KieltySaur

Television is the art medium of the masses. The British public's devotion to the box, evidenced either through comments like "Well I never knew what she saw in Fred" overheard in the shopping queue or fierce living room debates ignited by that night's Panorama program, owes to the balance between entertainment and information/news.

Often, the line between the two becomes fuzzy as writers like Sally Wainwright set their TV dramas in a contemporary setting. The Amazing Mrs. Pritchard follows the 'next' PM on her journey from supermarket manager to resident at number 10.

As Simon Basketter points out, Wainwright decided when it was too hard to stand for Parliament the only other option was to script her hopes and get them on the telly. The points illustrated in the series are reaching a wider audience than they would have, coming from Wainwright as an MP.

Public response to the show is actually being gauged on Mrs. Pritchard's campaign website.

Enough people are engaged by what they percieve as entertainment (shows doing undercover investigations or unmasking 'villains' who rip off OAPs) that Wainwright's decision may well have been the wisest.

I kept waking up at intervals through the night or more accurately early morning. 3:00 and I could hear Grandad next door complaining through the thin wall. Early part of 6 I woke and dozed sporadically between the knowledge that in an hour I would have to be moving to kit up and pack, and the warm pocket of air I'd created in the cocoon of duvet and body heat. This was worse than getting up for school. Why had I arranged to come? I did not want to do this. But I would.

Some have said that not wanting to get out of bed in the morning is a sign of depression. I would argue it's simply the logical preference of warm, soft material molded to the shape of one's body to the extra-duvetial experience of supporting one's own weight against hard floor, surrounded by frigid non-supportive air. As I lay curled and balancing precariously off the bunk I realized this already unnatractive prospect would likely be the easiest part of my day. Because the next transition would be from the carefree role as the backseat passenger to the foot of a trail up the highest peak in Wales. With no experience and no training, I was going to walk up Snowden.

Well it seemed doable, damnit. My uncle and grandfather had already made the trip and on a whim I suggested we go together. I had, however, said this from the porch comfort of one of the flattest hottest states in the US at the peak of my summertime graduation elation. 6:51 and I catch a glance in the mirror on my way out the room, my hair is grease-filthy and I don't look pleased with myself.

Uncle asleep still on the couch. My decision to move had been partly to rob him of the satisfaction of waking me. Grandad's up so he must've had some trouble sleeping. I start making sandwiches.

The sandwiches are made with care because like the first awakening I know they will be part of the more pleasant moments in the day ahead. That and through some guilt and reaction based belief system I've adopted in the absence of familiar structure and Catholicism by making good sandwiches with good thoughts for my companions I will have a better chance of enjoying myself up there at the heights. Uncle wakes up and starts acting the fool. We dress and eat, then we get in the car.

Upset begins with conversation between father and son, it was mainly about speed cameras but I wincesmiled as softly as I could when son put on the Brakes loud without asking, between music and argument I didn't want to take sides. That was not cowardice.

Won'tyoushutthefuckupImajusttryintowatchthebaaandIfhegetsaticketthenhel'llpayitIfyougetcaughtI'llsueyehDadrelaxNonotheydon'tthey'vegotemallalongherewhenIgotoneitwere6oquidand3pointsyoudon'tseeemtheyhavetopaintthemyellowwillyouit'sa30thisishowIalwaysdriveRINGADINGDING, etc.

It might've been funny.

After getting lost, getting back, parking for free and pissin behind a tree because the youth hostel won't let publicites sit on its toilets, we began. The uphill climb seemed easy but beginning it overeager to prove nothing was wrong proved problematic. Sweat and hard breathing snuck out, c'mon not in front of them, now, already. Frequent breaks were luckily taken by me grandad, so on pretense of supporting him I got the rest I needed. It didn't look this steep from the bottom.

'Relax into your tension!'
Uncle trying to talk me through his relaxation techniques. It gives you something to think about so whether that's the relaxation I dunno. Up. Up. And onward. Serious walkers came by time to time and one had the cheek to say 'break time already?' as we supped our sandwiches. Cheeky beggar!

A lot of the method seemed to be confidence. The weight you put into your step and hence the amount of security it lent you all related to how confident you were putting your foot down. As we trundled along with that mountain bikers amazed us by insisting on rolling down ground we struggled to navigate at speeds where they had little or no control over unpredictable terrain. I envied them while I scoffed them.

Those sandwiches were good.

It took roughly 2 hours to get to the peak. It had been hotter than expected but cloud formed and descended almost directly below the peak itself. Promises of hot chocolate toilets and chocolate bars were countered by JCBs and fencing. How they managed to get the machines up, must've used the train. Saw the yellow stone steps we could've used, but we were here now and those looked slightly more tedious. A young boy with maybe his dad was saying when I go up Ben Nevis will you wait for me? More like you'll be waiting for me son. A lot of scouts and school trips, but quite an eclectic mix of people taking this on in their weekend.

There were moments when we stopped talking and I tried to appreciate what I was looking at. Looking down into bowls of slate rubble, seeing the spot where cloud was being generated. Hearing nothing for moments, and seeing nothing move.

Looked back at the mountain and thought, 'We just came down a fucking mountain.....YES!'

The trip comes highly recommended- there's a pub at the bottom of the trail that serves a very nice dark ale called noir.

Among the many artists currently on show at the Angel Arts Bistro, one avid scrawler stands out. Deep positive lines in graphite cut across a white expanse, in a firm assertion of space- from the marks emerge planes, monsters and men, colliding and coinciding in a dizzying spectacle. The story behind the images lies only with the artist himself, whose identity is betrayed to the viewer by the signature he was obliged to leave behind. It says simply, 'Linus'.

Not yet a major figure in the Nottingham arts scene, Linus was still well-informed enough to turn up to the private opening of the premier exhibition at TAAB. The venue opened last week on Nottingham's Angel Row under the ownership of Jil. Linus's presence at the opening no dount owed to the fact that his mother was exhibiting also, but nepotism played no part in his rise to the challenge of fillling an empty space with semiotics charged gestures. Reminiscent of the work of COBRA group artists, the drawings nonetheless possess a great deal of mystery. One cannot simply walk by without feeling tugged back sharply for closer inspection. The figures in their space command the viewer's attenttion becasue their significance is witheld from us, we do not know what or who they are or what their story is. See here apparently the man with the big hat, is it safe to extrapolate that he in some way represents the burdened human? And that the various creatures around him are the pressures ad escapes we undoubtedly come across in this life? Such morbid representations of the psychological suffering of man can scarce be said to have been seen since the work of Goya.

Unlike Goya, however, Linus has room in his drawings for people other than mistresses and patrons. In the true spirit of wall art he shares his space with other artists whose doodles lace in and out filling the gaps between scenes.This type of behaviour is exactly what Jil had in mind for the bistro, a community forum forlocal artists to utilize and gain the experience of seeing their art up on a wall. Only one week old at the time this article is being written, TAAB had already attracted the interest of Nottingham Trent University, Creative Launchpad (*a resource centre connecting creative artists to the people and places they need), and the Long Journey Home- an East Midlands initiative to connect artists lkiving in exile from their native countries to schools and platforms in Leicester Derby and Nottingham . These organizations are forming a steering group for the venue for its future work in providing work/exhibition space for Nottingham artists, not least of all Linus.

Even living in Stabbo there are reminders of Flor'da all around. Hemingway's retreat and Caldecott's place of expiry- tshirts and jumpers everywhere say Disney.

Her portrayal of HM Elizabeth II may have earned her the Volpi Cup in Venice, but to the eyes of an average viewer Dame Mirren's performance seemed oddly familiar. A woman working to maintain control with a cool measured air of authority? The occasionally lapses in confidence followed up by positive affirmations from a face and voice that take no nonsense? It could have been Tennison or it could have been Mrs. Tingle; ultimately it was classic Mirren.

If anything in the film can be held up as an example of Mirren stepping out of her sphere, the speech she gives is an impeccable imitation of the Queen's public speaking voice. But Mirren isn't the only one who demonstrates a flair for mimicry. Michael Sheen carries off Tony Blair's nervous grin and choppy speech flawlessly, and Helen McCrory seems to positively enjoy her task as Cherie Blair displaying exaggerated irreverence in the presence of the Head of State. If crowds didn't laugh enough at the good old fashioned parodies of public figures, the human angle is pressed with shots of The Queen Mother (played by Sylvia Syms) dozing off while still clutching her tumbler.

Due to the tender nature of the story he'd chosen, the reaction inside and outside the Royal family to Diana Spencer's death, Peter Morgan's screenplay needed to keep archive and speculation in a tricky balance. If his inference that public opinion was enough to make the government and the Royals to decide to have a large public funeral is correct, then audiences' visceral reaction to The Queen could inform their opinions about the monarchy and the current government. But unless people are as impulsive as some of the footage included in the film would have one believe, audiences will be able the view The Queen as a drama based on a real event and draw their own conclusions about the intent of the filmmakers.

LAST NIGHT the Angels Arts Bistro (TAAB) played host to a myriad of visual, performance, and musical artists! What fantastic space! Half a minutes walk downhill from the central library, the Bistro has a floor for food and drinks, topped by four floors of art space that are currently packed to capacity with a veritable buffet of artistic talent.

There was photo. There was painting. There was animation in the loft and music in the coffee room. There was an audience (praise be!) and there were artists.

A top floor room showcases artists connected to The Long Journey Home, a project working throughout the East Midlands with artists in exile. Other displays feature works by Nottingham artists, newcomers to the area, and in one or two cases simply those who were passing through at the time the call was put out for submissions.

The opening last night was a private function but from 2/10 the work is available for public view for free for two weeks.