Dating Advice from Theodosius II

Close your eyes. Picture this…

Tim arrives for a date. (Girls; linger on this image for a while. Take your time. Go on - indulge yourselves. You’re worth it!)

So, I’m showered and smelling of - I dunno - David Beckham deodorant and Obsession. Wearing jeans and jacket. Smart shoes. You lucky girl whoever you are! We do the get-a-drink thing and sit down. We talk about our day, how we got here, some random observations about the bar we're in (for it will be a bar). And then. And then.

Well apparently, there's websites out there that supply approved first date questions. If you run dry of conversation, you're supposed to throw one of these into your date to get things going. For example: -

·       Who is the biggest influence on your life?

·       What was your favourite movie / song of all time?

·       Who is your best friend and why?

·       What were you like growing up?

·       What's your goal in life right now?*

·       What's your bucket list of places to go to?

·       Blah - fucking - blah

It's rehearsed spontaneity, the wisdom of a parrot, the 'I'm mad me' humour of the unfunny. In other words, nothing - nothing would turn me off more than some lady asking me to discuss the greatest influence on my life. **

Of course, I accept that someone who reeled off some bollox question has probably put some thought into our date which in itself is charming. Or an indication that she goes on a lot of dates and is on auto-pilot. Or boring.

The point stands for blokes though too. Boring bastards with no wit but tall enough to get some girl to agree to a date. If you then rely on pre-scripted bon mots, well I’d have to put you to the sword like Stilicho in Ravenna. No mercy ladies.

This somewhat reminds me of the ‘Chechnya’ scene in Brigitte Jones where Brigitte – in order to impress upon Hugh Grant her seriousness – intones ‘But what about Chechnya’ and he responds ‘I couldn’t give a fuck’ and asks her to talk about her lesbian experiences (or just make shit up).

And the purpose of this curmudgeonly ramble? Advice to a perspective girlfriend? Advice to nervous dates that they just be themselves and let the god of wine be your guide? Perhaps, snidey bitching from life’s sidelines? Yeah, that’ll be it.

So, let me leave you with some real advice:-

No-one regrets what they did. They regret what they didn’t.

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NOTES

*Seriously – what’s my goal right now? On a date? Er, let’s think… Ooh, it’s on the tip of my tongue (like you will be in half an hour).

Was that crude? I apologise. But weakly.

** The greatest influence on my life? I would, of course, answer ‘drink’. I mean, like, doh! Exit pursued by a bear.

*** The Monday night find a husband / running club is humongous tonight. Lots of ladies. They completely outnumber the nerds trying to (get laid) get fit. If I wasn’t double their age, I’d seriously consider donning the lycra myself.

And Theodosius II? Well, he was ruler of the Eastern Roman Empire in the early 5th Century. When asked about what qualities he wanted in his future wife, he replied, "Well as long as she's good to look at." And so, that's what he got, a good-looking wife. A simple story but effectively rendered, I feel. 

Prince. FFS

Watch this homage to George Harrison. And then watch Prince Roger Nelson tear it up at 3.36.

Legend.

Or as George would have said Leg End.

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A Solipsism Too Far.

I have this gift. When I hear some words or phrases my brain simultaneously translates them into what linguists call Tim's English. Tim's English is a strange variation from Common English in that the main differences are not driven by dialect but by meaning. Let me give you some examples to explain what I mean:-

English               Tim's English

Tim's English .              Solipsistic bullshit. Made up bollocks to amuse the writer of self referential blogs.

Barista.                         Wanker who serves coffee (I hate coffee shops - do you know that?)

Jeremy Corbyn.           Albert Steptoe

We welcome diversity.     Apart from diversity of thought.

Striking to protect public safety.  Bullshit.

Women don't worry about such things.  Lies

I'm only thinking of the children.  And a holiday in the sun.

Trump's not my president.  Whiney baby loses dummy

Hard Brexit.   Leave the EU as mandated in the UK Referendum 23rd June

Franco's Fiesta.   Rejected manuscript

Austerity.     Smaller than trend increases in government spend. Doubling of the National Debt

"The people in Battersea Arts Centre would really enjoy your blog Tim."  - Balls meet knife.

Green Energy.   Tax on the poor and old to give rich lefties bragging rights

Facebook Friends.  Annoying wankers you used to know but accepted their friend request one night when you were pissed. Surreptitiously blocked later when sober.

"I've only had two glasses of wine."  Two plus two...

"You're really funny Tim!"    I prefer my men tall and boring.

Aid Superpower.   Country where help for the poor or elderly or infirm is rationed so rich politicians can feel good about themselves spending other people's money on ridiculous vanity projects overseas.

"It's your round"   What, again?

Racist                    Someone who disagrees with the (left-wing) speaker. Used to close down debate and legitimise subsequent unreasonable behaviour (see reaction to Brexit or Trump)

Tories                    Socialists who went to public school or grammar schools (before they closed them down). Social mobility? Ladders? Move on, nothing to see here.

"I only started writing last year."      Liar

BBC / C4 Comedy Panel Show      Unfunny left-wing shit

Edgy Comedy                                   Unfunny left wing shit

Tim's Blog                                        Funny, balanced and penetrating analysis

Funny, balance, penetrating analysis   Bullshit

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Tim's Sapphic Misadventures

Are there more lesbians these days or is it just my fevered imagination?

Maybe it's where I go (Brighton / Battersea). Or maybe it's my rugged good looks attracting the waverers.  Or maybe it's more socially acceptable in 2017. Who knows.

But this march of the sisters doesn't upset me. Well, apart from one thing... 

Three times in the last month, sat at my table, tapping away, looking both authorial and yet approachable, I've been smiled at by single attractive women. Now, being eyed up by women is pretty usual for me - I am a basic pleasure model after all - but even-so, their interest tweaked my own. Maybe, smile back? Offer a drink? I'm a machine; turn me on and I deliver results.*

And then. And then their girlfriend turns up and they start to kiss. And not in a peck on the cheek kinda way. Tongues involved. One particularly attractive couple of ladies next to me on the train a couple of months ago were snogging and feeling each other up all the way from East Croydon to Burgess Hill. It was like I'd stepped into some porno movie. But with no part for me. I mulled about this - overly long - when I got home. Too long.

Okay, so maybe I view all of human life through the lens of my own single status (why not?) but it's a cruel trick ladies. A cruel trick I fall for time and again. Which means I'm increasingly getting paranoid, afraid of hitting on a lesbian by mistake. I respect people's lifestyle. So now, I don't do anything. I look away when a single, attractive girl smiles at me. Read more Roman history.

Yeah. That would it Tim. Lesbians. Why you're single. Yeah.

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* The bullshit is strong in this one tonight.

The Bottle and The Sock

My blogging has been somewhat sporadic of late. You've noticed? You may not believe it, but I write much more than I publish. Whilst there's many a slip t'wix cup and lip, there's many a dodgy blogpost that gathers cyber dust in this site's Draft folder - ruthlessly rejected from a public airing.

So, I reserve the more outre ramblings and website bootlegs for my short stories. You see my short stories are 'literary' and as such all manner of solipsistic navel gazing is permissible. Demanded, in fact.

Standard Tim Robson short story:-

Single 40 something professional (optionally short and bald) meets some quirky, and yet attractive, lady in, say, Battersea Arts Centre. They drink. They joke. They laugh. They may or may not end up together. The world turns and scratches its arse. The end.

Between you and me, I think I've entertained us all enough with this particular plot line.  Which is a shame because I've just churned out another in my Henry Ford production line of short stories. This new opus has all the plot features listed above plus the added, and experimental, bonus, that the action takes place in two bars, not just Battersea Arts Centre. Fuck off James Joyce, come and have a go if you think you're hard enough! I feel I'm growing as a writer, you know; exploring ideas, running with creative concepts, challenging myself. Screwing with that envelope.

Yeah, whatever Balzac.

Anyway, The Bottle and The Sock will be the last in this particular series of what some are already calling (me mainly) my Clapham short stories. I feel I've outgrown the medium. I'll still enter these unfertilised children into competitions. My stuff may be samey but it's good. Production line Tim Robson is better than niche anyone else.* Watch the list of stories published grow like a national debt under a Labour government. Or indeed, the bloody Tories. Doubled? 

So if I'm not writing short stories what will I be doing with my undoubted - if little recognised - literary talents.* Poetry? Perhaps - but part of me thinks this is like the UK concentrating on minority sports at the Olympics and winning loads of gold in, say, pistol shooting. Or Canoeing. Or sailing. Who gives a fuck? We'd all prefer a 800m win like the Brighton god that is Steve Ovett. Or Seb Coe in the 1500m. Twice. Alan Swells. 

Of course I mean a novel. There's a great state of the nation, the times we live in, epoch defining novel in me. It's what the world needs right now (well, about 2018 as opuses take a while to write a classic. In an attic. Cause I'm an addict.). And without revealing too much of the plot, I think it will hit the zeitgeist of now like a whingeing fucking lefty bitching about losing another election.

So - without revealing the plot too much - what will this American Psycho for the second decade of the 21st century be like?

Well I thought it might be interesting to follow the activities of a mid 40's professional guy, divorced, short, bald, and his attempts to come to terms with his life via meaningless dates. I think I might set it in - I dunno - Sussex and Clapham. Or Brighton. And Clapham. Lots of ideas. Many possibilities but I think I've got the core of my story.

What do you think? A page turner, no?

In my left hand is rock. In my right is roll.

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Notes

* Hyperbolic boast not backed up by fact.

Battle Hymn of the Republic

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January Thoughts

“Blow, blow thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thy art not seen
Although thy breath be rude.”

How can you tell it's January?

- Some nob in lycra shorts, a beanie and carrying a collapsible bike panted into the seat next to me on the train this morning. Naturally he was about 45 years old. Red faced with misplaced virtuousness, slimy with sweat. Out of his trendy back pack he produced a 'power shake' and made a show of drinking it loudly with many manly gulps. The green goo probably had berries in it and some spinach or kale or whatever. Tosser. He'll be depressed and fat by March wondering where his wife’s gone and why his kids hate him. Seen it a million times.

- The car park of the local leisure centre is overflowing with wall to wall Renault Espaces as the obese attend their obligatory January health classes (that cost twelve months of subscription). In the gym, they will walk slowly on running machines and do two sets of 1.5K weights, all the time talking loudly to similarly obese friends. Before having a Mars bar, coke and cigarette to celebrate having not showered. Luckily, the car park will be clear again mid February.

- Here in Battersea Arts Centre, the Monday night runners club is swelling more than an adolescent boy's trousers spying on the female changing room. Being all around 28-32 they should just hang signs around their necks 'I want to get married'. Some might wear 'and have babies' too for good measure. Given their age and fitful nature, the group will be half the size by March. Still, lots of weddings to attend summer 2018. 

- The world is full of people doing a ‘dry’ January. Frankly this is about as exciting as getting a hand job when drunk from a bored transvestite in torn fishnets at the end of a long shift. Or so my mate Dan tells me. The radical thing - the cool thing - is to have a 'Get pissed in January' January. That's what the clever people do.

You can tell it’s January because the cold is never as cold as it should be, the snow is never that thick, the money never lasts, the resolutions fail, ennui tears at your soul and good intentions whither.

You can tell it’s January because January is just like any other damn month.

Happy New Year.

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Loose Ends

The Ancient Roman general Sulla twice turned his armies on Rome. Caesar just the once. Later. But who remembers Sulla? Crossing the Rubicon trumps The Battle of the Colline Gate in our collective memory. Which just goes to show that posterity goes to the those that write things down (Caesar) against those that don't (Sulla).

Yeah, a new year hasn't blunted the edge of my pretentiousness. If anything the Xmas break has sharpened it. When not overeating or drinking, I used the time to read up on the decline of the Roman Republic whilst simultaneously ploughing through the decline of the Empire four hundred years later.

I think it's called having depth. Polymathic. Or being single. Whatever.*

Which is I guess a somewhat irrelevant introduction to the real purpose of this blog - tying up loose ends. And what loose ends are these, Tim? Well, the loose ends that I left on this blog at the end of 2016. And no, by loose ends, I don't mean the lady in Quench Bar in Burgess Hill a couple of weeks ago who I never called. **

What I mean is - yawn - Christmas songs. 

Briskly - 

- Best crooner type - Frank Sinatra - The Christmas Waltz

- Best cheesy Xmas song - Last Christmas (RIP George)

- Best carol - Can't choose. I like all five. Like a contemporary school sports day - you're all winners. ***

And lo! we become 2017. Saturnalia is over, the Xmas tree packed away, novelty Santa egg cup awaiting the chill festivities yet to come. 

Let me leave you with an intimate view of Mick and Keef being surprisingly good in 2016.

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Notes (why?)

* Polymathic. Whacked it in. No spell check appeared so I guess the word exists!

** Literally cannot turn it off.

*** "Ever feel you've been cheated?"

Golden Era Xmas Songs

Gosh - I'm so over Christmas.

Today we're nominating the Golden Era of Christmas songs - Bing, Frank, Ella, Tony, Dean. Hey! You know. Class. In a glass.

I'd like to side track and pay tribute to the guy in the baseball cap who reversed from a side street tonight into a busy Wandsworth Road - one handed! His other hand was, naturally enough, holding his phone. Kudos mate! You are my Xmas ***t.*

Nominees

1) Frank SInatra - The Christmas Waltz

2) Nat King Cole - The Christmas Song

3) Snow - Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, Trudy Stephens

4) Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer - Dean Martin

5) Tony Bennett - Winter Wonderland.

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* Those that know me well will be able to fill in the blanked letters on this four letter word.

Mick Taylor and that Guitar Solo

They say the Devil has all the good tunes (except when he goes down to Georgia, of course!). But perhaps just sympathising with Old Nick also conjures up a decent tune too.

I remember the first Stones album I bought myself. I was 15. Coming off the back of a couple of Greatest Hits compilations, I went and bought the live album Get Yer Ya Ya's Out. Live albums can often be a mistake as they tend to offer thin, over-emoting, out-of-tune and unnecessarily long versions of well-loved – and crafted - studio songs.

But not so Get Yer Ya Ya's Out...

It's a tour album commemorating the infamous 1969 US Tour - yes the one that ended with the screw up that was Altamont. I come back to this album frequently. I can safely say; I learnt to play guitar strumming along with this album. Recorded at Madison Square Garden, it captures the Stones as they transitioned away from Brian Jones and into the demi-god led outfit that included Mick Taylor. Finally, the Stones had some serious lead guitar muscle to complement the Human Riff, Keef. They would get better in the next couple of years, but this is the only official live album of the Stones Mark 2 line up.

My fav track was Track 1 / Side 2: Sympathy for the Devil. (“Paint It Black you devils! Do Paint It Black!”) E-D-A verses dropping to B for the chorus. Brilliant to play along with and attempt the extended guitar solo at the end of the track. Yes, I learnt my pitiful lead axeman skills from this track. Well at least for the first minutes of the solo anyway! Because suddenly the solo gets hard - real hard. What is a rhythm guitarist's best ever solo morphs into a shit-hot guitar hero work-out. You can hear the change about 4:30 into the track. It’s almost as though Keef took a snort half way through and felt emboldened to shout "Oi! Hendrix, Clapton - come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough!"

But YouTube and the internet have revealed the mystery behind the split personality on Sympathy for the Devil’s guitar solo. For of course – Keef plays the first half and then hands over to Mick Taylor. In less than two minutes, Mick Taylor pisses on Richards and - in the cock-measuring contest that was the Stones – for the next five years, never again would Keith attempt to challenge Taylor. There has only ever been one lead guitarist in the Stones and his name was Mick Taylor.

I’ll write in due course more about this golden era of the Stones. When they really deserved the moniker ‘The Greatest Rock n Roll Band in the World’. But for now, listen to this audio and you’ll see what I mean. Keef starts soloing at 3:18. Mick Taylor takes over the baton at 4:30 and from 5:20 streaks down the back straight to take both the tape and the Gold Medal.

As I said, the Stones would get better after 1969. Taylor would get more confident – aware that his fluid, melodic soloing would propel songs like Midnight Rambler, Gimme Shelter, Street Fighting Man to ever higher levels. But Get Your Ya Ya’s Out is where it began and, on Sympathy for the Devil, you can hear him shyly but definitely, take over the band’s sound.

Enjoy.

To read other Mick Taylor related articles, click here...

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Christmas Cheese

I wish it could be Xmas everyday, and here it is, Merry Christmas, I'll be lonely this Christmas, Stepping into Christmas, Stop the Cavalry, they said it would snow blah blah blah.

We all know the hey-day of this genre - the 70's and 80's. It's probably the most ubiquitous of my Christmas song categories but also, my least favourite. But - culturally - these cheesy types of festive songs evoke Christmases past, slow dances with girls long forgot in venues either burned down for the insurance money or long converted into flats.

And the nominations for best cheesy Christmas song go to:-

1. 2000 Miles - The Pretenders
2. All I want for Christmas is You - Mariah Carey
3. Last Christmas - Wham, Cascada, Taylor Swift
4. Wrapped in Red - Kelly Clarkson
5. One More Sleep - Leona Lewis

Yeah - I added a couple of more modern ones as I think the genre kinda died in the 80's but these last two are pretty decent reinventions (I've posted Kelly Clarkson's song here already).

Sorry for the multi artist nomination for Last Christmas but I like Cascada's version and Taylor Swift's Holiday EP is pretty awesome and her Last Christmas, countrified, is a great interpretation. 

Anyway - results in a couple of weeks! Please enjoy The King looking (and sounding) his best in 1968 in his comeback special. And yes, it's Elvis on electric lead guitar.

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A Carolling we will go!

I'm going to be publishing a shortlist of carols and, towards Christmas, I'll choose one as the 'Ultimate Carol'. I'll list the other categories in the coming days but The Best Christmas Carol is the most important category.

I did think about opening the results up to a public vote but:

1. I can't be arsed
2. Only two people would vote (both me from different IP addresses)
3. Last time I opened up the comments section on this blog someone helpfully pointed out that I was a sad, pathetic man with no friends who was probably sat in his underpants spewing forth vitriol at the world to hide the fact that he was an inadequate loser.*

So, here is the shortlist:-

1. Every Star Shall Sing A Carol
2. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
3. The Star Carol
4. In the Bleak Mid-Winter
5. See Amid the WInter's Snow

Contenders that just missed out:-

• Little Donkey
• O Little Town of Bethlehem
• Ding Dong Merrily On High
• O Come, All Ye Faithful

So what am I looking for? Well, it's a cocktail, naturally enough. Tune and melody - of course. Many carols fall by the wayside with their insipid or dirge-like melodies. There's a reason why there's about 15 well known carols - many of the others are poor.

Secondly, nostalgia and the power of memory. For a few years I was a Church of England choirboy. But also my schools used to sing carols as part of unashamedly Christian assemblies. Carols were as much a part of Christmas as anything else. Increasingly, in my evolving memory, carols are a growing part of the experience. Which leads me to the third criteria; the spine tingling feeling you get from a carol being sung at full-blast, led by an organ and choir belting out a full counterpointed arrangement as they deliver the nativity story with power and eloquence. A musical but muscular Christianity indeed!

I'm not ashamed to say - I'm a cultural Christian. As I get older I know, it's who I am. It's home. And what better way than through melody to evoke childhood? I'm already looking forward to my one church visit a year when I take my kids to the local Church of England candlelit carol service next week. I spend most of the service with tears in my eyes. Happy tears.

So there are the nominees. My taste is a shifting scale - one moment here, the next there. All the carols mean something, all are worthy. If there's a couple of unfamilair ones, take a listen on Youtube - they are there.

Anyway - a bit of Bert Jansch doing In The Bleak Mid-Winter

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* Clearly the person knew me. It sort of paraphrased - whilst eschewing the flowery language - my own short stories. We are the stories we tell, unfortunately.

An Early Christmas Present!

Merry Christmas readers. Enjoy!

Tim Robson still rocking that cardigan. Hip cat. Play those blues, boy!

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Art or Arse?

I came home last night to find my author copy of Artificium 4 waiting on the mat. This book includes my story 'Second Thoughts'. 

I wrote this story this summer on many, many train journeys back and forth between London from Sussex. There's many disparate events, people, happenings pickled into just one little story about two people going on a date. On some journeys I would change just one word. Often I would spend half an hour editing one paragraph so the tone and the language were correct. What I wrote, what I submit these days is filtered like a fucking Bavarian beer.

Flicking through the printed version though I noticed a couple of things that jarred; stuff I didn't remember; asides, clarifications, extra bits I didn't pen. Now, admittedly last night I was coming down off a good meal (with G&T, wine and port with the cheese) at Gordon Ramsay's London House. So, it could have been just me. (It's often just me). But clearly something wasn't right.

I checked again this morning. Yep - they'd been some editing on my sacred words. How dare they! One especial 'addition' to my text comes right at the end, in the penultimate line. Now I'd deliberately changed tone in the story and so by the last page the theme is one of regret not bitterness. From regret comes salvation. You follow the lead character's thought processes until he gets to this epiphany. 

It's quite touching and if I hadn't written it, I'd think it was an excellent piece of writing.

But like a child with some felt tips 'improving' the Mona Lisa, some jocular words are added before my final, payoff line. It's art, dammit!!!

Fuck it. I got £50 which I spent on a few (two) bottles of wine in London. I have another 'book' to add to my growing collection of near misses and second prizes. 

I'm not precious.

Much. 

Tim

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The other Don

Run Run Rudolph!

Last January I - somewhat bizarrely - promised to publish a list of my favourite Christmas songs. But like a drunken middle-aged man with performance anxiety, who's just met a gorgeous girl and is a bit out of practice, I sadly failed to deliver (the Xmas article).*

Sorry. 

And so here we are, one year on, with my growing readership unaware of what my taste in Christmas songs is. How can that be and must it be tolerated? Obviously not. It's time to let y'all know. Let me remind you of what the categories were:-

1. Carols
2. Hollywood type Christmas songs (roughly 40's to the 60's)
3. Cheesy Christmas pop songs (roughly 70's to the 90's)
4. Folky / world music type Christmas songs
5. Miscellaneous

Well, I'm gonna do some listening in the next few days, remind myself of the contenders, maybe record a video of me playing a couple. Who knows? My axe is cold and needs to be warmed up. On camera. And actually this is important stuff. Food, family, music; hopefully these are givens and so pretty universal. Food I can cover in a later post. But music. Well, it was my first love.

One day I'm gonna write a classic. Maybe in an attic? Cause I'm an addict. An addict for shite lyrics.

So, from London, bon soir.

Cheers

Tim

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*Yes that metaphor was too long. Just having fun with words. It's clearly not based on personal experience. Well, except a story my friend Dan told me. He tells me he's fine now, I believe.

Top 25

I thought I'd take a look at what my i-tunes says are my top 25 tunes. My i-tunes takes input from the following:-

• The computer itself
• My i-phone
• My kids ipads
• The ipod in the car

So therefore my top 25 tunes are not purely my tastes. Luckily for me, my girls play - and then over play - a particular song, and then never play it again. I'm a bit more constant in my likes!

To get in my top 25, you have to have been played at least 106 times (Henry Purcell - Rondeau). To top the charts, you need 265 plays (Vivaldi - RV535 iV Allegro - concerto for 2 oboes). 

What do we find in the list Tim?

Vivaldi - 7 'tunes' or 28%

Lucie Silvas and Taylor Swift are the only other artists that appear more than once (2 each).

Classical - 11 tunes or 44% (as well Vivaldi, Henry Purcell, Beethoven, Elgar and Debussy)

0 Beatles. In fact the nearest Beatles song has 'only' been played 46 times (their final rooftop, complete with police, going-down-fighting Get Back).

1 Stones (live Street Fighting Man 1971)

1 Coldplay (Viva La Vida - Tiberius? Constantine? Pilate?)

3 definitely from my girls (Taylor - Shake it Off and Blank Space, Iggy Azelea - Black Widow)

1 from Iceland - Yohanna Funny Thing Is

0 Elvis (The highest Elvis - at 32 plays - is the rather mawkish Don't Cry Daddy)

Randoms - Neil Diamond (Glory Road), Red Hot Chili Peppers (Save the Population), GRL (Lighthouse), Todd Rundgren (I Saw the Light)

Dance - Matrix & Futurebound - Control

Most recent addition - Shania Twaine - You're Still The One. Added in February 2016. 110 plays.

---

So what does any of this prove?

1. I'm commuting again. I tend to listen to classical and Vivaldi on trains
2. The top 25 played (apart from Elgar, Vivaldi and Lucie Silva - Breath In) doesn't match up with my self-defined favourite songs.
3. I'm self-amusing again. Sorry. Music is important to me!

More updates next year when I reveal the shocking news that Vivaldi totally takes over the top 25 list (and he might, looking at the many, many concerti bubbling just under the top 25).

Split pea soup for lunch.

Tim

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The Great or The Apostate?

Where Tim discusses fourth century Roman history. Note, at this time, the Empire was well used to having more than one Emperor.

The Emperor Constantius II was a right bastard. The massacre of the princes - where he killed off his male relatives in Constantinople during a family gathering following the death of his father Constantine The Great in 337 - was just the sort of ‘real’ history that gives Game of Thrones legitimacy.

One nephew that survived the cull was Julian. A bookish and pious prince, he was spared because he was so young and, well, a bit of a nerd. But ten years later - following the overthrow of Western emperor Constans – cousin Constantius needed a partner to share in the burden of the imperial purple. Turning first to Gallus, Julian's older brother – who he later killed - Constantius eventually elevated Julian into the family business as Caesar of the West in 355.

Here the boy became a man. After kicking some serious German butt, Julian became popular with his legions. Cousin Constantius got jealous and there followed lots of 'come and have a go if you think you're hard enough' correspondence between the two emperors until Julian marched East at the head of an army in 361. And then – miraculously - Cousin Constantius died leaving young Julian the sole master of the Roman world. What to do?

Well, what Julian did - in his brief two year reign – was turn the clock back on Christianity and attempt to re-establish the old gods. You know, get rid of all this Christian rubbish legitimised by Constantine. He also thought Persia was up for a bit of Roman steel and so marched off deep into the Sasanian Empire, never to return. Killed by a random spear, Julian left his troops miles from safety on the Euphrates and in the feeble hands of his short-lived successor Jovian.

So why do I tell the story of Julian the Apostate? 

Well, unlike his uncle Constantine (the Great), he only had 2 years to make his mark. Constantine had 31 – with 13 in sole charge of the Empire. Constantine changed the course of history. Julian flamed out quickly and his successors Valentinian, Valens and Theodosius reaffirmed the Christian hegemony (give or take the odd Arian, or semi Arian, heresy). Julian was an anomaly and Western history writes that Constantine looms large whereas Julian does not.

Can one person change the course of history? Or – as in this case – a solitary spear? What if Julian had lived and reigned twenty years? Would he have quashed Christianity and reduced it into a cult, one of many, like Isis, Mithra or Sol Invictus, that bubbled around in the later Roman Empire? It’s possible that Christianity could have gone underground only to re-emerge stronger, much as it did during the persecution of Diocletian sixty years earlier. It’s impossible to say. It’s a little like powerful newspapers; do they lead opinion or merely reflect it?

What’s of interest though for those who seek parallels in history, who look for patterns to help with understanding the present day, is the theory that there are turning points – yes kings and emperors – but social, religious, military too, that alter the course of history. The trick is to spot whether events have produced a Constantine the Great or a Julian The Apostate.

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Brighton Beach Scumbag

“This could be the saddest dusk I’ve ever seen
Turn to a miracle, high-alive
My mind is racing, as it always will
My hands are tired, my heart aches
I’m half a world away.”

— Half a World Away - REM, 'Out of Time'

Memories of early 90's Brighton

Out of Time

Michael Stipe of REM noticed that any given fan's favourite REM album tended to be the one that came out straight after that fan graduated from college.

My fav REM album is 'Out of Time' - as near a perfect album as ever made. And yes, it came out the year after I graduated. REM have just reissued and repackaged a 25 year anniversary edition of Out of Time. I played it again today. Still sounds good. But I've never drifted away from it. It's one of those very few albums that form the core of my musical taste. I probably consciously play the whole album through once a year - every track.

When Out of Time originally came out I lived in small flat in the Kemptown area of Brighton*. On the way home from my job, job, I used to stop off at The Hand in Hand pub, and - in my memory anyway - Out of Time was always playing.

Awkward Pivot and Segue

Brighton's changed pretty drastically between then and now. Whilst it still maintains the old Regency squares and buildings, the pier and the pebbly beach, it has been infilled, taken over, gentrified, redeveloped, stuffed full of wanky coffee shops and i360's. It always had a certain kind of Bohemian hipness - a post-war Berlin vibe where anything goes within the bubble. Well not anymore - it's corporately trendy. And that isn't the same thing at all. 

Yeah, I know I sound like a things-were-better-in-my-day drone. Let me carry that burden, readers, for the road is long. With many a winding turn.**

The Brighton of the early 90's was still seedy, much more parochial than now, bathing in the afterglow of Graham Greene, with wide open derelict spaces right in the centre of town (it wasn't yet a city). There were loads of uneven car parks where buildings had been demolished (or bombed) but there was no money to redevelop. Shops were closing down. Even the main shopping centre was falling apart. The UK was in the middle of a recession. Our 'now' culture forgets that stuff happened before Brexit. Yeah - we've had recessions even before 2008. The shock, eh?

Brighton still returned two Tory MPs at the 1992 election, as did Hove.

The pubs in town pretty much still had their original names and weren't the marketing confections they'd later become but real boozers. I remember one - The Bath Arms - still there right in the middle of the Lanes. The furniture was all shabby - I remember always sitting on the same saggy and ripped sofa. Now add to this faded glory the ever present waft of cigarette, pipe, cigar smoke which fugged the air, and clung to your clothes and hair. Yes, pubs had a real atmosphere in those days!

In my mind's eye, it was either a dreary wet winter's evening or a fabulous summer day. No in between. Shuffling around in a black denim jacket, through the rain, taking shelter in a derelict shop front, maybe accompanied home by some girl I'd just met in The Basement nightclub down on The Steine. Well, the club's all gone and I never saw the girl again. She was called, er, Anna? Maria? Don't worry she won't mind my confusion; I told her my name was Bryan.***  (Yeah - see my October 18th blogpost about this girl. So I turn my life into stories? Sue me!)

Hove Lawns and the (near) complete West Pier December 1993 from my balcony.

For a couple of years I lived in a fabulous - landmark -  four bedroom flat at the bottom of Grand Avenue in Hove. Private car park, internal lift, brass fittings, front and side stone balconies overlooking the seafront, two bathrooms, cricket pitch sized internal hall. I paid £137 a month and the landlord - trying to sell the flat -  just couldn't give it away. The price was around the £130,000 mark, I seem to remember. 

I enrolled in night school and got myself an A level in Theatre Studies. If I have a fault - it never takes much for me to fall into pretentiousness. Now imagine me doing a Theatre Studies course - pursuing a theme through Strindberg, Stanislavsky, and finally Steven Berkoff.  I seem to remember being at the premier of Berkoff's Brighton Beach Scumbags at the Sallis Benney Theatre October 1991... I suspect I was tumbling up my own arse at a furious pace.

(My girlfriend at the time complained I was often 'theatrical'. I acted all upset about this and stormed away to write a song about that very conversation. What an absolute, horrific nob!)

I formed a band. We played in all the shitty Brighton pub venues for no money. I named us Charlotte's Treat (after Charlotte Street in Kemptown) before changing the name to Tempting Alice.  When the band broke up I started - and ended - my solo career in The Great Eastern pub, Trafalgar Street, autumn 1992. As it was next to Brighton college I managed to get quite a few of my drama classmates to attend. Unfortunately for my self esteem, one of the few other blokes on the course chose this exact moment to announce he was coming out. Selfish bastard; I played on oblivious. No one listened. Or clapped. And I broke a string. Afterwards, I pocketed the £20 and never played a solo gig again.

Tempting Alice with Tim Robson centre (stage)

Out of Time?

“There is still a city with the same name, and there are streets with the same name too, in the same locations, but what happens there is so transformed, in thought, word and deed, that it is not the same place. Is it better, or worse? I cannot not really tell. It is certainly different.”

— Peter Hitchens - Sunday Express 11/11/16

Interesting that Hitchens was writing (beautifully as ever) last week about Oxford in the context of Leonard Cohen whereas I chose Brighton in context of REM and Out of Time. I started writing this piece back in August but because I thought it was a solipsism, a vinegar stroke of an article, I never published it. I've attended to it, edited it, changed parts, deleted much in the last three months however. And my conclusion?

The music still plays. The buildings are (mostly) still there but the streets beat to a different set of people. Who I knew, the relationships I had, gone, absolutely. Failed domesticities. The friends, dispersed, mostly not lamented. The work, ignored at the time, forgotten now completely. Occasionally, turning a corner in Brighton I encounter the shiver of yesteryear's ghost. Just faintly - 'like an ill-remembered character from a novel read years ago, or the strains of a once familiar melody playing softly in another room'.**** But mostly, the past is a different country and, more than that, half a world away.

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NOTES

* When I say Brighton, I mean both Brighton and Hove. Although their characters are quite different, I moved seamlessly between the two. Of course, they are now joined as one city.  

** Fun fact - Elton John played piano on The Hollies - He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother. Why I sledgehammered that reference in, who knows. How unsearchable are my judgements.

*** Bryan Robson. Geddit!!! Oh, I was a hoot in those days. For youngsters - he was a footballer and captain of England when I cared about this.

**** @Tim Robson - The Song of Vivian. I apologise for quoting myself but sometimes - not enough - I am a fucking great writer.

Street Fighting Man

So Trump got elected. 

Read what I wrote here on this blog back in June about the Trump phenomenon and why people might support Trump:-

- Lastly, and let me just have one trivial reason, his ongoing success pisses off exactly the right people. The BBC, The Guardian, Facebook twats, bien pensants everywhere. His on-going success makes them so incoherently angry it's worth electing Trump just to watch them explode with self righteousness and condescension for their fellow man.

And lo! it came to pass. We have The Guardian going into meltdown, the BBC adopting the tone of a state funeral, narcissistic (funded?) cry-babies protesting on the streets, dickhead celebs reneging on their virtue signalling threats to move to Canada. Yeah, the same shit that followed Brexit.

The serious point in all of this is that, once again, there are forces deliberately attempting to de-legitimise democracy. Reading articles in the Spectator, Guardian and Independent this week, commentators that are taken seriously (why?) have been attacking the very foundation of democracy. Apparently some voters - those that disagree with said bien pensants - are 'low information', thick, sexist, racist or whatever sub-Gramsci cultural hegemonic bullshit technique is being pushed. 

It's nasty, elitist and anti-democratic and I hate it.

As with Brexit, so with Trump; it's not the revolution that frightens me. It's the counter revolution. Now that really is scary. Never support the mob. One day the wind may blow in the opposite direction and you might find its howling anarchy beating at your own door. Be thankful we settle our differences in the ballot box and not on the streets. 

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Life's Good

The wonders of the internet...

Here's three clips from long-forgotten TV shows showing collaborations.

First up - Keef and The Killer killing Little Queenie by Chuck Berry. Sheeet Boy! This is good.

And then, one of my favourite collaborations. Bobby Darin and Stevie Wonder doing one of my favourite songs - Tim Hardin's If I Were A Carpenter. Raw, informal, watch as these two greats light up the small screen...

Finally, one of my favourite songs - Moonlight In Vermont (beautiful, beautiful - such economy of words, such imagery)... Frank - behind the beat of course, interpreting; Ella, perfect and slinky as always. Enjoy!

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