It turns out that the theme of this year’s Anti-Bullying Week was ‘bystander’ (if you’re at school, you might substitute teacher here because, let’s face it, few can be bothered to intervene) and kids from all over the place have been making anti-bully art. Sadly it’s rather pathetic. Take this nonsense, spotted at the Lowry this weekend: ‘Bullying is like playing with fire. It can hurt.’

This rather sad piece is an invitation to be picked upon. Built around a poem that attempts three perspectives on bullying, if it’s to be believed bullies really hate themselves and what they do and think that it’s not even worth the extra pocket money. This strikes me as rather unlikely.

I’ve always suspected the appeal of being a bully is the kick of being able get other people – people who might otherwise be your peers – to do stuff in response to little more than your physical presence and the force of your personality. Anyone who’s seen a gangster movie knows respect and fear aren’t so far apart. Add to that the sadistic pleasure of causing distress and being a bully might feel quite good, especially if there’s nothing else going on in your life to give you lift. Learning that one of your victims had created a piece of art whining that bullying hurts might give such a bully quite a buzz.

The one thing the artist has probably gotten right is the idea that it’s not worth the extra pocket money. An Economic and Social Research Council study argues that those seeking to explain crime place too little emphasis on pleasure as opposed to gain. It seems that the father of murder victim, Tom ap Rhys Pryce, understands this, so why are the victims of bullying encouraged to produce invitations such as this?

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There’s little to say about the National Theatre’s production of the History Boys at the Lowry that can’t be said about the film, except that the dark flash-forward bits that didn’t make it onto celluloid don’t really work because the piece is otherwise so nice.

Of course it’s actually too nice as all the boys are not only incredibly intelligent and breathtakingly articulate, they (along with everyone except the headmaster’s unseen wife) are remarkably tolerant of teacher’s need to grope their balls (‘Are we scarred for life, do you think? / We must hope so.’). Yet those dark sequences reveal that things didn’t work out for Posner, the most effeminate boy (‘I’m a Jew. I’m small. I’m homosexual. And I live in Sheffield… I’m fucked.’), who’s reduced to some bizarre blackmail based on these incidents. It doesn’t hang well.

Needless to say as we left the theatre Katharine heard someone complain: ‘it was all right, but a bit gay.’

Despite this fault, on which I’ve laboured too long, this is must see theatre. It flies by, is great fun and makes you wish that no only had schools like that existed, but that you might have fitted in with one.

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Mysterious photos of the Sabi Rock Man are proving surprisingly popular with Manchester bloggers and the would-be music star has become a cult figure around these parts over the course of 2006. He’s even made it to CNN’s top tips for visiting yanks.

Here’s a previously unpublished shot of him in action outside the Ducie Bridge on Miller Street and another pic taken from the other side of the road with the Co-operative Group’s New Century House HQ in the background. More rare pics of him doing his thing are available at a brand new Flickr Group: Manchester’s mysterious Sabi Rock Man, created by yours truly. This will complement others’ efforts to stalk the would-be music star.

Please do join the group and add as many Sabi Rock pics as you can lay your hands on. Sabi Rock Man deserves and requires your support.
See also: The www sabi rock man……www sabi rock guy again……www Sabi Rock man revealed

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Tosser is a word long associated with Tory and I know I’m little late entering into the Conservative’s Tosser Inside campaign debate, but it’s one of those things I thought I might have dreamt. David Cameron so desperate to appear ‘down with the kids’ he incorporates slang terms for masturbation into Tory slogans and then defends his language by blaming the advertising agency he pays to tell him how to get through to young people. All the while young David Cameron admits he wouldn’t use the word ‘tosser’ in front of his children.

While I won’t pretend to be traumatised by this use of language, it’s inevitable that many of Cameron’s opponents (who must hear much worse) will feign shock and horror. I reckon the young Tory Tosser can’t be so politically naïve as to build a campaign around the use of foul language. That is to say that he is so out of touch with common parlance that only now has he learnt what a tosser is… which is disappointment to all who have hurled insults at him over the years.

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I’ve often wondered how the odd shoe gets to be abandoned by the roadside. Along with the occasional teddy bear they’re a common sight especially, and most strangely, on motorway verges.

These tiny Nikes have been here for almost a week now. So what’s the story?
This posted via mobile via Flickr and so not so closely proofread. Click the pic to see it large (there’s an ‘all-sizes’ tab for really large).

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This rather odd — perhaps brave — building is the National Space Centre: Leicester’s first and only tourist attraction (although the British space programme, Starchaser, is based on an industrial estate in Hyde, Greater Manchester).

Sadly it is quite a let down. The Space Centre is dominated by stuff for kids, which would be okay if it looked like something interesting rather than a cheap, but text heavy playground. More importantly, there is no narrative to pull it together and so it’s all a bit messy and hard to know how you’re expected to approach what little there is to see.
This posted via mobile via Flickr and so not so closely proofread. Click the pic to see it large (there’s an ‘all-sizes’ tab for really large).

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‘What is lean?’ is the title of a memo displayed behind Sainsbury’s tills. It’s nothing to do with meat. Unfortunately.

It turns out that the bigwigs at J Sainsbury have discovered that their tills go ten per cent slower than Tesco. But I reckon head honcho Justin King can sleep a little easier now as they’re certainly giving it some welly down at Regent Road, Salford. Soon Tesco won’t be able to see Sainsbury’s for dust.

Today marked the third consecutive visit to see me press the big black Customer Button that halts the conveyer belt and stops the over enthusiastic till operator from crushing the groceries. You’ll get a funny look, but they won’t say a thing.

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I’m sure Debbie McGee Models is perfectly legitimate, but charging £125 a throw to any naive young dreamer who happens to turn up at a nice city centre hotel sounds a bit much to me.

According to the website some fool wrote to Debbie’s famous husband, Paul Daniels, to ask if it was a scam. Goodness knows where they got that idea.
This posted via mobile via Flickr and so not so closely proofread. Click the pic to see it large (there’s an ‘all-sizes’ tab for really large).

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Unintentionally hilarious at times^*, The Page Turner is a bog standard vengeful-nutter-infiltrates-family thriller in which the nutter changes her blank expression no more than once. Gushing reviewers should watch more Hollywood films to see how it’s done.
A disappointing 1 out of 10.
(^*The funniest sequence has to be the evil plot to turn up the son’s metronome so he plays piano too fast and injures himself.)
Director: Denis Dercourt……Starring: Déborah François
The Prestige……Pan’s Labyrinth (El Laberinto del Fauno)

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I don’t expect kids to respect me just because I’m a little older than them; that’s the path to well deserved ridicule and it seems that every generation tends to think the one that follows it rude. But it’s hard not to observe today’s youngsters’ inability to switch off their mobile phones in the cinema. No matter how quickly their little thumbs dance on little keypads, I’m never impressed and I’m well and truly over novelty ringtones.

So a red mist descended in the Odeon on Sunday afternoon as two girls sat in the row in front of me made clear their intention to text and chatter in the dark. Perhaps predictably, my initial request that they switch off was met with the most incredulous look. So, quite reasonably in my book, I gently removed the clamshell handset from its owner’s ear, closed it and dropped into onto the empty seat next to the offending teen.

About twenty minutes later it all became too much for them and they left giving what my generation would call Paddington Bear stares, but were probably their best ‘Am I bovvered?’ faces. But they were bothered because as I left an usher asked me if I’d had some bother and then explained that the phone call I’d interrupted was from the parents who’d dumped their offspring in the cinema. They were calling during the film to ensure the little darlings were sitting comfortably.

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