Just dropping off my new project if anyone is interested in checking it out...
I've always been fascinated by the gossips and scandals of early Hollywood. As a good (and very eloquent!) friend commented recently, rock'n'roll may not have yet been invented, but sex and drugs certainly had.
I am just figuring out what I want to do with it yet, so feel free to let me know what you think!
Tinseltown
Well I, for one, am quite chuffed to be named person of the year by Time. Here I thought I was just blethering away personal nonsense for my friends and any randoms who happen by (welcome, by the way), and it turns out that I am part of an information revolution. Through sharing my views, opinions and news regarding the state of me in writing this blog, posting on a couple of messageboards, watching YouTube, commenting on friends' myspaces, I am helping to fundamentally impact the way that information is shared in today's world - and taking my tiny place in history.
No longer do I - or anyone else - have to rely on media moguls' interpretation of world events or embittered critics thoughts on films, books, music; we can all nip online and be immediately connected to a global network of random people like me chatting about our experiences. People who don't need to adhere to any editorial guidelines nor worry about selling papers; people just reporting our world as we see it; pure news unfiltered by the political or commercial agendas that all too often taint information we receive through traditional media.
Or are we?
The ultra democratic-ness (see? It's my blog, I can make up words if I want to) of the information presented on the Internet is a mind-bogglingly (and again) double edged sword. Anyone with internet access - which is a pretty hefty percentage of the world's population - can start up a blog, post on a messageboard, set up their own page. You don't have to be a great (or even good) writer with anything in particular (never mind interesting) to say; you don't have to be in full possession of your marbles; and no one is making you tell the truth.
While most of us have a pretty healthy cynicism with regards to the truth and nothing but the truth in the media, the old adage "don't believe everything you read" is even more applicable to the Internet. Articles bound for newspapers, magazines or television have to adhere to strict editorial standards and are rigorously verified by litigation-minded fact-checkers, but what's to stop me writing an utter load of nonsense here? Would you guess it wasn't true? How do you know that anything I have written here is true? Do you care?
Further, what's to stop me creating a myspace page or blog or messageboard account for somebody entirely fictional? Or, even more dangerously, someone who is perfectly real but isn't me? I realize that most public figures these days keep their (or their staff's) eyes open for such impersonations, but by the time the blog or whatever is pulled - would the damage already be done? I've been amazed before by the speed with which stories which started out fairly true have zipped out of control in a global game of chinese whispers; whats to stop me from starting one entirely of my own invention?
Very little, other than common decency. A few years ago, I produced a project television project which inadvertantly touched on this. We created a fictional tv series (as in, it didn't exist), hired (okay, bribed with beer) actors to play the actors in this series (still with me?) and sent them out on the town in London. The idea was to take a look at how easy it is to create a "celebrity" out of nothing but PR fluff - I would call up top London clubs posing as a PR girl looking after the cast of this non-existent show and arrange for a VIP guest list for them, then call the papparazzi agencies and do the same thing. As part of the project, I created and wrote blogs for a few of the characters (Carma Brandon Crispin) and three years later still receive occasional comments or emails for these non-existent people. Of course this was all perfectly harmless, but it does show how easily it can be done.
As people of the year, it seems that we have great power. If I might quote Spiderman briefly, with that power comes great responsibility; let's not screw it up.
I have a deal with myself. It’s not unlike the deal that millions of mums make with their toddlers regarding the ingestion of green, leafy, yucky things. I give everything I fancy a go, even - in fact, especially - if it frightens me, and if I truly don’t like it, I promise myself that I don‘t have to do it again. I fancied moving to Canada by myself, I fancied paragliding, I fancied directing plays for a living. Along the way, I fell in love with Canada, discovered that floating 800 metres over Switzerland with a Frenchman strapped to your back is really quite enjoyable, and that actors terrify the living daylights out of me. At the moment I am struggling with the fact that I truly don’t like working 9 to 5 for a living but that my bank manager probably won’t understand if I point out that I’ve given it a go for a good six months.
I’ve always fancied rock climbing. We used to hike at Squamish from time to time, and I loved watching people clinging to the rock face near Shannon Falls, twisting their bodies in bizarre contortions to reach the next hand or foothold, metres and metres off the ground. Call me crazy, but it always struck me as a fun way to spend a weekend. Which is odd, because if you asked me out of context, I would probably tell you that I don’t really like heights.
Yesterday in a fit of New Year’s activity, I headed off to the Castle Climbing Centre in Stoke Newington for a taster session. It is, literally, a castle - it’s a Victorian building, and, as our instructor explained to us during the session (at the time I was dangling from a rope about to begin a 100 foot abseil, so I might not have been paying full attention) Victorians were required to make buildings over a certain size look interesting or attractive. So this one - I think he said it was a water tower or something - was built in the shape of a castle. It looks pleasingly bizarre and out of place in the midst of East London council estates.
The centre was surprisingly busy, heaving with people of all ages and abilities and it’s an enjoyably odd sight to walk in to a massive room and see loads of people hanging off the walls. We were a group of four, an English bloke, a Canadian-and-Australian couple and yours truly, plus our instructor who claimed his name was Ed but as he looked like my sister‘s friend Joe was Joe in my head all afternoon. My first climb I found unexpectedly disconcerting. I hadn’t given masses of thought to precisely what was involved and it wasn’t until I’d managed to scrabble up to nearly the top that I looked down, wandering what to do next, noticed that the ground was rather far away and thought “mummy…” However, for the next climb, Ed/Joe gave us a route to follow - the hand and foot holds were different colours, and you could climb, say, all the blue ones or all the red ones. I found this actually made it easier, as the thinking involved to look for the next hold on my route and negotiate myself towards it, somewhat distracted from the weirdness of clinging to a wall a good storey off the ground. Having made up my mind on that first climb that rock climbing wasn’t for me and I was going to grit my teeth to get through the rest of the session then spend Saturday afternoons in the pub like a normal person, I soon found myself exhilarated every time I reached the top and addicted to the increasing challenge of figuring out the next route. Myself and my partner Matt both struck out on our final route - blue and green swirly rocks, damn them - both of us managing just a couple of holds off the ground before skidding off and hanging helplessly in the air in fits of giggles before Ed/Joe came to lower us to the ground. The Canadian/Australian couple both managed their most difficult climb and I did feel that motherland pride was somewhat dented. Particularly so hot on the heels of the Ashes.
I’d signed up for the taster plus session, which included this abseil. Now, if I am to be entirely honest with you, I wasn’t 100% sure what an abseil was, but I figured for an extra tenner it was worth finding out. I’d vaguely pictured it as pretty much what we did at the end of a climb, sit back in the harness and walk down the wall while the rope on the harness to is let out. Which is pretty much what an abseil is, but as it’s not always practical to walk down a cliff wall out in the real world, the abseil offered by this centre involves lowering yourself through midair. Through the centre of a 100 foot turret. Excellent.
We climbed to the platform up a (seemingly) rickety wrought iron spiral staircase, very similar to the one that gave me the heebie-jeebies to climb a mediaeval town clock tower in Tuscany last summer. Reaching the platform at the top, Ed/Joe had us all clip ourselves on to ropes attached to the railing - a thrilling thought that it wasn’t safe to stand unrestrained on the platform, but chucking ourselves through the trapdoor in the middle of it was just fine. I sat there waiting my turn rehearsing my thanks but no thanks speech (it was very similar to the thanks but no thanks speech that I rehearsed right before getting my tattoo, funnily enough) but all too soon it was my turn, and too late to back out. The rope was attached through the figure of eight hook on my harness, and I stepped - literally the most terrifying single step I have ever taken in my life - so that I was straddling the trap door hole below which the ground was a stomach churning drop. Had my wobbly legs given out before I’d taken hold of my rope… well Ed/Joe would have caught me on the safety rope attached to him but it would definitely have been scary.
However, once I put all my weight in the harness and - gingerly - lifted my feet off the sides of the platform, I found - if I didn’t look down - that it was a very enjoyable sensation. Not unlike hanging from a parachute over Geneva, there is something bizarrely relaxing, sort of extreme-yoga-like about hanging in the air with your feet touching absolutely nothing. The nice thing about abseiling (as opposed to para-gliding, when your fate is in the hands of a Frenchman) is that I let the rope out myself, so I could go at exactly the pace I wanted to. As I gained confidence, I started to let the rope slide faster through my fingers until I was fair zipping down the shadowy, dank, turret. What it must be like to dangle yourself like that through stunning mountainous scenery…. I can’t wait to find out.
