NHS Reforms

While the general public, Labour, most Lib Dems (impotent as they are) and almost every health trust in the UK tells Cameron that his health reforms might kill the NHS, the PM refuses to drop his government's controversial plans. 

This week I paid £17 for an NHS dentist to tell me my teeth were perfect. A touch stained from my addiction to coffee, but otherwise immaculate. It was a bit odd; while it was lovely to receive the compliment, I couldn't help but feel like there needed to be something wrong with my gob in order to justify my being there. I had feared a tut, a dramatic intake of breath as my lips parted and revealed to Marcos (the dentist) a hideous mess of poor oral hygiene: "You're lucky you came when you did - a week more and you might have lost ALL YOUR TEETH."

Instead, I failed not to appear smug, and nearly skipped out of the door.

My trivial visit was the first time I've used an NHS service in 4 years - I was in and out in 5 minutes. I, like many UK citizens, am fortunate enough to not appreciate the value of our national health service. For me, it's there in the background, like an air bag. I'm told the car has one, but I'm only going to have to use it if something goes spectacularly badly. Clearly, the analogy shows my failing to understand what the NHS is there to do - it's a service that maintains health, rather than jumping in at the last minute to prevent death. Far too many of us, myself included, view the NHS as a force of prevention, that last line of defence - it's that misunderstanding that prevents us from engaging in the debate that is currently swarming around Cameron's reforms.

I hope I never find cause to become more intimate with our NHS. But for someone like my Gran, whose shoulder was recently reconstructed after she slipped on some ice, the NHS ensured that her life was able to carry on with as little hassle as possible. The nurses on her ward were lovely. The doctors were professional. The catering staff were thoughtful enough to take note of her particular dislike of pea soup. For my Gran, her brief stint in hospital was admittedly uncomfortable - but not due to any lack of professionalism or care. Some may have a negative experience of using public health services - but the truth of the matter is, most of us don't. Most of us walk in with a problem, and walk out with a solution, or a care package, or at the very least, the knowledge that we're just hypochondriacs. Those stories won't make the news, because we don't seem to buy (or rather, be sold) good news. 

I hope that it isn't the loss of the NHS that results in the nation discovering just how good we've got it. I hope Cameron pulls out a huge U-turn, that he listens to the screaming, angry mass of doctors, nurses, midwives and service providers telling him that he's got it wrong. I won't think he's a bad politician if he changes his mind. I won't think him weak, or confused, or lacking in qualities of leadership. I want the coalition to stop hiding behind figures of reducing waiting times and impossibly pointless statistics, and listen to the concerns of those staff working on the front line of the organisation they are slowly destroying. 

Most of all, I hope none of us find ourselves in a position in which we come to understand, first hand, just how amazing the NHS is. 

Subsequent stories: Nick Clegg sticks his oar in

Tevez returns to Etihad

As Carols Tevez returns to Manchester, scenes in the Etihad changing room suggest Mancini might have taken the joke too far...

February's GQ by numbers

128 pages of editorial content

54 pages of advertising, advertorial and marketing

4 exclamation marks adorning the front cover: 

Sex myths exploded!

Michael Fassbender blows up!

Plus!

Own it!

None of these lines warrant the exclamation mark - in each case it could be argued that the use of such punctuation reduces the interest in each of the stories. They don't usually appear on a GQ cover, yet the February issue has managed to cram four in. It looks cheesy, tacky, and not at all in keeping with the bespoke styling the magazine is known for.

I've subscribed to GQ on and off for the last 4 years. Without fail, each yearly subscription will always provide one issue which makes me question why, of all the magazines the world has to offer, I subscribe to GQ. The February issue of 2012 is a prime example.

GQ is an exceptionally good magazine, and one I'd be blessed to work for: suitably high brow and free of much of the smut of the average men's mag, it tackles big topics and does so with style. There aren't any pages full of photos of shark bite survivor, nor the gory details of accidents from a building site. It often boasts some of the best men's editorial content you can find on the magazine rack - in fact, why reduce it to men's editorial, it's some of the best editorial out there regardless of your gender. 

February's article on Victoria's Secret is tasteful, and an impressive example of the VS brand's ability to gain valuable coverage without having to dip into their own advertising budget. But it isn't about Miranda Kerr, as the cover might suggest. She's in there, looking as incredible as you might expect - but no one from GQ has spoken to her. To splash her on the cover in the way that they have might suggest that you'll get an interview, an insight into being the "face and figure" of VS - but you don't. It's a bit of a lie.

Also, Michael Fassbender doesn't show you how to dress like a movie star. He sits in a chair wearing designer clothes, but the interview barely touches on his dress sense. It baffles me as to why you would choose to sell an interview with one of the most exciting names in Hollywood with the promise that he'll improve your wardrobe. Gok Wan might do that - Fassbender will tell you what it's like to rise to the top if the film A list in little more than 3 years. It's far more interesting than anything Gok could tell you about shoe and belt combinations. 

The business special section of the February issue is also a cause for confusion. Despite selling the topic on with the notion that you too might 'own it', the section is actually a collection of business success stories. In order to 'own it', as with all good business ideas, you had to think of it first. 

I will keep subscribing to GQ because the weight of such a title will always see the bigger stars gravitate to it. It also sees some of the best journalists and writers filling the editorial with amusing, insightful and down right interesting pieces. But every so often you'll get an issue like that of February 2012 - a confused mix of sells and white lies that combine to give you a magazine that doesn't really deserve to be read cover to cover. 

I'll grab the numbers for my March issue and post them up at a later point. A point when I've actually managed to find some editorial in it. 40 pages in, and still yet to find an article to read... I'm sure there's some in here... somewhere...

The Black Keys at Nottingham Capital FM Arena

How can two men fill an arena? 

On a chilly Friday night, while Band of Skulls tried their best to convert an unfortunately hostile Nottingham crowd, this was all I was eager to discover. Could The Black Keys, the bluesy duo from Ohio, entertain a venue this big with nothing more than a drum and guitar? I had high hopes for the band claimed by many to have snatched up the crown of blues rock left by The White Stripes. High hopes, and the nagging fear I had come too late - that The Black Keys were to be one of those bands you had to catch on the way up, as they blew away crowds in claustrophobic basements and tiny halls.

Band of Skulls were a fitting support for the evening; a motley assortment of greasy hair and tatty leather with a suitably rough edge to their rock. Riff after riff broke through the crowd's initial skepticism, and some ear melting guitar solos only fuelled the anticipation for what was to come. However, it was clear that Band of Skulls knew they were far from the main event - such was their disappointingly sulky stage presence. They felt restrained, as though everything was turned up to eight rather than eleven. They smacked of an attitude that read along the lines of: 'Here are our songs - we hope you buy our album and still turn up when we're the headliners'. I hope they get the chance - they look like they have a lot to offer.

The Black Keys roadie crew were far from your average collection of gum chewing chumps; as soon as Band of Skulls had skulked into the wings, an assortment of besuited 70s-office-types dashed about the stage in a wonderfully organised drill of 'moving this' and 'putting that there'. Such was their professionalism, one of the dapper types managed to battle through sound testing the drum kit while it remained under a secretive dust sheet. Had he not looked like an extra from Mad Men, it would have been ridiculous - as it was, it just looked darn cool.

To the question at hand: could two men fill an arena? It turned out they could. Indeed, I wish there had only been two of them.

Since 2010, Dan Auerbach (guitar and vocals) and Patrick Carney (drummer) have toured with additional musicians Gus Seyffert and John Wood, providing a mix of keyboard, bass, rhythm guitar and backing vocals. The added support lent an interesting dynamic to the set; as Gus and John went about filling in the riffs Dan was provided with the freedom a front man, which he adopted with suitable aplomb. The newer material from their latest album El Camino certainly benefited from the set up, with Dan and Patrick commanding the crowd from the front of the stage. Although remaining static behind his kit, the frankly unsettling stare and energy of Patrick gave him the most amount of presence I've ever seen in a drummer. I was content - but then I didn't know what I was missing.

Midway through the night Dan announced that he and Patrick were to play some songs on their own. A muted woop went round the arena. 'Ah... how's this going to go?' Incredibly, as it turned out. With The Black Keys reduced to their 'pure' selves, the aggression of the music was duly increased. Here was the duo who had toured every tiny venue that would take them in the US. Here was the rugged, offensively haphazard blues that the band had made their name with on albums like Thickfreakness. Despite having two less musicians on the stage, The Black Keys had doubled in presence.

The White Stripes are dead. Long live The Black Keys. May their reign be long and fruitful.