Thoughts on the end of The Sopranos

Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky.

So, that was why everyone was so hung up on the end of The Sopranos. Did Tony die or did he not (he, did if you ask me)?. And, the oddest thing, I felt so sad when I realised that. A man who cheat, stole, murdered and much more - it did me in. The idea, unseen, of his death, of his family’s grief, actually made me upset in a way little other, if no, literary or cinematic work that attempts to manipulate that in you has before.

Of course, 83 episodes of following a character around and you’re bound to reach a state of like, respect even, for them – even if they are the head of a ruthless mafia crew in the suburbs of New Jersey. You can’t make a character that’s nothing but evil: the character has to have empathy, understanding, insights, abilities (to take control, to save the day, to outsmart all his rivals) that endear you towards them, and be set up in a situation where you at least understand the way they behave, even if it’s abhorrent.

Tony spends his life surrounded by grief, by misery, stuck in a world where an emotional response is lower than a murderous one – Johnny Sack never recovers respect after crying at his daughter’s wedding when the feds come to take him back to prison having spent just six hours at the event. The hook for The Sopranos comes by sticking Tony in counseling to see the toll a life in the mob can take and its impact on a standard family, while countering this with the extreme violence of the 'work' he's in.

Life is a stress of unimaginable strain, one that obviously causes human responses to close down: horror, fear, respect for life all seems to be dulled, or missing. It reaches like tentacles, the wives seems unaware - although clearly aware - of where the wealth comes from, the children too aspire to the status of their fathers (mostly) fully aware of the awe they too could command in that position: but most end up dead.

Come the end in that amazing final scene, Tony is sat, back with his family again, having presumably won through again, this time a civil war between the families of New Jersey and New York, to retain his status, but he has learnt nothing, never realized it can never end without death or jail, and it looks like death for our hero.

It’s bleak, relentlessly so: family members are killed off for behaving incorrectly, for being stuck in impossible positions between loyalty to loved ones and the FBI demanding information or the risk of jail, for aspiring to a position already occupied.

Tony cheats death once, but he will not do it again. We know this, we cannot see a way out for him, we will it – why, he’s despicable? – but we know it will not work. Then, the end, nothing, blackness, a shock cut to black, the music abrupt, ending, dead.

The realisation of what Meadow sees as she arrives, of what the others must experience: it’s setup and foreshadowed with wonderful writing, setting and camera work: sat in a glorious boat on a beautiful lake discussing the end, which comes as is expected.

Writers’ know what they’re doing, it’s premeditated, planned and executed like a hit.

What a life

One of my favourite musicians is Bruce Springsteen, ably enabled by his epic E Street Band, including the excellently-faced Steve Van Zandt. I saw him in London twice and both times and Bruce and Steve (sounds so simple like that) were having a whale of a time, alongside the now sadly departed Clarence Clemens.

I've been watching The Sopranos since about February, ploughing my way through the entire box set and have reached the final season now, and it still freaks me out to know that Silvio Dante, Tony's consigliere is the same man.

I mean, is it not enough to be a guitarist in one of the greatest and most enduring live bands of all time, that you then need to act in one of the greatest TV show's of all time? Ridiculous.

The spitefulness of TFL

My girlfriend sometimes calls me a grumpy young man when I begin ranting and raving about my dislike of various things, and perhaps in some ways she's right, but my contempt for TFL often feels entirely vindicated.

Two examples from this week:

At Piccadilly Circus the electronic board proclaimed a train was one minute away. We stood there for at least five minutes before it arrived, and then it was utterly packed and getting on was basically impossible. It took two more trains before I was able to board. Why claim a train is one minute away when it isn't?

This morning, at Leicester Square there was a large poster board at the top of the escalators that said "On June 3 TFL and the British Transport Police conducted ticket inspections of travellers at Leicester Square at found X number of passengers fraudulent tickets and X passengers without tickets. £75 was gathered in fines".

This whole thing is idiotic.

So TFL are proudly warning all travellers through the station that all their checks – which included manpower from the BTP for goodness sake – raised a total of £75! Should they be pleased by this? They're boasting about £75? It's pathetic.

What a shocking waste of time, energy and resources that surely could be applied to more useful, meaningful tasks. The BTP in particular should not be deployed in this way, what a hateful thing to do – is that why people become police officers, to facilitate the fining of travellers on the underground to return £75 in revenue?

Also, what' the point in the board? As a warning to travellers, a deterrent? What for? If people try to skim the system then they will regardless and no fines (a total of £75! ha!) will stop it.

The only people that actually suffer are legitimate travellers impeded on their journey because of stupid ticket checks or who, probably due to genuine reasons of forgetfulness or mistakes, forgot to top up or have the wrong Oyster Card on their person, but are ruthlessly fined merely because TfL can – despite running a service at a level that passes as nothing more than competent.

Treasure Island, the Jungle Book and muppet voices in my head

I read Treasure Island recently, as part of a mini-drive to read some old classics (facilitated by my Kindle which makes such books free!) and have to say it was very enjoyable – you can certainly see why it’s such a classic.

What was amusing for me was that as I read the book, with character Hawkins, Blind Pew, Billy Bones and of course Long John Silver turning up and performing their dastardly piratical deeds, was that every character took on the look and sound of their Muppet Treasure Island equivalents, having seen the film on numerous occasions when I was a child.

Of course, Long-John and his famous “smart as paint you are lad” line was Tim Curry, but for the rest, such as Smollet, we have Kermit the Frog, and Squire Trelawney as Fozzie Bear and so on, which made for some odd voices in my head during the commute to work in this truly dreadful summer we’re having, as ever.

After that it was The Jungle Book, which interestingly is actually five stories, with Mowgli, Shere Khan, Baloo and Bagheera merely the first of these five stories at the start of the book and it differs in many ways to the film – Baloo is far more serious, and Mowgli causes the death of the evil tiger by leading a wilderbeast stampede upon the tiger in a ravine, from which there is no escape.

Of course, again, the movie from my childhood had conditioned me to hear the voices of the characters in a certain way, so despite Baloo trying to be serious, I just heard the scat-loving comedy character of the film.

The other stories concern a seal leading his kind away from evil men, a mongoose killing snakes to protect a family, a young boy witnessing a midnight elephant rave and then a bunch of military animals discussing their role on the battlefield, and why each is braver than the other (with strong pro-empire overtones about doing your duty and the importance of a system and the rule of order).

It was a very enjoyable read, though, and nice to have finally read some Kipling, having eaten so many of his cakes too.

Lost in translation

It's been a month since I returned from China and Hong Kong and I can't believe I forgot to write a blog about the wonderful Lost in Tranlsation moment that occurred when I checked in to my hotel in Shenzhen, China.

I was hugely jet lagged (leaving at 6pm means you arrive at about 2pm, but to your body it's about 4am) and was also in a slight state of "Crikey, I'm in China, the red state", and so already susceptible to confusion and bewilderment.

Our bags were taken by the bellboys, and we ascend the lift to our rooms, I went inside and checked out the view, and waited for my bag to turn up before I could grab some much demanded sleep.

Sure he enough he turned up and left my bag in the room before heading back to the door, so far, so good. Then, as he got there, there was another man behind him, in workmans clothes, holding a large round bottle connected to a long piece of tube with a nozzle on the end that looked a little like a blow torch.

They both looked at me, I at them, bleary-eyed and the bell-boy pointed at the bottle before pointing at the bathroom. I nodded, "Ok?" I offered, but they didn't understand and so we all just stood there.

I rocked on my heels, the two Chinese men looked at each other, and I felt we might be there forever, until the bell-boy, smart as paint, remembered his mobile phone.

He whipped it out, and showed me a list of tasks he had to do of which number one was "1. insect". I immediately let out an "Ohhhh" noise, as in "Oh, I see", when of course I of course didn't.

I gave him an eager thumbs up and watched as the blow-torch man went in to the bathroom. There was a short swooooshing sounds and then they both left, smiling and happy.

I peered in to the bathroom, wondering if he'd just pumped a lot of insects in to my barthoom as part of some local custom of welcome, but not, don't be stupid ridiculous tired and confused Dan, I thought, they've just removed on from somewhere.

With that I went to bed.

Castaway with Robinson Crusoe

I read Robinson Crusoe recently, thanks to my shiny Kindle, and a very enjoyable story it was too, even if it is written in ye olde English language.

He sets off, is shipwrecked near Hull, then goes to sea again and is captured by a Moor king in Africa where he is a slave for two years. Then he escapes, goes to Brazil, makes a fortune, is shipwrecked on a slave gathering mission (that'll learn him), lives for some 20 plus years on an island, rescues Friday from cannibals, rescues a Spanish man and Friday's father (first ever novel and it's got a mental plot twist, cha!) helps overturn a mutinous English ships and then uses the ship to return to England. Then he escapes wolves in the Pyrenees.

Book two, the sequel, (it's very Lost-esque) sees him return, meet the Spanish men who've inhabited the island, battle with more cannibals then go on to the Far East and then in to China and Russia to escape Dutchmen who believe he has stolen a ship and is a pirate – he's not, he was tricked in to buying it.

Thus you have the plot of Robinson Crusoe and I would say you don't really need to read it yourself now.

Driving to Bruce Springstreen

Can it really be almost a month since the Royal Wedding? I'm back at work and Wills 'n' Kate are back in Anglesey where she's shopping in Waitrose and no doubt having to sort out heating bills and comparing car insurance to get the best deals for her and hubby...possibly.

I was fortunate enough to be driving myself for the first time since Christmas and I had a lovely moment driving in to Falmouth for a night out with my friends while listening to Bruce Springsteen, on tape(!), as I did so (I got a taxi back, before you begin to wonder).

There was Bruce singing about Glory Days and about, "Friday night I'd drive you all around" in I'm Going Down, and there I was driving along the glorious Cornish coast to my old home town to see friends I've been drinking with since I was 18-years-old-and-not-a-day-younger.

Something about The Boss's music is just so well suited to driving, the hint of reckless it offers, the surging rhythm, the lyrics of so many of his songs about the drama of escape or trying to be cool: See Born to Run, or the wonderful Racing in the Street.

I don't have a car in London, thankfully, as I imagine London must be one of the worst places in the world to drive – the traffic, the confusing signals, the mad pedestrians just trying to get run over, it must be a nightmare.

Conversely, driving in Cornwall is about as far removed from London as you could possibly get – on some corners you're better off trying to hear if there's anything come around the tight, narrow, tree-encroached bends than looking left and right.

On other occasions cars pull in to the only suitable passing place on a tiny roads and wait as cars come down from across the other side of a small river valley –,a level of courtesy you'd never imagine or expect in London.

Of course all these windy lanes can make for some hairy moments as the locals buses come whooshing past, or you clip errant stones, branches and sheep (okay, not really sheep) as you drive along.

Still, at least I'm insured, so I don't have to worry too much, much like Kate as she pops to Waitrose. We're not that different after all I suppose.

Travels to Hong Kong

Travelling for work can sometimes be a tiring chore, but other times it can be fantastic, with the chance to visit far-flung corners of the world on someone else's account.

Last week I was lucky enough to be sent to Hong Kong and Shenzhen in China for work, and squeeze in a couple of days of holidays to travel around the former British territory.

That's one of the main things that hits you about the place, actually, is its Britishness, with all road markings and signs the exact same design, colours and shapes of British equiviliants.

This may not sound very interesting, but when you're 6,000 miles away from home and everything looks like an English city, it's quite odd, but also reassuring.

The skyline of the city is incredibly too, because it's a huge sweep across the bay of skyscapers, all far, far higher than anything you usually see in London, and then set against an amazing mountain backdrop of towering peaks and greenery.

Those that live at the very top, where the amazing 45 degree peak-tram runs, have amazing views back down over the city, the bay and Kowloon on the other side.

I didn’t really get much of a chance to explore China, as I was only in Shenzhen for one day and that was predominantly for work, but it seemed like the economic powerhouse that much of China is becoming.

There were construction sites and skyscapers in every direction, thousands of cars streaming down every road you could see, while air-conditioning shopping malls are open til midnight selling everything from high-end phones to clothing.

It's communism, but not as we know it.

London is so odd sometimes

One time, standing on a train, a man was hunched down, rocking on his ankles reading a book, in the middle of the train carriage, while also holding a cup of coffee in a Starbuck's cup.

This was a packed train during the rush hour and he was taking up about four standing spaces by doing this – he didn't look odd, he was wearing a suit and probably in his 30s and off to work. Eventually someone asked him if he could stand up and regrettably he did so – I wanted to get a picture.

Then, today, I saw a man sat (literally, sat) in one of those Metro paper dispensers they have in stations where people grab their slice of free-news in a morning, reading his book.

The dispenser was empty, so he obviously saw it as the perfect place to sit and finish his novel, as the rush-houring commuters filed by. Again, he didn't look that odd, but it goes to show you never can tell, doesn't it Chuck?

These are just two stories of many that no doubt exist in London, but it's the fact both occurred during the rush hour, where presumably sane(ish) people are merely trying to get from A to B - without encountering any Cs - that makes these people all the more noteworthy.

Still, these people had one thing in common – they were both reading books. So perhaps we should rejoice in their dedication to the printed word.

Brighton Rock – what's the deal?

I've read Brighton Rock, I've seen the old film and now I've seen the new film and I have to say, I just don't get it.

It's sort of a classic (certainly in shops it's always displayed prominently) but it's just not that good a story. In the novel it starts off a mildly interesting murder mystery between warring Brighton gangs before descending in to a bunch of religious hokum. The films are worse, as they have the chance to shed this fat and turn it in to a potentially good story, but both are long, boring and ultimately implausible.

The whole thing falls down due to the central conceit of Pinkie trying to marry Rose to stop her testifying. He's meant to be a vicious gang murderer but for some reason seems unable to dispatch Rose, instead deciding to charm her and marry her to gain her trust and therefore silence.

Yet he does this by abusing her and being utterly cold-hearted to her and in return she, for no clear reason (no background to explain why she loves someone acting with clear hatred towards her), falls in love with him in spite of this and we are left watching this hate-love set-up with nothing but bemusement and then boredom.

She should leave him, he should just kill her. Instead, it labours towards a lame conclusion on the cliff tops as he attempts to get her to commit suicide in a fake lovers suicide pact. Why doesn't he just kill her himself? What's more she's so pathetic throughout the book / film and then willing to go through with the pact that by the end I wanted her to just get it over and done with and save us all some misery.

The Royal Wedding, horses, carriages, stupid hats and more royal history

I quite enjoyed the royal wedding. It was all pomp and ceremony and England at its most quintessentially English and foreigners must have absolutely loved it, helping them see that, yes, we really do live in a land of castles, princesses and horse-drawn carriages.

It's utterly anachronistic but the Royal Family, and the notion of royalty, stills cuts a huge swathe through the UK that, for better or for worse, (in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer (Did Kate smirk when she said this?)) links together the long history of England and the royals even today.

The TV commentary was ridiculous, with dress designers and royal protocol experts falling over themselves to squeal or intone in equal measure about the ceremony and banal contributions from the public that had turned up.

We learnt, several times, that Kate and Wills are "fun" and have "wicked senses of humour", which is nice. They themselves looked wonderfully awkward for most of the ceremony, like most of those getting married I imagine, which is reassuring I suppose.

Still, I wish them well, sincerely, especially as I only found this weekend that Diana was 20 when she married Charles and was well aware he was having affais at the time, and she basically was a Royal-Baby-Producing-Machine for the Windors (if that is their real name (which it's not)).

Something about that left a nasty taste in the mouth, and makes the clearly real affection between WAK (Wills and Kate) all the more, well, normal.

Princess Beatrice clearly won the award for the most mental hat in attendance.

Whoever advised her, or lied to her, that it was a good hat should be locked in the Tower of London for a week, as should the person who applied her eyeliner, which if it was her, should mean she goes there herself.

I think Camilla might be mad as she looked lost and confused on several occasions, although maybe she's always been like that?

Skiing and trying to get an expensive holiday on the cheap

The weather has been glorious since I got back from Las Vegas (see below) so what better time to get ready to go skiing in the Alps thanks to my mother's ability to find excellent last minute cheap holidays?

I've been skiing several times in my life and each time at a similar time of year because, basically, you get a much better deal for your money if you wait until the spring time than in the winter – plus it's usually a good deal warmer too.

Skiing is a bizarre holiday if you think about it – you get up early, put on mostly uncomfortable, unfashionable clothing, carry a bunch of cumbersome equipment to the bottom of a hill, get taken up the hill on chairs on wires that drag you to the top of a mountain over and over again so you can slither back down on six foot pieces of plastic at the risk of injury and embarrassment and you do this for between five and seven days in a row.
Combine this with travel and often alcohol, and you've had a holiday that really requires you to take another break once you're back to help you recover from the exhaustion you've no doubt succumbed to.

Still, at least that gives you an excuse to look for another cheap holiday, and what with two bank holiday weekend coming up, there's no shortage of time in which to do so.

I'll be heading back to Cornwall for the first time since the frozen, snow laden days of Christmas (doesn't that seem a long time ago?) where hopefully now all will be green, light and warm.

And then it's the Royal Wedding, which seems to have come about awfully quickly. I remember everyone moaning we'd be inundated with Royal Wedding stuff until the big day and, while we have, it doesn't seem to have been overkill really, does it?

Still, you can guarantee Wills 'n' Kate won't have to worry about trying to get a cheap flight when they go on their honeymoon, it'll be first class champers and caviar all the way. How the other half live eh?

Back from Vegas to Europe and its history

I spent a few days in Las Vegas again last week, man that's a strange place. They really want you to shrivel into a prune given how cold and continuously they put the air con on for.

I lost $20 on a single spin of roulette (oh, high stakes!) when it landed on 00 which made me realise gambling is for mugs – I put another $20 to try and win back this $20 and lost this too. So I was $40 down, which is what I won last time I was there in October so I quit while I was, even.

I also flew in a private jet, from Cary in North Carolina to Vegas, which was quite something, far better than any normal plane, obviously, with plush leather seats, unlimited food and booze (nice stuff) and masses of leg room – coming back to the UK on a nine hour flight wedged against a window and a bizarre couple with no video on-demand service from Virgin Atlantic was not pleasant by comparison.

Still, I had a nice time and interviewed a man who is worth about $8bn which was enjoyable - he was a nice guy and gave some interesting thoughts on the market in which his company plies it's not insignificant trade.

I also finished reading a book I've had on the go for about a month called In Europe in which the author traveled around Europe in 1999 looking at the history of the continent and the current lifestyle of the place now – via Ireland, Ukraine, Greece, Portugal and everything in the hinterland.

It was an excellent read, full of in-depth personal stories of tragedy and insight set against the grand conflicts of the 20^th century in Europe which dominated and shaped its journey through the time.

The Guildford return

I returned to Guildford on Saturday, not for a 10km this time, but to go for a nice long walk (6.2 miles!) with my girlfriend.

We had a lovely time exploring the route I had run at the time (more sedately of course) which involved a blood curdling screams at the sight of a wasp, hurting our necks through staring at a woodpecker in a tree, and arriving at the stunning views of St Martha's Church (see picture).

It's lovely escaping London for a while, even if only a few hours on a Saturday in another town only 30 minutes away. The novelty of seeing a bus that doesn't let you use your Oyster card (that symbol of TfL oppression) is never lost on me.

In the future, perhaps NFC technology will mean all buses will have a standardized computer system for ticket purchases so we are never without money to catch a bus, which would be handy.

Ironically, I had been set to run a 10km today but due to breaking my toe a couple of weeks ago, I was unable too. I am walking normally though, as my 6.2 miles jaunt evidences, but it'll be a little while yet before I strap on my running shoes again yet.