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Dineen on Jarrett and the journey of music


Back in 1998, when time was not such a commodity, Donal Dineen was kind enough to set a considerable chunk of it aside to respond to a request from me to write an essay about his sense of the importance of music in life. It was for a book project I had concocted to deal with my own curiousity about the place of music in people's lives. Lilliput Press agreed to publish a collection of essays by public figures about 'serious' music, and Donal agreed to write something for the paltry sum of £50.

It was a two part essay, part one written on 1 January 1998 and dealing mostly with Dineen's desire to play music and coming to terms with being a listener: 'I had conquered the first verse of the Dawning of the Day when the realisation dawned that the intricacies of Rachmaninov's third were not for me'; part two was written on 24 March 1998, mostly about Keith Jarrett's Concert in Köln: 'Welcome to paradise!' he writes.

Sadly Lilliput got lilly livered about the market for such a book and breached the contract (my Today FM!), and I failed to find an alternative publisher despite much effort. So Dineen's essay, among thirty or so other contributions from equally generous and forgiving people such as William Trevor, David Norris, John Kinsella, Roger Doyle, have remained in a folder (a brown, card one in the attic) ever since.

Without having sought his permission, I won't reprint the entire essay (though I think it has withstood the test of time itself), but I hope, considering the moment he is in, he won't mind having this extract revived:
'Music has the power to leave an indelible mark on the soul. We can blame the 20th Century technology for lots of ills but we've got it to thank for the pleasure of being able to go back and experience those moments of magic again and again. The concert in Cologne began as just a moment in time. What Keith Jarrett played and how he played it was what made that moment special. The intervening years have done nothing to alter or diminish the power of what was heard that evening. Thinking about the places and spaces this music has travelled in the intervening years would be a test for even the wildest sense of wonder. [I'm thinking about Dineen himself, at this stage.]

Essays come and essays go, in first and second parts, but this music will live forever. We can bear witness to where it started whenever we want but knowing where it will end is beyond us. As pure as water that rises from the well, this is the joy of music captured at the source. Sample it, bottle it and make it yours.'

Annie West's spinning wheel of clichés

Who will make an app of Annie West's wheel of empty rhetoric. I know seven definite customers already.


And it can be used for more than just the Irish presidential election campaign!

Buy yourself a print version here >>>

Roth's Zuckerman on abandoning writing for life

"Twenty years up here in the literary spheres is enough - now for the fun of the flowing gutter. The bilge, the ooze, the gooey drip. The stuff. No words, just stuff. Everything the word's in place of. The lowest of genres - life itself." (From The Anatomy Lesson)

A geat perspective on editing and on bad science writing



Take Out the Trash
by PW, July '06

A spectacular example of bad writing is in a recent issue of Science. Here's the first paragraph (don't read too closely: you'll get a headache):

Although many results from in vitro and in vivo models that express mutant Huntingtin, a-synuclein, tau, superoxide dismutase-1, amyloid-b peptide, or prion proteins are consistent with the proposal that non-native species can form toxic folding intermediates, oligomers, and aggregates, distinct mechanisms for toxicity have been proposed for each. These mechanisms range from specific protein-protein interactions to disruption of various cellular processes, including transcription, protein folding, protein clearance, energy metabolism, activation of apoptotic pathways, and others. This has led us to consider how the expression of a single aggregation-prone protein could have such pleiotropic effects and whether a more general mechanism could explain the many common features of protein conformation diseases. Moreover, because each cell and tissue contains various metastable polymorphic proteins, could the chronic expression of an aggregation-prone protein have global consequences on homeostasis and thus affect folding or stability of proteins that harbor folding defects?
(T. Gidalevitz et al., Progressive Disruption of Cellular Protein Folding in Models of Polyglutamine Diseases, Science, 10 Mar 2006, p. 1474 ff.)

The report describes experiments showing that the presence of one misfolded protein in a cell may provoke misfolding in others. The experiments are ingenious and have implications for diseases like Huntington's and Mad Cow disease. But the paper's impenetrable language not only neutralizes its impact, but even arouses the suspicion that the low quality of its prose might reflect that of the research itself.

The writer gets off on the wrong foot from the first word. The conjunction "Although" is separated from the two statements it connects (non-native proteins promote toxic folding intermediates; there are distinct toxic mechanisms) that do not appear until much later in the long, turgid sentence. The order of the statements themselves is inverted for no good reason. "Although" also implies a dependency or reciprocal relationship between the statements (e.g., "although I am a sinner, I do not despair") that does not actually exist in this instance. Here the two statements are parallel, not reciprocal. "Although" turns the sentence into a non-sequitur.

Other problems: the two complicated noun clauses crowd in so much detail that meaning is hidden rather than revealed; they would be better off in their own sentences. "Mechanism" occurs three times in a row, each with a somewhat different meaning (specific cause; general causes; systematic explanation). "Distinct" is another wrong word. It emphasizes the separateness of the toxic pathways. But in biology overlap between pathways is always possible, if not likely. "Different" would be better word: it allows some blurring. The imprecision gets worse with the appearance of the passive voice in the second half of the sentence, heightening the impression of the writer's confusion. The final offense is the dangling pronoun "each" at the end of the sentence, which is so far away from its antecedent that it's not easy to know if it refers to "species" or "intermediates ...".  This is just the first sentence, but the abuse continues as the reader is obliged to slog on through the paragraph, parsing it in order to get at its meaning.

Here's how this dreadful paragraph might have been written:

Proteins that form toxic folding intermediates, oligomers and aggregates cause different kinds of cellular damage. The proteins include mutant Huntingtin, a-synuclein, tau, superoxide dismutase-1, amyloid-b peptide, and prions. The damage may be to specific protein-protein interactions or to general processes including transcription, protein folding and clearance, metabolism and apoptosis. Why do proteins with toxic folding defects give rise to so many different kinds of damage? Do they exert a global effect by destabilizing other proteins in the cells and tissues they reside in? A general mechanism would go a long way toward explaining the etiology of misfolding diseases.

Writing clear expository prose is not so difficult, but it does take time and patience. Lots of iterations may be needed to get a passage right. You look at the topic from several angles, like a judge considering a case. If you get fatigued you have to take time off from the task, then come back and resume work when you're refreshed. A few simple principles guide the process: whenever possible get rid of jargon, replace big words with small ones, use simple sentences unless the idea contains component statements so closely connected that a compound sentence is positively justified. Rewrite repeatedly. Keep asking yourself, what am I really trying to say? What's the point of the passage? Not infrequently some internal contradiction will reveal itself during the interrogation, demanding further rewriting and reorganization. Gauge progress by counting the words. As long as there's no loss of meaning, fewer words are better.

Watson and Crick knew these principles:

We wish to suggest a structure for the salt of deoxyribose nucleic acid (D.N.A.). This structure has novel features which are of considerable biological interest ... This structure has two helical chains each coiled round the same axis (see diagram). We have made the usual chemical assumptions, namely, that each chain consists of phosphate diester groups joining beta-D-deoxyribofuranose residues with 3',5' linkages. The two chains (but not their bases) are related by a dyad perpendicular to the fibre axis. Both chains follow right-handed helices, but owing to the dyad the sequences of the atoms in the two chains run in opposite directions. ...
(JD Watson, FHC Crick, A structure for deoxyribose nucleic acid, Nature, Apr 25, 1953 p 737)

Even omitting the diagram their meaning is clear. Sentence structure is clean and uncomplicated, and when the uncommon usage "dyad" is encountered it's obvious from context that what's referred to is a hydrogen bond. The compound sentence is used judiciously to unite two closely related ideas (there are two right-handed helices; they run in opposite directions). A single reading of the paper suffices, and one emerges at the end with a feeling of uplifted understanding.

In this lovely passage by Darwin a positive, sympathetic connection is easily established between author and reader:

... I watched a group of plants on two or three occasions for an hour; each day I saw numerous specimens of two small Hymenopterous insects, namely, a Hæmiteles and a Cryptus, flying about the plants and licking up the nectar; most of the flowers, which were visited over and over again, had already had their pollinia removed, but at last I saw both these insect-species crawl into younger flowers, and suddenly retreat with a pair of bright yellow pollinia sticking to their foreheads; I caught them, and found the point of attachment was to the inner edge of the eye; on the other eye of one specimen there was a ball of the hardened viscid matter, showing that it had previously removed another pair of pollinia, and had subsequently in all probability left them on the stigma of one of the flowers.

As I caught these insects, I did not witness the act of fertilisation; but C. K. Sprengel actually saw a Hymenopterous insect leave its pollen-mass on the stigma. My son watched another bed of this Orchid at some miles' distance, and brought me home the same Hymenopterous insects with attached pollinia, and he saw Diptera also visiting the flowers. He was struck with the number of spider-webs spread over these plants, as if the spiders were aware how attractive the Listera was to insects, and how necessary they were to its fertilisation.
(Charles Darwin, "On the Various Contrivances by which British and Foreign Orchids are Fertilised by Insects, and on the Good Effects of Intercrossing," 1862, p 146-7)

Why does the author of the Science paper fail so dismally at communicating his findings? And why have the editors of one of the world's premier scientific journals tolerated the appearance of such graceless and confusing prose in their pages? Fatigue, disorganization, deadline pressure – perhaps even the narrow education of the writer – may explain, but do not excuse, what has been done.

Professional science today is a production industry. Labs are factories and the research productivity on which funding and careers depend is measured by papers. Up to a point, the research can be speeded up with reagent kits, software, high throughput machinery, and by laying on more low-cost grad student labor. In communicating the results, even certain elements of the writing may yield to engineering efficiencies: the References can be automated with End Note software, and perfunctory treatment may be adequate for the Materials & Methods, and perhaps in some cases even the Results.

But the heart of the job – the Introduction, Discussion and Abstract – remains a solo, green eyeshade, midnight oil kind of business, a process not much different from the one that Linnaeus, Darwin or Haeckel sat down to do, demanding of time, patience and a respectful consideration for the reader who will later share the work. Communication of results is crucial to the scientific enterprise, but poorly written prose is likely to be misunderstood or ignored, and to prejudice the reader with feelings of alienation and mistrust. Writers and editors of scientific prose should insist on a level of clarity, grace and economy that is all too often not attained in the scientific literature today.

A piece of writing is an invitation to the reader. Gidalevitz's invitation is like one to an unruly house where you arrive to find the light in the entryway burned out, a bicycle negligently left on the threshold, the front hall dark, narrow and unwelcoming.  As you make your way through the disorder, you say, I wish they had cleaned this place up. They should have taken out the trash.

(via >>>)

Graydon Carter (Vanity Fair) on great magazine writing


 Vanity Fair editor, Graydon Carter:
"In general, a magazine article needs at least one of three basic ingredients: access, disclosure or narrative. A great article has to have at least two of these components, and a memorable one has all three – along with a distinctive style and a fresh way of looking at its subject. Business-class travel for the writer doesn't hurt, either.
Access lays the groundwork for one of the most satisfying experiences a reader can have – the sensation that he has entered a world foreign to his own, a realm rich in detail and character. Access doesn't necessarily mean the cooperation of a subject. In a war zone, for example, it can mean entering an area that journalists have yet to penetrate. While large news organisations can deploy teams of reporters to cover a major event, there is something to be said for the power of a single, intrepid journalist...
Disclosure, that key second element, is the result of great reporting or interviewing techniques and can result in a story breaking news. It can also attend an article that advances the scholarship on a particular subject.
Then comes narrative. Anyone can relay a sequence of events. But only the best writers have an instinct for telling a story: building suspense, fleshing out characters, shaping the narrative arc of the tale at hand. A great article transcends reportage. In the right hands, narrative journalism can be as insightful and stirring as a novel."
(via The Dubliner >

Logos: Irish versus international



Highlights of Recent Dublin Architecture circa 2002

Another feature I did for Cara magazine back in the day. This is the pre-publication, uncut version, with more recently sourced photographs:



One of the stories in Joyce’s Dubliners paints a thoroughly bleak picture of the architecture of the city in the early twentieth century. ‘A Little Cloud’ concerns a clerk nicknamed Little Chandler.
He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King’s Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street... He picked his way deftly … under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roistered.
Standing today outside the James Gandon designed King’s Inns on conserved Henrietta Street it is easy to think that nothing much has changed in one hundred years. Indeed, in some parts of the city very little has. But in the last decade or so various additions to Dublin’s architecture have transformed other parts of the city utterly. The erection of the slouching International Financial Services Centre in 1990 and the setting up of Temple Bar Properties in 1991, on opposite banks of the Liffey, mark for some the start of a renaissance in architecture in Dublin, and for others mark the last days of a charming city – “dear, dirty Dublin” as it is called in Joyce’s story.

Following in the footsteps of Little Chandler from Henrietta Street down Capel Street towards the river, with Thomas Cooley’s recently restored neoclassical City Hall off in the distance, it’s still quite a while before you see signs of change. The charm of Capel Street today is a ramshackle, independent retailer one (“the sense of generations at work”, as Kevin Myers has described it).

… his soul revolted against the full inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it, if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.
Many Irish architects felt that way about their capital city through the 70s and 80s, and it wasn’t until the 1990s that they were given any real chance to do something in Dublin. They had meanwhile worked in the UK, the USA, and later in Berlin and Barcelona. All those influences are now to be found competing for domination of Dublin’s skyline.

However, along Capel Street, it’s only when you reach the quays that any evidence of great architectural progress can be seen. I say ‘can be’ because you do have to look. Overall, Louis MacNeice’s description of Dublin in 1939 - “O greyness run to flower,/ Grey stone, grey water,/ And brick upon grey brick” - still rings true. It’s easy to traverse the city and notice only the great Georgian and Victorian legacies.

Little Chandler, again:
As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the river-banks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset...

The Bookend – Arthur Gibney & Partner

Renovation taking place on Grattan Bridge tells a different story. The City Council has planned a book market there, Seine-style, with permanent stalls in place for traders to display their wares. The book theme is then sustained in a building, two down from the wonderful, cleaned-up Sunlight Chambers, called The Bookend. It is the last building in the row along Essex Quay and the curving Exchange Street Lower to the rear. The client, Temple Bar Properties, wanted a ‘punctuation point’ where the building line ends looking west over a landscaped area and the embedded Viking boat sculpture.



In contrast to the houses pitied by Joyce’s character this is a bright, white building, picked out dramatically in the evening sun’s rays coming from over Phoenix Park. The front of the building on the quays is quite sparsely kitted-out in comparison to its neighbours, particularly towards that west end. This plainness emphasizes its terminal role, but is not very engaging to the eye.

The west facing elevation, with a café at ground level and apartments above, is, however, a treat. There aren’t many buildings in city centre Dublin that offer such an unobstructed viewing opportunity of one whole unattached side of a building, and the architects, Arthur Gibney & Partners have taken the opportunity to make a bold statement with it. The projecting walls appear almost detachable, the overall effect, perhaps, being of robust book shelving. At the same time, it’s a lookout; somehow boat like, with the screen wall creating decks and a sense that the building is moving up river. The design is strong, but there are, sad to say, already signs of wear and tear in the masonry.

The Wooden Building – de Blacam & Meagher Architects

The Bookend is one of over 15,000 apartment developments built since 1990 aimed at repopulating the city centre. Another, even more prominent example, on the far side of Dublin’s Viking Experience from the Bookend, is the Residential Tower or Wooden Building, situated on Upper Exchange Street in the west end of Temple Bar. The wood panelling brings us back, of course, to Viking times, and the way each floor steps out slightly from the one below is quite medieval, but the tower itself is very modern.



The building is actually two towers, one five storey block and another nine-storey block with the gap between serving as an entrance up to a raised courtyard and very busy crèche. Designed with two more storeys in mind, the architects, de Blacam & Meagher had to compromise, but still achieved a height nearly double the neighbouring buildings. This is a thrilling work to view, with a wonderful array of material on show: the central shaft of tropical hardwood, one wing of white render, and another of bronze-coloured brickwork, highlighted by white cement. Artisans were commissioned to add customised features, such as the six-panel oak doors, and the copper window casements. The building also offers an endless variety of lines and shapes to the eye, and yet still holds together beautifully. “It’s a complex composition,” said Shane de Blacam, “because it responds to all its neighbours.”

The problem trying to appreciate such interesting residential architecture is how difficult it is to access for the public, not just in terms of actually buying apartments in places like Temple Bar, but just getting a decent view of the outside. This is especially so with the award-winning Printworks building, designed by Derek Tynan Architects, further east in Temple Bar. Only one full elevation is visible to the public, and the entrance to the raised courtyard is closed off with a gate for security reasons. It’s unfortunate that things have to be so because judging from the published photographs this is another spectacular design, and this time without the obvious appeal of wood to help it along. The RIAI award citation observes that this mixed development is “a thoroughly considered ensemble of uses and volumes, consistently and thoughtfully detailed with a scale and orientation that make it an oasis in the midst of street-level urban activity.”

Hair Salon – de Paor Architects

Temple Bar Properties fostered a group of architects in the 90s to produce work of such very high standards in the context of carefully planned, State-sponsored urban renewal. Less easy to achieve is a high quality of once-off retail architecture as this necessitates a broadminded entrepreneur meeting up with and trusting an adventurous architect. Just such a match has resulted in a bizarre little “outlet” on South William Street. Dylan Bradshaw’s hair salon, once you notice it, will cause you to do a double take. The dark exterior is both discreet and conspicuous. It’s both proscenium arch, and camera obscura. Where you’d expect to see a sign, all you get is a blank box that looks like it has been slid into the existing 1950s building, lit at night by a hidden blue light. This is architecture as branding. The door is all stainless steel, so to see what you’re getting yourself in for you are forced to look through the window again, and the temptation there and then is to step into the frame and walk down the long hall that stretches before you through the window. “The inside and the outside are deeply interlinked,” says Tom de Paor.



de Paor Architects wanted to create a durable interior reacting against the prevalence of disposable shop interiors being constantly ripped out and replaced. The materials used – teak and various colours of marble - glisten, and shine, and reflect in the chorus of slim lights that dangle from the ceiling.

The low-ceiling space is divided down the middle so that there is no front of house/back of house, but two parallel sides-of-house and a triangular section at the end. This establishes separate spaces for the many and varied activities of a modern salon, from reception, to washing and cutting, to storage, to shiatsu massage, and even a private room for any customers who have business to see to between the cut and highlights. Such daring work is a much-needed criticism of the banal kitsch of the shopping centre opposite.


Leinster House 2000 – Architectural Services, Office of Public Works supported by Donnelly Turpin Architects/Paul Arnold Architects

The State, through the Office of Public Works, has been very successful as a restorer of our architectural heritage. The new parliamentary building, however, comprising office suites for 100 Oireachtas members and four parliamentary committee rooms, is a fine example, with some restoration work involved, of its capacity for modern in-fill projects. Adjacent to Leinster House, and adjoining the National Library and National Gallery, this design required sensitive integration into a highly irregular space. The result sinks deep into the site, increasing in height as it recedes from Leinster House, and is delightfully asymmetrical in all directions.



Externally clad in Irish limestone, and extensively glazed, the building, designed by the OPW supported by Donnelly Turpin Architects and Paul Arnold Architects, provides members with air-conditioned, oak-lined offices, around a series of sunken courts, a glass roofed multi-storey atrium, and a landscaped courtyard with water garden. Daylight streams in everywhere, despite the confined site.

Again, though, the problem for the public is access, and in this case only the upper floors are generally visible, and only from Leinster Lawn and Merrion Square. There was talk in the Dáil of plans to consider taking down the railings around Leinster House, and to open the gardens to the public, and even to provide a walkway linking Merrion Square and Kildare Street, but in these insecure times this seems unlikely, so we can only take the word of our public representatives about the success of Leinster House 2000. Will any of them refuse to stand for reelection?

Citibank - Scott Tallon Walker Architects

The new Citibank Dublin Headquarters on North Wall Quay in the IFSC extension is the largest individual office building in Dublin, comprising approximately 374,000 square feet over six floors and basement parking. The building had to accommodate up to 2,000 staff while complying with the Dublin Docklands Development Authority’s somewhat cowardly height restrictions for the area. Frank McDonald of the Irish Times says the result has a “crew cut appearance”.



The Citibank building is, of course, not open to the public, but its front elevation, best viewed from the south side quay opposite, is revealing enough to indicate the success of the building. You’ll see nine clear subdivisions, four of Wicklow granite, three of alternating glass and white aluminium, and two fully glazed sections where two massive atria rise up through the building. The west end is stepped back along an angle formed by the glazed main entrance, and this creates a broad fan of footpath in front, marked by Citibank with the replanting of a mature oak tree.
Once through the revolving doors, on the other side of the glass wall you enter a huge, thrilling atrium space: a calm, quiet interior courtyard contained by office windows. Ivy drapes from internal window boxes above. Sounds travel smoothly without any edgy echoing. This calm, light-filled atmosphere is retained right throughout the building, in massive open-plan offices, carefully laid out to prevent shadows being cast and feelings of isolation among staff. It’s a comfortable, attractive working environment.

On the far side of the reception and the glass-encased lift shaft is a landscaped garden, replete with tropical plants and small trees. There is another internal potted garden in the east atrium and a small landscaped courtyard between the two atria. Good architecture lets nature in, apparently, and this building was awarded the Westland Landscape Award in the interior-landscaping category in recognition of this. The icing on the cake for an instance of “corporate architecture at its international best”, as the RIAI award citation goes.

Liffey Boardwalk – McGarry NíEanaigh


Judging by the number of people who without hesitation opt to take the new boardwalk rather than the footpath along Ormond Quay between O’Connell Bridge and Grattan Bridge, this architectural project is a huge success. There was some resistance to it in conservation circles, with An Taisce worried that it would be gimmicky, and might become shabby. But Dublin City Council is very proud of it, delighted that their idea to reintroduce Dubliners to the river is working so well. As the City Architect says, “Its success will accelerate the public demand that the quality of the Liffey continues to improve.”



The parallel footpath had to be left untouched, so the McGarry NíÉanaigh design rests on a series of rock anchors drilled diagonally into the bedrock of the river. The deck and elbow rail are timber from a sustainable managed source. The south-facing location is not over-shadowed by buildings, so it has a lot going for it as a place to stroll or sit in the sun. There are small terraced cafés along the route, slightly curvaceous wooden benches, and overhanging lights that may be angular interpretations of the traditional streetlamps on the quays.

The boards feel great to walk on, bring you closer to the river, and offer a whole new outlook on the quays and city skyline. This was a fantastic idea, and like the Georgian squares in their day, provides essential release from and architectural perspective on the ever-increasing density of city life.


Later in life Joyce reconsidered his treatment of the city: “I have reproduced (in ‘Dubliners’ at least) none of the attractions of the city ... its ingenuous insularity and its hospitality.” Of course, he didn’t mention buildings, but with all these recent outstanding additions to the architectural repertoire of the city, maybe now he would. Let’s just hope the hospitality isn’t diminished.
Paul O’Connor wishes to thank John Dorman Architects for their advice.

Irish Times feature on water park in France, Aqualand


I had to cut the article down considerably for publication - see Times here >>>. And here's a fuller version >

With a combination of luck and avoidance tactics, we managed to get around the EuroDisney thing despite the three offspring between the ages of six and 10 practically equating France with that attraction. But we were in Languedoc-Rousillon, in the vicinity of another big French attraction, namely Aqualand, and considering their indulgent aunt had given them money marked ‘For Aqualand’, there was no getting out of this one.

Picture all the rides you’ve ever seen in an average playground and then add growth hormone, psychedelic inspiration, distorting mirrors and water. Slides, gutters and pipes of all shapes & sizes, in a park of moulded multi-coloured plastic, reaching up into the blue sky at every conceivable angle; running, filled or overflowing with chlorinated water, and accessed via steel stairwells leading to tree-height platforms.

Empty of people, it must be fascinating for engineers, insurance actuaries and suchlike to contemplate the admirable structures and their relationship with gravity and risk. To the kids this was a shrine to the fun gods. To us it was a safety quandary.

Having stuffed our gear, and maybe our dignity, into a locker we gamely stepped out in our togs prepared for that most unIrish of experiences: a whole day wandering around a park, and queuing for rides, in nothing but our swimsuits. Never mind there being no elbow room at a concert, or standing shoulder to shoulder at the match, in typical French style this is more bum to bum and chest to breast as, semi-naked, you wend your way among your fellow water-worshippers on the narrow pathways from ride to ride and between the crowd control railings at each. You may be used to the conventions that make near-nudity acceptable on the beach, but it takes a little adjusting of one’s perspective to get used to this standing around and walking along semi-clad in an amusement park. Needless to say, the French carry it off with their usual panache, semi-naked or not.

It’s nearly all bikinis for the girls and mostly either briefs or boxers styles for the boys. It’s mostly thrill-seeking teenagers in groups, but there is a high proportion of families and even some unaccompanied adults – although, they may just have become detached from their children. It’s mostly French, although we did have to queue at one stage for half and hour near an irritating bunch of a Irish teenage lads who spent their time commenting on their so rarely exposed bodily features.

Most of the rides are given English names, not to help the minority tourists, but reflecting the French weakness for English when they want to sound cool. “Crazy Race”, our first stop, is a racetrack of side-by-side water slides, gently waved to give that essential stomach-lurch thrill half way through. Most of the adults sit upright and concentrate on retaining some semblance of dignity as they splash through the water down the slope in their togs being watched by hundreds of strangers. Some have no shame and try to mimic the youth in testing out different positions – lying supine, lifting limbs, and ultimately looking remarkably like penguins from Happy Feet slipping gleefully down ice slopes. Some even manage to get a little bit of a lift-off on the hump and are momentarily flying!

We went down in parallel as a family and enjoyed it enough to line up again immediately for another go. We went from there to the “Anaconda”. When our youngest saw the somewhat deeper pool at the end of this ride, being uncomfortable with putting her face in the water, she decided to give it a miss and took off with her mother to find the kiddy’s section – a miniaturised version, a training ground for the future Aqualand customers.

I and the other two children duly queued up for “Anaconda” to collect a spongy mat each from those already descended. As we watched them spill off the end of the gutter and splash, limbs every which way, into the pool beneath, an image from Dante’s Inferno troubled me, but I continued to wait. Sadly after taking possession of the mats, we had to join another queue winding slowly up a steel stairwell, making me dizzier and queasier with every step. Realising at the top that pulling out would have been too embarrassing for my kids, I found myself adopting the required position, face down on the mat at the mouth of the twisting gutter, ready to take the fast route down. I found it to be a most unpleasant experience, chlorinated water constantly splashing up my nostrils, twisting and turning up and around the gutter and all the time picking up speed and losing control, wondering if I’d be an exception to the laws of physics they’d used to design this one.

The next queue was off-putting enough but when I beheld the scale of the ride itself, I decided to opt out. “The Wave” is a massive U shape of folded plastic lifted high in the sky on a steel frame. Sinners, holding onto the handles of their float for dear life, are pushed in two-man, figure-of-eight plastic floats from the top of one side of the U to be let fall almost straight down one side into the water trough below and slide up high on the opposite face, and so on until they come to rest, shaken and keen to disembark.

The children immediately joined the procession. I spent the best part of the next hour sitting on a scrubby bit of ground in front of “The Wave”, with other Dante types. I imagined errors in the design or exceptions in the trajectories, while watching two of my children slowly wend their way along the stanchions of the queue system, my sense of foreboding as to their safety growing with every scream from the descending souls, and not alleviated by the piped Beach Boys.

They survived and claimed, despite panic-stricken facial expressions that suggested otherwise, to have enjoyed it. We re-formed as a family and took a welcome relaxing trip down the “Congo River” in individual doughnut floats. Our youngest loved this one, and the absence of thrills and spills meant no queues and a very willing father.

The queuing for “Big Bob” would be a better explanation of its name than the fun payload, and “Twister” has fewer twists than its line-up had turns, but at least “Black Hole” was enough to scare off our kids and save us from that wait.

Finally, “Surf Beach” presented us with what my wife called a ‘soup of people’ floating around in a chlorine sea, chanting over and over for ‘La vague’ reminiscent of the aliens in Toy Story worshipping ‘the claw’. A similar pool is to be found at our own National Aquatic Centre, but the French do it in their inimitable way. A bell rang out, more bodies gathered in and cheers went up as some unseen mechanical arm generated the beginnings of a wave that spread and grew in vigour across the pool over the following few minutes. Ashore, others sat or lay in the sun, looking to all intents and purposes as if they were on an actual beach except for the fact that there was no one playing the usual beach racket ball or smoking.

Combining a good few of my bêtes-noir, including heights, crowds, queues and cheap thrills (which leave only a hunger for more), Aqualand was never going to be my kind of outing. But when I saw my youngest leaping joyfully in her armbands over the man-made waves, and the next one jumping time and again from the edge into the pool in every conceivable arrangement of limbs with the exception the one you’d call a dive, and the eldest witnessing the unfettered way the unselfconscious French lapped it all up, I appreciated that it was more a heaven than a hell.

Two different perspectives on business world

This, from Philip Roth's American Pastoral:


These deep thinkers were the only people he could not stand to be around for long, these people who’d never manufactured anything or seen anything manufactured, who did not know what things were made of or how a company worked, who, aside from a house or a car, had never sold anything and didn’t know how to sell anything, who’d never hired a worker, fired a worker, trained a worker, been fleeced by a worker – people who knew nothing of the intricacies or the risks of building a business or running a factory but who nonetheless imagined that they knew everything worth knowing.


And this from Ted Hughes' The Iron Woman:


She pushed in through the plate-glass doors of the main office block directly behind a man in a suit who clutched a briefcase and walked with bounding strides as if he had only seconds to get where he was going. Hogarth  followed her just as three men burst out of the lift and came hurtling across the reception hall almost running and out through the glass doors, rearranging their folders and papers in their arms as they went, and talking very loud all three together as if they had planted a bomb on a short fuse somewhere inside the building and were trying to disguise their getaway.
            Lucy seemed to know what to do. She looked past the unhappy screen of rubber plants and saw the plan of the office block of the wall. She marched across, past the little fountain and its bowl of plastic lilies, and Hogarth imitated her.
            He had enough sense to know that if they glanced towards the receptionist and caught her eye, she would ask them what they wanted – and that would be the end. She would say: ‘Please wait over there.’ Then she would phone for somebody who would tell them that nobody could speak to them that day. And their attack would have failed. Luckily, she was busy. Hogarth watched her out of his eye-corner, bent over her jumble of computers and fax machines, her hands scrabbling through heaps of papers as if her fingers chased each other. The phone was tucked between her cheek and her shoulder, and the top of her bowed curly head was plainly saying ‘Please don’t interrupt me.’
            The Manager’s office was on the fourth floor. Hogarth and Lucy went to the open lift. Two men got in beside them. Lucy pressed the button for the fourth, in beside them. Lucy pressed the button for the fourth, one of the men for the second, the other for the third. Neither spoke to the other. Both stared at Lucy and Hogarth but neither opened his mouth. Both for some reason looked very angry.


Where is the Rupert Pupkin of the internet?




I'm sure this guy, Mathew Epstein, currently chasing a job with Google through various notice-me tactics and blogging about it, isn't the Rupert Pupkin of the internet - he seems too intelligent and talented. Yet, I was definitely reminded of the King of Comedy, the cringe-inducing desperation and delusion captured and dissected so relentlessly and mercilessly in that movie, when Robin Blandford drew our attention to M.E.'s activities.

Intentional, perhaps?

I do like his c.v. layout, though, Robin!