In Praise of the Printed Page, Books

Books, famously, furnish a room.  Especially a library.  Despite the rise and rise of the eReader, the tablet and the audiobook, hardback and paperback books continue to be popular, sold in bookshops, on the high street.  It’s like three endangered species banded together to buck the trend.

The conventional book is superior to its electronic bastard offspring in a number of ways.

Firstly, a book is in and of itself a precious object, especially if you are paying full whack for a hardback.  It’s something that makes you happy to buy it, happy to read it and then happy to own it.  Because books are decorative, as stated above.

It is well known that the right sort of vintage Penguin (book, not animal or biscuit) jutting jauntily from your pocket can attract the right sort of romantic partner, that is, the sort of romantic partner who knows that anyone with a Penguin edition of ‘The 39 Steps’ or ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ is exactly the sort of chap or chappess with whom a romantic fling would be just the thing.  It if further known that a small stack of the right sort of reading material by the bedside is an indicator of good character and conducive to frolics and a good night’s sleep in exactly the same way that a collection of soft toys in the bedroom is not.  We then progress to a decent bookshelf, bookcase and, finally if you are fortunate enough to have the space, the means and the tolerant partner, a room one can designate a ‘study’ or, if you are exceptionally fortunate, a ‘library’.

The difference between a study and a library is a narrow one.  Broadly, a study has books and a desk and a sensible chair with a stiff back.  Captain’s chairs are permitted, although the rule of ownership is not unlike the rules permitting one to play international rugby for a particular country, one must have a seafarer in the immediate family, or one must have been a seafarer for a number of years.  Whereas a library has a table, usually cluttered with books, and a comfortable chair near a good light source that can be used for reading, or dimmed for short or even extended periods of contemplation.  The other main difference is that a library will have 2/3 more decanters of booze available.

Studies are, increasingly, in the news.  Literally.  No news programme it would appear is complete without a video link interview with an expert in something, or at least with somebody who has a tweed jacket and some strong opinions.  In such cases, the person speaking from their home increasingly takes pains to ensure that the backdrop is not of a microwave and a fridge with a shopping list stuck to it, the contents of which would make one doubt the value of any opinion somebody who actively purchases ‘Nutella’ might espouse.  Instead, they ensure that their background is bookish.

If the interviewee is an academic, then they will ensure that the only book not conventionally shelved, but rather with the front cover prominently displayed, is their latest work.  If they are a writer then the shelves will display their collected works, including translations.  If they are a politician then political biographies are the thing, Churchill for tories, Bevan for Labour, Stalin for the Labour front bench.  Multiple biographies of Hitler are permitted for military historians only, anyone who owns more than three biographies of Hitler and does not teach history at a decent Polytechnic or educationally equivalent establishment should be placed on some sort of watch list.

Given the news is pretty ghastly, the only time one really needs to flip it to HD is to either try to work out if Fiona Bruce has had some more work done, or to decode the bookcase of an interviewee, and then judge them.

We have lost album artwork and sleeve notes to the digital download, thankfully we still have the art of the book cover, although famously that’s no way of judging a book.

Having the book’s title visible is, however, an excellent way of judging who, and who not, to sit next to on public transport.

Podcasting Too

The internet is great for doing quite a few things.  It’s very good for social media, where you can like pictures of kittens, or retweet angry and ill-informed comments originating from GRU bots, for fun.  It allows you to order your shopping to get delivered to you, or to research stuff like string theory or episode summaries of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Best of all, it allows you to reach out and share your opinions with others, secure in the knowledge that your views are important and will be embraced and appreciated by others, especially if you turn comments to ‘off’ so you never have to read any negative criticism, or indeed any criticism at all, of your forthright views about the casting of a woman as a female Doctor Who, or your controversial views about race and intelligence.

On the up side, for every bigot there are hundreds of passionate and positive people who want to share their knowledge, or even just their experience, about something dear to them.  Or just want to try to entertain.  And for each of these people who knock out a podcast, there are many more who engage in a positive way.

Podcasting is something special.  Technology has developed smartphones that mean we can download podcasts and take them with us, meaning that we can listen to podcasts at home, or on the move.

But the really special thing about podcasts is that the podcasts created by enthusiasts are better than the podcasts produced by professional broadcasters.

This doesn’t happen anywhere else.  A blog is very unlikely to be as good as, say, a novel or a published collection of essays from the ‘New Yorker’, because a blogger is unlikely to have the resources available to a remunerated writer, like an editor.  There are exceptions but the dross to quality ratio is high.  Likewise vlogs.  These only really succeed where they cover niche subjects and have a charismatic host.

Bringing us to podcasting.

The beauty of a podcast is that it can be high concept with a low budget, and a real labour of love.  Do you like Jane Austen?  So do I.  Do I want to hear you talk about Jane Austen for two hours?  Probably not, but I bet you can talk about her life, her literature, adaptations and legacy in fifteen minute chunks for a few episodes?  How about getting your friends involved?  How about asking listeners to contribute.  Holy shit, as Jane Austen never wrote, ‘Talkin’ Bonnets’ is number five in the podcast download charts.

The enthusiast is able to outperform the professional broadcaster for the very same reasons the blogger cannot.  They don’t have an editor and they don’t have to worry about producing to deadline to get paid.  They can craft a labour of love.  They can also interact with their community.

I love a literary podcast, two presenters knocking views about their favourite stories back and forth, it’s almost what the media was invented for.  Because while there is nothing quite like a single voice speaking directly to you, eavesdropping on a conversation is tremendous fun too.

They also provide the perfect platform for original drama.  Anyone with a bit of writing talent and some actor friends who are keen to perform, and are there any other kind of actor friends? can create an episodic drama that builds and audience and a reputation.  This is the stuff that would never have been produced by a broadcaster with a finite amount of airtime.

And of course there are the documentary podcasters.

While genre fiction may have found a more mainstream audience thanks to the Game of Thrones TV series and the MCU, podcasts are, to an extent, the fanzines of the twenty first century, produced with love by people who care about the subject for an audience who are consuming this stuff because they have a passion for it and, rather pleasingly, come to it by way of subscription, just like back in the day.

Maybe somebody should make a documentary podcast about fanzines.  Most likely, somebody already has.  So what about a drama about a fanzine, a fanzine about Jane Austen.  Now that, I’d subscribe to.

Review: Lost Mars

Classic science fiction.

I’d like to describe this as good old-fashioned science fiction, but not only is that not quite true, but it’s probably an oxymoron, how can you have old-fashioned science fiction?  Although, ‘oxymoron’ is a word that would fit neatly into this collection of stories, possibly Martian terraformer worker slang to describe one who is profligate or unwise with their air supply on Mars.

‘Lost Mars’ is a collection of short stories about the red planet edited, very well, by Mike Ashley, beginning with a short story from H. G. wells published in 1897 and concluding with a shirt story from 1963 by J. G. Ballard.  This proves not just the enduring attraction of romantic fiction about the red planet, but that if you want to write science fiction, it does no harm at all to have two initials instead of a first name.

The stories are varied in style and tone, but there is a theme.  Fittingly for a collection of stories written and published many years ago, forgotten by some and presented here to be freshly discovered in this exceptional collection, many of the stories are about archaeology.  There seems to be an overwhelming belief, usually inspired by the popular scientific theories of the time, that although Mars might be a dead world, it was once host to an advanced civilization, now long gone, the legacy of which is there to be discovered.

This book really is a treasure, and every story is a gem.

The editor has also contributed in no small way to the reader’s enjoyment.  The introduction, so often the part of the book one flips past so as to not prejudice enjoyment or, worse, encounter spoilers, is a thoughtful and informative piece.  Each story comes with a very brief introduction.  The editor has a voice here, but he does not outstay his welcome.

The stories themselves are superb.  I found myself noting down the names of those science fiction writers that I was unfamiliar with, as based on the strength of their stories here, there are authors here that should make their way into any science fiction lovers’ To Be Read pile.  Science fiction fans always have a To Be read pile, as science fiction fans rarely leave any second hand bookshop without grasping a really lovely, if slightly foxed, paperback edition of a ‘classic’ possibly long out of print, the cover of which would now not be acceptable as a result of the MeToo movement.  You know the ones.

This, then, is one of those books that you make time to read, by not doing other stuff.  This is a ‘just another ten minutes’ short story collection.  This is the sort of short story collection where, after making the deal with yourself that you will stop at the end of this story, leads you to start the next one, just to enjoy the contrast.  Just another ten minutes.

It’s the classic case of a book you race through and regret finishing.

The collection tracks the trajectory of the development of thoughtful science fiction.  Although perhaps ‘development’ is not quite the word because the first story is just as good as the last.  The stories could be in any order, but it’s fascinating to read them chronologically.

Although you could be forgiven for flipping straight to the Bradbury as a visitor to an art gallery would go straight to the da Vinci, his story is, heresy alert, among equals here.

There’s a delightful H. G. Wells short story that, like all great science fiction, is much more about the human condition than the alien one, a charming oddity from a forgotten, except by those who know better, writer that’s effectively a postcard from the past, a fabulous repost to the Menace From Space genre, a great tale of prospecting in a harsh environment that just happens to be set on Mars, a corking tale of an expedition to Mars, and The Bradbury, which is the gateway to the modern era of tales which concludes the collection.

Finally, a word about the edition.  A tremendous front cover redolent of every science fiction magazine you ever held and loved as a child.

Recommended.

Happy birthday Adrian Mole

Adrian Mole is 50 apparently.  Anyone who is 50 or thereabouts will be familiar with the character, and at least with the first book in the series.  'The secret diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 and 3/4' by Sue Townsend was a phenomenon book, just as many years later another book about an adolescent with spectacles would be.  Children everywhere wanted to read it, and because anything that gets kids reading is a good thing (well, anything short of out and out porn, and even then prose only is probably tolerated) it became, justly, a best seller.  I recall the first words from the school librarian when getting a tour of the school library.  'Yes, we have coped of Adrian Mole.  They are all out on loan'.

There are lots of reasons cited for the success of the book, but in truth it's probably down to it having a different appeal depending on the reader.  To some teens it would speak directly to their feelings of isolation, confusion and alienation, feelings that they would carefully cultivate because, well, that's what being a teenager is about.  Ditto sexual frustration, no matter what a hysterical media would have you believe about teenage proclivities, even back then.  Certainly when I was reading this book the was no such thing as sexual frustration, because nobody was sufficiently sophisticated to recognise frustration in any realm beyond possibly that of the lawnmower repeatedly jamming in long grass.

It must have introduced many teens to a more sophisticated world.  I was about 20 before I knew that BBC Radios 3 and 4 even existed.  Radio 1 was for ve kidz, Radio 2 for Mum and Dad.

Actually, thinking about it, that's not quite true.  Mum liked 'A book at bedtime'.  It was as a youth I heard my first Shipping Forecast but, so unsophisticated was I, I thought it was a weather forecast for trawlermen.  Now of course I understand that it is the longest running avaunt guard poetry recital in the history of broadcasting.

For me, it was all about the funny.  Adrian Mole was hysterical.  This proved to be a problem because if you are reading long after bedtime, under a duvet thick enough to repel werewolves ('more tog = less dog' as we used to say), then you could use a torch safely, but had to muffle your guffaws.  Parents are probably used to turning a deaf ear to many unusual sounds emanating from a teen bedroom, but booming laughter in the wee small hours on a school night rather gives the game away.

This, I remember, was the book I read in the back seat of the car on a long drive to or from a family holiday.  This is back in the days when a combination of reading and travelling and vinyl seats was enough to give you the kind of headache that today would land you in a CAT scanner.  But when travelling with Adrian, it wasn't a problem.

One final thing about sophistication.  I knew that girls could be called Pandora, of course I did.  I was taught Greek myths at school (that and Rural Science are, looking back on it, about all the education you need to navigate modern life).  But the likelihood of actually meeting anyone called Pandora in the West Midlands when I was growing up was about as likely as choosing the new potato option instead of chips to go with your steak when visiting a Berni Inn.

I'm pleased to say that Adrian and I have kept in touch.  His diaries were a continuing delight and he tackled growing older the same way he tackled growing up, equal parts hope and confusion.

I laughed out loud at the early books.  I actually shed a tear or two as some points in the later ones.  If you think that there is shame in that, please do fuck off.

With Sue Townsend gone, it's a great pity his diaries won't continue, I would love to have read what he thought of Brexit, and of course learn whether or not he ended up with Pandora.  He adored her, you know.

Right, I'm off to re-read the series.

Write on cocktails

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We conclude with...cocktails!

There are two types of cocktails, divided along gender lines, like the literature that they inspire.

First, let's deal with cocktails where alcohol is mixed with soft drinks and fruit drinks to the extent that the drinker can no longer taste the alcohol.  This is quite different to the drinker no longer feeling the effects of the alcohol, unless the drinker is the sort of person who lifts up her shirt to show the room her bra after three glasses of seven up anyway.  Fruity, or 'long' cocktails were invented with the express purpose of getting ladies drunk without their confronting the reality of downing hard liquor.  If Elizabeth Bennett drank cocktails, the woman would hammer Long Island Ice Teas.  It's fruity fun in a bonnet.

Honourable exception must be made for cocktails like Cuba Libre (rum and coke if you're an American), where liquor is mixed with a soft, often sweet, sometimes fizzy, drink.  If the drink is made correctly, that is equal parts spirit and mixer, then it's not for the bonneted classes.

Likewise, certain classics are exempt from appearing on the 'girls night out' two for one laminated (for easy cleaning) cocktail list at your local cocktail lounge or Wetherspoons.  These are gin and tonic because of its medicinal properties in warding off malaria and sobriety in an increasingly torrid world, and also Bloody Mary or, as many refer to it, 'ahh, thank God, breakfast!'.  The Bloody Mary is at the extreme end of the exemption scale, not only is it a famously tasteless spirit mixed with an overpowering and sweet juice (although vegetable, not fruit, so it's practically a smoothie) and then further disguised with a fish based condiment, but served correctly it also has half a hedgerow shoved into the glass.

Cocktails with things protruding from them are an indication that this is a ladies' beverage.  Again, there are exceptions, if the glass in front of you is home to, as well as something smelling alarmingly of strawberry, either a cherry or a lit sparkler, then you had better be wearing a sparkly dress when consuming it.  If it has an olive, olives or any other form of vegetation that nobody honestly eats for pleasure, then it's a mans' drink.

Which brings us to the second sort of cocktail.  This is where one sort of spirit is mixed with another sort of spirit and served in a special sort of glass, usually a small one, for the very good reason that knocking back three trebles in thirty minutes is something that is usually only done by on-duty darts players, yet when liquor is presented thus in a dainty glass, it's socially acceptable.

Mens' cocktails taste like petrol.  Although the second one always tastes better.  This is because the idea of what Matt Groening described as a 'sophisticated adult beverage' is to remind you that you, an adult male, are having a drink.  The taste is not unlike the first drink of beer you had as a child, awful.

That's why these drinks are often served chilled, if your tongue is numb enough then you may be able to drink your first one quickly enough to make more seem like a great idea, without feeling the need to rinse your mouth out with Irn Bru and move onto something with a cherry in it.

They are also served up with dashes of things.  This is to make something that tastes toxic taste even more toxic, but in an aromatic way.  Bitters are sophistication in a bottle.

The purpose of olives is to line the stomach.

Broadly, if you are drinking a strawberry concoction, you are likely to write, and read, literature either about feisty independent women who have social and sexual misadventures but manage to land the perfect relationship and job by the last chapter, gay friend optional.  Please note though a worrying trend of such female characters meeting for coffee rather than shots to discuss the state of their love life.

If you are drinking something that tastes like aftershave made from olives, then you are likely to write and read fiction about spies, honourable criminals or knight errant charming bastards.  These men also drink coffee, but only to shift hangovers the size of Mount Olympus, when on stake outs, or when in exotic foreign locations and the coffee has the taste and consistency of tar, in a good way.

Sweeping generalisations certainly, but the cocktail is no place for subtlety.  For all that has been written about 'mixologists', sloshing together some booze like a toddler with access to a mini-bar is less the recipe for something to delight the senses and more like the precursor to a night of some poor life choices.

But it also produces fiction that, in different ways, hits the spot.

Write on red

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…red wine.

In doing so, it would be wrong to ignore the role that red wine has played in art.  By art, I mean proper art, a man at an easel with some oil paints, a glass of thinners, a glass of red wine and, if he’s painting a nude, a semi.  I was once told that artists drank red wine to clear their sinuses, or something.  Knowing artists (as I don’t) it was more probably to stop the voices screaming at them to paint, paint, paint the sky green.

On first inspection, the literary associations with red wine appear obvious, it’s all about the horror novel.  Not only does it look like claret, (actually it sometimes is actually claret), but red wine and other red drinks (strangely never Ribena) appear to be the alcoholic beverage of choice for those who wear rings, have lace at their cuffs and have a LOT of vampire literature on their Kindles.

Let’s make this clear right now.  You only need one vampire novel.  It’s called ‘Salem’s Lot’ and after you read it, you will never want to read any vampire fiction ever again.  Front cover blurb quotes?  I’ve got one for the publisher right here “G&P: this book will FUCK YOU UP!”.

So, moving on…

If you are a writer, you can drink red wine to achieve success in a couple of genres.

The first is horror and, as previously pointed out, it might be cliché but damn if it isn’t good fun to read a ghost story with something red at your elbow.  A bloody good horror story has a sensation of creeping dread much like the way a good red creeps up on you.  It swills and swells and surrounds the senses until you feel a bit queer.

The red is the drink of the mystery writer, the murder, the whocaresdunnet, the red is as thick and as dark as the clouds of confusion in a novel or the fog that lends atmosphere (literally) to a story.

Why would you drink red if you were writing?

Well, it mellows things, flattens them out.  Ideal if, in your first draft, you had ‘FUCK ME, THE FANGS, THE FANGS!” as the opening line and then a separate paragraph with 227 exclamation marks.

Red wine builds up to stuff (see also, fortified wine).  It’s the wine people drink three to four decisions ahead of taking a decision, a light procrastinating wine, if you will, and so ideal for mysteries.  “I’ll check out that death threat tomorrow, but first, a glass of this lovely looking wine left on my doorstep!”

It’s also the perfect winter drink (you can stick Horlicks up your arse and, in the case of a recent Horlicks-botherer, actually can).  You’re by the fire, there may be a blanket, there’s certainly an armchair. You have three uninterrupted hours ahead of you, you are of an age when you pick up a paperback rather than a smartphone, what better than a bottle of something cheeky to the point of impertinence to enhance the experience.

The other genre associated with red wine is a niche one; the military biography.  There are three obvious connotations.  The first is blood, soaking into either sand, turf, water or snow depending on your theatre.  The second is the colour of a military man’s coat, either intentionally during the Nepolionic wars where a red jacket was just the thing, or quite unintentionally in any other era when a red jacket meant that you, or somebody near you, had just encountered something sharp.  Finally, red wine is second only to the pineapple as being an essential element of any military anecdote.  ‘This bottle here, these were the damned Frenchies’, that sort of thing.

And that’s that.  There’s a book for every sort of reader and there’s a drink for every sort of writer, some writers indeed (Kinky Friedman, I’m looking at you!) enjoy several types of drink.  Laurie Lee wrote on wine and wrote brilliantly, but sometimes it’s interesting to consider that, if he had written on beer or fizz, he could have left a lasting legacy of military yarns or even romcom.

Of course, what he’s most famous for is cider.

Write on spirits

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…spirits.

Shall we mention ghost stories?  Let’s not.

Shall we mention Hemmingway?  Earnest, not Wayne.  Well, there’s a school of thought that spirits make one mean, and certainly EM appeared to have it in for bulls, fish, Big Game and many of God’s creatures that had never harmed him, but are we to blame that all on spirits?  Let’s not.

Spirits are a man’s drink.  Ignore those adverts that come on at Christmas featuring a girl in a glittery frock with a tumbler of some brownish liquid.  This is a game, but ultimately doomed, attempt to extend spirits sales past the saturated male market to women.  Does that advert also have the same woman, with perfect lipstick, pulling on a thick cigar?  Thought so, the famous and famously successful advertising company of Malefantasy and Wankjet (London, New York, Pontypool) strikes again.  The only spirit women drink is vodka, and that’s only because the makers of cranberry juice really, really know how to market that stuff.

No, spirits equal men.  Spirits, ingested, throw everything into sharp relief, including emotions.  That’s why gin makes women sad and why scotch, and any other spirit, at all, makes men angry.  The drinker of spirits writes about manly stuff.  Spies, war, sports, and of course, drinking.

The spirit drinker, one feels, is above all an adventurer.

Spirits are ideal when travelling to places where you need to take the maximum amount of drinkable alcohol for the minimum encumbrance.  When the first man lands on Mars, he’ll have scotch with him (this is after Scotland gains independence and launches a hilariously ambitious, but surprising successful, space programme).  If you need to go further, faster, spirits are your friend.

The same goes with drinking them.  If you don’t have time to faff around with beer, or enjoying your drink by droning on endlessly about the complexities of the nose, as you do with wine, then reach for the hard stuff.

Because drinking spirits is not enjoyable.  If it was, mixers wouldn’t exist.

Spirits also bring, as aforementioned, and depending on the spirit in question, a certain clarity of thought.

Gin.  Instant Hogarthian and Dickensian purity, being able to describe with absolute clarity the cruddy undersole of the human condition, be it sociatial or personal.

Vodka.  Ah, vodka.  The easy association would be with Russian novels so thick they look like normal novels that have fallen into the bath.  And that’s about right.  Always, always be suspicious of any alcohol that is clear.  Rule of thumb, if it looks like you could clean spark plugs with it, avoid ingesting it.

Bourbon.  Interestingly, not actually a drink in and of itself.  Bourbon is Scotch and sweetness, like the classic cocktail of Scotch and Irn Bru.  Bourbon is one of those wonderful drinks that foreigners make.  It’s like one of those ‘fuLl engliSH breaKFasts’ that you see advertised on Greek island tavernas, with an image of the Full English that the attempt on your plate bears little resemblance to.  The genius of bourbon production is this; just as Scotch is named for a geographical area which enables the purchaser to build brand loyalty based on faux clan association, so naming your beverage after a backwoods hillbilly, Confederate general or similar will enable your customers to decide whether they are Daniels or Beam, without realising that because of the amount of sugary syrup added to the booze required to make the muck drinkable, they are all Colas.

Scotch.  The associations are largely positive.  Spies (of the right sort).  Men with the right sort of beard.  The sort of chap who has an estate in the Highlands and who vacates London during August.

In fact Scotch is the only spirit to write on, and to read on.  Picture an author with a tumbler of scotch by his (lady authors are also available) side.  Pull back.  Typewriter?  Helicopter extract?  Very possibly, and more importantly, possibly not just on the page.

Spirits, never in the form of ‘shorts’ which in any civilized society are never a measure of alcohol and only ever the apparel of adolescent schoolboys, but rather served as the more manly ‘large one’, are also the preferred drink, or ‘lunch’, as the technical term has it, of journalists.  In particular, whisky is the go-to drink of foreign correspondents.  This is because it not only helps them blot out any horrors of war they may encounter, but, back in the day when wars had not yet migrated to the dusty arsehole of the world where people didn’t drink (hence: war), whisky was currency.  Apparently during the 1970s, it was standard practice to produce at any border crossing, in this order; a litre of Johnny Walker, a carton of 200 fags, your passport, your press credentials.

Single malt may be the tipple of choice for fiction writers and for heroic explorers who publish bestselling accounts of their travels (possibly posthumously).  For the journalist though, it has to be whisky and for the epitome of the journalist, the foreign correspondent, it has to be Johnny Walker, named for the famous Radio 2 DeeJay.  Classy.

Of course, today, a foreign correspondent today is more likely to be holed up in Costa sipping latte, weaving a story out of unsubstantiated tweets and blog posts, Wiki entries and Google Earth snapshots than actual reportage.

Write on beer

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We continue with…beer.

I am writing this in the pub.  It’s actually called ‘The Red Lion’, which might give an insight into the sort of place it is, at three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, which might give you an indication of my commitment to my research.  Pubs off hours are very different to pubs when civilians (those who drink at Christmas/anyone who orders a Guinness last when getting a round in) frequent them.  They are communities.  The barmaid (who doesn’t know me, I hasten to add, I’m not rich enough to make a habit of this) asked me how I was?  OK, this may be barcraft 101 but it’s also a loaded question.  I’m in a pub at three in the afternoon, chances are things may not be going well (I will need many drinks) or I am celebrating something (many, many drinks, you’re not found ‘not guilty’ every day).  Actually, I see why she asked.

It’s also got a priests hole, and once upon a time there would have been a humorous sign, but Yewtree has fucked that for us as well.

The drink of choice is Stella Artois.  If ever there was an advertising Big Lie, Stella is a prime example of it.  Marketed as posh lager, it even comes, Belgian style, served in its own glass, a goblet style thing.  Anyone who is familiar with this beer knows that it should indeed be served in its own drinking vessel, but that this should be a plastic pint glass.  Stella, you see, has a reputation for turning people into aggressive nutters.

So what should one write on Stella?  Well, I am typing one handed while I make notes for a series of books that will be written under the pen-name of ‘Jack Stroud’ and will follow the fortunes of the males of the ‘Fret’ family as they fight in every war since..,let’s see, yes, the English Civil War.  Titles so far include ‘Royal Fret’, ‘Fret in Tartan’, ‘Fret at the Front’, ‘Frontline Fret’, ‘Fret and the Ruby’, ‘Fret Pulls It Off’, ‘Fret of the Artic’, ‘Fret of the Antarctic’, ‘Fret of the Falklands’, ‘Frantic Fret’, ‘The Fret Files’ (short stories) and, of course, ‘Fret with Wings’ (possibly featuring a female Fret).

Obviously, these will take off (especially the last one).  At that point, I employ an army of ghost writers and project the story of the Fret family backwards, as the Fret family take on the French, the Dutch, the Romans and the Vikings.

A movie adaptation you say?  Ha!  Remember, I’ve been drinking.  Stick your movie option up your arse, along with your assertion that this entire idea is predicated on the plot line from the Forrest Gump movie that every male in Lieutenant Dan’s family line had fought and died in some conflict.

I’m thinking…cut out and dress doll line.  Right?  Right?  Remember those 2D dolls you used to get in the back of magazines, with cut out clothes and tabs and so on?  Well, how about a Fret…but with loads of uniforms, it would be a cross between a really crap and outdated effort to keep kids quiet and a cutting edge publishing phenomenon and, here’s the kicker, it would be fucking useless on Kindle, unless Kindle comes with a printer.

Also, I’d market the cut out and keep doll and costumes with a colouring book and crayons and bundle it with the latest book in the Fret series, subtitled ‘Last of the Frets’ but titled in Great Britain ‘Fucking Fret!’ and in the US or any other country that doesn’t speak English properly ‘Fret’s annoyed’.  The plot is, er, just like the other plots, Fret has a hard time in some conflict, considers leaving, thinks on his family, rediscovers his courage and fucks somebody over with a rusty bayonet that belonged to his grandfather, or a pottery shard that a distant relative left buried in the sand, or in the side of an enemy also buried in the sand…

…details are unimportant.  What’s important is that the story involves Fret, this Fret, finding a diary from a Fret, that Fret, who fought in some previous war that, and here we go, not only gives him the courage to fight on, but actually reveals a hidden path to outflank the enemy.

Fuckin’ YEA!  This is going to be the first colouring book ever to win a BAFTA.  Did I type BAFTA, I mean Booker.  Fuck it, they need to invent a new category of BAFTA, or merge them, the first BOOFTA winner is, me!

So.  That’s beer then.  I suspect bitter might, paradoxically, inspire one to write something bucolic, possibly involving a bicycle and a clergyman, maybe even a crime thriller. But lager?  Lager is a war story in a glass.  Goblet.  Plastic beaker.  Whatever.

Write on white

Famously, Laurie Lee, one of the nation’s most beloved novelists, wrote ‘on wine’.  Whether or not he was ever drunk in charge of a typewriter is unclear but one has to entertain the possibility that, as a poet, he typed without due care and attention.  He did his writing in the Greek Islands, presumably because in the days before bargain booze, affordable New World wines or even Blue Nun, this was the only way he could become sufficiently inebriated to welcome the Muse should she come to visit.  Also, proximity to Mt Parnassus may have helped.

Rock stars smoke, inject, inhale and presumably occasionally insert for inspiration.  Writers drink.  Christ alone knows why, as excessive booze normally leads to feelings of alienation from the world and a profound sense of being under-appreciated and misunderstood, all of which is achievable through the simple act of publishing a slim volume of verse.  Alcohol also inhibits early morning creativity, and certain writers famously were at their creative peak at first light.  Presumably this meant they could post the latest chapter of their novel off to their publishers at eleven in the morning on their way to the pub.

However, in the spirit of enquiry G&P is embarking on a five-part special to explore the effects of various types of alcohol on writing, beyond those of not being able to remember that fantastic idea for a novel you had last night (something about a boy wizard?) just before you passed out, or not being able to decipher the notes scrawled on a beermat that could be a poem, or somebody’s e mail address.

We being with…white wine.

White wine suits poets.  It’s bucolic.  It’s also, these days (as Stewart Lee would say) bloody strong.  Back in the day, there’s a chance that Laurie Lee was drinking something delicious, refreshing, good with fish and not terribly alcoholic.  So, a couple of glasses with lunch and then crank out a few thousand words of gorgeous literature, then a nap.  Great.  The poets of today do not have it so easy.  White wine is literary rocket fuel, in that all the action happens very quickly and in a very short space of time.  First sip, feel inspiration tingle, middle third of glass, burst of creativity, bottom third of glass, decision time.  Second glass, your day’s work is over.  The only major literary decision you are going to make for the rest of the day is trying to get the password on your Majestic account right to order another crate of the stuff.

The thing about white wine is this, it’s an event in a glass.  It should be served chilled, cold enough to disguise the fact that you are serving your guests the £3.99 special with notes of grass and petrol.  This should chill the glass, resulting in that race to the bottom before it gets warm that only The Queen is immune to (special gloves, liver like a…well, liver like a monarch rather than a weak and feeble woman).  Glasses of white wine look especially good when placed next to manual typewriters.  The portions are these:

A bottle of white wine in the afternoon – poets

A carafe of white wine – novelists

A glass of white wine – readers and people who think that they have something fresh to write about vampires.

Alcohol, of course, is famous for allowing one to overcome one’s inhibitions.  To this extent, the reveal of the true self, one wonders if Dr Jekyll’s formula was actually: gin.  But if employed by the author, white wine, very much the perky, sharp, slightly noisome friend/fiend in the bottle, can be beneficial.

It’s summer.  Bees drone, lawnmowers drone, drones, well, buzz, which is odd, because bees also buzz, and some bees are drones, but few if any bees carry cameras.

OK, I’ve had a glass of wine.  That’s the rule.  Drink while you write.  I don’t make the rules, apart from this one.

Oh, and fank thuck for spelllcheck.

Right.  It’s summer, cows moo, bees drone and the poet or novelist is in his or her shed.  It’s too hot to write, it’s too hot to think.  Cotton is sticking to buttock in a way that is more uncomfortable than alluring.  Then.  Sandwiches and a glass of white wine.

The inspiration flows.  The verse is conjured, the stanzas flow.  The plot thickens as the characters develop, maybe one of the characters has a glass of wine and a ham sandwich.  I would read that book.

Cold white wine is a shock to the system, it’s invigorating.  It opens up a world of wonder and excitement and here’s why authors really, really love it, it leaves us wanting more.

Associated with: spy novel, novels about the Napoleonic war, poetry about hedges, anything to do with sport (grass notes), anything to do with the sea (great with fish), any author who writes 250 words a day.  Literary lunches.  Literary launches.

White wine is very much a summer drink, while glorious halcyon days may be bad for creativity, who needs inspiration when you have condensation beading on the outside of the glass?  After a second glass it’s time to put away the typewriter, and Google the reviews of your last book, after a third, the real work of the afternoon, going on Amazon under an assumed name and reviewing/shitting all over the latest offering from that wanker who called your last effort ‘disappointing’.

Finally, white wine is the only drink on the planet whose character is wholly unchanged by being served in a plastic receptacle.  At a literary festival?  Don’t know what to order?  Let me tell you what’s going to be delicious, refreshing and pleasingly cool in the hand in a sweaty marquee in a summer in the Shires.  Served from a box?  Oh, OK.

Kindles can't stop a bullet!

Books, famously, furnish a room, and arguably a soul.  They also furnish a handbag, a backpack, a messenger bag and a pocket.  Especially a pocket.  It has been suggested that, back in the days when Penguin were publishing what are now described as design classics fit to feature on mugs and deckchairs, but back then were, you know, books, artful seducers used to carefully select just which book would be just visible jutting jauntily from their (tweed) jacket pocket, ensuring that any impressionable young woman might note that the dashing chap at the end of the bar was familiar with Lady Chatterly, and opening up the possibility that she might play ‘Mrs Mellors’ for a short time.

Books are also something of a comfort.  There’s a reason why the ‘YA’ section of your average high street book store is enormous, it’s because the only thing that teenagers consume more of than fiction about misunderstood young people is haribo and zit cream.  If, as a teenager, you are so confused that you don’t even understand yourself (except for your feelings about Lizzy Feathergrew who sits across from you in double chemistry, your feelings for her are very, very clear, but you wonder if she’s into girls) then it’s good to read about teenagers struggling with being teenagers.  If they also have to struggle with vampires, alien invasions or oppressive regimes, then so much the better.  Just read that shit up and wait until you’re twenty six, sitting at your desk or standing at your lathe or slinging latte or assisting at lambing time or whatever, and you go bolt upright (very much like you used to do at the thought of Lizzy Feathergrew) and say, out loud, ‘Fuck.  Allegory!’.  Then move on.

We take books into uncertain environments.  There are rightly celebrated relics of the battlefield, books that have stopped bullets because the soldier in question was either clever or fortunate enough to have a book, for instance The Bible, in a pocket that covered an important organ (not The Mighty Wurlitzer).  That The Bible has saved the lives of so many Tommies because of its ballistic blocking abilities is less to do with its miraculous heritage and more, I would suggest, to do with the fact it records everything from the creation to Armageddon.

Ironically, if our gallant soldier was carrying a slim volume of verse by a poet reflecting on the horrors of war, he’d be fucked.

The moral of the story, if you are going into battle, read Stephen King.

Sadly, there are still too many battlefields.  There are also many uncertain environments.  And no environment is more uncertain than ‘abroad’.  That is why the choice of holiday reading is so important.

If it’s a beach holiday, then the prime directive is this; you must not be precious about the bottom of your book absorbing around a litre of perspiration from the tummy you rest it on (hopefully yours, if you rest your book on somebody else’s tummy whilst on holiday, you are reading the wrong blog) and being forever impregnated with the scent of suncream.

As an arch bibliophile (look it up before calling the police) I find the notion of giving away a book about as disturbing as the notion of trying to track down Lizzy Featherstone on social media years after she left school.  Without saying goodbye.

Anyway, despite requiring counselling if I lend somebody a book, I am tremendously impressed by the libraries that spring up in resorts, where tourists drop off one book and pick up another.  Like literary STDs.

There should be a military imprint of bestsellers, with Kevlar front and back covers.  If nothing else, this would enable some squaddie somewhere to proudly show off his copy of ‘Fuck the French’ with a bullet embedded in the front cover (a picture of Jeremy Clarkson, in leather jacket and jeans, looking incredulous).

Bullet position?  Head or crotch.  You choose.

As might the enemy.  As with ‘Mrs Mellors’, might your attention be drawn to a cheeky cover poking out of a pocket and, if you were a foreigner might you think ‘Ah, Clarkson’?

Books, you see, are the best defence.  Ask a teenager.

Clubabble Computer Games

Gentleman’s clubs.

Misogynistic bastions of privilege where men retreat from a world they do not understand and which values they do not share, in short, a world with females in positions of authority.

Gentlemen like women in a position of authority in only two circumstances, when they are dealing out either punishment, or pudding.  Imagine a typical Gentleman’s club, such as the Apostrophe Club just off Pell Mell, founded in 1742 by greengrocers, or the Europa Club, universally known as ‘The Green Door’, founded as a retreat where Valets could relax and bitch about their employers (and of course famously fictionalised by P G Wodehouse as the ‘Junior Granymede’).  They conjure an image, do they not, of deep armchairs, blazing fires, dusty libraries, members flaccid beneath The Times or the Pink ‘Un, and the aroma of cabbage and spotted dick emerging from the dining room, although it will never be called the dining room, it will have some preposterous title such as ‘The Restorvation’ or ‘The Games Room’, the latter an excellent example of how clubs like to fuck with strangers by giving each room a title totally unconnected with its purpose, leading to visitors defecating in ‘The Billiards Room’, meaning a lifetime ban for them, and Korky Gussalt winning twenty guineas for pulling off the most impressive, and disturbing, trick shot ever achieved on the brown baize.

Gentleman’s clubs, it could be argued, by their very intransigence, are preserving our heritage.  Manners, decency, drinking at lunchtime, smoking, racism both institutional and personal, a fear of the underclass, the greatest fear being the realisation we can’t do without them and, of course, the most unfashionable value of all to hold, that as a chap you don’t understand women, that you will never understand them and that, deep down, this is because they don’t want to be understood.

If you doubt me, look to Shakespeare, look to Dickens, look to (Amis, once upon a time your name would have been here, not any more, you arse) Barnes.  Look to any chap who has ever put pen to paper and they will tell you women are unknowable.

It’s not charming, it’s a fucking conspiracy.

And that’s the sort of attitude that allows you to establish a club called ‘The Citadel’, to admit only male members (ooh er!) and then, and this is the genius part, charge £5,000 a year for membership but make it so difficult to get into that people are pathetically grateful to pay to get in, like a shit night club on rainy Thursday in Droitwich.

With all the oak and tweed about the place, not to mention testosterone, gentleman’s clubs are an excellent place for the playing of games.  These include games of chance, such as card games, games of skill, such as backgammon, and games of social exclusion, such as Dungeons and Dragons.  Where chaps gather, a game will soon be in the offing, even if it is ‘club cricket’ played in the Short Room with a bread roll as ball and copy of Wisden as bat.

The only other place where the female presence is this unlikely is the bedroom of a teenage boy.

These too, are environments where the playing of games is indulged in, although in this case ‘backgammon’ is likely to be the name of the level VII war-warg that ‘Acroblaster the Destroyer’ (AKA Simon) rides into battle.

It’s time that the console came into the club.

Men join clubs because they are socially awkward.  If they weren’t, they would be able to make friends without having to be in close confinement with others, with alcohol, that they know generally share their views.  What I am suggesting is that instead of feeling comfortable starting a sentence ‘I’m not racist but…’ they should feel comfortable flopping down in an armchair, picking up a controller and doing unspeakable things to one another during a 72 hour Halo tournament.  Or even better, challenging other clubs, or ‘guilds’ as they will quickly become known.  Gambling may be involved, it’s one thing to play for honour, another to bet your chef.

Naturally, a gaming room would have to be established on the premises.  I suggest ‘The TenBox Room’.

Review - The Warden

A masterpiece and, fittingly for a novel about money, a plot that revolves around accountability. It’s a compelling story of a good man who tries above all to do good in an imperfect world where others, through ignorance or because they are misguided or, in the case of members of the press, because they are vile, cause harm either intentionally or unintentionally.
This is a stunning novel, but with every turn of the page the reader mutters ‘this will not end well’. The question here is not so much can a good man triumph? but rather what would his triumph look like, and what, coming back to accountability, would be the cost?
It is, however, an absolute joy to read.
I grew up in a cathedral town and, reading the description of Barchester in the opening pages of ‘The Warden’, where Trollope describes the town in loving detail, I was convinced that he had based his fictional Barchester on my home town. Trollope’s description of everything from the cathedral close to the alms houses that the plot of the novel turns on being, if not exact, then an entirely faithful depiction of the essence of the places in the town I grew up in.
Then again, anyone who has grown up in a cathedral town will probably claim the same. There is a pattern to those places. More probably, it is Trollope’s genius that makes the place familiar.
As there is a pattern to the cathedral closes of Barchester, there is a pattern to the story here too, although that is by no means a weakness. Rather, the reader progresses with a gathering sense of foreboding as the tale simultaneously unfolds and tangles.
An honourable man is confronted with a criticism of his character by a family friend when the accusation is levelled at him that he, the titular Warden of the alms houses, profits personally from an arrangements that sees the residents of the alms houses disadvantaged.
Essentially, everyone is content until an individual acts out of a misguided sense of public spiritness, with the situation further complicated when others with their own agenda intervene to their own ends.
This is, in short, an astonishing book, and a compelling read.
In it Trollope takes aim at some obvious targets, but justly so. Given that the principal characters in the book are clergymen, and the story features eminent lawyers, it really does say something that it is the press, and the popular press in particular, that is singled out for vilification. Trollope’s demolition of the principles of the press is absolute, his demonisation of those who sit in unaccountable judgement of others they do not even know, utter.
The Warden contains the best depiction of the unaccountability of the press, and the lack of care journalists have for individuals fed to the press that I have ever read. Trollope so neatly captures the self important arrogance of the popular press and those that write it that one is almost compelled to hire a muckspreader and head for Fleet Street to make a not very subtle point about what newspapers are full of.
Barely as the reader stopped muttering ‘fucking right Tony!’ when Trollope takes aim at the even less accountable, anonymous, ‘author’, the pamphleteer hiding behind an alias, sharing their ill informed opinions in a desperate bid to be as popular as they are smug (which would take some doing).
Having essentially destroyed the tabloids and bloggers, the reader might expect lawyers to come in for some criticism also. The reader is not disappointed.
The church itself is spared harsh criticism. True, it’s the Anglican faith being described here, so the only thing the choirboys need to be worried about is being late for evensong, but generally the priests of Bartchester are a jolly pleasant bunch who are genuinely committed to serving the spiritual needs of their flock.
‘The Warden’ is a compelling tale of the unintended consequences of the actions of those who meddle to do well, how events once set in motion can move beyond the control of those that set them in motion, and how those without morality or honour seek to exploit discord for personal gain.

Book Clubs

How ironic that what is for most a solitary occupation should give rise to social occasions in the form of the book club.

For most people, reading is a solitary occupation.  There are exceptions.  The bed time story between parent and child, the story time in school or library between CRB checked adult and children, or the public reading between author and crowd he wishes were younger, hipper and more attractive or she wishes were not so bloody condescending to women writers.

Of course there is always that moment when you see somebody else reading the same book as you on public transport and share either a nod, a knowing glance, or bodily fluids, depending on just how racy the book in question is., another delightful social convention the Kindle is killing off until they come up with one with a back screen that shows the cover of whatever you’re reading.

Certain books are exempt from the ‘Oh, you’re reading that too?’ moment.  These are Harry Potter books and anything by John Grisham.  The same goes for any book duplicated poolside or on the beach.  Any book from the Song of Ice and Fire cycle is actually fair game, especially if the other person is behind you in their reading, allowing you to sharply draw breath when they mention their favourite character.

There are, of course, certain books that essentially are a public service announcement.  Don’t strike up a conversation with any woman reading ’50 shades of grey’ unless you really enjoy hearing about unhappy relationships.  If you see anyone reading ‘Catcher in the Rye’ they may not be a psycho, but can you really take that chance?  Oddly, anyone reading ‘American Psycho’ is probably normal, but would rather read than talk to you so is best left alone.

Where we read is in our own space, in our own head.  If we want company, we do the voices of the characters in our head while we read.  Mostly, we don’t.

On the one hand then, the very existence of book clubs is surprising.  Everyone actually getting organised enough to read the same book at the same time?  Amazing.  What’s more, that this should happen in England?  A place where usually nobody ventures a critical opinion about anything, unless it’s a tut!  Newspaper review supplements should change their star ratings to a tut/star rating system.  If a book is OK, it gets a star, if it’s amazing, it gets five stars.  But if it’s awful, it gets a tut, and if it’s really awful, it gets five tuts.

On the other hand, anyone who finishes a book immediately wants to tell people about it.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a novel, a travelogue or ‘Amazing Buns In Just Five Weeks’, give somebody a glass of white wine and a voulevont and they will spit damp crumbs at you in their enthusiasm to communicate just how good the latest Patricia Cornwall is.

Haven’t read it?

Doesn’t matter, it’s like a fucking abridged audiobook, you’ll get the potted plot in three minutes, followed by thirty minutes of just how relevant the book was to the reader.  Bonus material can include, but is not limited to, who should play what roles in any movie adaptation.

The book club formalises this process.  If it’s a crap club, then everyone talks books for five minutes before talking about soft furnishings.  If it’s a good one, then everyone maintains a veneer of respectability for about five minutes before acrimony occurs.

Because the English, when forced to read the same book, can have wildly different opinions, and that’s what makes book club so much fun.  That and alcohol (my book club meets in a pub).

And it is a great social occasion.  You get to try out new skills, like back-pedalling from the brink of social mortification after you open with ‘it was shit and anyone who liked it is a peado’, only to find yourself in a minority and secretly starting to wonder if the rest of the group are just a little bit thick, or peados.

No book club in your area?  Start one.  You get to choose the first book!  I recommend ‘American Psycho’.

Hard time, no Hard Times

Pickled predators and bisected bovines do not impress me, nor do unmade tents or embroidered beds.  I am not a fan of the YBAs who are, if not yet quite OAPBAs, certainly now MORBAs.
Nor am I a fan of VYBAs, a group who, denied conventional gallery space, appear to exhibit their work on the partitions of open plan office veal crates, countless fridge doors and occasionally framed on the wall in the home of indulgent to the point of misguided middle class parents.
Apparently the best selling reproduction of an artwork (that's 'postcard' for those of you not fluent in bollocks), unjustly unseating that poster of that bird playing tennis scratching her arse, is that one of the butler and the dancing couple on the beach.  But I'm not so sure.  Based on personal observation the most popular artwork in the homes of, certainly couples aged twenty five to forty, is a dun-coloured splodge of paint radiating a few spidery lines with the word 'Dady' crudely crayoned in the corner.
Denied a traditional commercial foothold in the art world, it's surprising that VYBAs appear to be responsible for such a large amount of the output of the greeting card sector.  Possibly this is because it is considered charming, and socially acceptable, for a child to labour over a piece of folded A4 with some paint and glitter, the result bringing a tear to the eye of many an affected relative, possibly encouraged by their third breakfast birthday sherry of the morning.  A cynic might remark that if the little sod hadn't spunked their pocket money on Haribo, they might have been able to spring for a decent, shop bought card, possibly featuring a beloved syndicated cartoon cat or a vintage photograph with a humorous caption.
What's undeniable is that the are occasions when a hand-made card featuring splodges, glitter and ill-spelled words of affection are of incalculable value (maybe that's why the work of VYBAs does not appear in galleries, the owners find it hard to calculate their commission of affection), most importantly when a parent is separated from their child.  A child can't write you a two-thousand word letter with news from home like your mother, or send you racy poleroids of themselves in their scanties like your partner, but when it comes to communicating love across distance, a little bit of glitter of a bit of folded coloured card goes a long way to letting you know you're being thought of on your birthday when you are far from home, or worse, far from a Greggs.
Which is why the Government's policy of preventing prisoners receiving home-made cards would appear to be actual, calculated, wickedness.
Prisoners are possibly the one group in this country that the Government can penalise even more freely than public sector workers, who at least have a union to speak for them.  The latest announcement from the Home Office (once described by Armando Iannucci as 'twinned with Mordor', a joke far too good not to repeat here and often) is that prisoners may no longer receive books as presents from the outside world.  Apparently they have to work in the salt mines or whatever to earn the cash to buy such 'luxuries' (good to see the policies of the Department for Education, which has long considered books in state schools luxuries, spreading, like a shitty tide).  Que outraged Bleats on Blather from outraged authors, and not just the ones popular in prison like Jeff Archer, condemning this, Bleats which also revealed that this policy extends to packages containing underwear and, wait for it, home-made birthday cards.
In a masterclass of evasiveness, twisting like a sweating peado in a vigilant's head-lock, the prisons minister, when interviewed on BBC Radio 4s Toady programme, managed to not answer any questions about withholding literature, banning pants and penalising small children squarely.  In this, it's fair to say, he was ably assisted by the presenter who missed the most obvious question, the question the listening nation was shouting in a collective cloud of teadrops, toast crumbs and marmite fumes, which was 'what the actual fuck?'.
Apparently, the news from the Home Office is that searching packages going into prisons takes resource.  Yes, yes it does.  But that's why you have people in prisons who aren't prisoners.
I don't, thank goodness, know much about prisons.  But I do know that you have to check stuff.  Cakes, they have to be X-rayed to ensure that there are no files in them.  Outgoing laundry trucks have to be searched or, if time is precious, randomly stabbed with a pitchfork.  Vaulting horses have to be looked under in exercise yards.  You even have to check the attic from time to time for evidence of glider.
All these are sensible measures, but banning children's cards to their parent is just cruel.  What the fuck is the danger, are they afraid the con is going to sniff the glue securing the glitter?
The underwear thing is ridiculous too.  Unless the state is going to provide fresh undies for everyone.  One Bleat from a woman was making the point that if you stop gifts of underwear, you have to rely on the state for scanties.  Municipal pants sound about as grim as it gets, but not as grim as having to rely on municipal bras.  As we have seen, anyone relying on this administration for support of any kind if fucked.
The book ban is even more sinister than it is ignorant, and that's going some.  Apparently inmates can buy 'approved' books from a 'catalogue'.
I am so appalled by the idea I can barely type.
But...
What the fuck!  Who is choosing what people can and cannot read?  Possibly the only fucking benefit to society of incarcerating somebody other than getting wrong-un's off the streets and seeing justice done is to have somebody come out of prison a better person than they went in, and I don't see a restricted reading list helping that?  And what's in the catalogue?  Government approved books.  Is this fucking North Korea?
I'm no fan of this government, but this really is the lowest sort of unjustifiable, petty, vindictive and short-sighted unmitigated bollocks.