There’s a lot to catch up on after a week away, but the news cycle refuses to sit still. I only heard about the attempt on Donald Trump’s life because I had my laptop with me on holiday and checked the news before I went out for the day. Then, yesterday, as I’m contemplating posting some sort of links catch-up, Joe Biden announces he’s stepping out of the presidential election race and backing his vice-president in the campaign against Trump.
I was telling a mate in the pub the other night how much I was enjoying Shōgun, and he was all, “Ehh, it’s okay,” and pooh-poohing its Game of Thrones-like animated credits as derivative. But he still said he’d give it seven or eight out of ten.
Having finished my binge, I’d go up a notch. Would I rate it among my favourite TV dramas of the past decade, alongside the likes of Chernobyl, season one of The Terror, and The Expanse? I’d put a lot of it right up there: the first episode, the fifth, the ninth (surely the series’ best), and a good proportion of the finale. And I did love those opening credits.
A couple of years on from Peter Jackson’s Get Back it’s hard to credit that anyone still seriously believes that Yoko Ono broke up the Beatles, as opposed to making joking references to it that are as much about people’s reactions in the 1970s as about the reality. But Lindsay Ellis, in an excellent new long-form video essay about the myth (via Mefi), has shown that many sadly do.
After waiting all day for the polls to close, I switched on the news with the rest of the country last night and saw, at 10pm, the predictions of the exit polls: 410 seats for Labour, 131 for the Tories, 61 for the Lib Dems and 13 for Reform—a landslide for Starmer, but with a foothold for Farage. For the next few hours, apart from the early counts from Sunderland and Blythe (both Labour holds with Reform taking second place from the Tories), there was nothing to do but wait, as talking heads from both parties tried to manage expectations while simultaneously marvelling at the results.
My local polling station was no busier than usual this morning (which I hope isn’t ominous—if anything sinks the chances of Labour it’ll be low turnout). I always carry my driving licence, but took along my burgundy-covered passport as ID just to stick two silent fingers up to the Tories and their blatant attempts at voter suppression on the flimsiest of pretexts. True, many other countries have long required ID at the polls, but not requiring it was one of the things I always liked about Britain. The polling officials would look your name up on the rolls and that was it—it was cosy and welcoming, like having your name on the door at a gig. If anyone tried to vote twice it was bound to come out later and bite them, so very few ever did.
That’s gone now, and unlikely to come back. Yet another reason to savour the schadenfreude of Rishi Sunak worrying about becoming the first British prime minister to be voted out of his constituency. C’mon, Richmond and Northallerton, you can do it.
At last, in just a few minutes it’s General Election day.
A month ago the ABC reported on attempts to rename a creek in Victoria bearing a derogatory nineteenth-century term for Aboriginal women. The story’s painful images of century-old advertising and packaging reminded me of going through my grandma’s estate in the 1990s and stumbling across pamphlets and artifacts from the Depression featuring Aboriginal children. I won’t repeat the language those used, but seeing a similar pun on a can of motor oil was a reminder of how widespread such language was.
The delusion of advanced plastic recycling. How about turning it all into ecobricks?
The delusion of sequestering plastic as ecobricks.
What to do if space junk lands on your house. Turn it into a giant battery?
Can I eradicate toxic forever chemicals from my home? Betteridge’s Law applies.
Offshore wind isn’t what’s killing whales.
The microscopic universe that thrives in the sky.
The mysterious microbes that thrive under the earth.
The amazing recovery of Macquarie Island.
Teonimenu, the island that slid into the sea.
I was moments from drowning in a calm bay. Where were the warnings?
Israel has wiped out entire Palestinian families in Gaza.
Why the pandemic messed with our sense of time.
Milking mille Malagasy spiders to make a guitar string.
France stumbles into darkness.
Only three more sleeps till X-mas! Admittedly, one where Santa Keir won’t bring much in the way of presents, but at least we’ll be shot of Krampus. I have received a few gifts, though, if you can call campaign leaflets gifts: a few came in the post on Friday from the Scottish Greens, the Lib Dems and Labour. The SNP were ahead of the game with a first mailout a few weeks ago and a second last week, but they’re unlikely to win in this safe Labour seat. Nothing from Reform yet, but if they do send me something I’m tempted to keep it—could be a nice little earner in retirement. There’s a market for Nazi memorabilia.
And today, a Tory leaflet finally arrived—a large glossy foldout mentioning the SNP and Labour more than the fact that the candidate is a Conservative. He talks about city council issues, Scottish government, and “real priorities of local people”. No mention of Westminster, Sunak, or the Tories’ national record over the last fourteen years. He even says he’ll “focus on the NHS”! Hmm, yes, I’m focussing hard on it… I can see it crumbling… yep, getting a gooood look.