Tonight on TV3 News there was a story about UK supermarket chain Tesco labelling items with their food miles and how that would affect New Zealand. Tesco's spokesman: Trevor Datsun.

Those boys from Cambridge are everywhere.

Mucho lollio, little timeo, so straight into it.

Mark sends Matthew Taylor, CEO of the Royal Society of the Arts: "We have to ask ourselves why the internet is so good for wankers, gamblers and shoppers, and not so good for citizens and communities."

Speaking of wanking, here's The Atlantic on girlie mags. Also the new super rich in Shanghai, the brilliant Peter O'Toole's last best chance at an Oscar and bad news - plans to remake Brideshead.

What makes good and bad writing? Zadie Smith explains why it's so hard to define, let alone achieve. Can't get a good review? Buy one.

Stephen sends dispatches of Ponsonby, Farrar's guide to the new NCEA grades, a backgrounder on the Labour cabinet and, from his significant other, the Phrontistery.

Chris sends a story from Boingboing about someone taking photographs of discarded Christmas trees on the streets of London and New York. He points out Richard Brautigan did the same thing in 1964 and wrote about it in his story "What are you going to do with 390 photographs of Christmas trees" in The Tokyo-Montana Express, which he reckons is beautiful and still available.

Arts & Letters Daily wants to know what the Great Minds are optimistic about. An “intellectual impresario” puts the question to leading thinkers including Boing Boing super-vixen Xeni Jardin, in downbeat mood, and NZBC ‘Five minutes with’ guest Douglas Rushkoff, who is hopeful that now Richard Dawkins has kicked notions of God into touch, humans might rise above killing one another.

In a useful story, an arts blogger looks at the kind of light reading best suited to nursing a hangover. Try not to turn those pages too loudly. And Melvyn Bragg’s Radio 4 ‘In Our Time’ show examines the work of Jorge Luis Borges.

Ciao.

Be honest. How many plays, films, bands, stand-up comedians that you've seen have you really loved? How many of them made you genuinely pleased that you shelled out hard cash for? I'll bet not many, if any.

Really? Genuinely? Go on, name them.

I can't remember that last film I saw that made me properly laugh. The best they do is make you smile or snort occasionally in the crowded (or often empty) dark. Yet the reviews you read (hopefully none I write) would have you believe people were falling into the aisles, crying tears of mirth.

Either that or you'll be so moved you will immediately sell all your possessions and kayak to Borneo to save what's left of the rainforest.

Most stuff is distinctly average, as Mark Ellis might say it, and you're happy for anything half-decent. I thought the "surreal" Ross Noble only fitfully funny, but maybe we're just grateful anyone comes at all.

But a lot of people have got wise to some of the language of the critics. Here are a few lines from the Guardian's primer for translating it.

Comedy
Comic genius: I'm copying this straight out of the press release
Madcap: Irritating
Like X on acid: I've never taken acid, but want to sound like I have
Observational: Full of unoriginal generalisations
Acute: We share the same prejudices
Humorous: Unfunny
Wry: Unfunny
Sidelong: Unfunny
Hilarious: Moderately funny
Comedy legend: An obscure, unfunny American
Surreal: I don't know anything about surrealism

For some reason best known to my counsellor and priest, I found the idea of high definition TV affecting the behaviour of porn actors thoroughly amusing.

Cellulite and shaving rash are the main concerns, but the added detail is causing a minor ruckus among pro-shaggers.

Pornos are going for HD-DVD format as Sony seems to have a moral policy on such things. Odd, given the relatively relaxed Japanese attitudes about sex.

Cut out the carbs, hit the gym, suggests one porn director. Get your cheap breast implants redone. Use laser treatments, tanning creams, make-up. Even the wood, sorry, blokes.

During a scene in which she played a desperate housewife, [one actress] ran into a problem: the high-definition camera revealed she had a tiny ill-placed pimple.

“We kept stopping and trying to hide it. We put on makeup and powder, but there was no way,” Ms. Samson said. Finally, they tried another approach: “We just changed positions,” she said.

Good news for Rob and Mark, bad news for me and Chris. The Atlantic’s Jan/Feb issue reports that tall people are smarter than short people.

(Cover of The Sun from the BBC site)

What elevates a pop song to greatness? A classic that survives the indignity of a succession of indifferent cover versions and which remains a masterpiece a quarter of a century later might be one indicator of quality. It was an as-yet untarnished song that reached number 35 in the UK singles chart in 1982, performed by a man in a wheelchair, co-written by one man who had already had a string of hits in his own name and another who later co-produced one of New Zealand’s best albums — one half of the team that made Madness sound so fresh. Its composition was based on at least two brilliant ideas; an unforgettable melody, an extraordinary lyric and, to top it all, it has become a historical document that marks a succession of political failings; the one time in our lives that Britain’s ‘baby boomers’ seriously feared we might be conscripted, all wrapped up in a breathtaking song that oozes dignity. Name that tune.

My favourite Canadian warmonger Mark Steyn is also an astute music writer. In a typically wide-ranging appreciation of “Waltzing Matilda”, which he reckons would be a better national anthem for Australia than the pathetic “Advance Australia Fair”, he observes that our national anthem rhymes “New Zealand” with “free land”, which is a feminine rhyme.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s unusual in English verse. However, it’s often used in limericks and rapping – in fact there it’s a sign of technical skill. So I dug out The Eminem Show, the only rap album I own (a possibly ironic Christmas present from my sister-in-law), and here’s a bit from “Soldier”:

Full of controversy until I retire my jersey

till the fire inside dies and expires at thirty

and Lord have mercy on any more of these rappers that verse me

and put a curse on authorities in the face of adversity

All pure feminine rhymes. But I'm not volunteering to be the one to tell him.

Vicki Hyde, Chair Entity of the NZ Skeptics, advises that Darwin Day will be marked on and around 12 February (the great man's birthday) as part of an international celebration of the benefits that scientific knowledge, acquired through human curiosity and ingenuity, has contributed to the advancement of humanity.

The Skeptics are having a Darwin Day Dinner on Saturday 10 February at the Cotswold Hotel in Christchurch. More info and activities here.

Why did Fat Freddys Drop the apostrophe?

To my surprise, and contrary to earlier pronouncements, I’ve already bought 22 tracks from the NZ iTunes Store — including a couple of albums, three parts of an audiobook and one gift. So far, I’ve found the payment mechanism to be painless (perhaps a little too painless…), but I’m disappointed about the poor quality of track info supplied. The composer field was unpopulated in each of the tracks I’ve bought. I worry about this not only because I’m a completist, but because I wonder how Apple is accounting royalties to the composers. There are so many compositions out there with the same title that this seems like a recipe for royalty chaos — after all, millions of dollars in songwriting royalties sit in copyright society ‘suspense files’ around the world simply because the song title or composer’s name has been misspelt in the song’s registration. No doubt each song in the iTunes Store has a unique identifier, but I’m sure the owners are required to supply details of their compositions to Apple, so why isn’t this data being passed on to the consumer? After all, we’d get it on any CD we bought. Conversely, why isn’t there a better mechanism for us to feed what we already know about our purchases into Gracenote? In case you’re curious about what else I’ve bought, here, in the approximate order of purchase, is my first 15.

All I can say is: thank God for pharmaceuticals and fungicide. Though that should probably be, thank science.

The Mayans are visited by plague and failing crops, so they take to chopping the heads off captured tribesmen and rolling them down the stone steps of their city temples in sacrifice.

It's the dying years of the civilisation. The conquistadors are on their way. One of the intended sacrifices, the handsome one, makes a run for it amid the incantations. His wife and child, equally beautiful, are in peril elsewhere.

That's about the size and shape of the plot. What you really need to know is that Mel Gibson directed Apocalypto. So expect a painful, sweaty, bloody trek. Mel's palette is ochre and flesh, his oeuvre gore. Torture and cruelty are his emotional game plan: Passion of the Christ, Braveheart. Expect subtitles. Now that he's got a self-funded Aramaic and Latin epic out of the way, why not one in Yucatec?

No one apart from Mel quite knows what drives his pleasure in suffering, although he is Catholic. And he does have seven kids. He's just turned 50. And his second name is Columcille.

Watching Apocalypto, I quickly thought of Passion, Gladiator and Predator. Gladiator in the arbitrary selection of victims, or rather cast members; Predator in the dark terror of the tropical jungle; Passion (I've only seen still photos) in the sheer naked carnage. I can imagine a lot of hatred towards this film – I have a slice myself. I worry about pretty much everything Mel stands for: extreme religiosity, dodgy attitudes on gays and Jews, a propensity for violence, at least vicariously. And his films are pretty much nonsense from start to finish. It's been 25 years since he was in a one in which you could praise his acting. So Apocalypto is progress: he's not in it.

And yet. It's extremely well crafted, vibrant in colour and frame, it's non-stop action, and it's riveting through its two-hours-twenty runtime.

I wouldn't recommend anyone see it, as you might loathe it. But the odd thing is that you just may not.

Further to my earlier post on our crap TV. Says The Economist:

In future the internet will allow the [BBC] to sell to foreign consumers directly, an even more lucrative proposition. Mr Thompson says the BBC is looking at developing subscription products that could be sold overseas. The BBC's website, too, receives about a billion hits a month from abroad, and Worldwide will soon start making money from overseas users when it introduces an international version with advertising next year. “Ideally the BBC could arrange it so that Johnny Foreigner pays for us all to enjoy high-quality TV and radio at home,” says Simon Walker, a former BBC controller of corporate strategy.

Why is the future always so far away?

One of our space probes has found that Titan, Saturn's largest moon, looks just like Earth.

It's got lakes and rivers. And rain.

The Times says that no other "planet" in our solar system looks as similar to our humble home.

Except that the blissful precipitation on Titan, bigger than Mercury, that Cassini found is, well, methane. That's cos it's bastard freezing.

So not like Earth at all, really. More like earth. On Saturn.

An unlikely home for life today, as it is too cold, but this could change in four billion years, when the Sun swells to become a red giant. Conditions could then become just right for the emergence of life.

Just when the neighbourhood is about to go up in a galactic blaze of hydrogen. You can just imagine the first words of the things that just limped out of the oceans: Bugger.

The streets are starting to fill again, after the extraordinary emptiness that takes over in Auckland - and probably most of our cities - just after Christmas. (Although it may not be so noticeable elsewhere: a friend in Dunedin has noted she gets annoyed if she can't park right outside the cinema; we're pleased if we can park in the same suburb.)

It's unbelievably pleasant, not having to worry that you'll get bowled crossing away from the lights - or even at them, sometimes.

It's quiet, and calm, and the smell of smoke and rubber clears. And you wonder if it might be like this all the time if the public transport was that of a modern city.

Then I remember how awful NZ drivers are, inconsiderate, overconfident, underskilled, and the dream fades. Fewer cars would only encourage racing and recklessness. The toll might be the lowest for years, but it's not the drivers that have got better: it's sharper policing (though look in vain for that cop when a boy racer guns it past you on the highway) and pure luck. Hands up who turns over when that "sad" road safety ad comes on - the one with the boy telling the story - or any road safety ad. You can be sure the worst drivers aren't watching either.

And then I read yet another silly piece in the Press (can't find it online) about how awful Auckland is, and I felt better about the city. Pleased that Wellington has got over its long snit with us, a shoulder-chip that Christchurch just can't seem to shake. The article even revives the old canard about how Auckland is a drain on the public purse, rather than accept that we underspent our share of tax money for years and drive the national economy like it or not. This kind of thing is getting a bit embarrassing.

Sessions for the new Guns N’ Roses album Chinese Democracy began in 1993 and the album has so far cost $US13m (£6.6m). Axl Rose on the official GnR website announces that January concerts have been cancelled so the band can finish the record, which may possibly be released in March. That’s fifteen years after work began.

Other bands in other times have been a little more productive. The January issue of Mojo reports that the recording of Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde in 1966 took about eight days (nights, really) in the studio.

The same issue has a small piece on Julie Driscoll and Brian Auger’s 1968 version of “This Wheel’s on Fire”, a massive hit which took “four to five hours” to arrange and record. That’s less than bands spend on getting the drum sound these days.

John Harris’s book on Pink Floyd’s 1973 album Dark Side of the Moon says it took about 40 days to record, spread over seven months.

Let’s see. That’s one classic hit single in an afternoon, one classic album in a week, and another all-time mega best-seller in six weeks.

I'm not a betting man, but I've got $5 here that says that after 15 years, Chinese Democracy sucks.

The one sensible thing Jean-Paul Sartre said was that hell is other people. To ameliorate this, in 2007 other people should resolve to remember:

1. That however good at their job they may be, they are not experts on anything else. Especially not on climatology, geopolitics or economics.

2. That the rest of us are as interested in their children as they are in ours – ie not. At all.

3. That mobile phones contain microphones. There is no need to shout.

Any other suggestions?