Retro Charm?

Recently BBC online ran this story; 'Giving Up my iPod for a Walkman', where a 13 year old wonders why on earth a generation were beguiled by clunky, battery guzzling boxes of hiss and treble. Why, he queries, did we think so much of them?

I don't really think we did. Nor do I think the separation of cultural epochs is valid; certainly the technology is different, but the same people who listened to Walkmans own iPods. This sort of false distinction makes me feel like a dinosaur that's been pushed into a tar pit whilst furry little things gamble about.

I owned two Walkmans during the 80s and early 90s before giving up entirely. At the time I felt like the brand had a personal vendetta, chewing my tapes, dying on me, or just plain not working. It wasn't worth the effort when not there were easier and better ways of listening to music. Truth is that with a Walkman mobility was a strange mix of treat and hassle.

When I was 11 my friend lent me her (she assured me) more reliable Walkman for my exciting first foreign holiday. It chewed my tape up of course, but the situation was worth the risk; 10 whole days somewhere totally alien - I was grateful to be able to take four or five tapes. I could manage now of course, but since I know I don't have to, the limitation is spartan, and that is the benefit of progress.

To come to the point, the BBC junior correspondent, who incidentally writes an fine article, somewhat misses the point, the iPod versus the Walkman? The comparison is invalid in all ways and means. The Walkman generation didn't consume music in the same way, or expect there to be an alternative, we weren't slavishly bonded with the boxes -there was no need. It was a useful-ish bit of gadgetry that could be pulled out when the occasion demanded. The iPod soundtracks life, the Walkman, well when necessary it just, theoretically, made life a little bit more enjoyable.

A Maudlin Post...

I lost a boy to a city. The desire for it ate away at him, so he didn't appreciate what was around him :the pretty hills and interesting bits were punctuated with rough accents, poor transport links, even poorer manners (his didn't exactly shine) and loneliness. It made him despondent, full of hatred and detached.

All I could do was watch as he drifted into these city dreams - his imagined paradise didn't seem to include me, being , as they were, part nostalgia and part wishful thinking. When the opportunity called, he left his small northern town, fled to bright lights, busy streets, sandwiches at 2am, boats, towers and culture. I was stuck in another even smaller, even more remote small town and couldn't follow right then, but by that time it didn't matter -he realised he didn't want me to.

I'm listening to Emmy the Great, City Song, which always reminds me of that fool of a boy. He isn't entirely happy now, which makes the whole thing tragic. I'd fix it if I knew how, but as the second rule of life dictates -

• You can't fix people, don't even try.

And to finish this rather wistful post, the end of my time in Aber is almost up. When I arrived I was a rather blissful soul in my mid twenties, now I'm creaking to the end of them, all jagged and cranky. Am I sad to go? No! What's wrong with you? This place reeks of chips (please remember, it's my new year's resolution to spread this fact) and is utterly bereft of any forms of civilisation apart from competitive inbreeding, there's nothing to do but look at the bloody hills, a foul train service or a bus to the capital that takes four bloody hours, and the dreadful accent....

Okay, I'm slightly choked up. I'll miss the nights on the beach, some of the people that have made it so memorable, and the feeling of welcome return after fleeing in the wake of cabin fever - walking up Fford y Mor, turning the corner and being home and ready for bed. Of course the big wide world beckons, so it's not all bad.

Used without permission, but from the very excellent flicker stream of 'Jim Blob Bann'

Natural Born Millers

A small sample of nature's latest assault on my well being.

Nature took a dislike to me at an early age; I've been pecked by hens, chased by geese, almost murdered by a feral Rottweiler (slavering twin of the Hound of the Baskervilles, or so my seven year old badly shocked self thought), attacked by a seagull, (definitely not funny), and the latest... stalked by cows. Yes, cows. There's nothing funny about that either!

Animals sense that as a vegetarian I am nothing less than a woebegone doormat to be trampled/chewed/pecked all over, and I've learned the lesson. The only motive for strolling across cow infested fields (on a public footpath I'll have you know) was to try to get fit.

I've seen the error of my ways now, and why people pay so much for the gym. Though in the case of this walk I was so busy grumbling to myself about life in general that I didn't actually notice the huge sleekit beasties. Nothing makes you want to enjoy life (and eat that slice of cake) like the sudden prospect of death by looming cow.

Cows seem inoffensive when you're whizzing past them on a train, after all their only job in life is to mill in a field, chew the cud, sleep; they live to be milked, to be shoes, or jackets or beef. But when there's a herd of the buggers staring right at you with their cold, fathomless, unblinking eyes, stalking towards you on hooves the size of dinner plates, and setting a brisk old pace (cutting off escape) oh boy, they take on a menacing air.

I tried being nonchalant, blanking them from my existence as a hardened soul blanks Big Issue sellers, I tried chatting to them in a friendly way, hoping they'd think I was off my head and certainly not worth trampling, but no, it only lured them closer. Lucky plan C, executed with aplomb, was to nervously glance around and walk quickly.... And of course I live to tell the tale.

Thank god for that most cunning of human technological breakthroughs - the fence! It's what separates us from the animals.

• Cows with Guns - Ray Stevens

Film Review: Pour Elle/Anything for Her

Dir. Fred Cavayé, written. Fred Cavayé, starring. Vincent Lindon, Diane Kruger

It’s been a mixed night; started sophisticated with subtitles, ended with the A-Team and cider; though both experiences involved people incarcerated for a crime they didn’t commit. I’ll stick to telling you about Pour Elle though as it’s by far the classier part.

Pour Elle/ Anything For Her

It’s an interesting take on the prison break scenario. A typical (therefore very passionate and blissfully happy, but what else would you expect?) French family are strained when the wife is imprisoned with no hope of reprieve, convicted of a murder she had no part in. Her husband, Julien, is ‘just a teacher’ yet he sets out to break her free. ‘Just a teacher’ seems a little snide as if he couldn't possibly, especially as he wears a serious leather jacket, but Julien is to all intents and purposes a normal man - he loves his little son, misses his wife, looks bored in class - so how does he manage to pull off something so grandiose and daring?

The answer is that he becomes totally obsessed by the break and that obsession is utterly compelling. His logic is replaced by involvement: executing the plan out rather than his wife being free, is Julien's reason to go on. The wife is undoubtedly innocent, so you can feel sympathetic as well as voyeuristic to his attempt, and in many cases his best guesses of how to execute the details have distinctly unglamorous consequences.

At some point we’ve all fantasised about how to get hold of fake passports, or buck the system in some way (particularly when buying train tickets from the blood sucking poor service providers – you know you’ll be standing, or the air conditioning will break), but putting that into action? I wouldn’t have the foggiest, and I will darkly admit that I’d like to, so I was engrossed by watching this everyday chap read up books by escapees and try to be daring, especially when the momentum of events overtake him.

It’s very good: it feels, and thanks to brilliant lighting, looks real. I don't think I could pull a prison break off though- I’m not a grizzled, passionate Frenchman with a leather jacket that looks like it means business all on its own. Julien, he’s downcast, he’s committed and he’s fanatically thorough. You leave the cinema with a lot to reflect upon which has to be the hallmark of a film worth seeing.