Power to the Papal

As the lives of millions become increasingly dominated by the heavyweight fundamentalists, religious or otherwise, it looks like the Catholic Church is going to join the fracas and once again start throwing its weight around.

Having exercised a degree of damage control by largely staying clear of public life during the child abuse scandals of the last 20 years, the willingness of the church to influence public policy is in the resurgent, and in voting terms this means the awakening of a sleeping giant.

The influence of this new power base is being felt most keenly in the abortion debate. The church has always been steadfast in its pro-life stance but recent months have seen a sharpening of the rhetoric followed by the action to back it up. In June of this year Pope Benedict called on Catholics to sop donating money to Amnesty International after it made a change to its constitution to support abortion in cases where a woman’s health is in danger, or their Human Rights have been violated as in the case of incest or rape.

Closer to home Cardinal Keith O’Brien, head of the Catholic church in Scotland resigned his membership of Amnesty on Wednesday, and earlier this year likened abortion to “two Dunblane Massacres a day” urging voters not to support politicians who defend the “social evil” and just stopping short of advocating excommunication.

It is difficult to judge the outcome of the church’s renewed vigour on this issue. The church represents a sizable, and more importantly, organised bloc, and will certainly make its presence felt, yet the recent hard line stance does run the risk of alienating more liberal Catholics, not to mention the public at large. Additionally, recent threats to close its adoption agencies in Scotland if they are compelled to consider homosexual foster parents could have a similar effect, undoing the ecumenical and concilatory work of JP by plunging the church back into the dark ages.

It wil be interesting to see how Cameron reacts to this as his party drags him to the right by the scruff of the neck , but i wouldn't be surprised if this becomes a conservative issue at the next election.

Check me out!

I take the political compass test every year or so and look what it turned up this time. I need to tone things down a bit! If you're unfamilar with the concept you answer 40 or so multiple choice questions ranging from abortion to the free market, and the computer plots you on the above graph where you can compare your position to the likes of Hitler, Milton Freidman and Ghandi. The makers recently plotted all of the US presidential hopefuls and they all seemed to cluster just above middle right. Take the test at www.politicalcompass.org. I'm off to throw bricks at CCTV Cameras...

Back behind the box where i belong

Newly paupered from my stint in the Big Smoke, I found it surprisingly easy to slide back into the old work – food – TV – bed continuum last week, as I refocused by retina’s and jumped aboard H.M.S Blinky to sail through to the weekend abyss.

First port of call was Jamie at Home (Tuesdays C4, 8pm) to watch the naked chef go feral in the back garden of his Essex mansion. Looking like he had had a few too many turkey twizzlers, a slighty rotund Jamie Oliver once again tore, mushed, dolloped and lovely jublied his way through a series of recipes designed to get the best out of “Mother Nature.”

On the menu this week was Barbeque, and Jamie demonstrated some interesting variations on the craft smoking Langoustines and Razor Clams in an upturned Pirex bowl over a grill, and testing out an antique spit roast with a large hunk of dripping, blistering, mouth-watering pig.

This was no Lidl-burgers-on-a-disposable-in-the-park affair, and as wave after wave of sizzling, blackened meat came off the barbie and straight into Jamie’s jabbering mouth, I couldn’t help but feel like the little git was taunting me, the Glasgow anti-summer having all but extinguished any hopes of having even a primitive variation on this classic feast this year

Annoying as he often is however, Jamie Oliver does offer some practical advice and he has a way of making cooking seem like a less precise and more everyman affair than some of his contemporaries, and this series isn’t a bad stab at demonstrating this ethos. Gone is the crusading character of some of his earlier efforts, with a greater focus on the food than whatever social ill he is attempting to cook away on that particular week. Gone too, curiously, are people. Save from the occasional appearance of a bemused gardener, Jamie is largely alone, delivering his cooking tips to an unseen presence just off camera, (an irritating habit) devoid of the family party feel of some of his earlier shows.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing (I feel like I know Gordon Ramsey’s kids better than my cousins) but it does lend a slightly melancholic air to the cheeky chappy at times.

Later in the week BBC 2 proved a suitable place to drop anchor with the return of Saxondale, (Thursday BBC, 9:30pm) Steve Coogan’s character driven sitcom about an aging pest-control rocker coming to terms with suburban domestication. Reluctant as I am to give advice, I would like to offer a quick tip: Never attempt to watch the first episode of series two of Saxondale with three girls who have been drinking cider in the sun for a good part of the day. Lacerating my viewing pleasure with shrieks of “That’s _ out of _” every time a new character came on the screen, it was at times difficult to hear through the din and adequately assess Coogan’s latest offering to a degree which you, Dear Reader, should have come to expect by now.

As such, I’ll keep the champagne on ice and hold back the dogs for another week. A closing line did suggest that this could be a grower however; when a downcast Saxondale is roused from his misery by an invitation to party with the guys, his wife asks him what she should do with his dinner. “Put it by the microwave – I’ll heat it up lay-ter” he drawls as the van screeches away, holding a beer in one hand, and making a horn sign with the other. Amazing (possibly.)

The week ended ship shape with the announcement by Channel 4 that it would be freeing up around 29 hours of schedule in January by cancelling Celebrity Big Brother as well as cutting adrift some its more mindless pap to instigate a “creative renewal.”

The programmer plausibly cited the so-called Jade Goody race row and a reluctance of celebrities to appear on its show as a few of its reasons, and it will be interesting to see what they come up with to fill the gap. With most remotely intelligent programmes now farmed out to More 4 however, I wouldn’t be surprised if How clean is your Brat Camp topped the bill.

Die-Nasty: Keeping it in the family

With the unopposed coronation of yet another Labour leader, family ties in the Brown cabal have never looked stronger. As Wendy Alexander takes her place alongside her brother Douglas in the inner circle, Labour’s upper reaches are starting to look a little incestuous.

Add this latest appointment to a cabinet which already includes the brothers Milliband and husband and wife team Yvette Cooper and Ed Balls, it could be argued that Brown is employing family ties to strengthen the unity of a Cabinet that is already packed with his former advisers and treasury stooges.

This isn’t a surprising move for a centralising control freak such as Brown, but if family relations are to become a lasting factor in the Governments of the future, does this have implications for the democratic process?

America has had its fair share of political dynasties, with the Kennedy’s and Bush’s (and now the Clinton’s) divvying up parts of the country along bloodlines at various points in its history. It is possible that sections of the electorate look to these families as the embodiment of certain values which become more than the sum of the individual candidate, perhaps displaying a tendency towards feudalism that hasn’t yet been completely erased from the human psyche. In a country like America where the President is also head of state, this can become even more pronounced.

This side of the Atlantic the phenomenon is less severe, perhaps because we have the royal family to benignly satisfy a repressed and irrational desire for subordination? Whatever the reason, as respect for the Royals wanes, and Prime Ministerial power becomes more Presidential, we may see a few more “Douglas’s” rising to prominence.

This in itself is not anti-democratic as such, but combined with an increasing reliance on cash to get anywhere near elected, we should keep our sceptics hats on regarding this one.

Foodie Casualty – Eating Casually – Greasy Cutlery

I couldn’t think of a good pun on the title of this blog to describe my week long adventure into the world of food criticism so instead I’ve provided three bad ones, and I think it pretty much evens out.

Yes, last week I swapped my remote control for a set of chopsticks, a knife and fork, and an irrepressible appetite as I embarked on a food tour of London, gobbling anything reasonably priced enough to get in my way, and a few things more besides.

In the following report I’ve trimmed off the gristle, separated the wheat from the chaff (not because I’m intolerant mind, I find that whole thing bullshit) and glossed over the banal to give you the highs and lows of my big munching adventure. Observer Food Monthly, stick this in your bradley smoker and – uh - smoke it!

The week started off well with a Sunday night Vietnamese in one of the scores of such restaurants just beyond the City. After sinking a few overpriced ones in the trendy environs of Brick Lane, the brother and I set off on the short walk to the restaurant, one of his personal favourites and promising start to my food adventure.

A quick look at the monumental menu was made more confusing by the arrival of another, longer menu held together by paper clips and a few more less-overpriced ones, so I wisely threw caution to the dogs and let the waiter and my brother negotiate the order between them.

To start, we shared a large plate of crispy duck pancakes, followed quickly by my still sizzling order of curried goat with chilli and lemongrass with a side order of fried rice. The brother opted for the pork belly with noodles and before long we were no more than a blur of chopsticks, flying rice and soiled napkins. The enthusiasm with which the food was attacked was matched by the quality of what was on offer. The pancakes, as our waiter demonstrated, were to be wrapped up in crisp, fresh, perfectly shaped leaves of what I assumed to be a small Asian lettuce and dipped in an addictive chilli oil, making for a good starter that immediately dispensed with ceremony and set a good communal tone for the rest of the meal.

Delving into my Goat before it burned a hole through the plate, I found a tender aromatic meat that reminded me, not unpleasantly, of the smell of wet dog that worked well with the chilli and lemongrass. A practical query into what was happening on the other side of the table found a plate of similar quality, and we rolled out of the restaurant so contented I forgot the copy of Slip It In I had only that afternoon purchased for the Duchess.

Lunch and breakfast for the next few days came in the form of subsidised bacon rolls and main meals courtesy of H.M Government (I wasn’t in prison) as I spent my mornings musing over the weekly updated menus on the intranet at my temporary place of work, coming to the sound decisions of a herb marinated pork foccacia and parsley and parmesan crusted hake with a side of cabbage.

After a few post work drinks on Tuesday with a colleague, I headed back east to meet my brother again for a trip to the renowned Tas Firin. This place is legendary among my brother and his flatmates, and it didn’t disappoint. Going straight to main we both opted for the mixed kebabs. Large, tender chunks of chicken, lamb shish and lamb kofta cooked to perfection, nestled next to generous portions of rice and flat bread complimented by a fresh salad and red onion–type vinegarette to share. The meat almost melted in my mouth, and the large portions ensured another contented, if wet, journey home.

The next morning, inspired by website London Review of Breakfasts, I set off to start the day with a hearty full English. As my top two choices (Nicos and Fellici’s in Bethnal Green) were closed, I had to go freestyle and choose from the litany of greasy spoons on Bethnal Green road. While what I finally settled on didn’t exactly blow my morning apart, it was cheap, voluminous and greasy, perfect for setting me up for a day of pounding the streets and culture vulturey, carrying me straight through lunch and into Jamaican eaterie Banners in Crouch End to meet ex-Glasgow friends for dinner.

Jerk Swordfish with rice and peas was the clear choice, with the tangy, fruity jerk sauce going well with the white meaty swordfish. My only complaint was quantity-related, exasperated as I saw the piled high plates of the half jerk chicken with rice and peas at a neighbouring tables. However, by occasionally pausing between mouthfuls and grazing off ollys sweet potato chips I managed to (not?) make a meal out of it and pace myself through a leisurely course.

Next day was market day, and bright as a button mushroom I skipped breakfast and made the journey to borough market to harass market sellers into setting up their food stalls. First stop was a saliva inducing “three scallops with crispy bacon and stir-fry” stall. Served in a plastic tray with a slice of lemon and hunk of bread,

While the novelty of scallops on the street in central London was in itself worth the £4, the scallops themselves unfortunately didn’t really measure up. Smaller than I expected, they lacked the fresh sea-taste of those I’d bought only the week before in the Partick Farmers Market, but served with the bacon and a generous squeeze of lemon juice they made a good mid morning snack.

Next I hit the charcuterie stall, and considering the scallops a starter, decided to have a main course. Having never tried Casoulet before, the rich French stew particularly stood out, and I was soon digging into a tray of duck confit, sliced Toulouse sausage, white beans and a thick boullion. It was tasty, but unfortunately stone cold, and instead of taking it back I continued to eat. Which I will most likely regret for the rest of my life. I left the market feeling a little disheartened that my experience didn’t live up to my expectations, and half wishing I’d got up early to go to Billingham Fish Market instead.

The rest of the trip consisted of a few so-so fry ups, some disheartening Chinese in Camden, and a truly awful kebab, but I left London after the week nevertheless satisfied with my culinary trip.

Back to the box next week.

No posting this week due to the fact that i'm eating my way round London and don't expect to watch much tv or think of things such as politics etc.

Will be posting a dispatch on my gastronomic adventures as soon as everything has digested.

Move over Raynor there's a new kid in town...

TV Party!

bbSome monumental lifestyle changes were afoot this week as i commandeered my first working digibox, in one fell swoop expanding my channel range tenfold and consolidating my power. I won't forget in a hurry that first golden night when, giddy with excitement i left the side of a slumbering Duchess and after a quick and suprisingly uncomplicated set-up, devoured a Father Ted and double Curb, basking in the digital light that had entered my life.

By fated coincidence, however, i had spent earlier that night in the company of one of the old guard, BBC 2, and the ominously titled TV Junkie, the video diaries of American journalist Rick Kirkham chronicalling a decade or so of crack addiction and family disintegration.

Compiled from thousands of hours of footage, the programme presented a seamless and self shot account of Kirkham's battle with drugs and alcohol. Aside from a few background titles at the beginning and end, the video speaks for itself, allowing the viewer to piece together the story and draw their own conclusions.

At times, Kirkham uses the camera as if he's making a special report, leading to bizarre "I am now using a makeshift pipe to smoke the cocaine" type pieces-to-camera, and at other times he uses it as a confessional. At other moments it becomes clear that the camera is another addiction, as he keeps it rolling through some excrutiating moments.

I genuinely did not know where this was heading, and was somewhat surprised when it finished with him making an emotional speech to a group of whooping graduating students after six clean years. A cheeseball to the very end, his boys and ex-wife joined him on stage for a group hug.

TV Junkie was good, and at times harrowing tv, and although Kirkham never really inspires feelings of like or sympathy, you had to admire his courage for sharing his lowest points.

Still running high on my Monday night fix, i spent the next few days content with a Mighty Boosch DVD and a rare mid week trip to the cinema. I'd watched a few Mighty Boosch episodes when they were on TV but the DVD really helped fill in the gaps. Having been beseiged with references and quoted out of more than a few conversations, some vital viewing was necessary - if only to wind people up by finding (and loudly declaring) it to be shit.

Fortunately this wasn't to be as i found the Mighty Boosch to largely hit the mark with its fantastically original plots, characters and sets. The bits with the moon let it down slightly, but other parts, such as old gregs "Do ya love meh?" have entered into the dailylexicon of my existence.

Dragging myself away from DVD and digital delights, I actually left the house to see The Simpsons movie on Wednesday night, adding another medium to my seemingly endless capacity to stare quietly at a screen with my mouth open. Reports from the front line had been that the movie was ok, suprisingly funny but nothing amazing, and i found this to generally hold true.

The movie comes in at a higher level than the latest from the TV series, which having been dismal for some time is starting to improve slightly, but is lacking in alot of the intellectual weight of the earlier episodes.

In saying that, there are still alot of good jokes in there, and it explores some darker territory when dealing with Homers familial neglect and poor parenting. All in all, it is a good way to spend a few hours (though i did fade a little in the middle) and i would watch it again quite willingly.

$peculate to A££umulate…

“In this country, you gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power. Then when you get the power, then you get the women”

- Tony Montana

In the news in the last few months have been a number of stories regarding party funding and its relation to the democratic process. This issue is only likely to get even more exposure as the next General Election looms.

While the most recent item has involved the pulling of funds from David Cameron’s Tories by Sir William Cowie in protest to his “arrogant, Old Etonian” style of leadership, the most damaging event in recent months has undoubtedly been the cash for honours scandal, which saw the apparently coincidential awarding of peerages to every single labour donor/lender of over £1 million. While the trading of money for influence is as old as the hills, trends home an abroad seem to be suggesting that the money equals power relationship is continually being honed within the democratic process.

In the past, political parties could rely on party membership (and in the case of Labour the Trade Unions) for a sizable chunk of their kitty. However, in the face of declining party membership and voter identification (likely to be exacerbated as the major parties battle for the centre ground) party chiefs have been understandably scoping around for alternative forms of revenue. Whether this is in the form of the £4800 a-head dinner (£5000 is the declaration threshold) that caught out Tony Litt seemingly hedging his bets before the Ealing Southall by-election, or in the undignified Tory grapple for a sizable cut of millionaire eccentric Branislaw Kostic’s estate, winning and keeping power too often relies on the actions of a wealthy minority – and they’re going to want a return on their hard spent lolly at some stage.

If the experiences of our American cousins are anything to go by, the personal finances of candidates are also likely to come into play more and more in the future. Stateside, the general consensus is don’t even bother trying to make an even half-serious run at the Presidency unless you’ve got several million George Washington’s tucked away somewhere. What’s more, with the the costs of running a campaign rising steeply (the 2000 Bush campaign cost $95.5m, rising to a whopping $269.6m in 2004 – Kerry trailed at a modest $234.6m) candidate wealth is likely to become an even bigger factor. Already, Hilary Clinton’s war chest totals $177.2m, and no fewer than 10 of the 17 candidates are millionaires.

Back at home, a disproportionate number of MP’s have either hit the million mark, or have substantial assets to their name (Boris Johnson, Mohammed Sarwar and Lynne Featherstone spring to mind.) With no cap on personal expenditure in UK campaigns up until the last three weeks and the increasing cost and sophistication of election techniques, the common man might be priced out of politics sooner that we think.

Is this inevitable?

A recent inquiry into party funding and election expenditure in the UK by Sir Hayden Phillips proposed that apart from the small administration fee opposition parties currently receive, there should also be a substantial state subsidy, with parties getting 50p for every vote they received at the last election (a similar scheme already operates in Germany.) Along with spending limits and a cap on private donations, this might go some way to help sap the influence of the super rich. In reality, however, it would be hard to see the main parties pass laws that might curb their ability to raise money and extend their influence, so whether such proposals become a reality remains to be seen.

Until then it seems that the old Scar Face adage might just hold true

TV Party?

Despite tuning the TV and normalizing the situation in the new flat, viewing was AGAIN unacceptably weak this week. I could blame this on books, the game cube and friends (the real kind – not the TV programme) but I know that the responsibility ultimately lies on my own shoulders and for this I apologise, dear reader.

While I never really built up any sort of consistency or pace, the week was punctuated by stolen moments and fleeting glances at the humming idiot in the corner, and I managed to snatch the following from its gaping jaws.

For some reason BBC thought it would be a good idea to screen a Dragon’s Den catch up on Wednesday and Thursday night. These episodes involved catching up with the winners and losers of last season and documenting their various (mis)fortunes, run along side interviews with the “Dragon’s.”

When Dragon’s Den started a few years back I enjoyed it. It was interesting to see the workings of entrepreneurship and gain an insight into the world of investment, marketing and business. However, in the last few years the show seems to have denigrated somewhat to become an uncomfortable exercise in ritual humiliation of the desperate by the powerful. This is owing in no small part to the success of The Apprentice and the bankable Sir Alan Sugar’s onslaught of put downs, jibes and ultimate dismissals painting a not altogether pleasant image of the viewing public as a jeering, bloodthirsty hoard.

What the producers of Dragon’s Den miss however, is that The Apprentice steadily builds up and exposes the contestants considerable personality defects, showing them up as greedy, ambitious and generally unprincipled shits who have bought into idea of the supremacy of wealth and power, making the viewer unsympathetic when that wealth and power turns against them full force in the wrath of Sir Alan. With Dragon’s Den, however, we aren’t given the chance to like or despise the contestant, making it unpleasant when they are rejected, and dull when they are not.

Moving briskly on, visual diversion later in the week came in the form of David Lynch’s prequel to Twin Peaks, the chilling Fire Walk With Me. (DVD) As with so many things in life, I was something of a Johnny-come-lately to the whole Twin Peaks franchise, so this was the first time I saw this movie, and I can say it has whetted my appetite for more.

For anyone familiar with the original film, Fire Walk With Me follows the series of events leading up to Laura Palmer’s death, ending with the discovery of her cellophane wrapped body at the lake shore (the first shot in Twin Peaks.) Lynch himself takes a role in this, as a cryptic hard of hearing FBI chief, with Kiefer Sutherland and Kyle MacLachan also making appearances.
Watching this film suprised me a little with its brutality. While Twin Peaks ambles along quite steadily, slowing drawing the viewer into the darker side of this quiet mountain town, Fire Walk With Me jars and jolts the viewer with scenes of prostitution, drug–use, rape and violent death almost from the beginning. It quickly becomes clear that Laura Palmer is no angel, and a cast of potential killers lines up to sharpen their knives amid the mysterious disappearance of the investigating agent in a previous murder. As with the first film Fire Walk With Me is visually mesmerising, exuding the Lynchian sepia-like style crossed with sexualised ultra-violence it shares with Blue Velvet.

Expect to read ramblings from the box set in the very near future.

Rounding the week off, Skateboarding documentary Dog Town and Z boys made adequate viewing for a sober Saturday night. The documentary follows the history of the infamous “Z-boy” skateboarding team from poverty-stricken southern Santa Monica as they swapped surf boards for skate boards, drained pools to skate in, then variously found their own paths to fame and fortune or otherwise. Played out as a sort of “punk-rock on four wheels” (emphasised by the unnecessary presence of Henry Rollins of Black Flag and Ian McKaye of Minor Threat and Fugazi in some of the interviews) Dog Town and Z-Boys nevertheless provided a good background to the former sub-culture turned international money spinner that is modern skateboarding.

Sensually, the film was enjoyable as old skating footage was spliced with present day interviews and a snarling Iggy pop soundtrack, set in the backdrop of a decaying California beach resort. However, while the Z-Boy team was undoubtedly talented, pioneering many of the sport’s moves and clearly blowing every other team out of the water with its trade mark slouched surfer style, the documentary did drag on a little as it descended into a round of back slapping and self-mythologizing.

Most of all, a lot of these guys reminded me of some of the skateboarders who used to hang around St Anne’s in Belfast before the council bulldozed it, with their aggressive localism, hierarchy’s and super-sized egos. One particular scene where a guy reminisces about throwing breeze blocks at outsiders especially springs to mind.

However, by and large the skating speaks for itself, and as one interviewee rightly points out, you have to be at least a bit of an asshole to be that good at something.

Later Losers.

A brief history of advertising...

Essentially, the ethos of advertising can be summed up by the following:
Find something cool, sexy, funny or beautiful, throw a shit load of money at it, then sell it back to the kids. This is a given, and probably learnt on day one of a marketing “degree,” but some of the latest offerings on show suggest that someone hasn’t been reading their handbook.

I’m referring to the deluge of unbearable, twee, sick-to-stomach musack that has been accompanying a number of adverts in recent months, particularly those of major mobile phone companies. In the lastest instance, Andrew Shim of Shane Meadow's nostagia-fests A Room for Romeo Brass and This is England sings/speaks an annoying rhyme about running out of credit or something, but the custom stretches further back than that, with a song about a snapping turtle (?) springing to mind most readily, and sickeningly. (Feel free to nominate your own suggestions in the comment box)

I really do not understand this, this music cannot be appealing to anyone but possibly basket weaving Canadians, and no-one wants to speak to them anyway so why use it to sell phones? It has got to the stage where I have to turn the channel when one of these things comes on, forming product/vomit connections in my mind that even a lifetime of free minutes would have trouble extinguishing.

Still, at least this will keep their grubby paws away from anything decent for about 5 seconds,

Keep up the good work shitheads!

Watching me, watching you...

In the news this week has been a call from a Teachers Union to ban video-sharing sites such as You Tube because of its use as a medium for the cyber bulling of teachers and pupils. While the proposition is unworkable, unconstitutional (if we had a constitution) draconian and laughable, it does raise some interesting points.

Although Government traditionally (and rightly) faces the greatest scrutiny with regards to the collation and misuse of information, increasingly it appears that corporations and individuals are turning more to the Internet as a tool to gleam information and exert influence.

In the scramble to connect to the latest social networking site de jour, more and more personal information about us is becoming available to anyone who takes the trouble to try and find it, and what’s more, much of this information is beyond our control. So wherein lie the dangers?

The recent Scottish Elections saw tabloid journalists trawl candidate’s profiles in an attempt to come up with “dirt,” finding it in the case of young candidate Stuart Douglas through pictures of him drunk on his MySpace profile, posted by friends. The ease and speed at which potentially damaging material can be sniffed out (not to mention the separate issue of the increasing influence of the Press as a moral compass) is alarming.

The media is not the only group getting in on the act: Criminals, employers, family members and potential partners can all go online and check up on a personal information and character. While one can control and tailor the content of their personal profile in sites such as Bebo and MySpace, information posted by others is harder, if not impossible to regulate, and a careless comment or inappropriate image might be all it takes to compromise privacy and security.

Of course there will be those who take the “nothing to hide, nothing to fear” line, but these people are generally fascistic in nature and their opinions should be ignored. Others among us will claim to be open books whose life stories are a free-for-alls, but I’m pretty sure that everyone everywhere has something they don’t want someone else to know about.

Banning sites such as You Tube, MySpace and Bebo is not the answer, but if the internet is to fulfil its potential as an open, social and fundamentally democratic medium, we must be careful that the Information Revolution does not turn into an Information Dictatorship.