Live and let liver?

So do you like my new drawing? It's not quite as astonishing as I had imagined it, but then life rarely is. I like that the whale looks so happy.

I am happy today. I didn't go to the gym yesterday but I went this morning, and washed my hair, and now I am perky for no real reason. I met up with Em last night after work and we went to Tooting to be threaded at Shilpa's - 99p for eyebrows, it's a joke - and then for dinner at 409 in Clapham. It was nice. We shared foie gras to start, an example of my abject hypocrisy, where I disapprove of it with every cell in my body and yet can't resist it when I see it on a menu. Pathetic.

I was about to move on to another topic, but really, it is pathetic. OK. I'm going to address this. I'm off to Wikipedia....

...Right. Force feeding of birds has been going on since around 2500 BC, where the ancient Egyptians did it. I wonder if Joseph ate foie gras before the famine? I can just see him lying around in his dreamcoat and loin cloth, asking a nubile servant to bring him another tranche.

The Romans were fans, and apparently the emperor Elagabalus fed his dogs on it. That's a bit much, even for me. The last time I had a dog was a decade ago, but I'm pretty sure that if we'd given him pate, he would have been sick as... a dog. Very sick. But then Ernest was always a delicate fellow.

Anyway, back to the present - apparently France produced 18,450 tonnes of foie gras in 2005, which is 78.5% of the world's production. Hungary is the second largest producer. Apparently migratory birds are the best victims because they have a good capacity for weight gain (in preparation for their long journey). OK, this bit's worth pasting in:

"The geese or ducks used in foie gras production are usually kept in a building on straw for the first four weeks, then kept outside for some weeks, feeding on grasses. This phase of the preparation is designed to take advantage of the natural dilation capacity on the esophagus. The birds are then brought inside for gradually longer periods while introduced to a high starch diet. The next feeding phase, which the French call gavage, involves forced daily ingestion of controlled amounts of feed for 12 to 15 days with ducks and for 15 to 18 days with geese. During this phase ducks are usually fed twice daily while geese are fed up to 4 times daily. In order to facilitate handling of ducks during gavage, these birds are typically housed in individual cages or small group pens during this phase...

"The feed is administered using a funnel fitted with a long tube (20–30 cm long), which forces the feed into the animal's esophagus; if an auger is used, the feeding takes about 45 to 60 seconds. Modern systems usually use a tube fed by a pneumatic pump; with such a system the operation time per duck takes about 2 to 3 seconds. During feeding, efforts are made to avoid damaging the bird's esophagus, which could cause injury or death, although researchers have found evidence of inflammation of the walls of the proventriculus after the first session of force-feeding. Several studies have also demonstrated that mortality rates can be significantly elevated during the gavage period...

"Foie gras production has been banned in nations such as some members of the European Union, Turkey, and Israel because of the force-feeding process. Foie gras producers maintain that force feeding ducks and geese is not uncomfortable for the animals nor is it hazardous to their health."

OK. I feel bad about it. But is it worse than buying clothes that are made in sweatshops? I think it's less bad. I think I'd have to give up Primark before I gave up foie gras. And not just Primark. Pretty much shopping on the high street entirely. And, while I love vintage more than the next girl, second hand pants are not going to cut it with me. Then again, not giving up one bad thing because you do something that's even worse is just as pathetic as deliberately staying in denial about it all. So. Come on Jane. What are you going to do? Give it up, or continue to eat it despite knowing how it's made? Meh. I dunno. What do you think?

I'll tell you one thing for nothing. I bet my liver would be fucking delicious.

I fancy a Snickers. Unexpected craving.

Happy Wainwright Christmas

Warning: the first part of this post may be serious and slightly over-sentimental. And I have no idea what I'm going to write in the second part yet, so don't hold your breath for hilarity.

Last night, Mum and I went to see A Not-So Silent Night, the Wainwright family festive specatcular at the Royal Albert Hall. Rufus and Martha sang, as did their mother and aunt (Kate and Anna McGarrigle), Guy Garvey from Elbow, Ed Harcourt, Boy George and several others. And several moments stood out for me. Firstly, Rufus' voice. I love Guy Garvey, I really do - his version of a Joni Mitchell song last night was outstanding, and I'd still marry him now if he asked me, but Rufus... his control... it's truly something else. Just like last time, he did his 'singing without mikes' trick, which is no mean feat in the RAH, and it blew us away. O Holy Night will never be the same again. Secondly, Martha wasn't pregnant any more. After a few songs, she told us that while she usually leaves the talking up to her big brother, she wanted to say that she had been expecting to perform this concert eight and a half months pregnant, and how grateful she was to the doctors and nurses at UCL hospital who, three weeks ago, helped deliver her son. She thanked the NHS, and in a profoundly-unBritish moment, we all spontaneously cheered. It's one of those rare topics where we know full well how lucky we are.

But what was even lovelier than happy Martha and gorgeous Rufus was the slightly wonky singing of their elderly mother, and Boy George, who simply isn't as good as he was, and Rufus' German boyfriend who was nervous as hell during Stille Nacht. But that's what life is all about, isn't it, loving and respecting those who have been important to us. So what if Boy George doesn't sound like he used to? His transvesticism (word?) broke international barriers in the eighties and Karma Chameleon was number one in sixteen countries. I watched all these hugely talented musicians last night, and what seemed most important was not their voices, but what they were doing with them, and I railed at The X Factor for pouring yet more superb singers with nothing to say onto our iPods. I want people to have a message first, and then a voice, not the other way round. Still, if I'd applied that rule to myself, you'd have been reading someone else's blog for the past four years. And I do flipping love The X Factor.

Griffin v. Rascal

Tonight, the leader of the British National Party is going to appear on the BBC's Question Time. This has caused a furore. Some people think the party is illegal, and shouldn't be given a forum by the BBC. Other people think that it is not up to the BBC to decide who gets a forum on national television, and that since the BNP has two elected representatives in Europe and many thousands of supporters over the UK, they have earned the right to appear on QT. I think the BNP is gross but until they have been found guilty of a crime (and I do believe they are guilty of inciting racial hatred, among other things), I think they must be heard in the same way as any other revolting group. My love of freedom of speech is far greater than my fear of the BNP.

My friend Luke has two tickets to be in the audience at QT tonight, and asked me to join him. I was sorely tempted, but I already have tickets to go and see Dizzee Rascal play at the Brixton Academy. There is some degree of irony involved in this situation, as I used to encourage Luke to become more politically motivated, while he used to bemoan my seriousness. Now he'll be spending this evening discussing freedom of speech, while I'll be dancing like a mofo in front of a black rapper whose controversial songs include charming numbers such as 'Pussyhole' and 'Suk My Dick'. And while there's everything wrong with spending money to see a sexist, it's just a bit of hypocrisy that I'd rather not think about, because his beats are raw, aiii?

There where things are hollow

Oh dear. How terribly unBritish last night's blog posting was. I have just reread it and felt distinctly uncomfortable at its unabashed happiness and overflowing joie de vivre. It was all true, of course, and I reluctantly admit that I am still feeling fairly fleet of foot and frisky. But how deeply uncharacteristic.

The only thing I can think of that might rectify this is a more lengthy complaint about the monstrous T-Mobile commercial that I witnessed being filmed in Trafalgar Square yesterday eve. First of all, the crowds gathered round the stage were huge. Yes, that's 'crowds'. Many, many people, all willing to give up their free time, desperate to be in a thirty second TV ad. The fame obsession of the British public will never cease to amaze me. I don't know what it says about me that I was willing to give up my free time to stand on Charing Cross Road and watch the proceedings, but I hope it's slightly less awful than actually wanting to be in the ad. I suspect it's a gossamer line.

A camera on a huge boom swooped over the masses, who obliginged by screaming mechanically and waving and sticking their tongues out, trying to do something - anything - to stand out long enough to earn their 0.15 seconds. Then the distinctly underwhelming celeb, Vernon Kaye, strode onto the temporary stage and shouted at those gathered beneath him, welcoming them to the next 'event' for T-Mobile. It was all so gross and I felt wrong and dirty for staying - but just when I was losing all self-respect, the karaoke began. After a fair bit of delicious wine at lunch, I was sucked in, hook, line, and singer.

We were getting into our stride a few tunes in - I had especially enjoyed Summer Loving - when the camera zoned in on a funky-looking blonde lass wearing a hoodie. As she saw her face on the big screen, she pushed off her hood and started really working the mike.
"Urgh," I thought to myself, "typical wannabe, making sure none of her fake-tanned mug is obscured on TV." She started singing - quite well, to be fair - in fact, staggeringly confidently for someone in the public, although it seemed like the sound balance on her mike was a bit more favourable... I felt briefly outraged for the other singers who'd came across as a bit breathy and understandably under-rehearsed, but then the man next to me said, "It's Pink," and I looked again, and from the mole on her face and a piercing somewhere, I realised that he was telling the truth, and the hoodie-wearer was, in fact, an American C-lister, with a moniker that matches T-mobile's logo colour, paid handsomely to turn up and give the advertising event of the afternoon a bit more star girth. All around her, everyone was smiling and reaching up to her, and suddenly I felt very protective of all the people who'd been happily chanting along to Build Me Up Buttercup before a Pop Star arrived. Sure, they'd only been there to get on TV too, but underneath all the commercialism, it had briefly seemed like a bit of harmless, inexpensive fun. But that's not enough for us these days. We can't just sing and look happy. We need additional endorsement from a well-known face. We need to be shown how it's done. We need to be put in our place. And it stinks. I wandered off shortly afterwards, leaving the fame-hungry hoardes to their worship.

I know, I know, I'm a hypocrite. I shouldn't have gone along at all. But I was curious. And it was a gorgeous sunny evening. Yes, I'm confused. But I do my best. And you love me for it.