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The chronicles of Ruin, continued. Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do. Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here. 10 September 2009 22:59
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3 comments:
From Daily Mail18 January 2008
The portrait, released today, shows Mr Blair wearing a commemorative poppy - a reminder of his role in the Iraq war.
Mr Yeo, son of Tory MP Tim Yeo, said: "Of all the things that people remember him for, the war in Iraq is going to be one of the main things that people discuss. I was thinking that I had to find some kind of representation of that, but that it shouldn't be trite or too judgmental. It was November and when he came in he was wearing a poppy. I thought that was perfect."
He said the oil painting had already inspired strong reactions. "Some people see the portrait and say 'oh you've made him look incredibly thoughtful, remorseful, and respectful', and others say 'you've put him in the dock as a warmonger'.
I missed it - I didn't recognize it until I saw the rope.
....
Bowie is a strange one. For years I thought he was either a spoofer, a lucky populist who happened to have the knack of writing for an audience of 14 years olds, or someone so far up himself and his 'art' that he had managed to come out the other end.
Now I think I missed that too; look back over his work and it's better than he knew how to make it - he was seeing beyond himself.
Anthony Blair, drunk on power,
Conjoined a phoney war.
"Not our advice!" a Million said.
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"We told you so!" - a Million dead.
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"Requiescant in pacem" he intoned.
We cried, "The Dead might rest,
But The Quick, they won't."
And we cried, and we cried. Still, we cried.
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Aye, Amen, anonymous, to that, the streets of the Middle East run red with blood and guts, the Third Way, for the many, not the few.
He was a Bowie fan, Mrs WOAr, back in the Ugly days, quite apposite; vague, shifty, androgynous and not really rock'n'roll - although, as you say, Bowie, whom I could never stand, was way ahead of himself in composition and performance; the late Mick Ronson, though, a great arranger and player, later of the Rolling Thunder Review, had much to do with it. I just thought that the phrase, Oh, You Pretty Things, summed-up that bright new morning in May, '97, when everything turned to shit. And blood.
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