Katy's box

I wonder what might happen in that instance? Would crime go down as communities took it upon themselves to meet out their own punishment, or would a new wave of cooperation exist?

Someone suggested recently that if we returned to friendly societies as opposed to the welfare state, there would be no abuse of the system. As every worker paid in a little every week to support themselves, or others, if they were unable to work, then abuse of the system was rare as one would be abusing ones neighbours and friends rather than a faceless government.

Might the game of cops and robbers thus be avoided if restrictions were relaxed.

Thought for the day from the Right Irreverant Katy Brown

I don’t think I fully understood the term schadenfreude until last week. Granted we all have unattractive characteristics, but taking pleasure in the misery of others, now that’s a stinker. But the economy went pop and suddenly yummy mummies were cancelling appointments to have their highlights done and looked a little less secure in their Chelsea tractors. And I felt a wry smile.

And I’m not the only one expressing feelings other than fear and panic. Reading and listening to various commentators there have been expressions of guilt for the style over substance decade: guilt for the greed, not simply of rampant consumerism, but as expressed by (anonymous) bankers and brokers that shock horror, they may have put their needs before those of the shareholders or companies. Come on, let’s face it, being a trader is surely the same as having a 4 year old in charge of a sweet shop: one should not necessarily expect to see a profit.

But we all seem to have a rather short memories: there have been signs of pulling in the purse strings for some time now. Not simply for financial reasons, but also for ethical twinges and the post Christmas lunch feeling that we’d overindulged. (Repeat a hundred times: champagne should be a treat!). Bored of shopping and newness, we’d started knitting, growing our own veg, eating animals from head to toe, using hessian bags and shopping for ‘vintage’.

We’d started resenting the inbuilt obsolescence that made it cheaper to buy a new dvd player than get the old one repaired and the pace of technology that has meant we’ve had to waste money and time on new products to enjoy the music and films we’d already bought; we were feeling guilty about clothes mountains, that Primark prices and our desire for novelty had created.

So we were already exhausted from competitive purchasing. Let’s face it, these last few years has meant not only are we keeping up with the Digby-Joneses in terms of cars and making sure the front garden was ‘kept nice’, but we’d felt obliged to take exotic, long haul, frankly exhausting experiential holidays, install bespoke kitchens and extra bathrooms and endlessly decorate. By the time we had our stainless styled minimalism sorted, we had to rip it all out and stuff our houses with flock wallpaper, chandeliers and mooseheads.

Maybe we can return to slightly cheaper pleasures: a walk in the park; a board game with friends; libraries and maybe the time to actually read the book. And an unfashionable kitchen can still provide us with a good stockpot.

So let’s remember there was something in the air anyway, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just me that’s uttering a small sigh of relief that we can get off the gym membership treadmill and put away our status anxiety for a few years. I’m knackered: bring on the recession.

Ok ok, the world is awash with Bond. It's Craig Crazy out in media land. And no I'm not stiffling a yawn, though I'm sure Danny boy must be as he answers catalogues of inane questions. But I love reading his press, because he just sounds so normal. There's very little pr puff about DC or Yum Yum Let Me Lick You All Over, as he's come to be known in my house.

I like him because circa Casino Royale, he admitted to chilling out playing video games and being a bit too tight to buy a house cos he thought prices were excessive (turns out he was right).

He can obviously do proper PR when necessary as he did for the film, Flashbacks of a Fool where it clearly mattered that a small independent movie got all the attention it could, and also his mate was directing and he was a producer. However for Bond, I suppose YY could be reading out the ingredients of a pot noodle in an interview and we'd still go and see the film.

And I like him this time as I can sort of see through it. I half smile as I watch that ridiculous Sony HD advert where increasingly extreme explosions fail to knock him off his perch. I just watch him react to the CGI and imagine the filming of the advert as he flung himself about in front of blue screen in response to being prodded by a long stick with a boxing glove on the end.

But one of the things I like about YY most, is that he swears in a particularly British out with your mates for a beer, fashion. And that’s very endearing. And the antithesis of Bond. Because really, Bond's just not crap enough for me. I like real men who can laugh at themselves and YY seems more than capable of doing that.

There's a great line in one of the best sitcoms ever, Paul Whitehouse's Happiness, where the disgruntled best mate goads his wife on hearing she's going to the Baftas that 'even if you met and slept with George Cloony, it wouldn't be like, y’know, sleeping with George Cloony!' and he made a very valid point. However I think if you slept with Daniel Craig, it would actually be better than sleeping with Daniel Craig, as it would be much more of a laugh.

Anyway YY, in the name of research I'm prepared to give it a go.

Not being a mother, and to be honest a pretty rubbish godmother, my knowledge of changing nappies, disposable or otherwise is strictly limited. And of all the pros and cons of parenthood I’ve considered I’m sure no-one disagree surely this is one of the downsides.

I vaguely remember my sister’s nappy being changed some time around the Queen’s silver jubilee (clearly it was changed more than once otherwise we’d have been in a social services situation) and this was still terrycloth time. Other than the requisite safety pins and nappy rash cream, it involved something, which even to me at the age of 7, seemed particularly ineffective, the nappy liner: an A5 sized sheet of sheer webbed material, presumably to either keep the terrycloth away from child’s rear, or prevent the worst of the expulsion seeping too far into the terrycloth, thus rendering it forever green.

However recent wisdom has been that terry is best and disposable nappies are almost single-arsedly responsible for global warming. Filling up landfill with their filthy vile contents, the green mummy martyrs sneer smugly at their disposable counterparts while their unfortunate children chafe in their morally superior nappies.

However, you might as well rescue your children from nappy rash as apparently disposable IS better for the environment. Yes, you heard it. All those years of expensive laundering services, or washing shitty nappies yourself, you were actually doing more harm than if you’d been using pampers-pull-me-up-little-miss-huggies.

According to a £50k nappy research project by the DEFRA (Department of Environment Food and Rural Affairs) in order to make them worthwhile and deliver a smaller carbon footprint than the more convenient alternative, you’d have to dry them outdoors all year round, wash them at no hotter than 60 degrees (probably not the best if you’ve had a particularly nasty expulsion), use the same nappies on about 5 children and then probably use them as tea-towels afterwards.

This is of course quite embarrassing for the Govt so it’s not exactly been publicising the findings. But mums, time to chuck out your pegs.

However, as Tony once said, there is a third way. In the 1950s children were often out of nappies soon after learning to sit up. It’s become later and later as the decades have passed.

If parents – let’s face it, usually mums – are able to pick up signals more effectively early on, known as mind-mindedness and critical for all parent child connections, then as Maggie Howells said in a Woman’s Hour feature last year, if you know what you’re looking for, it’s possible to have your child using the pot from the age of 5 days. That’s right: 5 daysQ It’s currently about 3 years in the UK – think how may nappies and shit in your fingernail moments that would save.

Recognising those key times such as after nap, or noticing signals the child gives you in the same way you’d learn to recognise tiredness or hunger will enable you to put the child on the pot at the right time and this will then just be completely routine for the child if not completely possible at all times.

Much earlier toilet training is just utterly normal in many African and Eastern cultures with children in China wearing pants with a split in them for easy access to the loo. So, it seems it’s just us filthy freaks in the West who allow our children to fester in their own faeces for years on end.

So terry or disposable, if you can get the training out of the way incredibly early on, then you’ll have a tiny carbon footprint and presumably a few less shitty finger nail moments.

A little bit of false modesty from Mr Fry on this evening’s trip round North Carolina in his cab. On visiting a body farm, a grisly but fascinating research centre for studying human decomposition, he mused that he might consider leaving his body to such a place on the grounds that his body had done so very little worthwhile whilst alive, it might as well do some good when his spirit had flown. I think some might beg to differ and I suspect you know that, Stephen my sweet. But oh how you’re forgiven.

Looking to download 'the age of aquarius' which I believed to be from the Musical hair, I mistyped hiar which brought up a single song, Hiartabua, by the following mythical creature. This is Hansi Hinterseer, also known as Peter the Goat herd in his latter years. He's blond, he lives in a snowdome (check out his house below) and he yoddles. Could anything be lovelier other than finding a picture of Hansi in liederhosen? I live in hope and in the meantime when I'm feeling crunched by credit I will again mistype hair and give myself a little Hansi pick me up. I highly recommend the track, 'Wenn i won der Alm obageh' - it really shows off his yoddling tonsils to perfection. Who could be miserable when listening to this waistcoated Richard Clayderman bring joy to a million bavarians? Run little ones, gamble and frolic like lambs on a mountain top running through cool crystal clear streams with hearts and souls as light as air. Let Hansi take you by the hansi and lighten these dark days with some yoddling oompahpah.

Having wondered why such a hothouse had not yet been created, I was pleasantly chuffed to hear Prof Brian Cox on Any Questions (rad 4, 17 oct) propose a manhattan type project to address climate change. He suggested it might look at finally solving nuclear fusion, the process of creating nuclear energy where all the materials emerge as energy leaving no dangerous byproduct to be shipped to some poverty stricken country.

He suggests of budget of 140 billion would be necessary and considering the numbers that have been bandied around in the past couple of weeks, this seems like small change to most governments and could probably be found down the back of Gordon Brown’s sofa. We seem able to find the money when necessary with suprisingly little fuss from the public, possibly keen to do anything to shore up their personal investments, savings and homes.

At the end of the WW2 when the original Manhattan Project was pulled into existence by allied forces to race the Germans to creating a nuclear bomb, the greatest physicists were taken to the dessert, and essentially told to stay there til they come up with the solution.

The impetus of war clearly focuses the mind, in the same way that the threat of immeninet economic collapse stokes political will.

But why is there little political appetite to fund such a project to address climate change and provide clean, cheap fuel? Why couldn’t such research be funded by the G7, the UN, the IMF or, as in CERN, funding from various governments.

The time span of Einstein’s paper proving e=mc2 to splitting the atom to creating the atomic bomb – the unfortunate culmination of that research – was a 40 years. And that was with the carrot and stick of WW2 to drive it forward. Unfortunately, rather than lead us to the conclusion of unlocking the secret to endless energy, we ended up in the cul de sac of the cold war. however, if we wait another 40 years, we in London may be swimming to work. Unfortunately, the creeping quality of climate change means we don’t see the threat so vividly, hence to lack of response. No one wants to commit to reducing carbon emissions because of the supposed strangulation on the economy. However investing in fusion, or frankly any type of clean energy does require a well funded hothouse of research which should enable us to cut emissions without going back to the dark ages in terms of quality of life.

Is the oil lobby so strong and bursting at the seams with the indiscretions of so many politicians they dare not do anything to rattle it?

As we’ve seen lately, where there’s a will there’s a way. However, in this instance, the will seems to be mere hot air, which can only hasten global warming.

I love her. This is the first time I’d seen her live and she was amazing. Like Pavarotti, her voice is magnificent and it all appears so effortless. She could be reading the paper and scratching her non-existent arse at the same time there seems so little exertion.

She does do this one thing I’d noticed before and it makes me feel quite uncomfortable to see. She grabs the hem of her dress and pulls it up in a teasing way like a little girl busting for a wee. I’m always wincing, hoping we don’t get to gusset level. But it’s her thing, like Jo Cocker’s spasticated moves, it’s wholely her own.

Her band are superb. Sexy fun and clearly paternal towards her, thank God, particulary her backing singers one of whom is so hot to trot Zalon I think. Got some groovy 1950s dance move’s going on which I have to say, looked fantastic mimicked by me in wellies!

And I love her even more for her end of show mad mad comments. ‘you’ve been really nice….not everyone’s nice…..usually it’s boo…..booooooooo…..booo….they just go boo…boo. But you’ve been alright’ And not a mention of Blake. So good on you Amy. You slightly bonkers, fantastic, addled wunderkind.

I’ve lost my virginity. Finally at the age of the 38 I’ve actually gone to a music festival that involved sleeping under canvas – I say canvas but actually it was a 20 quid tent from tesco that would have gone up like a roman candle if anyone had been in spitting distance with a spliff.

It was, however exceptionally good fun. Despite ticket fiasco –see sosmastertickets are cunts - managed to get VIP tickets through much cooler sister which has probably spoiled me for any other festival seeing as I had access to permanently clean loos, free drinks and food, exclusive sets by featured artistes and the best cheesy DJ I’ve heard in a long time. We also –and this is most important - had a very civilised camp site. There was space. People weren’t holding parties til dawn or being sick over our guy ropes. At my great age, you need a bit of kip.

So here are my top tips for festival novices

1 – get a sister with connections and get free VIP / VUP (very unimportant people) or HO (hanger on) tickets

Failing that

Make sure you’re not camping on a slope
· Take an airbed – sooooo worth it. And an auto blow up thing while you’re at it.
· Drive. Fuck the planet. I saw so many poor buggers staggering around the middle of nowhere schlepping what appeared like all their worldly possessions, it looked like the final scene from Fiddler on the Roof.
· If it’s your thing, make sure someone you know, if not you, has some drugs. Keeps you going during the day and means you don’t have to keep going to the bar, cheaper – V sells bar tokens at 3.30 and in cattle class you could only get strongbow, Carlsberg… and for the laydees….bacardi breezer or wine. If you do like to indulge, take them early on, so you’re just coming down towards the end of the day. As friends found to their cost (when you’re on the wrong side of 30) if you have a massive bender one night, not everyone’s able to get back in the saddle again the next day. So have a nice day time peak then get a good night’s kip so you’re ready rock and roll the next day. Which leads me on to my next point…
· Take earplugs. And some knock out drops. I personally favour Kalms nighttime. The combination of the two meant that I got a great night’s sleep both evenings and if someone had being singing the Verve’s greatest hits outside my tentflap (in my opinion, that would be quite a short set) I would have been oblivious.
· Take wellies. They mess up your dancing, but are well worth it.
· While we’re at it, take a cagoule. And a brollie. I saw Kaiser chiefs in the pissing rain, but it didn’t make a jot of difference. I skidded, I jumped, I looked like a trainspotter, but I didn’t give a hoot.
· In fact, at the very least follow the packing instructions suggested by the festival website – you will be grateful you bought wetwipes and bog roll
· Don’t buy tickets from a shitty tout website – that will ruin everything

When I lived in Sheffield during the early 90s, there were many things that made the home of cutlery a brilliant city to have chosen for college. Clubbing for students was a riot with something available most nights. The Leadmill in particular is one of the best venues I've ever been to - a perfect size with a great line ups, club nights and jazz sundays and after an evening there I can testify that the burgers from the van outsde at 3 am, have never been bettered. I saw early Jameroquai there with a gig bus outside bigger than the venue but clearly necessary to accommodate his hattage. The place is so intimate it made any gig special, but with the atmosophere of somewhere like the Brixton Academy - fantastic.

However, aside from this and the brilliant access to the beautiful Peak District right on your doorstep, Sheffield has all the benefits of a large city but with the friendliness of a market town. I never tired of being called 'love' or 'duck' when I got on the bus.

But a real inconsequential pleasure that I treasured during my time there was driving up the M1 from Sheffield and passing the Concrete Flares, or the Tinsley Towers as I now know them to be called. The giant cooling towers were so impressively close to the road you felt absolutley dwarfed. But they weren't imposing, or sinister as huge looming structures often are, they were friendly and such a joy to see every time.

It's a terrible shame they're to be destroyed there's not many things you look out for with glee when driving along any stretch of road. The angel of the north is one, the striding wicker man in Somerset another, but the Tinsley towers, were not contrived as art but art they are. A feat of engeineering and beautiful for that. When much of the industry of Sheffield was swept away, the steelworks and related manufacturing industries of North Sheffield lay abandoned when only Forgemasters, they of the supergun would shoot sparks into the night during the winter, the tinsley towers stood proud and magnificent against the skyline and I just adored them - feelings I assumed were just personal to me but are clearly shared by so many others. It is terribly sad to think the concrete flares will no longer be there, cheering me up as I beetle up the motorway giving me a smile for a few miles after I say hello to them. The M1 will soon be even duller.