According To Paul

Berlin: World Cup Final Night. From my courtyard flat on the high street I hear the buzz. Thinking I can’t keep bowing out from a bit of history every time it happens on my doorstep, I decide to check it out.

Having been born with a defect where I have to look each passerby in the eye, even the „Grass? Coke? Hashish?“ whisperers get a glance as I hurry on to, well, nothing much actually.

Despite the promising sounds from my opened windows, it turns out to be all vuvuzela and no trousers.

Thirty armed police fix a „maybe later“ eye on the Spanish limbs ascending the fountain. A street artist chats away with his sitter. A Netherlands tracksuit hangs beside a Torres t- shirt.

Is that it? We’re in this country’s equivalent to Trafalgar Square. Where’s the party?

We’re backing on to the Tiergarten, where for the festivities, two metres high fencing has been constructed around its entire 1 sq mile. Maybe people can’t get over without the right papers?

Then I remember. This is a Sunday and whilst Berlin generally forgets it’s in Germany, it does buy in to waking up with the rest of the land for work on a Monday morning.

But here’s my flummox. The whole World Cup has been like a Sunday evening. Hit Macdonalds after a match and Ghana is queuing patiently behind muted Brazilians whilst the victory drives from winning lands hasn’t made a dent in the Turkish weddings that constantly rally passed my house.

Reflecting on why this has turned into such a tame affair gets me thinking about Paul, the predictive Octopus with a perfect record for divining results. Did he make it such a forgone conclusion to the extent that any Santa-like belief was eliminated before the first whistle?

Applauded for inspiring Germans with a forecast of wins, things have now soured in his adopted country (Paul’s an English breed).

Calling time on Germany’s run at the semi- final stage has left him ink-riminated for manifesting results through national persuasion. That Paul! If I presented myself in surgery as a sufferer from the “Octopus Theory” I’m sure a psychologist would nod wisely and pretend to unravel me over a year’s counseling.

Off with whose head?

Blaming an octopus for lost football matches is pushing the boat out. He's received death threats! Although these calls for Paul’s head is a quirky footnote to Bastille Day it spotlights how this generation, increasingly invertebrate, manages to wriggle out of tight spots without a trace of accountability.

The simpler analysis would be “Hey, guys. You’re paid millions. Do your job. Score”.

Likewise, this weekend saw forty school kids getting trapped in a carriage where temperatures reached 120 Fahrenheit. Eight of them needed hospitalization and the chief spokesman of Deutsche Bahn told us all to remember the big picture; it was only two trains from 1200 that had a problem.

The chief of BP responds to the world’s worst ever oil leak with a meaty: “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me”. I actually had to get my jaw re-delivered from my downstairs neighbour after hearing that one and then of course, there’s existential stuff like: “Mummy, Mummy, how do Tonyblairs turn into peace envoys?”

“It’s a fair cop, guv” should be listed as a protected idiom for its lack of usage.

Let’s brush absolutely everything under the carpet.

Hawaiian mythology relates that the octopus is the lone survivor of a previous, alien universe and as such is the possessor of unexplained intelligence.

Staying with questionable Hawaiian citizens or Intelligence. 

White House to Kremlin: “Vladik. This is going to sound silly but Paul said that maybe, perhaps….er, there’s a spy in the frozen foods of our Wisconsin Wal-Mart”. Putin’s interested: “How much does he cost?”

A jolly round of golf spawns their revamp of the good old days and a games show is constructed on Glienicke Bridge.

Paul McCarthy’s octet jazz hands accompany the sing-a-long “Octopuses Pardon From The Blade” and he’ll tell us which Milwaukee housewife is the real Anastasia.

There’s a touching moment with the kids of exposed spies in the “I never knew my parents” corner as Paul, bonding with an arm around each child, gently shares that he never knew his Dad: male octopuses die shortly after mating. He also never knew his Mum: the females die shortly after giving birth.

Those kids’ll reflect; life could be worse. Everyone will smile and clap apart from the Producer who now realises that to keep the show running means keeping Paul alive and away from the egg donor offers from female fans wanting to parent the first humalien. Talking of trends, the shell suit makes a surprise comeback to our screens in the form of co-host David Icke as it emerges that his "we're surrounded by aliens" was never just a reflex to being a burnt out breakfast- telly presenter.

Time to admire.

Romping through. Let’s turn attention to the most accountable film of dance ever made, on show this week in London at the Village Underground, a warehouse performance space at Shoreditch.

Premiered at New York’s Lincoln Centre, and courtesy of “T-Mobile’s Big Dance” festival,  “Slow Dancing” is the creation of photographer artist David Michalek.

The aim was to develop an archive of dance with the spirit of democracy running through. From Ballet to Butoh, Turkish to Tap, all ages, ethnicities and body shapes merge in an advertisement for dance as an all- inclusive, unlimited world.

Five seconds of movement from each dancer has been recorded at 3000 frames per second and the result, shown on a triptych of screens, gives the opportunity to perceive the complexities of movement from the simplest gesture to multiple air spins. It’s mysterious and beautiful to watch for which we have to applaud the military; they developed the camera to analyze weapons systems.

The diverse performers often overlap and it does promote a democratic podium. Each cast member is subjected to documentation under the same microscopic time- stretch to the point where the pyrotechnics of a ballet dancer are neither more nor less exciting than the simple flick of a belly-dancers fringe.

5 stars to Michalek and his assembled world.

Backing Paul, I’d like Michalek to film him at the Oscars. Surrounded by the nominees, it would be a riot to see him pick Best Actress and for us to gorge on a well fought effort from the girls to stop internal dialogues being outed on their faces- (“that bitch again”, “you really love me”, “don’t cry” and “I’m gonna be sick”) at 3000 frames a second. Oh, what potential! Paul could be just like the most accountable octopus ever, dude.

“Slow Dancing” runs from July 13th – 24th

Saturday 17th (8.00 pm) presents a special night of ambient music to accompany this extraordinary film, with sets by Southbank Artist in Residence Oliver Coates.

Village Underground 
54 Holywell Lane, Shoreditch, London, EC2A 3PQ

All enquiries

tam@villageunderground.co.uk

+44 (0)20 7422 7505