Boing Boing » britain

The rogue reptiles of the River Thames

Rob Beschizza — Fri, 10 May 2013 12:59:27 +0000

The Fortean Times' Neil Arnold surveys the current monstrous inhabitants of the Thames and its tributaries, and the not-so-cryptozoological creatures that they might turn out to be: "There have even been reports of alligators."

Creators remember Knightmare, the pioneering VR adventure show

Rob Beschizza — Tue, 09 Apr 2013 12:48:07 +0000

Knightmare was a fantastic childrens' adventure show that ran on British TV in the 1980s. A youngster, wearing a vision-blinding helmet, would be guided around a giant virtual reality castle by a team of his or her peers, which issued instructions from dungeon master Treguard's chambers. Though defined by its technical limitations, Knightmare built a cult following thanks to its pioneering blue-screen setup—hence the blindfolding—and merciless treatment of contestants. The Guardian's Ben Child interviewed creator Tim Child and star Hugo Myatt and found that the production was itself something of a bad dream. Embedded above is the show's intro and a short documentary about it. Then you may enjoy a a selection of deaths.

Black Mirror episode 2: White Bear and the culture of desensitization

Leigh Alexander — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 14:56:01 +0000

The last episode of Black Mirror’s second season airs tonight on UK Channel 4.

Do you remember the first profoundly shocking image you saw on the internet? Perhaps it would have been something you came across by accident; perhaps you followed, half horrified and half compelled, a trail of digital whispers to see if you could handle it.

Maybe you don’t remember the first one, but you remember some of them. Maybe you shut the window, sick at yourself, at the glimpse of a woman’s eyes glassed with something unsettling, not staged. Maybe you lingered on eruptions, lacerations, in spite of yourself. To see if the image could possibly be real.

You could have even been one of those who chased the rush, gaze fixed on the spectrum of human mortality suddenly available for analysis and consumption in ways far beyond what you will hopefully ever witness in your actual life. If so, you’ve probably seen someone’s victim, someone’s child, flicker by in your shock-zoetrope. That person is probably okay. It probably wasn’t real. It wasn’t really your problem. There was nothing you could’ve done anyway. You went to bed.

Now, you know that the world is full of upsetting and graphic things. You have seen communities form in dark little digital caves, faceless audiences forever upping the ante, worrying at a numb nerve ending that adapts, that wants ever more elaborate stimulation. . It is hard to feel shocked anymore; it is hard to feel moved. If you wanted to join them you wouldn’t have to dig through secretive channels; it’s just there, right over your shoulder. You probably already know where to look.

In the exposition of Black Mirror's season 2, episode 2 ("White Bear"), a woman awakes bound to a chair, alone in a house where the television radiates a stark, inexplicable sigil, an ominous whine. Disheveled, amnesiac, and clutching a photo of a child she can barely remember but who must be her daughter, she stumbles out into a suburban neighborhood, shouting for help. What greets her instead is an eager scattering of spectators wielding camera phones. Unmoved by her pleas, they film her from house windows, follow her down the street.

The voyeurs are possessed of a visible, quiet eagerness that you’ve seen on anyone looking at the world through a smartphone’s video recorder. Like what they’re seeing is just a moment to be captured, unreal. Immediately our heroine learns she’s being hunted; a masked man with a shotgun coolly advances, fires at her with no particular urgency.

No one helps. They just follow along and watch, like they’re hoping to be the first one with the video of someone dying. Who’d do that? Oh, yeah. You, maybe. It’s not that implausible a projection.

This episode is only tangentially about voyeur culture and our desensitization to the individual fostered by mass communications, though. It deviates from the usual structure of the series -- usually an episode opens with a scenario, a premise, an imminent reality enabled by our relationship to omnipresent social media and technology, and then explores the implications of that premise.

This one favors a long, action-intensive exposition that, beneath all the fleeing and gasping, the slow dread of violence, throbs toward a twist conclusion. It starts by placing us right into the circumstance of Victoria, shaken and bereft of her memory, fleeing the voyeurs and the videogame-like, masked “hunters” who seem to want to kill her for the benefit of the viewers. She’s assisted by Jem, a tough gal who explains that everyone’s under the influence of a signal being broadcast from a transmitter called White Bear (hence the episode’s title). The pair’s objective is ostensibly to evade the sadistic hunters and disable the transmitter.

All the while, Victoria has flickers of memory: Of viewing the child she scarcely remembers through a video screen, of being accompanied by a man with a sigil tattoo. And all along, the viewers, disturbingly gleeful, like they’re touring a theme park.

The reveal at the end doesn’t feel totally unexpected, but it’s still uncomfortable. Ultimately you can view the episode as a critique of all kinds of themes: Mob mentality, reality television, even the complicated treatment of women in the justice system, or the assumptions we bring to the things we see – we can capture nearly any issue from all angles and pin it to virtual glass forever, but still only own a piece of the story, the unknowable remainder filled in by our own preconceptions.

Primarily, though, this episode is a critique of our deep, often-unexamined mass desensitization, or at least a dread portent of its potential to grow. It aims to ask: To what extent can you stand by and watch horror before you are complicit, punishable?

Ultimate British tabloid headline

Rob Beschizza — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 14:20:22 +0000

Alex Balk spotted the best Daily Mail headline in recent memory: "Love-rat dad of nine children to eight women who headbutted ex-girlfriend in row over cheese toastie jailed for just 20 days."

The Unbearable Lightness Of Being British

Wystan Mayes — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 16:51:01 +0000

Photo: Shimelle (cc)

The epithets attached to the Olympic opening ceremony piled up: eclectic, spectacular, monumental, shambolic, parochial, world-beating, hideous, embarrassing, filmic, and even inspiring. In its parts, the spectacle was all of these things because of the whole, which formed a gush of free-floating anxiety, a confession on a therapist’s couch.

Many commented on the ceremony’s focus on times past, in what viewers outside of Britain took as a flamboyant history lesson or, less charitably, as a statement of a country with no future. This was, however, no simple portrayal of past events, but a raid conducted to shore up a particular view that exists at this time; a malaise suffered here and now.

In this respect, it was significant that director Danny Boyle posed Britons as stoic victims of two world wars and not victors, inventors of an environmentally destructive Pandemonium (Milton’s capital of Hell) not liberators of humanity through the scientific revolution (where was Newton?). British school children are, indeed, more likely to be aware of the pollution created by industry than its role in making sure they can read history at all.

Many on the right in Britain balk at the ceremony's sugared presentation of our National Health Service, which has not been ‘free’ since soon after its inception and which now relies heavily on private finance to keep going. However, the mythology of our history here was not straight-forwardly ‘left’ or ‘right’ wing at all.

Caribbean immigrants to the U.K., arriving on the Empire Windrush, were welcomed with open arms this weekend–not immigration police and hostile locals. None of the suffragettes in the stadium threw themselves under the monarch's horses. Recent bombings were deemed worth mentioning (if not by America's NBC, which cut them from its broadcast) but not the more significant loss of life in the struggle over British rule in Ireland.

Even the punk rockers were robbed of their more ‘unsavory’ associations with drugs and rebellion. This was a thoroughly contemporary vision, deracinated and empty of traditional ‘politics’ or even ‘reality’. In Boyle and writer Frank Cotterel Boyce’s sensitive vision, we ordinary Brits became sick children, mourning soldiers, love-struck teenagers and harmless old rockers and anything else you can't argue with.

This is a British society in which the presentation of an idea always has an easier passage if it is attached to a victim or an innocent, rather than to a vision of the future. It is a Britain where schools are fortresses because children are very rarely attacked by madmen, and where families of the victims of appalling crimes, such as the parents of murdered teenager Stephen Lawrence, are expected to become policymakers.

This self-consciousness was summed up (and subverted) in the genius touch of turning Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, into a self-deprecating joke. It was beautifully done and, yes, ‘very British, Mr. Bond’. But as one of those teens, unable to finish a dance routine without stopping to text each other, might have said: WTF?

Everything seemed double-edged. Even an ideal like the celebration of heroism was presented more as an opiate’s dream than a hope, with ‘Heroes’, David Bowie’s theme from the heroin flick Christiana F, serving as soundtrack.

Britain’s lack of a future orientation has much to do with an arbitrary and defensive relationship to its history, as displayed this last week. The past haunts us like a Warner Bros.-licensed specter, but even these ghosts are more substantial than our tenuous grip on where we come from. The opening ceremony showed us a Britain where the past is not so much another country, but a Neverland where visions of tomorrow slip further out of reach.

As Bowie wrote: “I could be King, and you could be Queen”. Putting aside the literal constitutional impossibility of such an outrage, we forget now how any of us ever achieved such Olympian heights.

Let's hope the herculean efforts of the sportsmen and women—here to demonstrate human excellence—remind us.

The Luvilee Jubilee: underwhelmed by opposition to Her Majesty's Big Day

Wystan Mayes — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 13:49:45 +0000

There was little surprise at Queen Elizabeth II's Diamond Jubilee, but that's probably the point. Dutifully present were the Queen, the rain, the warm beer and the National Health Service glasses and teeth (I can say this, I’m British) and, surreally, hundreds of photographic Queen masks handed out for free. Parts of the crowd looked like a monarchist V for Vendetta; R for Regina?

There were some other traditions wheeled out for the occasion. The campaign group Republic, with some disdain for the 1.2 million lining the Thames to cheer the Queen (or ‘sausage’, as her husband calls her), had a spirited and—for them—historic turn out of about 1200. There were chants and moderate, reasonable speeches. This precluded any Greenpeace-style stunt: a lost opportunity, some might say, as in a nod to another British tradition, they were undermined by a bored Metropolitan Police force. The Met divided the protest into two, with most protestors corralled some way from the riverside. Those allowed to gather next to City Hall, the seat of London’s Mayor, had no chance of getting near enough to the river bank to be featured in photography of the main event.

So the case against the monarchy was laid out a few yards back from the crowds, with no PA, to huddled protestors. The wealth (nineteen royal ‘residences’, the royal Duchies, the newly-sanctioned share of profits from the Crown Estates, the hundreds of millions in personal wealth, the seven hundred servants for the family), such power as she has, the power wielded in her name (through the ‘royal prerogative’ to declare war without recourse to parliament, for example, as fomer Prime Minister Tony Blair most recently did), the secrecy (a recent amendment to Britain's Freedom of Information Act made the royal family’s correspondence uniquely protected from disclosure) and above all the unprincipled outrage that is, for republicans, the hereditary title, were all roundly declaimed.

1977 was the year of the Queen’s silver jubilee, a far more enthusiastic affair with bunting and union jack posters seemingly ubiquitous on the one hand, and Irish republicans branding her ‘Queen of Death’ on the other. The Sex Pistols' God Save The Queeninfamously reached number 2 in the UK singles chart, largely because of hysterical outrage directed at it. There were no histrionics this time around, though a few demonstrators shouted the Pistols' lyrics at the drunken, lairy, plastic-Union-Jack-hatted mass, which did its best to enjoy a very wet day.

“They made you a moron!”, shouted one protestor. Private security moved in.

“Glad to be a peasant!” one shouted back.

“End the reign! Democracy Now!”, chanted demonstrators. Geddit? It was raining.

“They’re not bad people, they just don’t want a Queen”, another explained carefully to his son. Then the security guard stepped in, to prevent the reconciliatory handshake offered by the protestor to the man he’d called a moron.

‘Votes not boats’, sang the crowd.

One among the throng, who wouldn’t let it lie, tried to explain to the demonstrators that The Great Rock n Roll Swindle“was taking the piss out of you lot as well”. He too was moved back, perhaps for being too esoteric.

More merry royalists sang ‘we love our history’ to the tune of Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ayat the republicans as Peter Tatchell spoke. A radical activist in an appeasing mood, Tatchell offered his own version of a tolerant, Nationally Healthy, multi-cultural, anti-racist, Hitler-vanquishing Britannia—with an elected head of state. Evoking the Nazis, it must be said, is a bizarre strategy, because the Queen and her family are closely associated with victory over them. The Windsors' role—selling an otherwise unpalatable reality in ways politicians couldn’t—came into its own in World War II. And it's not just the proverbial King's Speech. The Queen's mother, stepping in to placate the pulverized East End when Churchill had been met with anger and resentment, cemented a basic reality which is their main pull now: that they are not politicians.

60 years on, current Prime Minister David Cameron confidently proclaims “She hasn’t put a foot wrong.” He wouldn’t make the same claim for his own last 6 months. The Queen is an adaptable monarch, noted for stoicisim and yet willing to be led by public sentiment when it matters (such after the death of Diana, when she unstiffened her British upper lip in favour of the confessional TV broadcast).

She is now led, however, by the requirements of a highly sophisticated PR machine, which is determined to exploit her non-political status in a time when for many, all politics in Britain is tainted with cynicism and empty of content. In misty, myth-making mood, Cameron referred to the Queen as a guiding light “who has never shut the door on the future; instead, she has lead the way through it.”

If only this were so. The celebrity status of the Windsors is what keeps them aloft, apart from their people. There is nothing pageant and ‘tradition’ can do about this, but by the same token, there is nothing an alternative ‘tradition’ can do to shake it.

“What do we want? Democracy!”, chanted the demonstrators.

“When do we want it?”

“You’ve already got it,” shouted one informed member of the rain-soaked crowd.

An argument about representative parliamentary democracy with an unelected but ‘constitutional’ head of state began over the head of a steward. It is still going on.

The Queen, who eats out of Tupperware and has only been seen running once, sailed past. She was majestically oblivious in the drizzling rain, the day’s uncontested excuse for a good piss-up.

The shite food of Britain

Rob Beschizza — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 19:57:34 +0000

The Shite Food blog reviews some of the remarkable foodstuffs available in Britain: the microwave meals and boil-in-bag dregs of another level in the English-speaking consumerspace.

Shite Food was started as an antidote to the middle class ‘food porn’ programmes on television. Tired of seeing Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Nigella Lawson spunk the average persons food budget for the week on one meal, I thought it was time for a dose of reality. Britain’s cuisine has supposedly improved immeasurably since the 70′s but, lurking behind the ‘Finest’ and ‘Taste the Difference’ ranges in our supermarkets are some true culinary horrors. We want to highlight the supermarkets who market poor quality, nutritionally dubious, crappy food to those on low incomes to make a quick quid.

Shite Food: Britain's Gastronomic Horrors [via Thomas Sturm]

Sir Thomas Turtleton the turtle free at last

Rob Beschizza — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 11:21:35 +0000

A turtle of the same species as Sir Thomas. Photo: Brocken Inaglory (cc)

A Cayman Island turtle farm is to release a 60-year-old turtle, Sir Thomas Turtleton, in honor of Queen Elizabeth II's 60 years on the throne. Sir Thomas weighs 600 lbs and has enjoyed a 30-year career as a stud turtle. From the press release:

As part of the Tag and Track programme, Green Sea Turtles fitted with satellite transmitters are released into the ocean and monitored online. When the animal surfaces during a transmission period, the tag sends a signal to a satellite, indicating its location.
As Sir Thomas Turtleton travels following his release, the team at the Cayman Turtle Farm will be able to use the data as signs that he has successfully survived the re-introduction to the wild, and scientists, both at the Farm and in like-minded organisations around the world, can view and assess the turtle's migration path.

Disturbing British ads

Rob Beschizza — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 21:17:37 +0000

At The Awl, TG Gibbon collects unsettling British television Commercials, "Just the sort of thing you might expect from a country with the rich asshole from an '80s teen movie where its Barack Obama should be". Embedded above, a life insurance ad with a delightful twist ending.

Having seen the aspirational consumption-dreams of the nation, I'm sure you'll know what to expect from its public information films.

The adorable snoring dormouse (video)

Xeni Jardin — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 21:48:11 +0000

[Video Link]

Things I did not know before viewing this adorable video shot by Surrey Wildlife Trust Mammal Project Officer Dave Williams:

1) The dormouse, a little rodent species you'll find in Britain, hibernate in the winter in nests they hide on the ground.

2) The dormouse spends up to one-third of its life in hibernation, and typically begin that winter "sleep" when the first frost hits, and their food sources are gone.

3) They lose about a quarter of their body weight during hibernation.

4) The word "dormouse" comes from the Anglo-Norman dormeus, which means "sleepy (one)"

You can donate to support the Surrey Wildlife Trust's nature conservation work here.

(via @joeljohnson, photo: Dave Williams, Surrey Wildlife Trust)

Periodic table of swearing

Rob Beschizza — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:30:38 +0000

The Periodic Table of Swearing isn't just a saucy JPG: it's a real-life interactive box that gets down and dirty with everyday English. It was built by Modern Toss—the duo of artists Jon Link and Mick Bunnage—with the design studio Clay. Made with buttons from eightliner-style U.K. fruit machines, the phrases included offer the fullness of British culture, you cock garage.

Interactive Periodic Table of Swearing Extends Your Rude Vocabulary [Wired UK]

Keep Calm and Carry On Filing Trademarks

Rob Beschizza — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 12:39:54 +0000

At The Awl, Maria Bustillos authored an excellent feature about the Keep Calm and Carry On poster, which became a huge hit 60 years after it was first printed by the British government. An entrepreneur recently obtained a trademark on the phrase and is already firing papers at competitors, even those who popularized the vanishingly rare poster before he did.

The Vicious Trademark Battle Over 'Keep Calm and Carry On' [theawl.com]

Britain considers mask ban; may use army if unrest continues

Rob Beschizza — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 12:23:51 +0000

Among the post-riot measures to be enacted in Britain, Reuters reports, will be controls on face coverings and the possible use of the army to suppress future disturbances.

Britain will crack down on gangs and may call in army support if this week's riots are repeated, Prime Minister David Cameron said on Thursday, saying he would not allow a "culture of fear" to exist on the streets.
The government will also give the police powers to demand people remove face coverings after many looters who ransacked shops during riots in London and other English cities this week wore masks to avoid being identified.

For what criminal activities (such as looting) is the appropriate response to demand someone remove a mask, instead of being arresting for the crime?

The Guardian has full details on Prime Minister David Cameron's report today in Parliament:

• Instant messaging services will be reviewed. "We are working with the Police, the intelligence services and industry to look at whether it would be right to stop people communicating via these websites and services when we know they are plotting violence, disorder and criminality," he said.
• The police will have new powers to order people to remove facemasks. "On facemasks, currently [the police] can only remove these in a specific geographical location and for a limited time," Cameron said. "So I can announce today that we are going to give the police the discretion to remove face coverings under any circumstances where there is reasonable suspicion that they are related to criminal activity."
• Curfew powers will be reviewed. "On dealing with crowds, we are also looking at the use of existing dispersal powers and whether any wider power of curfew is necessary," he said.