Over here, Jon Hotten responds to the Non-endings post about his book The Years of the Locust. It is reasonable to say that Tim Anderson got life without parole because the Judge insisted on keeping his narrative within narrow limits for the purposes of the trial. When you're aware of the wider story, this seems terribly harsh. But who is to say that the Judge was wrong? Stretching the narrative would have been arbitrary too - you could, after all, start the story with Rick Parker's great-great-grandparents if you wanted.
But Anderson is in a real prison. Jon and I agreed that the arbitrary nature of narratives is a diverting philosophical game... unless the length of your prison term depends on it.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Non-endings
As a boy I was very taken with the cliff-hanger ending of The Italian Job. The lack of a resolution seemed dangerous and radical, breaking the most basic conventions of story-telling. I remember quizzing my father about it at what must have been pretty irritating length. Since then I’ve often found ‘unsatisfactory’ endings (eg. most Cohen Brothers movies) more satisfying than ‘satisfactory’ ones. This might be an unusual proclivity but then again plenty of children who end their horror stories with “And it was all a dream” then like to add the undermining coda “Or was it?”
The Years of the Locust is a punchy true account of murder and corruption in heavyweight boxing’s sordid under- and indeed over-belly. It is by writer, multi-talented blogger and fellow Steve Bruce fan Jon Hotten. I heartily recommend that you purchase it forthwith – it has many fine qualities (there’s an extraordinary chapter called Noir Boxers which rips through a great tapestry of corruption and might well put you off boxing for life) and it has stayed with me even though I read it before Christmas, ie. in another lifetime. But for me it was especially striking for its perfectly inconclusive conclusion.
Journeyman boxer Tim Anderson shoots the odious promoter Rick Parker to death, confesses immediately, is found guilty by a jury and is sentenced to life without parole. By the end of the story it is possible to say, confidently and justifiably, that Tim did commit premeditated murder, and also that he didn’t; and that he deserved to be given life without parole and also that he didn’t. We are sympathetic to the killer but, bravely and rightly, Hotten refuses to turn the book into a “Free Tim Anderson” soapbox lecture. The key passage comes after Anderson is found guilty by a jury which subsequently objected to the harshness of his sentence. The trial of Tim Anderson had been a simple one. It came down to this: two men walked into a room. One man walked out. All of it was true. None of it was true.
Endings and narratives are constructions. It’s not that all narratives are equally valid (or invalid) and therefore useless. It’s not even that history is just one damn thing after another. The problem lies with the causal chains upon which narratives depend. Virtually everything that happens has multiple causes, the various degrees of importance of which are impossible for humans to determine with any objective certainty, particularly when considering decisions and states of mind. How do you explain the moment before an action? (Anderson shot Parker on the spur of the moment, and he also shot Parker because he had built up years of justifiable resentment. Somebody had to shoot Parker and Anderson just happened to be the man unfortunate enough to be in the position to do it. He didn't have to do it, but then again he had no choice. Part of Anderson planned to shoot Parker, but Anderson was the kind of person who could never plan to murder someone. But the law can't allow people to be murdered just because they seem to really deserve it, so the guilty verdict was the right one.)
Because of the multiple causes, the causal chain is incomprehensibly complex - a web, in fact, not a chain. Futhermore, the beginnings and ends of the chains are arbitrarily selected by the narrator and, as with climate change graphs, contracting or expanding the scope radically alters the appearance of the trend. Further furthermore, a range of quite different descriptions of the same thing can all be objectively true at the same time (for example, a piece of music could be described as a series of transcribed notes, or wave frequencies, or cultural influences, or aesthetic qualities) and people often slip between different kinds of description of things in their causal chain. But then again, narratives are useful, important and morally necessary, except when they are counterproductive, trivial and morally abhorrent.
The Years of the Locust is a punchy true account of murder and corruption in heavyweight boxing’s sordid under- and indeed over-belly. It is by writer, multi-talented blogger and fellow Steve Bruce fan Jon Hotten. I heartily recommend that you purchase it forthwith – it has many fine qualities (there’s an extraordinary chapter called Noir Boxers which rips through a great tapestry of corruption and might well put you off boxing for life) and it has stayed with me even though I read it before Christmas, ie. in another lifetime. But for me it was especially striking for its perfectly inconclusive conclusion.
Journeyman boxer Tim Anderson shoots the odious promoter Rick Parker to death, confesses immediately, is found guilty by a jury and is sentenced to life without parole. By the end of the story it is possible to say, confidently and justifiably, that Tim did commit premeditated murder, and also that he didn’t; and that he deserved to be given life without parole and also that he didn’t. We are sympathetic to the killer but, bravely and rightly, Hotten refuses to turn the book into a “Free Tim Anderson” soapbox lecture. The key passage comes after Anderson is found guilty by a jury which subsequently objected to the harshness of his sentence. The trial of Tim Anderson had been a simple one. It came down to this: two men walked into a room. One man walked out. All of it was true. None of it was true.
Endings and narratives are constructions. It’s not that all narratives are equally valid (or invalid) and therefore useless. It’s not even that history is just one damn thing after another. The problem lies with the causal chains upon which narratives depend. Virtually everything that happens has multiple causes, the various degrees of importance of which are impossible for humans to determine with any objective certainty, particularly when considering decisions and states of mind. How do you explain the moment before an action? (Anderson shot Parker on the spur of the moment, and he also shot Parker because he had built up years of justifiable resentment. Somebody had to shoot Parker and Anderson just happened to be the man unfortunate enough to be in the position to do it. He didn't have to do it, but then again he had no choice. Part of Anderson planned to shoot Parker, but Anderson was the kind of person who could never plan to murder someone. But the law can't allow people to be murdered just because they seem to really deserve it, so the guilty verdict was the right one.)
Because of the multiple causes, the causal chain is incomprehensibly complex - a web, in fact, not a chain. Futhermore, the beginnings and ends of the chains are arbitrarily selected by the narrator and, as with climate change graphs, contracting or expanding the scope radically alters the appearance of the trend. Further furthermore, a range of quite different descriptions of the same thing can all be objectively true at the same time (for example, a piece of music could be described as a series of transcribed notes, or wave frequencies, or cultural influences, or aesthetic qualities) and people often slip between different kinds of description of things in their causal chain. But then again, narratives are useful, important and morally necessary, except when they are counterproductive, trivial and morally abhorrent.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
So, Tuesday
So, Tuesday, we meet again. Tuesday and I have met often and no good has ever come of it. We go way back, to school. Term always began on a Tuesday and it bore all the worst lessons such as Double Latin or Craft with Muggsy* and all the worst dinners like the chicken supreme with the precise texture of snot. Tuesday is much crueller than Monday. Monday is still in too much of a daze to really hurt you but Tuesday knows exactly what it’s doing and tells you what it’s going to do before it does it. Were you aware that virtually a seventh of your life consists of Tuesday? Or that 98% of dental appointments are on a Tuesday, or that the Royal Mail is required by law to deliver nothing on Tuesdays except hefty bills and car tax reminders? Nobody ever saves a treat for Tuesday; you get your dullest meal of the week out of the way on it which is why all the takeaways are closed. Saturday bursts into the room with a tray of bacon sarnies, a football and a crate of beers and Friday is a very decent bloke but Tuesday is a flinty-eyed former Inspector of Taxes with a thin moustache and grey skin bent at a plain desk in a windowless office under a single electric bulb frowning at a loud clock which ticks at half-speed. It is well known that time moves twice as slowly on a Tuesday. Yet still we persist with it. Who knows why? But then, who knows why anything? This is how the world ends, fizzling out on a Tuesday afternoon.
In the office car park yesterday’s slush has re-hardened into a rippled slab of ice. Treacherous. I slip-slid my way cautiously across it and with relief pushed through the door onto solid ground. “Good mor-” I began, and instantly stumbled hard into a bookshelf, thwacking my elbow. I looked down. Bloody shoelaces undone.
In the office car park yesterday’s slush has re-hardened into a rippled slab of ice. Treacherous. I slip-slid my way cautiously across it and with relief pushed through the door onto solid ground. “Good mor-” I began, and instantly stumbled hard into a bookshelf, thwacking my elbow. I looked down. Bloody shoelaces undone.
*Muggsy was a very fat man with a keen hatred of children who nonetheless decided to become a teacher.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Shoelace Shocker!
The recent Arctic conditions have forced me to wear my hiking shoes for all expeditions, however trivial. They’re fine shoes, with the one problem that the laces come undone with annoying frequency. This is also a problem with a pair of formal black shoes I own, and has been a minor irritant over the years with various items of footwear. But because it has not been with all items of footwear but only some, I always blamed the individual shoes.
On Friday, exasperated by a walk punctuated with lace-tying stops, I googled the problem of shoelace slippage and found Ian, who appears to to be the world’s leading exert on shoelace-related matters. To my utter amazement, it became clear that everything on this page directly applied to me and therefore that for the whole of my life I have been tying my shoelaces incorrectly!
Since childhood I have been folding the second bow over rather than under the first. I changed my method there and then, and the problem has been solved at a stroke.
The revelation was astounding, humiliating, liberating. I march into the new decade a changed man, confident in the security of my shoelaces, freed from the necessity of constantly stooping to retie, but also obliquely unnerved. An only life can take so long to climb clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never - oh, what bitter truth in Larkin's words! If shoelaces, then what other deeply ingrained habits, what other fundamental routines of my daily life have been wrong, half-cocked, misconceived all along? Perhaps it is better to remain in ignorance.
On Friday, exasperated by a walk punctuated with lace-tying stops, I googled the problem of shoelace slippage and found Ian, who appears to to be the world’s leading exert on shoelace-related matters. To my utter amazement, it became clear that everything on this page directly applied to me and therefore that for the whole of my life I have been tying my shoelaces incorrectly!
Since childhood I have been folding the second bow over rather than under the first. I changed my method there and then, and the problem has been solved at a stroke.
The revelation was astounding, humiliating, liberating. I march into the new decade a changed man, confident in the security of my shoelaces, freed from the necessity of constantly stooping to retie, but also obliquely unnerved. An only life can take so long to climb clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never - oh, what bitter truth in Larkin's words! If shoelaces, then what other deeply ingrained habits, what other fundamental routines of my daily life have been wrong, half-cocked, misconceived all along? Perhaps it is better to remain in ignorance.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Freedom and surveillance
The Yard has a review of the noughties in the Sunday Times. This line struck me:
The British, watched by a greater density of CCTV cameras than any other nation, have been keen to swap freedom for security.
The direct association between an increase in CCTV cameras and a decrease in freedom is pretty much a given in the perennial freedom vs security debates. Those of us with conservative leanings instinctively baulk at the idea of surveillance. Orwell obviously looms over this issue, but so does a long British tradition of mistrusting officialdom and espionage.
But does the assumption that a tolerance of CCTV cameras equals a willingness to ‘swap freedom for security’ really stand up to scrutiny? A few things spring to mind:
First, although it might be theoretically possible for Big Brother to watch you every step of your journey from, say, Bristol Temple Meads to Piccadilly Circus, practically speaking Big Brother lacks the competence, the budget and the will to do so. In reality, most CCTV footage is not monitored in real time for sinister purposes, but reviewed after an incident when it might (or might not) assist in a conviction.
In other words, there are a lot of people in the world and you are much less interesting and important than you think you are. Big Brother could be watching you, but he can’t really be bothered.
Second, the existence of a camera does not by itself affect your freedom to do something in public - such as walk your dog, protest against the Iraq invasion or start a business - merely your ability to do it unobserved. So the freedom that is directly affected by CCTV is the freedom to do something in a public space without being seen. This is quite a specific freedom. Did it ever exist? Is it a fundamental human right? When you come to think about it, is ‘freedom’ the right word or is security verses privacy a better description for the debate?
It could be that CCTV is a trivial issue which, because it feels icky and Orwellian, is given far too much weight in freedom/security musings. What about the surveillance technologies that move beyond shopping centres and railway stations to enter our homes? Amazon and Tesco know what you like because they spy on you through your computer or your Loyalty card. But that’s not so much 'security versus freedom' as 'privacy versus convenience'. And we can, after all, turn cookies off or refuse a Loyalty card.
But the idea that CCTV proves a decline of freedom seems overly simplistic – the world changes and we have different but not necessarily fewer freedoms. You can’t lurk unrecorded in a dark alley or smoke in a pub but you can marry someone of your own sex or go to that pub or to the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon. None of which is to deny the feeling of ickiness when we confront the extent to which our privacy can be easily invaded. As ever, I have no answer except to say that most things that are assumed to be true turn out to be wrong.
The British, watched by a greater density of CCTV cameras than any other nation, have been keen to swap freedom for security.
The direct association between an increase in CCTV cameras and a decrease in freedom is pretty much a given in the perennial freedom vs security debates. Those of us with conservative leanings instinctively baulk at the idea of surveillance. Orwell obviously looms over this issue, but so does a long British tradition of mistrusting officialdom and espionage.
But does the assumption that a tolerance of CCTV cameras equals a willingness to ‘swap freedom for security’ really stand up to scrutiny? A few things spring to mind:
First, although it might be theoretically possible for Big Brother to watch you every step of your journey from, say, Bristol Temple Meads to Piccadilly Circus, practically speaking Big Brother lacks the competence, the budget and the will to do so. In reality, most CCTV footage is not monitored in real time for sinister purposes, but reviewed after an incident when it might (or might not) assist in a conviction.
In other words, there are a lot of people in the world and you are much less interesting and important than you think you are. Big Brother could be watching you, but he can’t really be bothered.
Second, the existence of a camera does not by itself affect your freedom to do something in public - such as walk your dog, protest against the Iraq invasion or start a business - merely your ability to do it unobserved. So the freedom that is directly affected by CCTV is the freedom to do something in a public space without being seen. This is quite a specific freedom. Did it ever exist? Is it a fundamental human right? When you come to think about it, is ‘freedom’ the right word or is security verses privacy a better description for the debate?
It could be that CCTV is a trivial issue which, because it feels icky and Orwellian, is given far too much weight in freedom/security musings. What about the surveillance technologies that move beyond shopping centres and railway stations to enter our homes? Amazon and Tesco know what you like because they spy on you through your computer or your Loyalty card. But that’s not so much 'security versus freedom' as 'privacy versus convenience'. And we can, after all, turn cookies off or refuse a Loyalty card.
But the idea that CCTV proves a decline of freedom seems overly simplistic – the world changes and we have different but not necessarily fewer freedoms. You can’t lurk unrecorded in a dark alley or smoke in a pub but you can marry someone of your own sex or go to that pub or to the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon. None of which is to deny the feeling of ickiness when we confront the extent to which our privacy can be easily invaded. As ever, I have no answer except to say that most things that are assumed to be true turn out to be wrong.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Abnormality Tolerance Index
This is the second day in succession that we’ve been snowed out of the office. I appreciate the bonus holiday of course but I’ve discovered that my Abnormality Tolerance Rating for snow is 1.5 days. This is the measure of the time it takes until the disruption to everyday routine ceases to be fun and a desire for things to return to normal commences. Today I have no great wish to throw snowballs, build sinister snowmen in the back garden or comment on how different everything looks.
This puts snow surprisingly low on my Abnormality Tolerance Index. Selected other entries rank as follows:
Lazy beach holiday – 16 days
Olympic Games – 5.5 days
Blistering heatwave – 5.0 days
Skiing holiday – 4.5 days
City break – 4.3 days
Walking holiday – 4.2 days
Being a guest – 3.8 days
General Election Campaign Coverage – 3.6 days
Being a host – 3.2 days
Christmas – 2.5 days
Snow – 1.5 days
Coach tour - 1.2 days
Stag do - 0.8 days
Camping – 0.6 days
Spectacular thunderstorms – 0.5 days
Fireworks – 0.2 days
This puts snow surprisingly low on my Abnormality Tolerance Index. Selected other entries rank as follows:
Lazy beach holiday – 16 days
Olympic Games – 5.5 days
Blistering heatwave – 5.0 days
Skiing holiday – 4.5 days
City break – 4.3 days
Walking holiday – 4.2 days
Being a guest – 3.8 days
General Election Campaign Coverage – 3.6 days
Being a host – 3.2 days
Christmas – 2.5 days
Snow – 1.5 days
Coach tour - 1.2 days
Stag do - 0.8 days
Camping – 0.6 days
Spectacular thunderstorms – 0.5 days
Fireworks – 0.2 days
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
"Amazon belongs to a heartless godless world"
Mrs Brit was browsing Amazon for a suitable satnav USB cable - an innocuous enough object, you'd think - when she stumbled across this amusingly vitriolic customer review.
There but for the Grace. In this world of pain and tears - narrow as a knife-edge, fragile as an eggshell - one never knows what trivial event might prove to be the Tipping Point, what seemingly negligible happenstance might have Your proverbial Name On It. For this man, it was the email from Amazon requesting him to review his recent purchase of a satnav USB cable. My favourite bit: "I am not angry, just getting even."
There but for the Grace. In this world of pain and tears - narrow as a knife-edge, fragile as an eggshell - one never knows what trivial event might prove to be the Tipping Point, what seemingly negligible happenstance might have Your proverbial Name On It. For this man, it was the email from Amazon requesting him to review his recent purchase of a satnav USB cable. My favourite bit: "I am not angry, just getting even."
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Did you hear about the Morgans?
I note that Hugh Grant’s latest romcom is called Did you hear about the Morgans? A vexing title, how does one enunciate it? I was reminded of James Lileks’s amusing struggles with the even more terribly-named 70s Jane Fonda flick, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?
My first instinct would be a sort of jaunty "Did you hear about the Morgans?", as if preceded by an imaginary “I say!” when uttered by a cheery cove in tennis whites as he comes bounding into the drawing room with news about the second cousins. But then immediately overlapping that pronunciation in my brain is a much sneerier Alan Rickman-ish version, “Did you hear about the Morgans? Well, did you, Potter? Or are you as ignorant of the Morgans as you appear to be about everything else?”
One could stress the “you”, suggesting: everyone else is talking about these Morgans, why wasn’t I informed? Did YOU hear about the Morgans too, then? Are you all in this together? Why does nobody tell me anything? Am I just being paranoid? I think I might be having a nervous breakdown.
Heavy emphasis on “The Morgans” gives them a bit of a fanfare appearance, as in: “Ladies and gentlemen, drum roll please…did you hear about….THE MORGANS! The amazing family of juggling dwarfs, all the way from Texas!”
But since Sarah Jessica Parker is in the movie I can’t help but hear a breathless Sex in the City-style "Did you HEAR about the Morgans? Oh My God!" Or perhaps the sing-song tone that the impossibly-deep voiced movie trailer guy used to do for 80s comedies to indicate light-heartedness, as in “…starring Bill Murray…. Dan Ackroyd… and John Candy”, where “Bill Murray” is stated with confidence, the “Ack” of “Ackroyd” is said in a sort of surprised falsetto suggesting “Who is this crazy guy?”, and “and John Candy” is peppered with little chuckles: “a-ha-nd Jo-hu-hon Ca-ha-ndy”. Thus: "Did you [rising] hear … a-ha-bout the Morgans? [falling amid chuckles]"
I would like to see this movie packaged up in a double-bill with They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? There are potentially infinite nuances of meaning available to the ticket-buyer.
“Two adults please, for Did YOU hear about THE Morgans?/ THEY shoot HORSES… DON’T they?”
My first instinct would be a sort of jaunty "Did you hear about the Morgans?", as if preceded by an imaginary “I say!” when uttered by a cheery cove in tennis whites as he comes bounding into the drawing room with news about the second cousins. But then immediately overlapping that pronunciation in my brain is a much sneerier Alan Rickman-ish version, “Did you hear about the Morgans? Well, did you, Potter? Or are you as ignorant of the Morgans as you appear to be about everything else?”
One could stress the “you”, suggesting: everyone else is talking about these Morgans, why wasn’t I informed? Did YOU hear about the Morgans too, then? Are you all in this together? Why does nobody tell me anything? Am I just being paranoid? I think I might be having a nervous breakdown.
Heavy emphasis on “The Morgans” gives them a bit of a fanfare appearance, as in: “Ladies and gentlemen, drum roll please…did you hear about….THE MORGANS! The amazing family of juggling dwarfs, all the way from Texas!”
But since Sarah Jessica Parker is in the movie I can’t help but hear a breathless Sex in the City-style "Did you HEAR about the Morgans? Oh My God!" Or perhaps the sing-song tone that the impossibly-deep voiced movie trailer guy used to do for 80s comedies to indicate light-heartedness, as in “…starring Bill Murray…. Dan Ackroyd… and John Candy”, where “Bill Murray” is stated with confidence, the “Ack” of “Ackroyd” is said in a sort of surprised falsetto suggesting “Who is this crazy guy?”, and “and John Candy” is peppered with little chuckles: “a-ha-nd Jo-hu-hon Ca-ha-ndy”. Thus: "Did you [rising] hear … a-ha-bout the Morgans? [falling amid chuckles]"
I would like to see this movie packaged up in a double-bill with They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? There are potentially infinite nuances of meaning available to the ticket-buyer.
“Two adults please, for Did YOU hear about THE Morgans?/ THEY shoot HORSES… DON’T they?”
Monday, January 04, 2010
What I saw on the telly this Christmas
Didn’t watch as much Christmas telly as usual this year but I did catch The Royle Family, which the BBC managed to squeeze into one of the rare respites from David Tennant. Oh dear, I’m afraid Jim and the family well and truly jumped it. Leapt the leopardshark. Hurdled the hammerhead. Gaily galloped and gambolled giddily over the Great White. Pity, as The Royle Family used to be a treat. At its best it employed a dash of crude humour without relying on it, poked fun at the (non) working class without sneering at it, exaggerated reality but still rang true. This instalment blew all that. In particular, by making all the family as dim and selfish as Denise – who was always the only totally absurd one – the characterisation, so painstakingly constructed over many great episodes, was swiftly wrecked. Shocker. What else was there? The Gruffalo was a bit of a let-down. They dragged the wee story out to half an hour simply by reciting the dialogue very slowly. A gruuuuufalo?...
what’s
a
gruf
fal
o? This meant that the bouncy rhythm of the book was lost, which is the best thing about it. And what the hell was Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End about? I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Lots of unpleasant characters standing about haggling over a bewildering array of MacGuffins, quadruple-crossing each other and then having a swordfight. Repeat for three very long hours. Doctor Who was alright but I hope they go back to normal-sized peril wherein a few people are endangered, rather than having to save THE UNIVERSE and TIME ITSELF amid shouts and explosions every week. Gavin and Stacey was ok.
what’s
a
gruf
fal
o? This meant that the bouncy rhythm of the book was lost, which is the best thing about it. And what the hell was Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End about? I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Lots of unpleasant characters standing about haggling over a bewildering array of MacGuffins, quadruple-crossing each other and then having a swordfight. Repeat for three very long hours. Doctor Who was alright but I hope they go back to normal-sized peril wherein a few people are endangered, rather than having to save THE UNIVERSE and TIME ITSELF amid shouts and explosions every week. Gavin and Stacey was ok.
Cold thighs
In Bristol, 1 January 2010 broke cloudless but with a lingering frost on the windscreens and grassy patches. Mine eyes haven’t seen the dark side of 9am for many a New Year’s Day, but having a five month-old baby wreaks havoc in all areas of life. Brit Jnr saw the decade in at midnight as part of her normal sleeplessness pattern. In theory, that should be the last New Year she sees in until the 2020s, which is an alarming thought.
2010 has thus far been cold, but countryside cold is of a different quality to town cold. This morning, as part of my post-Christmas exercise regimen, I arrived at the office early so as to take a brisk stroll around the surrounding lanes. Ice-stiffened and clogged with mist, the whole valley looks like the ghost of itself. After a while my thighs became cold beneath my trousers in a sharp stinging way which suddenly took me back to my primary schooldays in Portsmouth; a Roman Catholic job where we boys were required to wear shorts in all weathers. Mulleted footballers, cold thighs and the fizzy drink Quatro, that’s the early 1980s for me.
On the way back I spotted the Local Character’s poor old horse grumbling around in its field. Its back appeared to be covered in frost. Is this possible? Can horses frost up, like motorcars? I will have to ask the Local Character when I see him, which surely I will if he made it to the other side of Christmas. I hope you did too, and that you had a good one. Having begun 2010 with a bang I will almost certainly continue it with a few hundred whimpers. This was merely the first.
2010 has thus far been cold, but countryside cold is of a different quality to town cold. This morning, as part of my post-Christmas exercise regimen, I arrived at the office early so as to take a brisk stroll around the surrounding lanes. Ice-stiffened and clogged with mist, the whole valley looks like the ghost of itself. After a while my thighs became cold beneath my trousers in a sharp stinging way which suddenly took me back to my primary schooldays in Portsmouth; a Roman Catholic job where we boys were required to wear shorts in all weathers. Mulleted footballers, cold thighs and the fizzy drink Quatro, that’s the early 1980s for me.
On the way back I spotted the Local Character’s poor old horse grumbling around in its field. Its back appeared to be covered in frost. Is this possible? Can horses frost up, like motorcars? I will have to ask the Local Character when I see him, which surely I will if he made it to the other side of Christmas. I hope you did too, and that you had a good one. Having begun 2010 with a bang I will almost certainly continue it with a few hundred whimpers. This was merely the first.
Friday, January 01, 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Let steeple bells be swungen
E'en so here below, below,
Let steeple bells be swungen,
And io, io, io,
By priest and people sungen.
I can think of no finer Yuletide verse to recite in sonorous yet ponderous tones on a Christmas Eve.
Thanks and Merry Christmas to you all - readers, bloggers and especially commenters.
It's been a big year on Think of England. We have been binge-drinking and shooting, given up consumerism and retreated to the hills with Ed Will and Ginger to pick blackberries. We have encountered Paul Kingsnorth, Swineshead, Muggsy Spanier, Jase Rooney, Doc Johnson, a leisure centre manager and John Portsmouth Football Club Westwood, amongst a host of other characters. Critically, Brit Jnr entered the scene. We have partied with Black Lace, divided up the animals, rescheduled Radio 4, performed some thrilling Pavement Panto, scoffed some cupcakes and rewritten pop music history. We have been to the Windy City and the Guernsey Tomato Museum.
We have learnt nothing.
As ever, be good, listen to the Baked Potato and see you on the other side.
Let steeple bells be swungen,
And io, io, io,
By priest and people sungen.
I can think of no finer Yuletide verse to recite in sonorous yet ponderous tones on a Christmas Eve.
Thanks and Merry Christmas to you all - readers, bloggers and especially commenters.
It's been a big year on Think of England. We have been binge-drinking and shooting, given up consumerism and retreated to the hills with Ed Will and Ginger to pick blackberries. We have encountered Paul Kingsnorth, Swineshead, Muggsy Spanier, Jase Rooney, Doc Johnson, a leisure centre manager and John Portsmouth Football Club Westwood, amongst a host of other characters. Critically, Brit Jnr entered the scene. We have partied with Black Lace, divided up the animals, rescheduled Radio 4, performed some thrilling Pavement Panto, scoffed some cupcakes and rewritten pop music history. We have been to the Windy City and the Guernsey Tomato Museum.
We have learnt nothing.
As ever, be good, listen to the Baked Potato and see you on the other side.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The greatest compliment
No Good Boyo’s meandering tale of social acceptance amongst çay-drinking Turkish tokers brings to mind the greatest compliment I have ever been paid in my life.
It occurred on the island of Crete, in a tiny family-run Taverna geographically but not philosophically close to the grim disco strip of Malia. Its keeper spoke fine eccentric English and he used it to complain in a lengthy but convivial sort of way about my compatriots and their behaviour on holiday. “Why you need get so drunk?” he asked as he brought out our bottle of enjoyably vile retsina. “Why you want get nakt? Why you want take clothes off in street and get nakt?”
I couldn’t honestly answer, and nor could Mrs B. We were both fully clothed and had no intention of getting ‘nakt’ in his street. While our starters were preparing he pulled up a chair to continue the theme. “Why you want shout? I not come to your house and SHOOOOOOUT in your street. Why you want do that?” He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and demonstrated, literally, the business of “SHOOOOOOUTing”.
I couldn’t help but agree with his gist, though I did make the observation that his own compatriots were more than happy to take money from mine in return for drunk-making liquors. He conceded the point with good grace.
I ordered up the special, which the Taverna-keeper - who had, I now noticed, extremely oily hair - kindly translated to me as “Chicken chops.” It was a platter of chicken thighs, wings and things cooked in some sort of oregano seasoning and was sublimely delicious. I have a weakness for chicken things anyway and attacked the plate with carnivorous greed, using fingers and teeth to pick off every last morsel til there was nothing but a heap of gleaming, decimated bones. The keeper took our plates back into the kitchen and then a few minutes later hurried back to deliver it, the greatest compliment I have ever been paid in my life:
“Sir! My wife, the cook… she ask me to tell you… She say, You really know how to eat chicken!”
It occurred on the island of Crete, in a tiny family-run Taverna geographically but not philosophically close to the grim disco strip of Malia. Its keeper spoke fine eccentric English and he used it to complain in a lengthy but convivial sort of way about my compatriots and their behaviour on holiday. “Why you need get so drunk?” he asked as he brought out our bottle of enjoyably vile retsina. “Why you want get nakt? Why you want take clothes off in street and get nakt?”
I couldn’t honestly answer, and nor could Mrs B. We were both fully clothed and had no intention of getting ‘nakt’ in his street. While our starters were preparing he pulled up a chair to continue the theme. “Why you want shout? I not come to your house and SHOOOOOOUT in your street. Why you want do that?” He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and demonstrated, literally, the business of “SHOOOOOOUTing”.
I couldn’t help but agree with his gist, though I did make the observation that his own compatriots were more than happy to take money from mine in return for drunk-making liquors. He conceded the point with good grace.
I ordered up the special, which the Taverna-keeper - who had, I now noticed, extremely oily hair - kindly translated to me as “Chicken chops.” It was a platter of chicken thighs, wings and things cooked in some sort of oregano seasoning and was sublimely delicious. I have a weakness for chicken things anyway and attacked the plate with carnivorous greed, using fingers and teeth to pick off every last morsel til there was nothing but a heap of gleaming, decimated bones. The keeper took our plates back into the kitchen and then a few minutes later hurried back to deliver it, the greatest compliment I have ever been paid in my life:
“Sir! My wife, the cook… she ask me to tell you… She say, You really know how to eat chicken!”
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Black Pudding
The reason I do all of my gift shopping well in advance and largely on the internet is so that I can avoid such things as going into Bury town centre in the freezing sleet on the last Saturday before Christmas. This was the gist of the message I intended but in the event diplomatically decided not to convey with some force to Mrs B and her mother. Including Brit Jnr, there were three generations of females against me: the game was up before it started.
Having chauffeured them into the town I gave them the slip as soon as was reasonable and went off into the famed boxy warren of Bury Market in search of hot grub. Bury is black pudding country. I have nothing against black pudding per se, a small disc of the stuff is a very welcome addition to any hotel breakfast. But you wouldn’t want to eat it in the same sort of style and quantity as you would, say, a bag of chips. Would you? In Bury you would. The market includes a little quadrangle of hot black pudding stalls offering exactly that. A boy of about ten was wolfing forkfuls of his congealed pig blood snack from a paper plate. He looked cheerful enough.
I hurried on and found a pieman. Like most men in the Greater Manchester area he was small and had a wiry moustache. His pies were a pound each. I ordered a homemade bacon and black pudding one.
“What, don’t you want peas and gravy for another 50p?” he asked, in a tone that was both injured and incredulous. “No, just as it comes please,” I replied in my southern accent.
It was a good pie, I ate it on the way to a warm-looking pub called the Two Tubs. Had myself a pint of mild in a nook (I like to go native, within limits) and checked the cricket score on my mobile. At the table next to me a small man with a wiry moustache was drinking a pint and reading his paper in great peace, while behind, a group of quite irritating students from some Home County or other talked too loudly about travelling in Australia. Idly, I studied the bar menu. The £3.99 special was A Plate of Black Pudding, covered in Bacon and smothered in Cheddar Cheese. Now that dish, I thought, is not widely available down south.
Having chauffeured them into the town I gave them the slip as soon as was reasonable and went off into the famed boxy warren of Bury Market in search of hot grub. Bury is black pudding country. I have nothing against black pudding per se, a small disc of the stuff is a very welcome addition to any hotel breakfast. But you wouldn’t want to eat it in the same sort of style and quantity as you would, say, a bag of chips. Would you? In Bury you would. The market includes a little quadrangle of hot black pudding stalls offering exactly that. A boy of about ten was wolfing forkfuls of his congealed pig blood snack from a paper plate. He looked cheerful enough.
I hurried on and found a pieman. Like most men in the Greater Manchester area he was small and had a wiry moustache. His pies were a pound each. I ordered a homemade bacon and black pudding one.
“What, don’t you want peas and gravy for another 50p?” he asked, in a tone that was both injured and incredulous. “No, just as it comes please,” I replied in my southern accent.
It was a good pie, I ate it on the way to a warm-looking pub called the Two Tubs. Had myself a pint of mild in a nook (I like to go native, within limits) and checked the cricket score on my mobile. At the table next to me a small man with a wiry moustache was drinking a pint and reading his paper in great peace, while behind, a group of quite irritating students from some Home County or other talked too loudly about travelling in Australia. Idly, I studied the bar menu. The £3.99 special was A Plate of Black Pudding, covered in Bacon and smothered in Cheddar Cheese. Now that dish, I thought, is not widely available down south.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The hills are alive
Last night I dreamt that Steve Buscemi had taken the Julie Andrews role in The Sound of Music. Fortunately he had a rich baritone voice, so even though he looked incongruous he pulled it off. Then this morning, in the opaque rise into wakefulness, the following verse came to me, fully-formed:
The hills are alive but the mountains are dead,
The oceans are Tory, the rivers are Red,
The forests eat cake but the trees all eat bread,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
I'm not sure what this means - perhaps you can interpret - but I don't think it is related to the fact that I will be off-blog for a couple of days.
We're taking Charlotte on a tour of the northern relatives. She'll be signing bibs and spreading Christmas cheer and milky sick where'er she goes. Back Tuesday or possibly Monday.
The hills are alive but the mountains are dead,
The oceans are Tory, the rivers are Red,
The forests eat cake but the trees all eat bread,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
I'm not sure what this means - perhaps you can interpret - but I don't think it is related to the fact that I will be off-blog for a couple of days.
We're taking Charlotte on a tour of the northern relatives. She'll be signing bibs and spreading Christmas cheer and milky sick where'er she goes. Back Tuesday or possibly Monday.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
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