Murdochization of the Indian Press

It appears that Rupert Murdoch, has monopolised and ‘tabliodised’ the Indian press- in turn creating political implications, and possibly the notion of bias, which could be transmitted onto television screens in India. According to table 2 ‘National reach of main news networks’ (the Murdochization of news? The case of Star TV in India) Murdoch owned network ‘Star TV’ reaches 38.4% of the Indian population- which as of 2013 had 1.27 billion residents.

   The rapid growth of the Indian economy may be partly due to, Murdoch’s investment in media organisations. According to the International Monetary Fund (IMF, 2013) India has the tenth largest economy in the world, worth $2 trillion. However, according to the same organisation, before Rupert Murdoch bought ‘Star TV’ India was in financial difficulty, with countries such as Spain, Canada and Mexico having a bigger economy.  This point is exemplified by the Murdochization of news report, when it states ‘Star news has the resources to influence the news market substantially.’

  Murdoch appears to promote sensationalised news, demonstrated in the UK with his ownership of News Corporation, which is responsible for producing titles such as ‘The Sun’ and the controversial now defunct ‘News of The World.’ He appears to have taken this approach to India, validated by the study discussing a relationship between two famous Indian actors: ‘The grainy pictures intercepted through the mobile telephones of the two young actors, were repeatedly aired on Star News as an exclusive news scoop.’ This is the kind of image printed by tabloid newspapers, and therefore, implies that Star News places a heavy reliance on celebrity, gossip, news and scandal.

  Rupert Murdoch’s successful business ventures in India appears to stem from a desire to produce, localised content and sport which matters to the Indian people. This is shown by Star News transforming itself into a ‘Hindi-only channel to widen its appeal in the language spoken by the largest number of Indians.’ Murdoch has widened his demographics, by producing content into India’s main language; therefore, localising news and possibly gaining the respect of the Indian people, they may also be far more responsive to content that is created, produced and distributed into their mother tongue.

  Murdoch has popularised television in India, verified by a quote from the Indian commentator Ninan (2004) ‘thanks to Mr. M, we watch more TV than ever before.’ In addition, when Murdoch purchased Star TV in 1992, it was estimated that only 1.2 million homes in India had access to television. However, by 2005, this figure rose to 400 million, with cable and satellite television reaching 61 million homes (Satellite and Cable TV, 2005, Vasudev)

   Murdoch’s obsession with his rivals stems from a desire for his company, to be the number one broadcasting service in India. Reliance, one of India’s biggest corporations was in the spotlight in 2005. Star News, reported heavily on a feud between the brothers who co-own Reliance, discussing every minute detail about the argument between the brothers, on how best to re-organise the institution. However, during the same period, there was a major story constantly evolving, about a path-breaking agreement between Pakistan and India, regarding a gas pipeline, which would have ‘benefited millions of rural Indians’ and this issue was hardly given a mention on Star News.

  In conclusion, Murdoch’s vision to conquer the Indian media market, has given the Indian people more ways to consume media. He has also seen his organisation, accumulate profitability and respectability, by ‘tabliodising’ the market, and concentrating on celebrity, sport and controversial topics. Murdoch has in turn boosted the Indian economy considerably, and offered an alternative to the existing media on offer in the Asian co

How my understanding of death has changed

To begin with, I was somewhat sceptical about this task. I thought that analysing an image related to death, by investigating signs and symbols, would be straightforward and not challenging in any way; how wrong was I? Firstly, I realised that by selecting a picture which was indirectly linked to death, my analysis could be deeper and more thought provoking. I had  heard about Picasso’s ‘blue period’ on a game show, and it was mentioned that all of his paintings during this time were a tribute to his friend, who committed suicide at the age of twenty one. I then trawled through a website honouring the work of Picasso, and the ‘Old Guitarist’ painting appealed to me. I could see the anguish clearly in the face of the protagonist, and realised that there must be a story of symbolical importance behind it.

   The essay also demonstrated that identifying signs and symbols is a complicated task. This has increased my knowledge and overall awareness of semiotics and death.

From a connotative perspective, there is no boundary to analysis; and that there are many and varied interpretations for one image. It occurred to me that death was a vague, yet an identifiable concept. Previously, I have never really given death a second thought, I have always recognised the inevitability of it, but did not understand the complexity of the signs and symbols that might be associated with it. I have since recognised that death is not just about funerals and the colour black but through sound, mise-en scene, camera angles and lighting etc, it can be conveyed in numerous forms.

  

An Anaylsis of Semiotics (Picasso- The Old Guitarist)

Introduction:

The Old Guitarist is a piece of artwork, created by Picasso in 1903; it is one of the most prominent paintings in the Italian’s ‘blue period’ which started in 1901 and ended in 1904. I discovered the image on www.pablopicasso.org, which features a range of his artwork, famous quotes and a biographical section. I plan to, analyse the image with semiotics in mind, linking this to the subject of death; using various theorists, composition, paradigmatic and syntagmatic, as well as the referent etc. 

   The image depicts a blind, almost skeletal individual playing solemn music on the streets of Barcelona. Picasso uses monochromatic shades of blue, to emphasise the misery of the depleted and fatigued protagonist.

   Semiotics is defined by Louise Cummings in her book ‘The Pragmatics Encyclopaedia’ (2009) as ‘a discipline that aims to study, classify, and explain signs as they are used in intellectual and artistic forms, from gestures and words’ (insert page number). In essence, semiotics is more than just the ‘study of signs,’ the unique interpretations offered by individuals, demonstrates that there are no boundaries to analysis; every interpretation brings a new perspective and life to the image. Through semiotics we delve deep into the implied and the hidden meaning, attempting to decipher how the artist wishes us to view their creation.

Context: 

The ‘blue period’ began as an unorthodox tribute to Picasso’s friend Carlos Casagemas- a Spanish art student who committed suicide at the age of just twenty one. Many of Picasso’s paintings highlighted the abject penury that some people were forced to endure, he often attempted to sympathise with the sick and those who were cast away by society. The protagonist in the Old Guitarist painting is a blind man, who appears lonely and separated from others. Picasso’s friend Carlos, was a troubled young artist, many of his paintings featured similar individuals to the man depicted in the Old Guitarist- whose state of mind appeared to be fragile. Perhaps Picasso through the illustration, was conveying how Carlos felt during this period of his life- it is possible that loneliness and separation are contributing factors to Carlos’ death. 

  The hermeneutics of this painting, is complicated due to the subtle notion of death. Without prior research, an individual may be unable to fathom how the artwork is related to this subject. However, the name of the painting, gives us identifiable clues, through denotation and connotation. The adjective ‘old’ from a denotative point of view, is ‘having lived for a long time’ we know that once we have been alive for a considerable number of years, death becomes closer and inevitable. From a connotative perspective, a stereotypical outlook suggests that once an individual becomes ‘old’ they no longer have the zest for life, that youth once afforded them. Their mental capacity is not as alert as it once was, the body becomes weaker and the senses begin to deteriorate. Some may arrive at the conclusion that with age the body begins to ‘die.’

Language and the sign

Semiotics requires us to interpret the sign, and conjure up phrases and words that are implicit rather than explicit; this allows to us to define an image exactly how we wish to. For example, as cited in the book ‘Visible Signs’ (Crow, D, 2010) the French artist Rene Magritte painted a smoking pipe with accompanying language that translated to ‘this is not a pipe’ (1928). Magritte often chose a repertoire of standard objects such as an egg, a shoe, a hat and a candle; and then debated if the names that society has labelled them is indeed correct. In essence, there is no reason why an egg isn’t in fact a table. Invariably, many people will view this argument as illogical, but it does teach us subtly to look behind the denoted meaning and search for what the object represents. David Crow points out that the arbitrary nature of the sign, often decides the language that we use to describe it (p21).

   Gill Branston and Roy Stafford (2010) highlight in the Media Students Book that ‘semiotics does not assume that the media works as simple channels of communication, as windows on the world.’ (p12). This quote highlights the intrinsic connection between the Old Guitarist and the subject of death. Semiotics does not hold a mirror up to the world, every interpretation will be different and unique; it is impossible for different people to share the exact same explanation.

Saussure, Pierce, and the referent

Saussure (1857-1913) composed the notion of the signifier and the signified. The signifier refers to the form to which the sign takes, and the signified is the concept that it represents. (Berger, p22). For example, in the Old Guitarist the signifier is the guitar, it signifies the representation of music and the signified can be interpreted as the hope which music can bring. Interestingly, the brown guitar, is the only part of the image that is not painted in monochromatic shades of blue. This further reinforces the idea of the symbolic nature of the guitar, music can be comforting, and can be a way of immersing yourself within a completely new universe. Therefore, the guitar requires a different colour, to separate the sombre mood along with the connotations of death that the rest of the painting emits.

    In addition, the Guitar is the referent in the image. The referent can be defined as a ‘state of affairs in the world outside of language.’ (Baldick C, 2008) Furthermore, because music represents expression in an alternative way to language, it can be concluded that it exists in a world outside of language, as it enhances meaning in a creative fashion.

   Peirce’s (1926-1999) theory of the iconic, symbolic and indexical nature of signs, is an interesting phenomenon when considering semiotics. Iconic signs are defined as ‘resembling reality,’ and ‘symbolic signs are based on agreement about what certain connections between sign and reality mean.’ (C.M.J. Van Woerkum and M.N.C Aarts, 2009, p 434-436). For example, in the painting the Old Guitarist, the iconic signs are the haggard look on the protagonist, his skeletal body frame and his ripped clothing. This all adds to the realistic representation of a homeless person or busker, which is what we assume the man is in the painting. Symbolically it can be concluded that the image represents a time period, possibly the 19^th century when abject penury and a poor quality of life became a common occurrence in England and other European nations. In addition, the average life span was considerably shorter than it is today, and therefore, death at an early age was a common occurrence due to factors including: poor diet, lack of medicine and poor lifestyle etc.

     Indexical signs are ‘casually connected with what it serves to indicate’ (Moore, Bergmann and Dotterer, 1942, pp 367-375). Therefore, the indexical signs relate to the subtle notion of death, the sombre mood created by the monochromatic shades of blue, and the haggard, depleted protagonist are all examples of indexical signs.

  

Photographic Conventions

Composition describes the placement of objects in the image. It guides the audience to the most important part of the image, which in the case of the Old Guitarist is the guitar. As mentioned previously, the symbolic nature of the guitar is such that it requires a prime location in the image; to give the object a sense of importance.

  The rule of thirds is designed for the artist to place points of interest in the intersections or along the lines of the image; which allows the viewer to interact with it more naturally. Typically, a viewer will focus their attention on one of the intersection points, in the case of the Old Guitarist this would be the haggard protagonist. Therefore, through the rule of thirds Picasso has attracted the attention of the audience to the protagonist, further reinforces the links that death has in the image.

Conclusion

In conclusion, through semiotics I have explored how death is linked to the Picasso painting the Old Guitarist. I used Saussure’s theory of the signified and the signifier to explain the relationship between objects in the image and the subject of death. Peirce’s iconic, indexical and symbolical theory established the connections between enhanced meanings and how death could be applied to his theory.

  Investigating the correlation between language and the sign, enabled me to decipher how the arbitrary nature of language, dictates to us how we should interpret the image; but without language the image is open to our own interpretation. Rene Magritte’s’ idea of distorting the meaning of the pipe enables us to understand, the importance that language plays in comprehending the meaning of an image. Therefore, once language has been either manipulated or discarded in this context, it opens up additional interpretations for the viewer to consider.

   In addition, I have explored how certain photographic conventions highlight the subject of death and how they are conveyed by the artist.

Aisling Bea Profile

She’s a beautiful, Irish actress, comedian and writer, regularly starring on your TV sets in programmes such as ‘Russell Howard’s Good News,’ ‘8 out of 10 cats,’ and ‘The Town.’ But what else do you know about Aisling Bea?

 She attended the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art, and has a degree in French from Trinity College in Dublin. Her comedic success is admirable, she emerged victorious in the ‘Gilded Balloon So You Think You’re Funny’ awards at the 2012 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, making her only the second woman to win the coveted prize in its twenty five year history.

  Aisling Bea’s (30) first notable on screen role was in the Irish Soap Opera ‘Fair City’ where she played Cliodhna Norris in 2009. She then had a brief stint in Greg Davies’ Comedy ‘We are the Klang’ which aired on BBC 3 in 2010. In 2011, she played Amelia Warner in the popular BBC 1 hospital drama Holby City. Other television appearances include: ‘Come Fly With Me’ (as Mary O’Mara, 2011) ‘In With The Flynns,’ (as Naimah) and ‘Dead Boss’ (as Laura Stephens).

  However, it is perhaps her comedy that makes her such a likeable personality. The following are my favourite three jokes told by Aisling Bea.

1.      

       1.One Direction are a group of children, made up of fringes and inappropriate thoughts.

2.      2.Urban dance movies always have the same amount of prize money, that is needed to fix a community centre.

3.     3. Dance music is used to mop all of the egits on the side who think they can’t dance.

Comic Books sell for up to more than 20 times valuation

A pulsating experience at Cuttlestones Auction House Wolverhampton, saw over 2,000 comics sell for a combined total of £18,541. Gasps echoed around the room, when a collection of ‘Silver Age Marvel’ comics featuring The Avengers sold for a whopping £1,000; despite initial valuation placing it at a mere £40-£60. Staggeringly, a vast hoard of early silver and bronze Marvel comics featuring the Fantastic Four, were sold for £850; more than ten times the preliminary bottom price.

   A 1963 X Men #1 comic, supposedly the rarest in the collection sold for £750; this item was expected to fetch anywhere between £400-£600. Twenty three early issues of the Amazing Spiderman went under the hammer and were bought by an internet bidder for £700; four and a half times more than the lower estimate. Another shock, was lot number 161- one hundred and fifty American cent editions of Marvel comics, which featured characters such as Thor, Iron Man and Doctor Doom, and were bought for £550, a 500% increase on the highest valuation.

  People were bidding from as far afield as Australia and the United States, to get their hands on the comics, which were discovered in a routine house search, as revealed in the Express and Star last month. Many of the comics dated from the 1940’s and included obscure and now defunct titles such as ‘Charlton,’ ‘ACG and ‘Tower.’ The majority of the items were kept in pristine condition, and are thought to be extremely rare when found in any condition.

   The majority of sales came from internet bidders, whilst people also attended on behalf of others and kept in constant communication by telephone, as the prices continued to rocket. Even the auctioneer seemed taken aback, as buyers appeared desperate to become owners of the titles.

So, search everywhere for comic books, because some seem to be worth a bob or two!

  

An Unlikely Evening

Key:

(.) = Pause of less than a second

(2) = Longer pause-number indicates how many seconds it is

Bold = Emphatic stress

Hillback: (opens front door) Bradley (1) what on earth are you wearing?

Walsh: Paul Sinha’s suit (.) after season five of the Chase finished (.) Paul was going to take this bad boy down to the charity shop (1) and I thought ‘you know I need an outfit for this shindig’, so I paid ten quid for it.

Hillback: It looks (1) it looks (1) no (.) word in the English Language can describe how that looks.

Walsh: I know it’s a bit adventurous but.........

Bradley stops mid sentence as he casts his eyes towards the dining table, where exquisite champagne glasses, pristine silver cutlery and antique salt and pepper sellers are located. The mahogany wood table is covered with a cream table cloth, with illustrations of roses and tulips threaded through the fabric.

Walsh: Blimey (1) flippen eck (.) is the Queen coming?

Hillback: Cancelled last minute (1) she emailed (.) apparently Phillip’s coming down with the flu

Walsh: I’m used to simple dining me (.) its all a bit extravagant for a cockney.

Hillback: Beans on toast for you then?

Walsh: Yeah (.) loads of brown sauce (1) I’m sorted me with that (2) what is the scram anyway?

Hillback: It’s a surprise

Walsh: The last surprise I had (.) was fathering twins (1) so I don’t have good feelings about surprises.

Hillback: Let’s just say (1) I need to cater for all of our guests

Walsh: Speaking of which (.) who else is coming?

Hillback: Churchill...

Walsh: Fantastic (1) I could do with a better deal on my car insurance

Hillback: Winston

Walsh: Ahh (1) don’t mention the war

Hillback: King Harold....

Walsh: I see (2) get it ‘I’ see

Hillback: Hilarious (1) and Brian Clough

A loud thunderous knock on the front door startles Bradley

Walsh: Cor blimey (.) nearly gave me a heart attack!

Hillback: It’s open

Churchill: Bradley Walsh (1) you could have invited any living or dead person to this dinner party great names such as (.) Jane Austin (.) Julius Cesar (.) Michelangelo (1) and you’ve invited Bradley ‘I find it difficult to pronounce simple words’ Walsh. Give me strength.

  

Walsh: (5) so, how’s life?

Churchill: Mine ended in 1965 (1) and thank goodness it did (1) because since then this country has......

Churchill becomes distracted by the waitress, who is placing cards on the table informing the guests of their seating arrangements. He whispers the following.

Churchill: I heard she won second prize in a beauty contest (1) a pig won

The front door swings open.

Clough: Lock up your daughters (1) Cloughie is hear (.) the best football manager there ever was (.) I am the greatest (.) better than all the rest (.) because I’m simply the best (3) I’ve brought Harold with me (.) so giz a sherry.

King Harold: It’s King Harold actually.

Clough: Do I look like a man who gives a damn (2) king my behind (.) from where I’m standing you could pass off as a member of Wham.

All the guests make their way over to the dining table

Clough (breaks into song): I want a glass of wine (.) sherry (.) port of whisky will also be fine. I don’t want a fancy meal (.) nothing like caviar or veal (.) I’m just happy with a bowl of cereal.

Walsh opens his mouth in the hope that he can perform a duet with Clough

Churchill: If you start singing (.) I’ll shove this fork where the sun doesn’t shine

Walsh: Why can Clough sing but I can’t?

Churchill: (in a mocking tone) ‘why can Clough sing and I can’t’

Clough: Churchill (.) you amaze me (.) I always imagined you to be an agreeable fellow but instead (1) instead (.) you’re just like me (1) and I can’t help but admire that (raises a glass).

King Harold: Hey Cloughie (.) I’m a miserable git too

Clough: Call me ‘Cloughie’ again and there will be another instrument sticking out of your eye.

The waitress brings the starters over. The food is some type of stew.

Churchill: No way (1) no way I’m eating that

Hillback: What’s wrong with it (1) its only stew

Churchill: Sick (.) is more atheistically pleasing than this

Walsh: Its bloody lovely this is (the sauce is dripping down his chin)

Clough: For effin sake Walsh (.) you eat like a pig

Churchill: This is disgusting (1) I’m going

King Harold: You know he has a point

Clough: Is there a pizza hut around here?

King Harold: I noticed a domino’s around the corner

Clough: I could murder a pepperoni feast right now

Churchill: What are we waiting for then?

Churchill, King Harold and Clough all get up from the table.

Hillback: What don’t go (.) I’ve got roast beef (1) and cheesecake.

The door slams shut

Walsh: (rubbing his hands together) how about that roast beef then?

The End

Laughing All the Way to the Bank

I find bus journeys laborious, I can’t read whilst the bus is in motion, as I get terrible travel sickness and apart from browsing a few smartphone apps, there really isn’t a lot else to do. Every weekday, I commute to work, taking roughly forty five minutes to get there and back, depending on traffic; I’ve become so accustomed to the bus journey, that I know every driver by name. We are that well acquainted, some of them have a nickname for me, I’m affectionately known as ‘briefcase man;’ because I’m probably the only individual that takes a briefcase onto a bus.

  This bus journey is slightly different, as I have a travel companion. Dave my work colleague stayed at my place last night, the initial plan was that he would come over and watch the football, have a kebab and a few beers; then he would make the twenty minute journey back to his own place. But the weather was so treacherous last night; I thought it would be best that he stayed over to avoid any potential catastrophes. So he caught the bus with me to work.

  Dave’s a good guy, we have similar interests, and he’s an excellent story teller. However, he takes prolonged and drawn out pauses before he says anything, and I absolutely loath silence. It was during another painful bout of silence, that I opened my wallet to ensure that I had picked up my staff ID card before leaving the house; and noticed a £5 note jutting out. I had a brainwave, a challenge for Dave. This challenge could potentially leave me seriously out of pocket, but I was so convinced he would be unable to complete it, I had no qualms about the stakes I was offering. ‘Got a challenge for you mate, if you can find the three Indians on this £5 note I’ll give you £2,500.’ Dave looked at me quizzically, as if I’d just arrived from another planet. Dave replied: ‘nobody bets anyone that kind of money without a catch.’ ‘No catch mate, find the three Indians and £2,500 is yours.’ ‘What’s in it for you?,’ he asked. ‘Nothing mate, apart from the satisfaction that you won’t be able to find them!’ He took the £5 from me and quickly began to survey it, he tossed and turned it, and frequently waved it.

  ‘How long have I got to complete this challenge of yours?’ ‘Until we get off the bus, so that roughly gives you half an hour.’

   The bus isn’t that packed for a Monday, which is strange, usually there isn’t a chance of getting a seat; there have been many occasions in the past where I’ve had to wait for the ten past eight bus, which cuts it fine for me arriving at work on time.  The bus driver is new as well, he had a massive smile across his face when Dave and I got on earlier, I assured him that in a few months his enthusiasm would diminish considerably. ‘Have you had any fare dodgers yet?’ ‘The bus driver shook his head and replied ‘this is my first shift.’ He looked backwards surveying the people on board ‘you are my 9^th passenger.’ ‘Oh right, I’ll warn you about the fare dodgers then, just let them on, it’s not worth the aggro for a couple of quid, you know what happened to Andrew right?’ He shook his head. ‘Well Andrew stood his ground, told three youths that if they didn’t pay he’d call the police, well the lads threw him out of the cabin and nicked the bus, fortunately there weren’t any passengers, so it could have been a lot worse.’ ‘And watch out for Mildred she gets on in a couple of stops, she’ll keep you talking for ages telling stories about her ill grandson and her daughter who she hasn’t seen for ten years; she’ll claim she’s an OAP and she suffers from memory loss so she can’t remember where she put her pass, but she’s 55 and in excellent health, she doesn’t have a grandson and her daughter lives next door; she’s been fabricating the story to newbies for years, so she can skip the fair.’ Dave interjected at this point ‘in fact she’s just started a club, giving tips on how to dodge bus, taxi and train fares, how to get money off essentials at the supermarket and how to get a free haircut.’ The driver muttered ‘Erm thanks for the warning.’

  ‘I’ve found two’ Dave pointed out the two Indians on the top right hand corner of the £5 note, only five minutes in and he’d found two. This could end in disaster for me, but I’m still convinced that he won’t locate the final Indian. He looked at me ‘nervous yet?’ I smiled and replied ‘nope as cool as a cucumber.’

   Ten minutes have passed, we have about ten stops left before getting off, Dave is still frantically searching for the final Indian; he wouldn’t know it, be he’s touched it about five times, I have palpitations every time his hand goes near it.

  Mildred’s on the bus, she didn’t get away with her scheme thanks to my heads up. Her face lit up when she saw the new driver, but her expression turned into a frown when her plan was rumbled.

  Time is passing by extremely slowly, and we are caught in a traffic jam caused by roadwork’s at the Vine Island, this gives Dave some precious minutes to become £2,500 richer.

   I distract myself, by chatting to some of my regular travel colleagues. I’ve learnt a few things this morning. Cora’s business is close to bankruptcy, Betty’s having a state of the art kitchen from Ikea, Maggie AKA Christine, scooped £20 on the Health Lottery, Phelma can’t decide whether to have her birthday party at the Bentlands or the Village Hall, Jan and her husband are going to Barcelona for two weeks, Rene is abseiling this weekend, Carol reckons the waiter in The Crown pub fancies her and Simon’s abandoning his DIY project, because in his own words ‘I can’t be arsed.’ There’s a lot of funny folk from Codsall.   

  Unfortunately for Dave his mission to secure £2,500 has failed, the bus has stopped outside our workplace. He slowly shakes his head, handing me back the £5 note, but I’ve told him to keep it as a consolation prize. ‘So where was the final Indian.’ ‘It’s the chief cashier mate.’

Book Review- Small Island by Andrea Levy

To Jamaicans; England is portrayed as the land of opportunity, despite being in the midst of the Second World War, along with the ongoing issues of racial tension.

  The novel focusses on four protagonists. Firstly, the audience are introduced to Queenie who is Gilbert’s white landlady, the latter arriving in London as an RAF recruit. Gilbert, returns on the SS Empire Windrush, and through desperation he knocks on Queenie’s door, hoping for a place to stay, and discovers that she is actually willing to reside with a black man; subsequently Gilbert takes room in her desolate and decaying home. Then there is Hortense, a rather subdued and ‘depleted’ character, who marries Gilbert and shares a room with him. My favourite part of the novel, is a  vivid piece of imagery attributed to Hortense, was when she described the horror, of finding her husband standing ‘stark naked’ in front of her. Describing his genitalia Hortense recalls: ‘I only turned my back for five seconds, and there he was as naked as Adam, and between his legs the thing grew. Rising up like a snake charmed, with no aid and with no help, the thing rose before my eyes, rigid as a tree trunk, swelling before me.’ Apparently sex wasn’t part of the deal!

   The biggest surprise about the novel, was the pinpoint accuracy of the dialect used by Jamaicans, that was recounted by the author. Upon research, I found that there are many variations of Jamaican dialect depending on region, in a similar way to the dialects of Britain. However, many authors generalise the Jamaican dialect, ignoring and neglecting the idiosyncrasies of it. Therefore, Andrea Levy, demonstrates her astuteness by depicting authenticity and respect for each character, enabling them to have their own ‘voice.’

  The fourth protagonist, is Bernard; Queenie’s long lost husband, who is presumed dead after going missing in combat. Not much is offered by the author, in terms of Bernard’s characteristics and persona. But she cleverly captures the imagination of the reader, as we move from pillar to post, deciding if Bernard is actually dead or alive.

  Hortense regularly features in the novel, in a first and third person context. We are led to believe she is arrogant, a village snob- demonstrated by her constant criticism of the house she shares with Queenie and Gilbert. For example, describing the room she sleeps in as ‘run down,’ and the linen: ‘the sheet was so flimsy it ripped in two as easy as paper,’. One may believe that a person arriving from a foreign country may be grateful for giving her a place to stay. Apparently not. Hortense, received exaggerated facts about the details of life in England; and travelling from Jamaica expecting paradise, she arrived to find a country in desperate need of renovation, as the Second World War  was coming to a harrowing end. However, as the novel reaches its climax, Hortense, is mellowing somewhat; as she begins to appreciate her surroundings more, her demeanour becomes increasingly polite and agreeable.

  The Guardian newspaper (2004) rated the novel, ‘one of the most defining books of this decade’ (speaking of the years 2000-2010). And we can see how the broadsheet arrived at this assumption, especially when describing the xenophobia that was rife during this period. As times have thankfully changed, the contemporary reader may be appalled at the vocabulary used to describe black individuals, and the hostility that their presence evokes. This is summed up perfectly, by the reaction of Queenie’s next door neighbour as another “black un” arrives. Her response, due to the absence of Bernard, is that she needs “the money and more importantly the company.”

   The novel has since been adapted into a BBC drama, where the topics of prejudice, love and war are given a visual element.  This novel is certainly the proverbial rollercoaster, the reader is treated to memorable occasions described in an imaginative and up-beat fashion; but contrastingly the language and experiences that are used, expose a sinister side to human nature during this period, full of hatred and redemption.

   This novel is certainly worth a read, and reminds us how certain sections of society negated the minority in these difficult and disturbing war-torn times.

By Ryan Hillback

The Girl on the Platform

If only Shakespeare

Were here

He’d tell me the right words

To say

Sitting next to you isn’t easy

I’m actually feeling quite queasy

Blood is rushing to my head

And my palms are beginning to sweat

And my heart is racing

At the prospect I’m facing

I’m plucking up the courage

I want to get to know you

I glance and you smile

And I compliment your hair style

And I start to relax

As you begin to let me in

You told me your name

It could have been Jane or Elaine

Apologies for my lack of concentration

My head was someplace else

And you said you worked in IT

You’ve just finished your degree

And your biggest dream

Is to volunteer in Africa

Today is my lucky day

It could have gone the other way

I missed the previous train

God moves in mysterious ways

But I knew it was too good to be true

As you told me the date you were due

And you beamed with delight

Hoping for a baby girl

So I take out my phone

And the caller is unknown

But it gives me an excuse to go

Better luck next time.

Celebrity Ties

I’ve always wanted to be called Max Power

Not Ryan Duncan Hillback

Or my mom’s little flower

Why does it have to be so plain

I’ve always fancied a celebrity name

David Beckham, Homer Simpson or Frasier Crane

What about a name like the great baseball player Jo DiMaggio

Or like the Taxi Driver film star Robert Di Nero

Even better how awesome would it be to be called Michelangelo?

I bet I would have been popular at school

If everyone shouted

What are you doing for lunch Harry Kewell?

Having said that I do like my name

But I’d just have to call myself Sherman Longfellow

If I achieved worldwide fame

Things I’d like to do

I would like to try sushi

Date a Swedish beauty

Ride a hot air balloon

Be a character in a cartoon

Score a winning goal

Play a lead role

Have my own designer label

Own a horse stable (plus the horse!)

Sign some autographs

Own the Daily Telegraph

Have tea with the queen

Discover a life saving vaccine

But most of all I’d like to invent a time machine

To go back to a time when I was eighteen

And relieve that moment in the pub

The restaurant and then onto the nightclub

By Ryan Hillback

1/4/14

Split Personality

It was just for one night; so don’t be fooled by her affable personality and effervescent nature. During her short hospital visit, Maria had learned that her hostility and abruptness, was, in contrary to popular opinion actually working wonders for her. She had pushed her mother towards the clutches of depression and senility; meaning that she no longer had to endure the witches’ tyranny and interference, that unenviable task has been left to the nurses at the Royal Hospital. And her college boyfriend John, tried to change her, which amounted to a waste of time when all things are considered; she did rather enjoy emptying his bank account though. In her twisted mind, it was his own fault, who leaves their pin number stuck on the fridge?

   At a time in the distant past, Maria was a kind hearted soul, and family members have spent countless fruitless hours, attempting to figure out how her once pleasant demeanour turned into a dark sinister side, literally overnight. Her sister Demi, is keen to push the blame towards their estranged father, who’s travelled more miles than Alan Wicker’s suitcase. The family never knew where Paul was, he would write the occasional letter stating that he lived in a two bedroom flat in Leeds, then he would claim he’d relocated to Glasgow, before short spells in London, Newcastle, Cardiff, Suffolk, Kent and finally a Travelodge in Birmingham. Demi liked to dismiss her brother’s claim, that Maria always was a bad apple, she would always defend her sister, but deep down Demi knew that she agreed with her brother Daniel’s assertion.

  Standing on the driveway of an exquisite house, completed with German sports cars, Maria checked her watch. 6.00pm. She took out her pocket mirror from her handbag, and swept her hair behind her left ear. Before adjusting her collar, and applying more crimson lipstick. She reminded herself that it was all in the preparation. As she approached the mahogany door, an elderly lady peered out of the porch window and smiled at Maria; who gave an uncharacteristic smile back. She rang the bell, and the elderly lady called out ‘it’s open.’  Before Maria had time to take in her surroundings a middle aged man rushed down the stairs, with a look of shock on his face. ‘You know, it’s usually the norm to knock on someone’s door before allowing yourself in, can I help you?’ The man’s tone was brash and ruthless. ‘I am quite aware of the social conventions when one is knocking on someone’s door, but your mother let me in.’ ‘My mother in law, yes, she does have the habit of letting strangers in.’ ‘Oh I think your mistaken, I am no stranger.’

   Maria wondered into the lounge, where the elderly lady was sat in a brown leather chair with a tartan blanket covering her; she was watching the evening news. The elderly lady called ‘hello dear, come and make yourself comfortable..... Andrew why don’t you bring me and this lovely girl a scotch.’ Andrew folded his arms and frowned before replying ‘I’m not a waiter and besides I have no idea who this woman is... Jean why do you persist on letting random strangers waltz into my home?’ Jean replied: ‘All I’m hearing is a constant droning sound; which would be fine if I had a scotch in my hand.’ Andrew sighed and went off into the kitchen. Jean patted Maria’s knee ‘why don’t you take your coat off, make yourself at home.’ ‘Thank you, but this is just a flying visit, I only came to speak to Peter, d’you know where he is?’ Jean was completely oblivious to what Maria was asking her, instead focussing her attention on the television. ‘This government don’t know what they are doing, they think that what his name, you know the man with the suitcase; ohhhh George somebody, can woo us old uns with the pension reforms and we’ll all dance to his tune, well I won’t be fooled, I like that guy who looks like Wallace.’ Maria muttered, ‘you’ll probably be dead before the next General Election.’ ‘What was that dear?’Jean asked. ‘Oh I’m just admiring that glass vase; it really blends in with the wallpaper.’ ‘Ah yes, it is lovely isn’t it, my grandson Peter bought it me from Barcelona.’ Speaking of Peter.....

   Before Maria could ascertain where Peter was, the purpose of her three hour drive, Andrew returned with the scotches. ‘Ok, can I now ask what you’re doing here?’ ‘I...’ Jean interjects: ‘Andrew, can you be a darling and fetch me my neck brace, my necks awfully tender.’ ‘Fine, but I think me and this young lady need a chat when I return.’ Jean consumed the scotch in one go, before turning towards Maria and asking quizzically ‘you haven’t touched yours yet.’ Maria, perhaps for the second time in the last ten years smiled once again ‘help yourself; I’m more of a Vodka person myself.’ Once again Jean drank the scotch in one go.

  Andrew returns with the neck brace, before sitting in an easy chair directly opposite Maria, as if he was conducting a formal interview. ‘So, what are you doing here?’ ‘I’m looking for....’ Once again Jean interrupts, and Maria imagines clobbering the old hag with that hideous vase, she decides against it not for moral purposes, just because there would be witnesses. ‘I really fancy a crumpet right now... but we don’t have any, Andrew be a dear and go and get some. Andrew sighed ‘I’m not your servant, plus I haven’t established who this god damn woman is in my house!’ Maria, surveyed the room before standing up and saying ‘I’ll go and fetch the crumpets, where is the nearest supermarket?’ Andrew then stood up: ‘no you won’t I want you to remain right here so I can find out what you are doing here; I’ll go.’

  As Andrew leaves, Jean’s complexion changes rapidly. ‘I know who you are and what you are, Maria.’ ‘Glad we got the pleasantries out of the way Jean, I was worried you were losing the plot.’ ‘Didn’t we speak on the phone, yesterday for an hour, I told you where Peter was, so what are you doing here?’ ‘Because you gave me the wrong information, I went to that apartment and Peter wasn’t there; so I’ll put this to you in simple terms you old bitch, where the effing hell is your yellow belly coward of a grandson.’

   The lounge door swings open ‘Maria it’s been a while.’

Fractured Relationship?

Dementia is such a cruel and debilitating illness. It destroys lives, not just the unfortunate person who suffers from its unwanted advances- but also has implications for the wider family. I pondered this thought, as I glanced up from my copy of Take A Break (I might add, I do not make a habit of reading womens’ magazines- the only other alternative was the Farmer’s weekly, and I’ve never taken a particular interest in agriculture) and saw Mrs Morris; my grandparents’ next door neighbour, with her arm in a sling. I remember my grandfather telling me solemnly once; how Mrs Morris is a shell of the person she once was. Apparently, in the 50’s, my grandfather and Mrs Morris, had a brief dalliance; ‘what a woman’ my grandfather recalled- this was before he met my grandmother.

  Mrs Morris was vivacious, intelligent, sophisticated and eccentric- he once reflected, but sitting just across the overflowing fracture clinic, I saw a woman who was confused, just staring ahead with a blank look on her face. It was such a sad sight. Mrs Morris’ husband Norman- died three years ago due to bowel cancer. My grandmother often says that she can hear Mrs Morris regularly calling Norman’s name.

  Accompanying Mrs Morris to the fracture clinic was her son Paul- a lovely chap, though my grandmother hasn’t spoken to him since 2010- when in her words he ‘swindled her out of £200.’ I keep pestering her, to stop playing poker.

 Currently my grandmother isn’t speaking to me. This non verbal stand-off is so futile, the truth is both of us are too stubborn, to be the first to patch things up. It all started during the fifteen minute car journey to the fracture clinic. Before we left the house, grandmother was writhing in agony- fearing she may have broken her leg, after tumbling down the stairs. However, within a minute of entering my car, she led a tireless campaign for me to switch Capital Radio over to Radio 4. When I refused she began to rant ‘oh you never visit me anymore, since you met that girl, never visit your poor old grandmother, you don’t care about me.’ Then she began remonstrating how Lauren my sister, was now her favourite grandchild. The same Lauren who couldn’t take grandmother to the hospital because she had a nail appointment!

    I should be at University. Today’s’ lecture was focussing on the stigmatisation of homosexuals in the Islam culture! I’ve spent the last twenty minutes, writing notes, occasionally biting the top of the Bic pen, searching for inspiration. It’s so hard to concentrate, with the racket going on in the fracture clinic; children are the worst offenders. Some kids in this place have a gob the size of the Mersey Tunnel; you wouldn’t think that such a small mite could reach an infinite number of decibels. I feel sympathy for the parents. A mother sitting adjacent to me, has just won the battle of wits though; albeit she had to bribe her daughter with a McDonalds and a scooter; but needs must when the devil drives.

  Paul’s just nipped over to say hi, my grandmother was rather hostile to begin with; but now they are chatting as if nothing ever happened. She’s still not speaking to me though, occasionally giving me scornful looks, she’s angry because apparently John Humphreys was holding a debate about the cost of energy prices; and I had denied her the knowledge of her consumer rights.

   I glance at my watch, we have been here for four painstaking hours. If my grandmother hasn’t actually broken her leg, well, what a waste of time this would have been. Mrs Morris has left, broken her arm in three places Paul said; tripped over the dog and crashed into the Kitchen unit. I didn’t even realise Mrs Morris had a dog.

 The furore in the fracture clinic has died down; the receptionist looks like she’s had twelve rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson, and my grandmother has fallen asleep. My phone has vibrated in my pocket at least twelve times, I can’t answer it because the sign located directly above my head urges me not to use it. I’ve had a go at the crossword, read the Take a Break; I’ve even resorted to colouring in the pictures that the hospital provides for the young children; such is the severity of my boredom.

  My grandmother’s woken in the last fifteen minutes, and she’s started speaking to me; I’ve agreed that she can listen to Radio 4’s Inside Science on the way home, and a bunch of other requests, which after a while I just kept repeating ‘yeah,’ so I have no idea what else I’ve agreed to.

  When we are finally called in to establish my grandmother’s injury, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. She hobbles in on her sticks, before turning back and replying ‘oh I forgot to tell you, I called your father whilst I was in the loo about a couple of hours ago, he told me to ring him when I’m done, so you can go now.’

Colour

He’s painted the bedroom walls in all the wrong colour

Since when did gold become yellow?

I emphasise the importance of the hue

He shrugs, and begins to paint the hall in blue

I follow him around the house

Gasping as his brush dips into the green

I try to stop him but it’s too late

My bathroom looks obscene

He’s taking orders from my wife

The front door needs to be painted pink

I slump on the chair in disgust

In desperate need of an alcoholic drink

The neighbours are not happy

They want us to paint the door black

Mrs Jones has already telephoned the council

It looks even worse when I stand back

NHS 111 Crisis

I was appalled by the results of the Sunday Mirror investigation (29/12/13) regarding the disastrous NHS 111 service; as this latest episode, highlights unequivocally that you cannot trust the Tories with the National Health Service. David Cameron is presiding over a service that never fails to amaze the British public, as presumably they hope that neither themselves nor their family members have to call the ‘helpline’ in their hour of need. After the coalition government scrapped the NHS Direct service, it replaced the former with an incompetent one that is now playing Russian roulette with people’s lives. The very thought of a seventeen year old, without any relevant qualifications, deciding if my condition requires emergency treatment makes me shudder, and I worry whether they would be able to make the right choice.

   Furthermore, people who required the service had to wait for twenty minutes before they were put through to an adviser; every minute must have been agonising for the individual needing to speak to somebody. NHS 111, is supposed to relieve pressure on A & E, but when more revelations come to light, people are rightly going to be seriously concerned about calling this helpline, and will instead visit hospitals that are already overflowing with patients as it is.

   David Cameron needs to address the staffing crisis of the service, find more funding to hire qualified and experienced medical personnel, and find a way to drastically reduce the waiting times, before someone is connected to NHS 111. Then perhaps the public may have trust, in what can only be described as a bungling, crisis service on this current evidence.

By Ryan Hillback

Wolverhampton 

Sole Destroying

What is it with weddings? Why do people have to spend an excessive amount of money, for the changing of a surname? It’s like a movie that I’ve seen a thousand times, the ending line is always ‘I do’ there’s not much point turning up for the rest; I’ll raid the buffet afterwards, raise a glass to the happy couple, and then I’ll be off. And people always have the same conversation at weddings ‘oh doesn’t she look lovely?’ ‘Isn’t he so lucky?’ and ‘does my butt look big in this?’

  You always get that one reticent character at weddings, you’ve probably seen him/her at previous functions; the one who always sits alone, swirling their glass, desperately scouring the room in the hope of seeing a single individual who would like to sail off into the sunset with them. Because they’re turning thirty and before you know it they’ll be forty, they will never have any children, will be stuck in the same boring and pointless job, end up with fifteen cats, drink tea out of the same mug; and have a social care worker attend their home daily just to check if they are still alive. I could write the script.

  And why on earth do I have to buy new clothes? I was debating this point with my sister yesterday; I have a perfectly adequate wardrobe and don’t really want to traipse around town searching for more attire. However, if I could give one piece of advice to every man, it would be don’t argue with women; especially my sister. King Kong would run faster than the speed of light if he encountered our Mary.

   Clothes shopping is tedious, but there is nothing in this universe that is more irksome than buying shoes. Trying them on is a nightmare, why does the sales assistant have to stand over me? Sometimes, I take forever to tie the shoelaces just to irritate them. Occasionally, more staff will join the sales assistant, and suddenly I have a crowd of people around me; it’s as if I’m performing some sort of magic act. In addition, why does the sales assistant insist on placing the shoes behind the till? I don’t intend to buy anything else, am I incapable of taking a shoebox one hundred yards without assistance?

  Now I’m going to have clown feet; my sister demanded that I buy Lloyd shoes with the pointing toes, I’ve never seen anything more ridiculous in my life. It isn’t a little point either, they stretch for at least a couple of inches; soon people will be calling me Ronald McDonald. The amount of money I’ve spent for this shindig totals £5,000; I’ve cried real tears over the loss of that money.

   Just as I’m trying on my expensive suit, wondering if life can become any worse, and berating the fact that I’m missing the FA Cup final; Jimmy opens my bedroom door without knocking and slumps on my bed. “I cor do it man, I got butterflies in my chest man.” “Don’t you mean butterflies in your stomach, and what do you mean you can’t do it?” “I got the nerves ay I, my hearts pounding, I’m shaking like a leaf, there’s gonna be a thousand people there, looking for a good speech and I ay gonna be the man to say it like. “Jimmy people know you, there’s no one going to be looking for ‘Shakespeareske’ writing, just say a few words and don’t overdo it.”  “Yam right, I’m yo best man, and I’m gonna do a cracking job.”

   Now you may be thinking that being as I’m the one getting married I shouldn’t be so cynical about weddings? You see I didn’t propose, why would I we had only been dating  for six months at the time, Lisa didn’t propose either. I know that the whole idea of getting engaged involves someone, usually the man, proposing. Not on this occasion. We were in a lovely Italian restaurant, and the plan was that I would break it off with her at the end of the night. I know breakups are difficult to take, so I thought that by taking Lisa for a slap up three course meal, it would soften the blow and she’d realise what a considerate guy I am.

  Anyway, tomato soup arrives and she notices something shiny on her spoon. Lisa lifts it up, and begins blubbing before jumping and shouting, inadvertently knocking a chair over in the process. She throws her arms over me, and the entire restaurant gives us a standing ovation, clapping like seals. The strange part about this whole charade was that Lisa didn’t even order tomato soup. Mind you, Jimmy did introduce me to her, so I think that explains that. I have no idea where the gold ring came from, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t intended to be a proposal.

   So here I am on my wedding day, the more I think about it, the more I warm to the idea; I suppose I could do a lot worse. Jimmy, my stony faced accomplice is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. One last look in the mirror just to straighten my tie. I put on my new footwear, wishing I could wear the ones next to them. ‘The pair of shoes, scuffed and worn, were standing sentimental at the door.’

Unearthing a Diamond

I’m feeling rather melancholy; life is going at the same speed as an express train, and I have nothing to show for it. I’m forty seven now, but my appearance is deceiving, as it suggests that I am twenty years older, wrinkles are ubiquitous across my body, my hair has become a dark grey, I’m thinner than a stick insect. I’ve stopped caring about life, I still require a saviour, and somebody who is prepared to give this washed up personality a chance to redefine herself.

   Loneliness is like an illness, you wonder how it is possible to continue existence in this vain. I constantly search for answers I know I’ll never find, such as, how and why did it all go wrong?

    I need new furniture, table and chairs, and stools; without hardly any money this is proving to be an improbable task. Fortunately, I noticed an advert in the window, of my local newsagents promoting a ‘junk’ shop of sorts, called ‘Flog it’ maybe they will have what I am searching for?

  ‘Flog it,’ which is situated opposite McDonalds in Wolverhampton City centre, has some rather peculiar items. The store represents a ‘flea market’ as it sells just about anything and everything. I picked up some additional items, including a Chinese blue and white porcelain vase (£3) a Colin Dexter novel (75p) and an old film to watch (£2,) I searched for the furniture items that I required but to no avail.

  And then it hit me like a tornado, the cashier was none other than Stuart Bramwell. Stuart and I attended the same high school, although we rarely spoke, and when we did it was because we had been paired to undertake a Geography assignment. I was incredibly attracted to him back then, but with much prettier girls like Lisa Goodwood, lingering around him like a bad smell, I never had the opportunity to date him.

   I was actually quite surprised that he instantaneously recognised me. ‘Linda Edwards, is that you?’ His voice was soft but authoritative at the same time. I smiled and nodded. ‘Well isn’t this a blast from the past,’ he expressed. ‘What have you been up to?’ I was quite nervous talking to him, the same feeling as I had back in high school, the adrenaline rushing through my body, and a concern that my words would not be cohesive. ‘Er... I’m a receptionist at the Bilbrook Medical Centre, and apart from that it’s all rather quiet for me, what about you? I responded.

  Throughout our brief encounter, my eyes rapidly scanned his appearance. His outfit was smart but casual. He clearly understood colour co-ordination, his dark blue Atlantic Bay jumper, was accompanied with a light pink t-shirt and dark jeans, as well as light brown shoes.

    Stuart enthusiastically replied ‘my daughter, Rachel, recently opened this place, I’m just helping out at a weekend, I’m a paramedic, and a drum lecturer in my spare time; so it’s all rather hectic, I’m recently divorced as well, her choice not mine… are you married Linda?

  Stuart Bramwell, divorced? I’ve never heard anything more preposterous in my life, how can any woman wish to divorce Stuart Bramwell. Unless behind this friendly persona, is actually a rather sinister side, although I seriously doubt that. With new confidence, after this surprising revelation, I said ‘no I’ve never been married, and have been single for the last ten years.’  

  ‘Wow’ ten years had it really been that long? I’ll never forget that summer’s day in June 2003, my then boyfriend Mark Davidson dumped me by email. I actually remember the email word for word, we had only been an item for eighteen months but I was still devastated.

   What Stuart said next, changed my life forever. ‘Well it’s been nice catching up with you, we should maybe go for a coffee sometime’? He then printed a blank receipt, and scribbled his number down on it, before saying ‘give me a call some time and let me know when you’re free.’

  I, perhaps too enthusiastically took the receipt, smiled and headed for the exit. I was ecstatic, I’ve just been asked out by Stuart Bramwell, and then the pessimistic part of me wondered if this was actually his number, for all I knew he could have given me the number for his local Chinese restaurant!  I called him a few days later, so not to appear too desperate, believe me, I nearly called him, immediately after I left the shop, but decided to wait just to appear relaxed; although I was anything but.

  We agreed to meet at the Costa Coffee store, the one close to Wolverhampton bus station, and what a delightful couple of hours we spent together. The conversation was dynamic and interesting, we shared lots of laughs, and for the first time in a while, I genuinely had the feeling that things were looking up for me.

   As Linda scanned this diary entry, a wide smile beamed across her face, the 23^rd of June 2013, twenty years ago, was by far the best day of her life. Stuart and Linda had now been married for fifteen years, and have shared many extravagant holidays to places such as Morocco, Canada, America, Russia, France and Germany; both of them couldn’t be happier. Stuart was Linda’s junk shop find.

Synopsis- The Reader

Simply Breath-taking’

 I had reservations when picking this book up. I deliberated, how can the author, Bernard Schlink, offer an alternative experience to a story- that I have already witnessed as a moving image? And how can the passionate relationship between a fifteen year old boy, and his much older lover; be told in the same captivating way that the film conjured up? Bernard, only needed a few chapters to convince me, that in my opinion, the book is superior to the film. It took me to places that I’ve never been to before; I was in awe of the style, the characters, the dialogue and was equally surprised how receptive I was to the emotion of the plot.

  The metaphorical forbidden fruit for Michael, was thirty five year old train conductor Hanna. The chance encounter between the pair, led to a rather unusual relationship. Set in post-war Germany, the subject of the Holocaust, which is invariably an emotive subject; is carefully covered by the author, demonstrating his writing ability.

  Michael Berg, is recovering from Hepatitis, and it appears that sex is the best medicine. The novel, gets raunchy, when Michael takes a bath in Hanna’s house, after helping her to transport coal. And when Michael feels a naked body touching his, it all becomes rather steamy (pardon the pun). However, this is surprisingly, not the bizarre part of the story. Everytime the duo meet, they bathe, have sex, and then Michael reads to Hanna, often in the form of classical literature, such as- ‘The Odyssey’ and Chekhov’s ‘The Lady with the Dog’ (both of which Michael is studying at school.)

  Michael is then sent on a roller coaster of intricate emotions, seven years later when he is a student at a law school. He is part of a group observing a war crimes trial, which centres on a group of middle aged women, who served as SS Guards at Auschwitz. They have been charged with allowing three hundred Jewish women, under their protection to die in a fire in a locked church, that had been bombed during the evacuation of the camp. Michael is perplexed to see Hanna in the dock (whom he had not seen for all this time) and she appears to be unremorseful about the whole situation. It truly is a gripping read, and if/when you do pick up the novel; you will not be disappointed.

The Daily Bungle

Based on a story written in the Guardian Newspaper (15/3/13)

16^th/6/13

                                                                                                                                                       50p

The Daily Bungle         

By political correspondent, Ryan Hillback

Cameron in Pledge to Reveal Tax Frauds-

Don’t worry Mr Cameron We’re Doing the Job for You!

David Cameron, has sent a stark warning, to all true owners of shell companies, who find loopholes in Britain’s’ corporate tax legislations, by insisting ‘we will reveal your identity.’ The Prime Minister (pictured), has vowed to ensure that all those caught up in tax evasion and money laundering, will feel ‘the full force of the law.’ The revelation, was revealed after a covert operation by the Daily Bungle, discovered a fraudulent carpet business operating in the backstreets of Birmingham; whose owners reported a projected loss of £300,000 for the financial year of 2012. But in reality, the owners of the phony ‘Carpets4U store, were actually secretly running a highly successful technological department store; and storing their whopping £75 million gross profit, into bank accounts across Europe and Asia to avoid paying the appropriate tax, to HMRC.

  

    Alexander Zolnerowhich and his business partner Vladislav Konstantinov, owners of ‘Tech4U’ were arrested on suspicion of fraud, money laundering and tax evasion last night. Police raided their Wolverhampton homes at around midnight, subsequently seizing their computers and accountancy documents, as the evidence mounts on the Russian oligarchs. Scotland Yard Superintendent, Fred Neilson, told the Daily Bungle that “two men of Russian descent, aged 32 and 41 years respectively, were arrested at separate addresses in Wolverhampton last night, we are currently reviewing the evidence, and questioning the suspects; we will then delegate the matter to the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service). No further comments will be made at this stage.”

How the Daily Bungle, caught the duo red handed!

In May 2013, we received an anonymous tip-off from an alleged British tycoon, who had previous dealings with Zolnerowhich and Konstantinov, and was aware of their successful technology business. But through connections with other major players, in the technology sector, the anonymous caller, knew about the fraudulent carpet business and the possibility of tax evasion.

  We sent our reporter Mike Ifield, of no relation to the great yodeller Frank, to a location (pictured) where the oligarchs were apparently operating ‘Carpets 4U.’ As Mike, browsed the Persian rugs, Zolnerowhich and Konstantinov, were speaking in Russian, and thanks to a microphone attached to Mike’s waist jacket, and a Russian interpreter located in our main office, we hit the jackpot, as both men casually bragged about a £4 million deal to sell IPhones to Japan.

Cameron to Meet With G8 Leaders

Cameron, has cut short his family holiday to Rome, in order for him and Chancellor George Osborne to attend a G8 summit, scheduled for two weeks’ time, where American President Barack Obama and German Chancellor Angela Merkel will be amongst those in attendance. Tax evasion and money laundering will be spoken about extensively, as there is a fear, that as tax evasion and money laundering costs the UK government around £150 million per year,  trade will be affected between the three nations.

For more information on this ever evolving story, log on to www.dailybungle.com/taxevasion-moneylaundering