[Observer Comment pages, Sunday March 30, 600 words]
Last Wednesday, a posh lad with a floppy fringe was given his marching orders by a bearded barrow boy in an expensive suit. As the first contestant on the new series of The Apprentice slipped into history, more than six million people stopped throwing snarkish comments at their television screens and nodded sagely, content that the right man got fired.
Anna Pickard is thrown out of Walthamstow dog stadium for not being a Tory. And all she wanted to do was meet Boris Johnson
[For The Guardian Politics Blog, 600 words, March 28]
This post was supposed to be the first in a light series of hustings adventures called Going on a Mayor Hunt in which we wander around London on the trail of those that would be mayor, listening to what they have to say and testing the waters of the crowds that flock to hear them (in a non-invasive way, of course).
Unfortunately, due to a series of miscommunications and general bungling, it is instead a story about one inexperienced blogger-type-journalist getting thrown out of a dog track.
Borispail185324678.jpg
Photograph: Elliott Franks
Sent along to Walthamstow dog stadium to see Boris Johnson meet the plebs, I felt comforted by the fact that, according to the New Statesman, the Boris campaign is being run like a well-oiled machine - I’d have no problem getting a to grips with my first political press event. I arrived and was directed down corridors, through swinging doors, round corners, up stairs … they stopped just short of informing me of a secret handshake. Eventually, I got a sight of the great man himself arriving in a cab and glad-handing some bemused racegoers. At the doors of Walthamstow Dogs he nodded and bumbled and smiled for the cameraphones, tucking his sons behind him and then disappearing off.
I was then dispatched up to the posh-looking room I’d already been sent to twice before. Well, thank goodness for a well-oiled machine, I thought. Now if I can just find someone to tell me what the schedule for the evening is. Other people arrived and - though I seemed dressed down for the occasion - I started watching men in suits work the room, and listened to a babble of important-sounding people in important-sounding conversations…
(”Who do you work for? Oh me? I work for the CSI”
“That sounds like something from the television!”
“Yes it does rather! It sounds like something from Star Trek or something, doesn’t it?!”)
After a while, after watching some dogs from a crowd of people wedged in a window somewhere between Boris and Iain Duncan Smith, I finally noticed a worried-looking man approaching. Excellent, was it one of Boris’s firm hands, come to tell me when I might hear some weighty words of London-love from the moptopped would-be king?
“WHO are you?”
“I’m from the Guardian,” I meeped, not being the most confident person any time, and even less so when apparently about to be told off by an angry stranger.
“The LOCAL Guardian?”
“No, no. The other one. I mean, it’s based in London. But it’s more of a national, really.”
“You can’t be here! You have to leave! No press! NO PRESS!”
It appeared that I had, quite by accident and misdirection, crashed a private fundraising function. I had missed the actual press event - a photocall of Boris placing a bet with a dog and patting a bookie on the head - and now I was an accidental mole. A spy. An undercover hack in the one place his handlers might have thought they could take a breath because if Boris gaffed, the entire audience would most likely be voting for him anyway. I was made to leave immediately, which was fine, as it was very dull.
Still, at least now I can say I was once thrown out of a dog track for not being a Tory, which is something I never had previously dreamed I would be able to honestly say. So I thank Boris’s bouncers for that.
Apologies for the non-appearance of the first episode of Going On A Mayor Hunt: Adventures On Hustings.
The series will start in earnest next week. Hopefully.
[Full post and comments can be found here]
A key part of the guardian.co.uk/politics budget coverage
[for guardian.co.uk, 850 words]
Flicking through endless channels of people trying to buy houses they possibly shouldn’t, selling family treasures to pay for holidays or shouting at each other about disputed parentage, you eventually hit upon the budget coverage.
A man in a hat would like cheaper petrol. Jade Goody is quizzed about her budget predictions.
And then the chancellor starts speaking. The core purpose of this budget, he says, is stability and responsibility. The Commons falls about with a sense of sleepy mirth, MPs shuffling in their seats for a dull and thoroughly predicted hour of economic everything’s alright really-ness.
As Alistair Darling lists the countriesthat aren’t doing as alright really as we are, and lists the years in which we weren’t doing as alright as we are this year (like, for example, between 1979 and 1997), the house grumbles and rumbles and bleats in equal measure.
As it would, probably, if he was reciting the opening stanzas of the Jabberwocky. As familiar as this lullaby is, he may as well be.
As the camera moves around, you see him shifting from foot to foot, occasionally finding a dynamic stance, back foot thrown behind him and front leg slightly bent as though he might, at a dramatic moment, leap up and mount the dispatch box like a bespectacled kid from Fame.
Then he would start singing from the party libretto about continuing real growth in public spending at a rate of 1.9% and the importance of economic reform in the something sector as the front bench joined in in harmony behind him, creating what might just be the dullest musical in the history of the world.
The chancellor says he wants to give customers on prepayment power meters a fairer deal. The harrumphing masses pull up their breeks and issue a higher pitch of “YER YER YER!” than before. This, I am learning, either represents good news, bad news, or that they’ve pulled them up slightly too high.
The news that child benefits are to rise by £1.9bn excites a friend following the budget simultaneously over instant messenger, until we realise that’s spread out over more people than just him.
The BBC camera, following the industry standard set by Wimbledon and every stadium game ever, is searching out attractive women among the spectators and flicking back to them when the action on the pitch gets slow.
Sadly, due to the scarcity of such specimens and the current lack of tax information pertinent to cameramen, we get to see a lot of the same four female MPs. All of them, however, are dressed in either grey or bold blocks of colour - something for any fashionistas who take their cue from career politicians to watch out for.
Suddenly, a rare flash of passion wells up from the void where a good socialist beard used to lie.
Darling’s eyebrows rise in what possibly passes for excitement and fire in the world of economics, looking like startled slugs on skateboards scooting for cover under a blanket of freshly fallen snow.
He’s talking about houses and mortgage rates. About make things affordable, and more of them, and better and things. And more people mumble, and there’s a “MEH!” And a “YER!” But the moment passes, and we’re back to sullen mumbling.
The announcement of next year’s carbon budget - not a facsimile copy of this year’s budget using specially treated paper, although that’s also a possibility - is met with a bubbling grump.
Meanwhile, the revelation of some kind of curbing of the use of plastic bags is met with a roar like 10,000 supermarket carriers getting stuck in 10,000 vacuum cleaner tubes. A whole room full of people who have probably not been asked whether they “need help packing” in a goodly number of years are stirred.
The parts that almost everyone will report on the front pages tomorrow, and the only numbers I have ever known how to understand, are left until the very end.
Those with expensive cars are going to have to pay more to swank around in them. Beer’s going up, by several pence. Spirits too (by many pence more). And that’s the end of everything, or the end of Alistair and his quiff of purest white. Then it’s over to Chubby Dave and his refuting of all that has passed before him.
My friend is desolated by the increase in the price of a pint. I point out that, if not billions up, he has at least benefited from baby benefits. He sighs and says having children is the reason why he drinks - it’s swings and roundabouts all round.
On the opening day of the Crufts dog show, Anna discovers prancing poodles and strutting St Bernards are among life’s more entertaining sights. But don’t for one minute think the owners are there for a laugh
[for The Guardian News Blog, March 6, 2008]
It is 11am on a Thursday and I have just stepped over a pile of collie sick and avoided a crowd of surly teenagers who thought they were way too cool for school - though not, apparently, for hats shaped like spaniels. The arena is slowly filling, as I watch 16 labradors dance in formation to Mika. Hands up who’s having the most random day so far then…
The dogs stand, the handlers walk around them. The dogs sit, the handlers walk away from them. And then come back. You only have to hope that there’s a practical use for this somewhere, because someone’s spent an awful lot of time on it. Good for calming down hostage situations, perhaps?
Well, whatever, it is five minutes before the controversial heelwork-to-music freestyle final. This is the Southern Golden Retriever Display Team, and their schtick, it seems, is that they’ve trained their dogs not to run away when subjected to renditions of fey pop artistes at eardrum-bursting levels. Which is not only remarkable, it is almost miraculous.
Suddenly, the gruff Brummie PA announcer pipes up: “It’s one of the most exciting events here at Crufts, and you might have seen it mentioned in the press today…”. Well, here’s another mention. But with the growing popularity of what were previously considered novelty or side events - agility, flyball (posh “fetch”) and the event I’m waiting for, heelwork-to-music (or, as the papers have disdainfully called it, “dancing dogs”) - it would seem ludicrous to miss this, the the freestyle final.
“We don’t call this doggy dancing,” says the event commentator. “The enthusiasts don’t like that - this is pure, pure skill; it’s pure dog training. It’s not a new thing, either - there was always a tricks section, this is just about stringing those tricks together. But to music,” he says, and everyone claps, meekly, having Been Told.
It clearly is extremely skilled, with precision body-language commands and physically demanding choreography (obviously, if you’re a dog - otherwise it’s not terribly hard), But with points given for musical interpretation, it’s possible to see where people might have got confused about the dancing issue. In fact, as the first competitor arrives in full 1980s aerobic Lycra, it’s possible to see why everyone’s got the wrong idea about the novelty thing, as well.
Performing to Flashdance (or Flashheelwork-to-music, as they maybe should have retitled it), complete with dumbbells and yoga mat, is Borderlair Cinnnamon Twist and handler Lesley who “after all that exciting marking”, says the announcer, have “gone into the lead!” Which is not entirely surprising, seeing as they’re first up.
While the individual arenas are surrounded by small crowds of breed enthusiasts, as the much-scorned freestyle heelwork-to-music continues in the arena, the crowds slowly dribble in, and soon people are excuseme-ing to find a seat to watch the impressive not-dancing the dogs are doing.
The crowd goes wild for the entertainment: dogs carrying cups of tea; dogs jumping on the spot. A particularly cute mongrel - sorry, crossbreed - clowns around to “If I only had a brain”, during which excitement levels might only be higher if the dog was wearing comedy dungarees and a floppy hat.
The judges, the announcer keeps sternly reminding us, are marking for technical accuracy. Nevertheless, they also seem to coincidentally score the highest to the dog-handler teams that are the most entertaining. Looking at the crowd, they aren’t all experts in the form, so perhaps the wisdom of the masses holds sway in this instance.
Eventually, after an animal dressed in rainbows spinning umbrellas, a poor unfortunate Portuguese Water Dog that loses concentration to the strains of The A Team (well who wouldn’t?) and something in vaguely bad taste involving a collie, a blanket and a sign saying ‘DANGER: MINES!’. the Wizard of Oz dog (not Toto, he’s fictional, and dead) eventually wins the day.
The crowd goes wild. Heelwork-to-music may, it seems, be contentious, but it’s big in Birmingham.
I wander off to find the real spirit of the competition, away from the Flashdance and the flashing lights and the flashy moves, because though this populist fun may be the way Crufts is heading, its roots are in the practiced trotting of perfect examples of their breed. So I’m off to find one of those. And then maybe put some money on it. Although apparently William Hill’s stopped taking bets on a dog from today’s Toy and Utility group taking best in show, so I’m going to have to get a little more specific and just pick one. Maybe the one with the best name.
[Full post and comments can be found here]
In 1891 Charles Cruft, travelling purveyor of fine dog cakes, decided the existing competitions open to compare British pooches were paltry in comparison to their European equivalents. So began the event that would grow to be the largest annual dog show in the world and would, to this day, bear his name.
Crufts. Even the word sounds like a well-bred puppy, barking. Drawing more than 150,000 visitors to the Birmingham NEC, and a million viewers to the television last year alone, there’s no business like dog show business, apparently. And yet, due to various good excuses - like not owning a pedigree dog, having more important things to do and annually forgetting that it is on - it is, sadly, a closed world to so many of us.
Which is why, for the next few days, News blog will be reporting from Crufts on behalf of all those who have ever wondered what it might be like to go to a dog show - perhaps after seeing a film like Best In Show, or simply after spending a couple of hypnotic hours watching preened pets march around in a circle as part of the show coverage. I’m here, hoping to lay my hands on some dog experts who can give us an insight into the inner workings of the competition and, when I can’t, tackling all the non-dog expert questions like: Do dogs actually look like their owners? (candid photography allowing). Are the best of the best trained to answer to their full kennel name of Chi Am Windows Vista Norbert Shake ‘n’ Vac III, or can you just call them Rex?
Does the entire Birmingham NEC smell of dog wee, or, after 17 years of staging the event, have they built some dog toilets to go with the male and female ones? Perhaps most importantly, at least in betting circles: is it possible for a complete dog novice - or “dovice”, as it may be technically known in show circles - to spot an out-and-out Best In Show winner from instinct alone?
My guess, especially for the last, would most probably be a pretty clear ‘No’, but I’m willing to give it a go - why not? Of course, this won’t be of interest to many, but it’s a big site, and there will be something that tickles them instead. Hopefully to some, it might at least be light relief, especially seeing as they couldn’t send any of guardian.co.uk’s dog experts, they were all busy, so they’re sending a blogger instead. And one who’s scared of dogs.
So, join us on News blog for reports from the fiercest competition between man’s best friends; for galleries, hopefully, of the most remarkable-looking dogs; for discussion, probably, of what dogs performing to music might or might not do for international relations; and on Sunday, join us for a live blog of the television coverage of the denouement of the whole thing - Best In Show, from 7-9 on BBC2.
In the meantime, do let me know if there’s something you’ve always wondered about the culture or convention of the great British dog show, and I will endeavour to find out for you.
To the dogs!