Museum of London

How do we judge fame? I'm sure we've all heard the comment "He/she/it can't be that famous; I've never heard of them." Personally I always tut to myself when I hear this - as if your limited frame of reference is the only criterion - but I'm just as guilty of doing it myself. Fame is, by definition, collectively defined. I may know everything there is to know about my nearest and dearest, but if no one else does they are not famous; by the same token if I am the only person in the world not to have heard of the crimewriter Theobald Urquart, the omission hardly disqualifies him from the epithet "well known".

This, of course, only applies in a negative sense. I am pretty sure that Wayne Rooney is famous, not only because I've heard of him, but because I've heard of him in lots of places. If I really am the only person who hasn't heard of the global celebrity that is Mr Urquart, how am I to know I am missing out? You could all be talking about him when I'm not around and I wouldn't know. There would be no point talking about him when I am around because I don't know who he is; even if you did, I wouldn't pay attention.

All this is a round about way of saying I visited the Museum of London last week. I was planning to eulogise about what an underrated gem it is, much more informative and friendlier than more famous museums in the City. It occurred to me, however, that it might actually be rather more famous than I believe. Simply because I hadn't heard of it before, doesn't mean that everyone else hasn't already visited it a thousand times. It was considerably quieter than other museums I visited during the week, but that might be because I am a terrible judge of museums, and while I found it charming and distinctive, you might have found it parochial and narrow.

I am no expert on the subject, but I will say if you are in London and looking for somewhere to visit you could do worse than try this museum (assuming, obviously, that you haven't already been there). I have found in other cities that museums with a local focus are the most interesting: museums that try a broader approach often fail to do anything distinctive. This is something that I thought wouldn't apply in London - the presence of world class collections ensures that there are significant exhibits in most museums and galleries - I have found, however, that even here the local focus provides a wealth of stimulating material.

A popularity contest

I am perhaps unusual – at least amongst people who don’t work for the BBC – in harbouring no serious objections to the TV licence fee. I don’t relish paying it; I don’t relish paying for anything. I do, however, think that at a little under £3 a week – per household, not even per person – it represents excellent value. I think that the principle of funding a public service broadcaster in this way is fine and admirable. And I think that because of the way it is funded, the BBC has produced innovative and envied television.

It shouldn’t be surprising then that I view Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt’s suggestion that the fee could be reduced with suspicion. His reference to the “very constrained financial situation” is an attempt to link it with wider austerity measures that is disingenuous if not outright deceitful. The finances of the BBC are in no way linked to the budget deficit the government is so desperate to cut. If Mr Hunt believes that the BBC should suffer simply because other people and other bodies are, shouldn’t he suggest some sort of pay cap across the whole of the economy?

The true motives behind this lie, I suspect, lies in the unpopularity of the licence fee. I may be unusual in not objecting to it, but I am certainly not unusual in failing to enjoy paying. This government is acutely aware that it is heading for deep unpopularity with some of its decisions. Ultimately, I suspect that in suggesting the licence fee be reduced they are attempting to offset the effects of massive spending cuts across the board.

Killing X-Factor?

So Rage Against the Machine's 'Killing in the Name' has triumphed over - you know I'm not even sure I can be bothered to find out what the X-Factor offering is called. There have been plenty of comments elsewhere on the chart battle, and the American band's victory. Some objections to the X-Factor campaign seem more relevant than others: both tracks are ultimately distributed by Sony; there are better ways to upset Simon Cowell's applecart than backing an outdated and irrelevant rock tune; X-Factor will continue anyway. For me the most cogent argument was made by the NME's Luke Lewis. Along with a number of other points, Lewis suggests that the campaign trivialises a song that addresses important issues in American society. Curiously, the band themselves don't seem to object.

My own opinion is probably obvious already, but for the record I downloaded 'Killing in the Name' and am therefore partly responsible for it being number one. There seems little point in rehashing arguments that have been, and are being, fought out all over the web. What springs to my mind is a quote from Benjamin Disraeli's Sybil, or the Two Nations. Disraeli writes of "Two nations between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are ignorant of each other's habits, thoughts and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different zones or inhabitants of different planets".

This is my main reason for not wanting to rehash the argument: most people already have entrenched positions on the debate, and don't understand the other side. Joe McElderry may have a vested interest, but he probably spoke for many when he described 'Killing in the Name' as 'dreadful'. For others, me included, the bland pop and associated manipulation churned out by X-Factor is similarly abhorrent. McElderry doesn't understand this, and I wouldn't expect him to.

Ultimately, this is why 'Killing in the Name' is the perfect song for the anti X-Factor campaign. It is a big slab of angry, confrontational rock that is bound to polarise people. There is a time and a place for unity and consensus; there is a time and a place to be reasonable and subtle; but when you are fighting something as pervasively anodyne as 'The Climb' you've got to be obnoxious about it.

Britpop feud fifteen years on.

This morning I heard Blur's 'Beatlebum' on the radio, and experienced a slight frisson of guilt at turning the volume up. The old feud should certainly have died now, but I always was definitely on the side of Oasis. This was partly because they're from my home town, although they do have one or two misguided ideas; it's partly because I liked their early singles in particular; and it's partly because by the time they appeared on the scene I'd already decided I didn't like Blur that much anyway.

For a couple of years before they became successful, I'd been quite interested in Blur. By 'interested' I mean that while I didn't find myself humming any of their tunes while I was washing up, I imagined they potentially had something I might want to explore at some point. When they released their 'eagerly anticipated' third album Parklife in 1994, I counted myself among the eager anticpators. The debut single, 'Girls and Boys' struck me as wry and clever, but ultimately irritating; ditto the title track, which received a lot of radio play at the time. I was still undecided when they released the album's second single, 'To The End'.

Never has a song more deserved the description 'neglected classic'. It is rarely mentioned in accounts of the era, or lists of the band's great recordings, yet it is one of the most beautifully desolate records ever. Damon Albarn's vocal sounds vulnerable, rather than clever; his voice stretches itself to convey the right emotion. The band's tendency to smugness, meanwhile, is reined in by the beguiling tune.

They spoiled it all by releasing 'Parklife' as a single. I'd already had enough of Phil Daniels' irritating spoken word narration, and Albarn's fake cockernee banter when it was just an album track. Now I was bombarded whenever I turned on the radio. The rest of the world seemed to disagree, and my irritation increased exponentially every time I heard it blaring from a white van or a trendy clothes shop, or accompanying a quirky news item about a dog invading a football pitch or something equally ridiculous. Oasis arrived at around the same time, and I was ready to swear hatred for Blur and everything they stood for.

Actually some of the things that Blur stood for - education, literacy and progressive politics - were alright; similarly, so were some of their subsequent singles. Nevertheless, I have now taken the pledge, and enjoying their work will never be anything other than a guilty pleasure.

Nick Hornby, Melvyn Bragg and James Joyce

Over the last fifteen years or so, I have enjoyed an occasional relationship with The South Bank Show. I have caught it from time-to-time simply looking around for something to watch on a Sunday night. As show times vary I have sometimes come in at the beginning of something I've enjoyed very much; frustratingly I've also come in at the end of something I'd have made a point of seeing had I have known it was on - most galling was catching the final five minutes of a programme on Elvis Costello.

Recently, particularly as I've matured into my thirties, I've learned how to use a TV guide, and can now look for shows I think will be interesting. The show's broad coverage means that I frequently find myself skipping episodes, particularly when I want to see Match of The Day 2. As it seems that the present series will be the last, I've been determined to find something to watch before it goes for good.

Yesterday's travesty at Anfield meant I was happy to miss the football last night; fortuitously, this coincided with a show about Nick Hornby. I had been planning to watch the show anyway. I'm generally happy enough to watch documentaries about writers, whether I like their stuff or not - Jeffrey Archer being the one dishonourable exception. As it happens, I've read Hornby's first three novels and enjoyed them.

He's published two more since the last time I read him, the most recent was released last month. I haven't got round to reading either, but possibly will at some point. The show didn't inspire me to rush out and buy the books I haven't read, not least because of a comment Hornby made himself. He says that he occasionally meets people who tell him they've read High Fidelity ten or fifteen times; he longs, he says, to tell them to stop: "there are other things you could be reading". It's a fair point, and sums up my own feelings: Nick, if you're reading this, I've enjoyed what I've read so far, but the rest of your oeuvre will have to wait until I've finished Finnegans Wake.

Lewis's Secret?

The BBC 1 programme, The Narnia Code, broadcast on Thursday 16th April contains, apparently startling claims of a hidden code contained within CS Lewis's Narnia Chronicles.

I will admit to being fascinated by the programme, literary studies being my thing and all. The gist of the theory is that each of the seven books parallels one of the seven planets in the medieval view of the cosmos. Dr Michael Ward, the first proponent of the theory makes a sound case, based partly on his study of Lewis's own study of medieval literature.

As I watched, I found I had to put my own lit-crit, mentality - with fully functioning intentional fallacy - on hold. Surely, if there is a hidden code, Lewis must have put it there. Later on, I thought about it a bit more. Why does it have to be a code? Perhaps it is easier to think of it as a series of correspondences. There would be no need for Lewis to have put them there, or even not to have put them there.

There seems to be an element of sensationalism about literary hostory. I'm tempted to blame Dan Brown, for obvious reasons, but actually this sort of thing has always been around: was Shakespeare gay? Was Marlowe Shakespeare? No doubt many famous (and not famous) authors have had their secrets, but they probably wanted to keep them secret. The contents of their work are usually much more mundane.

Still Shameless

Channel 4's Shameless is part-way through its sixth (I think) series. It is increasingly being suggested that it is someway past its best. I have to confess to mixed feelings.

As with every show I manage to catch from the beginning, as soon as it strays into a third series, I get irate: why can't they be more like Fawlty Towers? This is largely snobbery - I can't stand the idea of more people liking the stuff I do - but also because I genuinely believe that it is easy for a show to lose its brilliance over time. Shameless, itself has lost a lot of its edge as Paul Abbott has become less involved with the writing.

On the other hand, the latest series of Shameless has now begun to dig some dark seams indeed. In the earlier series, the stories involving Paddy's drug addiction, and Mandy and Joe's violent relationship would have been resolved in a single episode. Now, as an established series, there is the freedom to explore them in more depth.

What is interesting about the addiction storyline is that it poetic justice for a thuggish character, yet the viewer is rooting for him to overcome the addiction. There is still the possibility that the show will become an embarrassing parody, and I do hope it ends before that happens, but its evolution beyond the original concept definitely not something to lament just yet.