I guess one overlooked consequence of 13 years of Tory misrule is that being exposed to such a rich barrel of rotten apples means all corruption in public office is inevitably painted blue. How easy it is to forget the Labour MPs that have fallen foul of the law, not least those who were named and shamed (and, in one or two cases, imprisoned) following the expenses’ scandal. So, considering the supposedly ‘nobler’ alternative to the Tories could well end up in government a year or two from now, it’s rather timely to be reminded that some of their own are just as capable of crookedness as those on the other side of the House. Take Jared O’Mara – you remember him, of course; he’s the one-time ginger geezer who caused one of the biggest upsets of the 2017 General Election by ousting Nick Clegg. Well, yesterday he was found guilty of fraud and sentenced to four years in the clink. Convicted on six counts that the judge described as ‘cynical, deliberate and dishonest’, the former MP for Sheffield Hallam had stooped to play the mental health card as a defence for his actions, but it didn’t wash. Said Judge Tom Bayliss in his summing-up: ‘I have concluded that, although Jared O’Mara was without doubt suffering from autism at the time of the offences, that does not reduce culpability.’
Even before the cocaine habit that he bent the rules to fund became public knowledge, Jared O’Mara’s political career had ground to a premature halt in a matter of months following the surfacing of archaic tweets of a sexist nature along with allegations of sexual harassment. After a period of suspension, he stepped down at the 2019 General Election. Whereas his predecessor in the constituency was rejected due to the sacrifice of pre-Election Lib Dem promises on the altar of coalition, it rapidly emerged his successor was one of those Honourable Members who has little time for his constituents, his attitude towards them being described as one of ‘vile, inexcusable contempt’ by a former aide. In O’Mara’s case, revelations at his trial suggested it was no wonder he didn’t bother, considering he devoted most days to a steady ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ diet of five grams of cocaine and a bottle of vodka. The ex-nightclub manager evidently didn’t alter his lifestyle to fit his new responsibilities and carried on regardless. But it was the deception he employed to screw cash from the public purse that elevated his actions above mere hedonistic hubris.
O’Mara’s defence lawyer attributed his client’s behaviour to being ill-equipped when it came to ‘the stresses and strains of public life’, which is a fair enough explanation for an individual to turn to a chemical crutch; but O’Mara didn’t simply sink into substance abuse, something which many might have expressed sympathy towards had he received treatment and then emerged rehabilitated. For someone allegedly suffering from autism on top of an expensive drug habit, O’Mara displayed a clear and calculated business head when attempting to claim taxpayers’ money in the region of £24,000 for a nonexistent charity called Confident About Autism South Yorkshire; this fake organisation was a front for a friend of his he’d falsely named as his constituency support officer, though said friend appeared to have had his name taken in vain, as the jury cleared him of any part in the fraud. Another acquaintance on behalf of whom O’Mara had attempted to extract cash totalling £4,650 from Ipsa in relation to PR work that was never actually undertaken was less fortunate, found guilty of three counts of fraud and receiving a 15-month suspended sentence.
Understandably desperate to blame his actions on his ‘condition’, Jared O’Mara’s barrister Mark Kelly KC said, ‘When he felt he was being hounded by the media…he felt under pressure for certain circumstances that had come to light; he resorted to taking drugs and alcohol, distancing himself in many respects from those around him. These circumstances were very difficult circumstances for him to cope with, with his particular disabilities.’ This approach, however, failed to convince either judge or jury; the mental health card was not an adequate excuse, something Tom Bayliss KC emphasised in his conclusions. ‘You, Jared O’Mara,’ said the judge, ‘are a highly intelligent man. You were, I am quite sure, able to exercise appropriate judgement, to make rational choices, and to understand the nature and consequences of your actions. You may have occasionally behaved bizarrely or demonstrated disordered thought, but whether that was caused by your disorder or by your consumption of drugs – or both – is neither here nor there so far as this fraud is concerned. You knew perfectly well what you were doing with this fraud, you were behaving rationally, if dishonestly, and you were using your autism diagnosis to extract money from Ipsa to fund your cocaine and alcohol-driven lifestyle. It was deliberate, it was cynical and it was dishonest.’
The judge’s summing-up seems a fairly succinct summary of Jared O’Mara’s character and yet another sober warning when it comes to endemic Labour Party policy of selecting a candidate not on the grounds of merit but on box-ticking. In O’Mara’s case, his playing of the mental health card satisfied the criteria of the Momentum-dominated National Executive Committee, who went over the heads of the local constituency party to select him for the seat; his surprise success in winning it eased concerns, but his unsuitability was quickly exposed. One suspects a party so immersed in the ideology of Identity Politics probably won’t learn from its mistake.
BURT BACHARACH (1928-2023)
The emergence of the self-contained pop music artist in the early 60s undeniably dealt a body blow to the dominance of Tin Pan Alley; but the best of the professional songwriters were a resilient bunch and found there were still outlets for their talents. Not all of the bands at the forefront of the Beat boom and British Invasion contained in-house hit machines, and there were also what used to be called ‘girl singers’ in abundance – young, spunky sirens for whom the elegant standards of the 50s were old hat; the likes of Dusty Springfield, Lulu, Cilla Black, Sandie Shaw, Petula Clark and others were in need of their own standards, ones that reflected the changing mood of the 60s; and few songwriters delivered what was required better than Burt Bacharach, whose death at the grand old age of 94 was announced yesterday.
It would be easy to pay tribute to Bacharach by simply listing the staggering roll-call of hits that flowed from his genius melodic mind; although the 60s saw the end of the era in which standards were shared between all the great song stylists so that no performer could claim theirs was the definitive interpretation, Burt Bacharach’s songs – the most well-known being collaborations with lyricist Hal David – would still find themselves in the set-lists of most solo singers, whether or not they’d had the hit version. And sometimes the original recording would inspire a cover that would then be regarded as the definitive article; this occurred when The Carpenters had their breakthrough with ‘Close to You’, which was first recorded by the woman who served as Bacharach’s muse for several years, Dionne Warwick. Bacharach managed to achieve an almost symbiotic relationship with the women he wrote for; prior to his partnership with Warwick, his day-job had been arranger and bandleader for Marlene Dietrich when the Teutonic chanteuse was still touring the world’s concert halls; it was a steady income for Bacharach, but he knew he needed to devote his full-time to what he was best at – penning instant classics.
Bacharach was pivotal to what became known as ‘easy listening’ as the 60s progressed, which was basically the old pre-rock ‘n’ roll grownup pop coolly restyled for the new decade; his songs often seem tailor-made for a very 60s ‘Lounge-core’ vision of suave 30-something men in bachelor pads, handing a Martini to a languid lady in false eyelashes as a prelude to laying her clean as a whistle. His winning streak may have waned by the 70s, but his phenomenal output prior to that left behind a breathtaking legacy that will remain the gold standard of pop songs while ever there are people still around to listen to them.
© The Editor
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Some characters that emanated from the pages of children’s literature during the medium’s century-long reign as the prime launch-pad for the imagination appear to be in possession of a remarkable durability that enables them to charm successive generations of young readers. The anthropomorphic animals from ‘The Wind in the Willows’, the cast of surreal eccentrics from ‘Alice in Wonderland’, Winnie the Pooh and his engaging sidekicks, Peter Pan and his nocturnal Neverland – all continue to sprinkle the same stardust onto the children of today as they sprinkled onto their parents, grandparents and so on. Most of these success stories have, of course, had their lives extended by being reimagined in other mediums that arrived later – primarily cinema and television; and the latter not only adapted these established franchises for a fresh audience, but eventually created franchises of its own. Some had impressive longevity, whereas others remain known only to those who watched with mother at the time. There are, however, a select few who have continued to wave their magic wands throughout the decades – and once even extended their omnipotence to the breakfast table.
Upon hearing of the death of David Crosby – coming so hot on the heels of Jeff Beck passing away last week – I remarked to a friend that the 60s generation had become their own Dorian Gray portraits, ageing and decaying before our eyes whilst their over-achieving 20-something selves continued to be their definitive public image, frozen forever in the high summer of youth. Crosby’s CV was a case in point, making his most fruitful recordings as a member of two key American bands of the era, The Byrds and then Crosby, Stills and Nash (with or without Young); but he always had a reputation as being something of an awkward sod. Indeed, Doris Day’s record producer son Terry Melcher worked with The Byrds during Crosby’s tenure in the band as well as Charles Manson when the latter had a failed shot at being a pop star himself; Manson developed a dangerous grudge against Melcher comparable to Adolf’s beef with Jewish art critics, but Melcher nonetheless once stated that given the choice of re-entering the studio with either Crosby or Manson, he’d opt for the future murderous guru.
They may have been produced as ten-minute fillers to be screened between the support film and the main feature back when a night at the flicks wasn’t restricted to a solitary movie preceded by a hundred annoying ads, but the likes of Rank’s ‘Look at Life’ series now serve as a portal to a lost world arguably more fascinating than the films they propped-up. Running from 1959 to 1969, the ‘Look at Life’ shorts were shot on top notch 35mm film in crystal-clear Eastmancolor and show a Britain we’re more accustomed to seeing through a murky monochrome lens; as a result, they make the era come alive and are a unique archive of everyday life in the UK at the time. Like the rival series, ‘Pathé Pictorial’, there’s a hangover from the old cinema newsreels in that each short is accompanied by an RP voice-over and a jaunty, jolly soundtrack in the Light Programme fashion; but this merely adds to the period charm. By the late 60s, audiences becoming used to the grittier documentary techniques of television no doubt found them rather antiquated in style, though the visual record they left behind is increasingly invaluable.
Turning on, tuning in and dropping out may have been the mantra of American Psychedelic salesman-cum-guru Timothy Leary, but who wouldn’t want to turn on, tune in and drop out of 2022? Which will live a longer life – Liz Truss as PM or a lettuce? Pink-haired, privately-educated Titanias and Ptolemys defacing beauty because they have none in their souls – f*** the lot of ‘em; I’d rather take a welcome diversion from the here and now by reflecting my recent listening habits. No idea why, but I’ve been drawn towards Psychedelia of late, albeit the British brand. And it was the Brits for me who really stamped their personality on this endearing episode in the pop narrative of the 1960s. Gary Brooker, singer and keyboardist with Procol Harum, once offered a feasible explanation as to why so many UK bands whose roots were deep in Americana abruptly dropped their tribute act routines; after two or three years of selling coals to Newcastle during the ‘British Invasion’ of the Billboard Hot 100, the same cultural exchange that enabled our artists to touch down on US soil bore fruit on this side of the Atlantic when numerous American acts of the Blues/R&B persuasion played over here and made the white boys realise there was no point with the real deal in town.
As a quaint, archaic phrase inextricably bound-up with the monochrome optimism of the immediate post-war 1950s, ‘The New Elizabethan Age’ hadn’t stood the test of time until its recent revival (for obvious reasons). However, with the passing of the Queen whose name this imaginary era had rented, do we now acknowledge it was an authentic epoch in itself or do we accept whatever achievements history might like to squeeze under such a convenient umbrella label simply took place on Her Majesty’s watch even when she wasn’t watching? Will the future file this age away so that the past 70 years will retrospectively group together everything from The Beatles to Brexit, Bond to Bowie, Coronation Street to Concorde, Thunderbirds to Thatcherism, Paddington to Punk Rock, and from Tommy Steele to Tim Berners-Lee? Well, it’s probably in the hands of the generations who never lived through it, though many of us who lived through at least half of it recognise whatever creative and cultural renaissance this country coincidentally experienced whilst Brenda occupied the throne drew to a close long before she breathed her last at Balmoral.
Nietzsche may have infamously declared ‘God is dead’ in 1882, but the decades since his incendiary declaration seem to have proven that you can’t keep a good (or bad) God down. Like David Bowie, it would appear He can take many forms; and the kind of worship that was once reserved for stone icons of Christ or the Virgin Mary was gradually transferred to mere mortals as God resurfaced in numerous new guises to suit whatever God the prevailing climate craved. In the second half of the 20th century, God found his most unlikely outlet in the pop cultural figurehead, whose message was transmitted to the young masses via the global communication tools denied the Messiahs of previous epochs. Come the 1960s, young working-class (or lower middle-class) boys who were expected – and were expecting – to follow in their fathers’ footsteps suddenly found themselves in the eye of a fanatical storm that understandably both swelled their own sense of self-importance and left them spiritually empty once undreamed-of riches and material goods were acquired.
On the whole, I can think of far preferable sedatives than daytime television; heroin or methadone spring to mind. Daytime TV for me evokes grim images of care home residents slowly succumbing to rigor mortis as they gather dust in sub-tropical temperatures before the small screen, powerless to resist the unremittingly bland diet of soporific sludge that gushes out of every daytime TV pore, leaving the viewer feeling as though they’re being smothered in a sickly-scented cardigan whilst their feet set in a bucket of treacle. Even if one disregards the dreary content, one thing these excuses for entertainment seem to share is the same theme tune – or at least that’s what it sounds like; whilst the themes themselves are as forgettable as the programmes, they all appear to employ those awful ‘synth horns’ that were once the province of Phil Collins hits from the 80s, and each tirelessly upbeat burst of their infantile jollity is akin to being trapped in a lift with a Butlin’s redcoat.
Momentary escapism from a world that seems to relish serving up a fresh dish of despair and despondency to its population every passing year seems an essential panacea right now. It can be manifested in many different ways, specifically tailored to suit the unique tastes of each individual, and its position on the scale of trivia is immaterial. Whatever simple pleasure makes you happy is worth indulging in at times like these. During Lockdown Mk I and beyond, I found walking a friend’s dog once a week was the best breath of fresh air and the most unpretentious reward for a week entombed indoors on offer; and even with the present-tense pandemic receding (albeit not its long-term legacy), the latest crisis has necessitated the need for time-out, whether that be a few hours away from social media – or penning a post. Dog-sitting the same pooch that provided light relief when outdoor excursions were being rationed has become an occasional outlet of late, but the home I dog-sit in also contains another window into a world a million miles from 2022 – well, 53 years, to be precise.
Taking a break from all online activity for several days can be a bit of a gamble. Hell, how was I to know the head of the Met would be belatedly pushed before she jumped in my absence, thus leaving this here blog bereft of a swift post-mortem on a useless individual who will henceforth be sailing off into the sunset on a handsome retirement package as well as the inevitable seat in the Lords as Baroness Dick of Head within a year? Mind you, it could’ve been worse; it could’ve been Boris, and I would therefore have been denied an instant obituary to line up alongside those of David Cameron and Theresa May. Whilst the PM is doing his best to keep a low profile following his schoolboy-apologising-to-the-headmaster grilling in the Commons last week, Fleet Street’s ongoing fascination with the woman who currently has ownership of his balls shows no sign of abating, though ‘Carrie Antoinette’ (I can’t claim credit for that one, alas) has a limited shelf-life that simply serves to keep the saga running whilst the Tories decide whether or not any suitable replacements are prepared to trigger a leadership contest.
It was often said of Oscar Wilde that his greatest work of art was himself; he certainly knew how to project a prefabricated image of The Artist to sell to the public and this was a lesson not lost on many who followed him in the succeeding century. Salvador Dali latched onto this with his elaborate moustache and theatrically eccentric persona, and Andy Warhol picked up the gauntlet when he progressed from the superficial environs of the American advertising industry and turned himself into a brand as convincing as a can of Campbell’s soup or a bottle of Coca-Cola. Warhol wasn’t operating in isolation on the Pop Art scene of the 50s and early 60s, though he managed to overtake the pioneering presence of Roy Lichtenstein by upgrading the tactics of Wilde and Dali for the mass-media age; with his trademark toupee, shades and hooped tops, Warhol was transformed into a living logo of himself, as instantly recognisable a product as any of his celebrated silk-screens, and in the process eventually becoming more well-known than his actual work.
Many years ago, I remember seeing an interview with Denzel Washington whereby he spoke frustratingly of being compared in reviews to a young Sidney Poitier; the actor firstly aired his frustration at Poitier’s name being evoked, as though that was the only yardstick reviewers had to measure his own performance by – as though there’d never been any other notable black thespians in Hollywood. Then Washington’s expression suddenly changed, beamed a smile and said something along the lines of ‘On the other hand…yeah, I’ll take that.’ No wonder. For a long time during America’s most turbulent struggle with the racial question, Sidney Poitier was the prominent coloured face on the silver screen; even if some of the most successful movies Poitier appeared in dealt with racial issues, these were all thought-provoking, intelligent examinations of a subject US cinema preferred to avoid.
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