I walked past a bin man this morning who had just collected my rubbish. He smelled like a duty free department. I wonder if he was wearing aftershave which some wastrel had thrown out. They do tend to enjoy abit of the old grotty dip.

I cannot tell which is more odd- a bin man sticking on some aftershave he had found in the garbage for a laugh, or a bin man deliberately musking himself up before work. He might as well have gone the whole hog and donned a white silk cravat. Was he trying to impress his co-binmen? Perhaps he sees a particularly fanciable commuter leaving for work at this time every week on this route, and he wanted to impress her? Does she notice the heady mix of rotten celery and CK Be, and perhaps ask herself: ‘Who is this enigmatic civil servant? Does he see my longing?’? Are you that commuter? Could you, would you?

On second thoughts, he probably was just wearing it because his wife cannot stomach the tangy reek London waste. Or he moonlights in a perfume laboratory.

Last night I saw the new production of Tom Stoppard’s play, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour. It was sensorially spectacular. The play features a nice big orchestra on stage, whose performance is integral to the play, and the lighting was truly stunning (the artistic director was from Punchdrunk productions). As you may expect, it is clever writing, with the wordplay representing the usual range of brilliant, multi-layered language through to [deliberately?] irritating punning. Stoppard’s physical language is as playful and considered as his verbal, and EGBDF is fun to watch for sure, with members of the orchestra getting up to join in the action, getting beaten up, and all sorts of other fun and japes going on round the revolving stage of the Olivier theatre.

The play explores freedom of conscience. It is set in communist Russia in the second half of the 20th century, and follows the protest of a political prisoner banged up in a mental asylum. His cellmate is genuinely insane, believing he has an orchestra playing music (in his head). Conformity is inherent in music, whether it be orchestral musicians playing in concert, conformity to the well-tempered scale, or notes toeing the lines of a stave (aptly described by the mnemonic and title of this play). The tense discordant music performed by the orchestra complements the action and themes well. In the vein of the late-Romantic and atonal movements, it strains against the established tonality of western culture. How apt for a play about an individual’s struggle for liberty in a totalitarian state?

There is not much drama in the play in terms of tension and inner development of the characters. It is a feature of post-modernism that plays do remain in a frustrated impasse, trapped within their own literary confines. Stoppard’s plays do often move towards a subtle climax, however, and there is a sort of denouement here, turning on one of those idiosyncratic touches of fortune. I am just not sure there is enough to make it a thoroughly enthralling experience to which I would want to return.

My problem with the play is how dated it feels. It does not go any further than 1984 and even references the novel in its central expression (“one plus one is always two” references Orwell’s statement in 1984 that “freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four”). But the era of communist oppression is gone. The threat to liberties nowadays comes from very different elements of our culture and collective psychology. I think that if were to recommend a piece of literature about the individual in the state and freedom of conscience, it would not be EGBDF. 1984 is more powerful, more sad, more gripping, more terrifying, and (surprisingly as it was written in 1948) more relevant to the twenty-first century.

Right, I have gone and started twittering. I was all in an alcohol fuelled frenzy last night and when a friend of mine directed me to Twitter, and I became rabid with a thirst for a surplus of connectivity. Or something which doesn’t sound quite so Barbra Cartland-meets-PC User magazine.

Twittering or micro-blogging, in case you haven’t already discovered it, is simply a way of letting other people (your ominously named ‘followers’) know what you are doing. In other words it is like Facebook minus everything except the status updates. My twitter page is here: http://twitter.com/toxrowlang
I have also replaced this Blog’s sidebar subscriber widget with a Twitter feed. The subscriber plugin never worked properly, and I have spent enough precious time in the excruciatingly fruitless task of trying to fix it.

I am slightly concerned, however. Surely this Twitter lark opens one up to a new dimension of ego-centrism? I have half formed excuses in my head such as ‘I shall try and be innovative, interesting, informative, and wonderfully beneficial’. But I am sure that I shall doubtlessly fall back on obscenity and knob-gags. And what better platform for it (bar Blackpool pier)?

Warhol was wrong. In the future, humans are not going to have fifteen minutes of fame. They are going to be permanently famous at the centre of their own little virtual world. The architecture for it is being thrown up around us as we browse. Will we all end up like Quaid in the film Total Recall? Will we all become the exultant heroes of our exceptionally epic lives, only to be plagued by nagging fears that we are in reality witnessing our own schizophrenic disintegration?

The answer is yes. No sitting on the fence with this one, dammit. We shall all be Quaids, bring on psychopathic Romance and lobotomy.

On the other hand, if human life did become a matter of configuring yourself as a hero at the centre of your own definable world, I am sure it could be no less banal than watching Ulrika Jonsson trying to re-inflate her vicious little career, or some c-list actor off of Casualty mincing about in a ballroom dance-off. I shudder to think what terrible crimes of entertainment I shall be performing to millions of adoring, computer-generated fans in ten years time. At least I won’t have to watch it.

Today Patrick Mcgoohan passed away. You may recall my post on The Prisoner which was full of lurid descriptions of my admiration for Mcgoohan’s magnum opus. So I won’t go into any more detail here about that fantastic and bizarre series which (unlike any other I could name) really puts the vision into television.

Mcgoohan was as cool and suave as his name was not. It is hard to understand why he is not more of a cultural icon, I mean look at this photo:

Smouldering, mysterious, and complex as the Mona Lisa.

It is interesting that he also played and excelled in a role which could not have been more different from Number Six. I am referring to his role opposite Clint Eastwood as the Warden in Don Siegel’s Escape from Alcatraz. It is perhaps one of the greatest ‘bad guy’ performances ever. You get such a strong impression of  the dictatorial Warden’s overbearing malice that it totally saturates the atmosphere of the film. This amplifies the tension as Eastwood’s character endeavours with his daring plot to escape: he is not just escaping from a grotty building or from some grumpy guards, but from the asphyxiating evil of the Warden. Achieving so much (with few lines) is a remarkable feat of acting.

There is a scene in which Mcgoohan’s character discovers that one of the prisoners, a poor old guy called Doc, has painted a portrait of him. The Warden is less than flattered. Doc’s painting privileges are removed, eventually resulting in his grotesque self-mutilation. The actual painting which was produced for the film is excellent (typical of Don Siegel’s attention to detail).

You get the picture. Those eyes could freeze lava.

Mcgoohan must have sat for the portrait, of course. And I wonder what he tried to think of to give that impression of cruel dominance? May be he thought about the secret tyrant of The Prisoner, Number One. He must have spent a long time considering this Big Brother figure when writing the series, which was such a personal project to him.

I find this curious little moment in film-making history to be quite fascinating, especially considering that, in the climax of The Prisoner,  Number Six finds that he has to look within himself for his final battle with the architect of oppression. Perhaps there was more to  Mcgoohan’s choice to play The Warden than meets the eye.

Yesterday’s spectacular BDO Darts final at the Lakeside was won in thrilling fashion by Ted ‘The Count’ Hankey. I imagine that hundreds of young lads watching the coverage will have decided to take up darts professionally and I wish them good luck. To help them start off their new careers in style, I thought I would suggest a few possible nickname/walk-on music  combinations.

INSTRUCTIONS: Simply replace your Christian and  family names around the moniker of choice and acquire a cassette of the appropriate song from your local market.

Bill ‘The Sea-Beast’ Sykes – I am the Walrus

Terry ‘Full English’ Shitt – Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Pete ‘The Pinpoint Pervert’ Prickler – Relax

Isiah ‘Lagerdrinker’ Thwath – Tubthumping

Jebb ‘The Bastard’ Weaselcleft – Town Called Malice

Shane ‘Fatman’ Slaughter – Theme from Batman

Bingo ‘Tam O’Shanter’ McGullet – Hoots Mon

So it is the end of that first working week of the year. And, as usual, it was a load of shit, wasn’t it?

No particular reason for it, as far as I am concerned. I deftly managed to avoid getting involved in anything too strenuous so far, touch wood. The Facecrack status updates of many of my friends confirm that this time just gets us all down. It is a conspiracy of villainous circumstances:the gloomy cold of January; the reluctant return to work after the universal Christmas holiday; the prospect of another whole year until, well, Christmas; a whole load of new year’s resolutions to feel guilty about breaking; and this year we have the special kicker of a recession to look forward to. It’s the New Year Blues and it hurts.

Fortunately, there is a remedy for this most mirthless of weeks. It is dished up yearly by the BBC and represents the acme of British sporting excellence (and absurdity). Yep, you know it, you love it, you live it: it’s the BDO world darts championship from the Lakeside.

Right. Now that the vast majority of readers have clicked off to their preferred social networking / pornographic entertainment site at the mere mention of darts, I can be sure the only people still reading are the faithful few, the cultural cognoscenti, or at least those open-minded enough to give me a chance to justify this bizarrest of British gifts to the world.

Yes, the competitors are the least physically healthy of any sport, I imagine in the world. Sumo wrestlers may be fatter, but they don’t pack away the pies and fags like our boys of the board. Sumo wrestlers don’t have cheesy 1980′s pop walk on music like “You got the Power”, “Hungry Like the Wolf”,  ”Jump”, or any thing by Queen. I don’t speak Japanese, but I seriously doubt that those serious warriors have official nicknames like “Wolfie”, “The Dazzler”, or “Robbo”. And I have never once seen any sportsman of any description come on stage with a crown, cloak, and candelabra as is the wont of Bobby George. What can I say, the man has class. 

Darts is the only seriously contended sport I can think of where drinking alcohol is actually an integral part of the training and pre-match conditioning.* You can’t blame them really. These guys have to stand up in front of hundreds of people, all of whom are pissed-up like Geordie cab-drivers and twice as violent. They have to throw delicate arrows at tiny targets whilst making tricky mathematical computations. No wonder the average darts player limbers up for a match with a good three or four pints of old peculiar. It is not unknown for players to come out to the oche (throwing position) too bladdered to even throw straight. I love how the commentators always discuss it as some sort of tactical miscalculation.

The rowdiness of the crowd is spectacular. In football, the fans may be mental, but there is a clear separation from the players. In darts, the competitors are crammed in a crowded room with the rampant revellers, who holler and bray like churls at a mediaeval hanging. But this all adds to the atmosphere, which is good-natured really. The punters come in all manner of garb in the hope of getting a good 2 seconds of fame on the telly. They dress up as pantomime horses, Vikings, storm-troopers, vampires, robots, farm animals, and even Scots.

The boozing and the crowd-nonsense reveal the true beauty of darts: it is a high-spirited evening down the pub translated to the Olympian stage.

But more to the point, it is the man from the pub’s chance to be a hero for a week. Yes, there are dedicated ‘professional’ players, but because of the relatively small prizes (the BDO world champion wins only £95,000, a fortnight’s pay for a premiership footballer) darts is played for love, not to earn a crust. I found out this year that the women’s prize money is a paltry £6000! Not much for the crowning achievement in your sport.

More so than any other sport, darts is the sport of the common man. Football and boxing may be seen as a way for people from humbler backgrounds to make it big, but when you watch league footballers you know they turned up to the match in Ferraris. When you watch darts, the players are still ordinary people like you or me, unless this blog has started to attract premiership footballers, of course.

Darts players are real people, a rare breed amongst the groomed and coddled of tv-sports entertainment. They don’t all have Emporio Armani tattoos and pretensions of releasing a pop single. Take 2004 BDO World Champion Andy “The Viking” Fordham for example. Publican by trade, he weighed  31 stone (197kg) at his at his zenith. His walk-on music was “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred. He used to drink a crate of beer a day and once drank 25 bottles before a match. Alcohol almost killed him, so it is a good thing he gave it up, and has lost 15 stone! Bless him.

It is a greatly entertaining sport too, I can confirm. The psychological ebb and flow, which is the only trully interesting bit of sport anyway, is ruthlessly  and sometimes cruelly exposed. You can join in at home too. I find it difficult not to echo the stirring roars of “a-waahnnn-hunndreed-nd-AHHHHHIGHTYY” whilst strutting round my lounge like a Cockney chicken.

So why not lift those January blues and get involved in the darts. It’s the semi-finals today, the grand final tomorrow, and the BBC iPlayer is good for it. It is not linked on the main page of the BBC Sports webpage, but relegated to the ‘other sports’ page. 

Incidentally, I decided years ago that if I were a darts player (there is still time – Bobby Dazzler only started playing at 30), I would be called Tom “The Rat” Rowland, and my walk-on music would be either “Theme tune from Grange Hill” or “We’re Having a Gang-Bang” by Black Lace. What would yours be?

*Perhaps ten-pin bowlers drink to steady the hand too, but my thinking is so addled by ‘The Big Lebowski’ that this might be pure phantasy