbour: l’allee de Lambre gite says it all.
The lodging lies between vineyards, a wine tasting house and of course the Monbazillac chateau and all that to the tune of 40 euros a night.

If holidaying in the Dordogne gets you thinking. Its diversity will get you in love with its countryside.

For further information about lodging, please reply to this article.

When buses are theatre with windows

By Julian Sudre

EACH time I step on the bus is to realize that I did not wave my magic wand fast enough to vividly get thrust onto a zone of no-comfort – an intrusion of the other class – or more appropriately my stepping on the bus is an intrusion per se.

The predictable wait without live departure boards deliberately needles the preface of my ride; and the bus rocks up: I jump into a jungle of people to strap hang and look for Jane until Tarzan -- moi – despairs after a session of eye-blinking to find relevance in the irrelevance.

Drip-fed by disquietness, I resolved to turn a breath of malaise into an inconspicuous, very-London bus ride that is, a vehicle of salient reality where the mass-produced “other world” lethargically slouched in its seat turns out to be human.

Buses, and even better, the bendy one from Oxford Circus is personally classified as bestial, rudimentary and chimp-manic. The latter, fittingly adapts to their way of communicating; did I say language?

Mind you, getting on-board, is a bit like winning the World Cup or going to Iraq without being shot down. The wait at the bus stop does not hold a candle to the actual being on the bus. Still, you’ll have to get on-board, one way or another. Don’t ask me how.
Then, can you find a seat, and if so, would you have the courage to have your trousers imbibed in the sweat of the squalid half-conscious reveller that reeks of his own vomit.

Saturday nights are a winner. I expect them with knitting needles, ready to jab my eyes and ears with exasperation. I should be, though counting myself lucky while my bus rides are more exhilarating than a safari in Kenya. I do not have to pay for the plane ticket.

I do not believe that men have grasped their origins, to some extent. To a large extent, going on a safari in East London will prove that the evolution has been minimal thanks to the buses.

Again, the enjoyment out of it, is to comprehend that theatres were made for men and buses were designed for voyeurs of the animal kingdom.

When buses turn into theatres, then ask the driver what it makes of it.

The great divide

By Julian Sudre

AN ASCENT – into the kingdom of my psyche jolted me awake and elevated the burning desire to step into who I was. I was the prisoner of my own self without being able to be at the helm – the chronic, yet tempestuous revolt my own enemy mounted has been placated.

Thrown deliberately into this world before my consciousness opened up, I acted with foul manner and in exchange got the wrong part – I was the actor that nobody wanted; my time was not due and my being employed for the right job was unconceivable at that.

I felt like I was projected into the most challenging part of the theatre kingdom, but this time, it was no drama -- but life.
I was not the one who wrote the script; I did not set the location; I even did not choose the language. I had the option to play along and comprehend, grasp the substance of the game and score like a well-rounded, mature player would have done. All right, I scored in my own camp, the rain then came lashing down and the next chance to be back on the field was protracted.

My life has turned into a play, or more precisely, my cue was to enact the core of wisdom, the silky material that weaves itself round our reactions and actions only becomes real when we turn our thinking to it. Because all is the creation of our own imagination. The figment that sparks the eternal reality has blended both worlds and I hang right in between. The more I resist, the more I get absorbed into materialist visions of a world that was thrown at me.

Bang goes the resistance. I slip into the subservient mode, call my dogs off. Goodbye the personal riots. No, I am not a loser; to all purposes and intents, I have re-interpreted the meaning of philosophy and feel its offshoots growing straight trough my conceptions.

For all the alluring figures that I can’t get hold of, they are only the manifestation of my subconscious.
Only if I knew the subconscious had an influencing power to shape my own destiny. Then I would be looking through the mirror to reflect their own reality.

Excuse me, do you know who I am?

By julian Sudre

Whoosh – we have entered an esoteric topic with a soupcon of philosophical flavours and a mixture of question marks.
Until now, I have felt hamstrung, hog-tied and nearly fell by the wayside when it comes to doing my calculus as people have seen me through the matter-of-fact prism of life that divulges rationales which cannot be trifled with.

Ideologically, I should consider my line of reasoning sane, merely because my own consciousness lucidly expresses a state of being that I would but regard as plainly non-argumentative. If mind and consciousness are discordant, that is, clashing with the reality of state of things, it could foment a discontinuance of acceptability of one’s own world and drive one non compos mentis.

Proving the state we are in would pertain to methodological scepticism -- the philosophical school of thought that critically examines whether knowledge and perceptions are true and whether one can ever have true knowledge, whereas thinking is the essence of the only thing that cannot be doubted.
As Descartes said: cogito ergo sum, “I think therefore I am.”

I should be on sound ground if I become cognizant of the fact that my ideas strictly speaking, of who I am and how people identify me and conjecture therefore a valid interpretation according to the data they were given.
Mathematically, they have analysed me by way of their own senses and perception. By using one’s judgment and other intelligence such as birthplace, age and religion and sex, they fall into a conclusion that is deemed to be true, without question.
Whereby truth is subjective, relative, and absolute does not have a rigorous definition as a concept.

Therefore “being” would engender a natural process of analytically deciphering from birth the actual rationale of the self by discarding the sophistic element as illogical. The reason why we accept that two plus two equals four is a mathematical deduction of figures, in other words life has been based around the simplest formula that governs and orchestrates our logics and enlivens our database.
We admit to call a spade a spade because simplicity is the base for arcane equations and we suffocate soon if we lack the base that maintains an intellectual equilibrium.
But sometimes, freak storms surface that were not part of the equation and the very few work out that two plus two equals five.
The latter would contradict society, clash with the essence of credibility but nevertheless they come up with food for thought.

This is why I am encumbered with my own database, not the one, I believe to be cogent but the one people out of simplicity, have slapped on me.

To blog or not to blog

By Julian Sudre


ARE you the one that squeaked into the game of publishing by some contradictory, perhaps well-oiled means of escaping the editor’s eye and smugly turned around and said you loved the internet?

Films were made for the television and later on for the cinema. There, came a new way to broadcast movies with high-calibre actors that would not do television, simply.
Rapidly a flurry of small-change productions along with its b-list wannabes
would come droning around television shows in the hope to be the next big screen star.
The latter, in particular sparked off the fantasy – more often that not, these days – to get you in the limelight, or to catapult you into the nine days wonder, sometimes.

The internet has generated a myriad of windows of opportunities that could relate to the television these days -- an attempt to touch slightly, if not illusory stardom – by getting everyone on board, regardless of their talents.

So if is television rubbish, so is the internet with their half-baked scribblers that claim to have to say something of great import. Because the Human Rights Act 1998 which came into force on 2 October 2000, for the first time gave citizens specific legal rights, including the right to freedom of expression.
So please, don’t put the blame on bloggers as tabloid journalists are not any better. The only difference is one gets paid to supply gushy-mushy pap, when the other one strives to get a voice in a dog-eat-dog society.
Now, comes the crunch. Why a stamp from university projects your work into publication when you could as well blog it and laugh all the way to the bank? This is a double-edge dilemma. Journalists graduates have to go through loops to get their first publication, to finally get recognised for the work they have been putting in, and the long hours, while they were researching.
Bloggers break down barriers, use the Human Rights Act 1998 and cut to the chase by splashing out their piece, but they’ll get a smaller readership due to the fact they can’t target the bull’s eye -- that is the nationals.
But small doors open to bigger doors. In essence, it is important to try them all, even though most of them are locked. Everyone should stand a fair chance to try but few are selected for their work to be published for the major media outlets. Nonetheless, if they are, they are not necessarily worth their weight in gold.

When it comes to blogging, it is only of interest if the writer is a journalist with some ethics or a blogger who wants to become a journalist with some ethics.

Metaphoric lines

By Julian Sudre

THE only accolade, I could refer to, as the solace of intangible truth to betterment – if not, the sine qua non -- when wine pours out of the crack of heaven -- Clashy, ritualistic, and spiritual: a cataclysm of mental thrusts that erupt like frustrated geysers seem to be about to reconfigure the surface of my perception.

I ask, if not confoundedly, the help of the Beyond to ramp the anxiety down. Lost amidst the foliage of uncontrollable torpor, and agitation, I pray for the serene future.
Stupefied and discombobulated by such irregular fits, I marvel with incandescence at the angst and indelible panic that I have generated.

But thoughts project a material reinforcement in an abstract world. Perhaps this is where the mistake is; by applying such a distracting veneer to our own projections, we create or exacerbate the sharpness of incongruous metaphors.

May the Hand Of God wipe it away and bless us with the spontaneity of an angel.

Err, God, What time is it?

By Julian Sudre

Once upon a time, only birds could fly and telekinesis could shift objects on its own volition, and music was at its best when it comes in the way of vinyl.
A change of mood or a revolutionary idea swept it all away and now peanut butter addicts order Skippy on-line at ungodly hours and download music like Billy-o.

So why have our standards of living been enhanced by new technologies in such a rapid period? Is it the eagerness to get more peanut butter sandwiches without actually going to the store or suddenly our generation has got smarter than the previous ones?

We recently had hurricane devastating the southern part of the US, earthquakes wreaking havoc in Pakistan and a tornado in Australia. With due respect, let me omit the shark and crocodile increase which has made a dent in our safety, if any.
That poor girl was jogging by the canals in Florida and next thing she knows, well, she does not know anymore.

Crocodile experts voiced concern at a noticeable rise in attacks; hurricane pundits reckon tornadoes are on the up and up.
Scientists are firing on all cylinders so as to come up with new ways of averting our own demises.
Bottom line – I don’t think we can have our own cake and eat it. A bit like watching a movie and wolfing down some popcorn, which will result in more obesity.

This is where new technology comes in, but at a price. It has spawned a physical laziness, par excellence and triggered off our logical sense: why use them all, when one does it all.
It only takes one hit to short-circuit a system; the same applies to the human brain.
To top it off, we are proud of it.

Porto, Portugal

By Julian Sudre

AN EARLY landing and minutes later the plane disgorged its passengers on to the runway and out we were yomping as happy as clams with our carry-on bags in the balmy Portuguese heat ready to tackle our adventure.
We found a beautiful hotel perched over a serpentine cobbled-street with the most exhilarating vista over the Atlantic Ocean in the suburb of Porto.
Portugal profusely offered itself in the most ravishing way.

Ten in the morning, the sun was blasting and our shirts were off. We opted to hoof it to El Centro that was approximately a mile or two away from where we stayed. We walked alongside the River Douro from its mouth until we reached destination.
The blue water was scintillating in the morning heat and was alive with an abundance of fish that were squirming close to the rocks.

On our way into town, we grabbed a cool beer before jumping onto those old wooden-panelled tram from the bygone days. A car happened to be parked in the tracks’ way, and our jovial ride promptly came to a halt till the owner’s car backed his vehicle off the tracks. We were the only two passengers on the tram, and such amusing anecdote just added to the charm.

The old town basked in the glorious heat; its people talked expressively and musically; the sumptuous river was ornate with some grandiose and graceful bridges that arched dramatically over the Douro; and gondola-like boats were gliding on it.

Portugal’s second largest city was punctuated with granite church towers, orange-tiles houses and dotted with world famous port distilleries.

Not that a change of scenery made us crave for a beverage, as I would have thought this was inappropriate a time to pop in for a visit in the middle of the blistering afternoon heat but more fittingly a refuge to appease our soul from heat exhaustion – or dehydration. Where ever else could you taste port wine if not in Porto?
Meandering our way into blissful port degustation, we entered the entrails of wine making and its secrets and signed off with more tasting back at the tasting room.

Reeking of port and spinning gleefully out of the distillery, we enjoyed a quick rest overlooking the town and made tracks for home by hopping on a cab back to the hotel.
The trenchant sun eased off as we lizardly lounged by the hotel pool on the roof terrace. A quick dip and were ready to paint the town red. We zipped back into town for dinner and lo and behold, we ended up wining and dining in the worse way. Authenticity was not at its best, unfortunately.

As the night draws on, the tiredness started to wash over us, we headed back to the hotel for a nightcap and collapsed brutally later on into a deep, serene sleep.

Oh gorgeous morning! We stoked up on breakfast downstairs, aplenty with cereals, fruits, bacon, scrambled eggs and toasts and up we were on the roof terrace soaking up the sun by the pool.

We scoured every nook and cranny of the town, cabbed here and there, rambled up and down, tootled along narrow streets and wound up at Anita Café.
Intriguingly enough, the entrance door was fitted with coloured plastic flaps that hung loosely down so as to protect the roaming eye into deviant territory.
We popped our heads in to catch sight of a constricted, seedy, and dingy mirrored wall-to-wall watering hole where two ladies stood staring at us.

Unreassuringly, we ordered two beers to sooth our nerves. Silence could have been cut with a knife. The establishment contained six wooden tables lined up against the wall, and there we sipped on our beer with a $2000 worth suspense hanging over us.
Bluntly, I broke the high-voltage silence by inquiring about potential ice-melting actions but slummy sexiness was not on and I contrived to turn the embarrassment into a light-hearted conversation in a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed manner.

Once I obtained the low down from those girls, we scooted off to the boats and embarked on one of the most pleasant rides along the Douro for a good hour as the sun was beating down.
It was scolding hot and the sun cream was in order. Just as well that two English ladies were slathering themselves with cream on the boat and we wangled a big dollop off them and comfortably cruised sun-protected.

Knocked out by the sun, we passed out on our hotel bed for the best of four hours. Recharged and slightly running late on our evening schedule, we wound up in a restaurant close to eleven at night, where this time the nosh was finger-licking and the wine moreish.
We were fired up and ready to giddy-up to some local hot spots. Minutes later, we were walking through the doors of heaven, when my eyes, to my surprise, popped open with delight as the club contained slew of girls.
Surrounded by an ocean of females, waves of them were coming to accost us in a tarty way, which we thought was quite amusing.
The tension was cranked up, our senses enlightened, and desire was flowing through our veins.
One girl approached me and offered me to stay with her the whole night – deal -- I was to wait for her until she finished work.
I was out for the count and I was to wait until four in the morning. My friend and I decided to come up for air and knock back some espresso so as to keep alert.
My buddy wanted to call it quits but I managed to coax him into staying on and trying his luck. When we got back to the club to pick up the girl, my friend got cajoled by the hottest brazilian girl. Sure enough, off we went our own way in separate taxi with our girl.

A wild, sleepless night was consumed and the sun was up.
Porto had flashed its excess, its folly and above all its natural beauty through a prism of evanescence.

What made me become a vegetarian?

By Julian Sudre


The other day my mind stopped in its tracks – those days when you think it is your cue, the signal that makes you proceed accordingly – and in a split second, as if I had the answer, wham bang, an express delivery from the beyond whacked me like a flash of consciousness.
I have never put Veggies on a pedestal, or regarded them, as the supreme paradigm of it all, neither thrown them into the do-my-fair-bit-to protect-the-animal-kingdom department, for some reason.
My sister and my mother are no-meat eaters, and I have felt a little like I can’t see the forest for the trees, sort of. So why is a volt-face in order today?

An ultimatum was delivered and my stomach raised the alarm – the 28-year-old cycle that processes with delectation those condiments made of lamb or delectable Christmas turkeys – is to become a thing of the past.
The barbecues that proffer mouth-watering foodstuff on a summer day will never be floating in the back of my mind with the reminiscence of a joyful youth that had epicurean tastes

If I were to vacillate between good and evil, I would contemplate the evil but savour the good. Not to mix with vegetables that equate to good and meat to evil but more in the sense of appreciating the truth in each element, that is the distinction between contributing toward an immaculate resolution that understand the effects of each one.
I am no vegan, and when I say vegetarian I only leave the meat out but relish on fish.

Okay then, the UK vegetarian society does not consider fish eaters to be vegetarians, so all that waffle about me is claptrap?
First and foremost, it is important to consider the following distinction between making an effort to cherry-pick your food, thereby, to avoid animal cruelty and chicken farming, which the latter generates a friction on the environment and the over-sharpened idea that the poor fish if eaten, will suffer agitation, pain and finally death. If it comes to that, please prior to being a no-fish eater, think twice about the way you deal with human beings.
A quick look at the Genesis 1:29, when God created people and said to them: “ See, I give you every seed-bearing plant that is upon the earth, and every tree that has seed-bearing fruit, they shall be yours for food. And to all the animals on land, to all the birds of the sky, and to everything that creeps on earth, in which there is breath of life, I give all the green plants for food.”
That said, Jesus was not a vegetarian and after the Great Flood, God said that every creature that lives shall be yours to eat.

Being a vegetarian is a very personal choice but as our societies mass produce more often than not unnatural products on our supermarket shelves and we have a tendency to skip the essentials vegetables for a burger with fries. It is a particular philosophy that revolves round a healthier lifestyle. Buddhism, also believes in vegetarianism.
Perhaps, it is high time to put the Veggie hat on and learn how to eat again, that is, to say goodbye to the garbage food and enjoy plain and simple sustenance.

As for the fish, I am of the opinion that it remains a delicacy. I’ll have it sautéed please.