Charismatically Challenged

I live in tent made of Beaver skin. Is good. Tsarina stiched it herself.

It's day two of the 'Hundred Days' project, and though I'm not intending to blog about all the rinky-dinky little pictures I'm planning to draw, I am taking advantage of striking whilst the inspiration iron is dazzlingly white hot. Well, luke-warmish. In all fairness I'm put to shame by some really great blogs, and some interesting self improving ideas, including; a classy art blog, limericks, learning about stuff and 140 character plays. So, I'm drowning not waving whilst trying to do my bit

Above is first sketch of a Rasputin caricature, object of my current fixation- I'm now on biography number two (in a week). This post was going to be about the nature of obsession itself, but it became a bit of a solipsistic drawl, blathering on about my amazing abilities at tetris and the price my compulsive, but crippled, thumbs have paid.

Then it was going to be about charisma, given that Rasputin was a one suave charmer, and charismatic people would seem, on the face of it, to be an interesting subject. I should confess though that this is the third draft, the quasi-educational number two has also been consigned to the great recycle bin in the sky; you'll never get to know charismatic facts concerning greek etymology, Rasputin's hypnotic eyes, the defunct charisma record label, or Jan Matthys the cannibalistic (and compelling) anabaptist of Munster - though he's an interesting character and well worth looking up.

My conclusion is that charisma is really boring to write about; you try to describe the kind of burning magnetism that brings people to their knees, and end up with verbose drivel, such as; "thank goodness it's a rare thing in a person; as a group we all lived to be moved, to be inspired beyond our humble lives, and history teaches us again and again that the transformation comes with the risk of losing one's way". Bloody hell, I can be pompous. So, just go away and watch Sunset Blvd. instead, Norma's got bags of 'it', whatever 'it' is, or listen to some Pulp.

Here's one of my favourites to get you started;

• This is Hardcore - Pulp

Russia's Greatest Love Machine

Busy, busy times have been afoot, the highlights of which include -

• Winning champagne... okay, I lie - sparkly Jacob's Creek- at a murder mystery evening (it was advertised as champagne though), then like some sort of wine Midas, I managed to accumulate more booze during a successful foray to a pub quiz. Alas the pub wine was an utterly undrinkable Liebfraumilch, labouring under the name of 'Blue Max', which I think is also the title of a WWII centred film starring George Peppard.

• VIP seats to Muse in the NIA (private bar, private barman, Muse... I accidentally stumbled onto a little bit of heaven there and I still haven't stopped smiling).

• Trips all over the place; London, Birmingham, Leeds, York - no wonder I now have swine flu and I'm totally shot.

I've also been catching up with:

• The new Cerys Matthews album 'Don't Look Down', which is really rather good.

• Likewise Julian Casablancas' solo effort.

• I've been absolutely appalled by Bob Dylan's 'Christmas in the Heart', which is just so terrible that words cannot begin to describe it. Imagine a creaky door; imagine that creaky door trying to lecture you on the spirit of Christmas - it's wearing some sort of holly wreath say, but all the while it's chuckling to itself about how much money it earns with every squeak and grooooooaaan. Not my strongest metaphor there, I know, but imagine all that, add on top the smell of rotting fish, and maybe, just maybe you are half way to understanding just how terrible a monstrosity it is that Bob Dylan has produced.

• Telstar, starring Con O'Neill, who is acting his socks off, with a sprinkling of Kevin Spacey, and James Corden (don't let that put you off). It's adapted and directed by Nick Moran of all people, who provides a tender look at the flaws and foibles of Joe Meek, presenting him not as another demented producer, but lauding his talents as a groundbreaking individual albeit one who is beset by demons, fame, and his sexuality.

On top of all that I've been indulging my Rusophillic side, culminating in the reading of what I suspect will be the first of many Ra-Ra-Rasputin biographies. Rasputin, The Final Word is by one Edvard Radzinsky, a historian who sounds like a character from an Ann Rice novel. It's an interesting and detailed history portraying the Mad Monk as a relapsed drunken peasant, easily cowed, eager to please, whirling around in a charitable haze, whilst flagellating himself nightly, smiling at the sky, and of course benignly caring for 'Mama' and 'Papa' Rus and their children.

So what if he occasionally had a bath with the odd lady?

Radzinsky's style leads to some quite superstitious conclusions and doesn't quite gel with the balanced view he purports to give, but for all its faults there is drama a-plenty. There are controversial, and never before aired, pro-Rasputin statements drawn from the findings of the wonderfully titled Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry for the Investigation of Illegal Acts by Ministers and Other Responsible Persons of the Tsarist Regime, and the unveiling of a cunning femme fetal and éminence grise in the form of the the Tsariana's former maid.

So, how does it compare to the Bony-M tune? Was Ra-Ra-Rasputin the lover of the Russian Queen? It's all Edvard can do to shake his head, look stern and sigh about ridiculous questions. I quite like the song though... it's a bit of a guilty pleasure. I hang my head in shame.