The Gracchus and Brexit and political murder
The Gracchus would have supported Brexit. Hell yeah.
Some thoughts about the referendum as we move into the last few days.
It's a strange atmosphere - after months of getting pummelled, Leave had started to pull away from Remain. I watched as poll after poll starting giving the 'right' result, hardly believing what I was seeing, crossing my fingers so as not to jinx the result. And then a madman murderers a leave MP and - though the facts are hazy - seems to be right-wing nut.
Let's just say straight off - and this isn't pro-forma bullshit - as a democrat and patriot - this act, like the murders in the recent past - Airy Neave, Ian Gow and Sir Anthony Berry - takes a little bit of our soul, our democracy. It steals something from all us. Like tribunes in Ancient Rome - elected to serve and counter-balance the patrician Senate - MP's work for and represent us and should be inviolate. Jo Cox seems to have been liked by all who met her. Additionally she leaves behind a husband, three children and many friends and constituents who will all now miss her.
But, she was obscure and I think I probably disagree with most things she espoused. Terrible and tragic though her murder was, we have an important decision to make on Thursday. The affairs of a great nation shouldn't turn on emotionality, even in 2016. No amount of shroud waving and mawkish sentimentality can put this decision off, nor, if Jo was half the great democrat I'm sure she was - should we.
Politics is passionate and better when, verbally, the gloves are off and arguments get aired and debated. I have no tolerance for 'safe spaces', for passive-aggressive diatribes against tone, subject matter or 'the science is settled' closing-down mechanisms. Fuck that. If Farage wants to talks about immigration let him. If Osborne and Cameron want to bull-shit about WW3 and financial armageddon, then be my guest. If Will Straw and the Remain campaign want to get in the dirt and use a dead woman to shut down their opponents arguments then, tasteless and base as they are, go for it but be prepared to be called out on it.
As ever, Rome provides many illustrative examples from the Gracchus Brothers, to the clashes between the generals of the later republic, the bread and circuses of the Julio-Claudians onwards, the lassitude of the third century, the grit of the Danubian Emperors, the re-invention under Diocletian and Constantine. It was often violent and not pretty. We've - hopefully - lost the murderous end-game, but, nutters aside, kept the passion
So calls for restraint and civilised debate should always be viewed with a sceptical eye. If not physical or murderous - and please don't debase this threshold - then argue away. Why curtail free-speech, should always be the question. Who benefits from shutting down debate? Who gets shut out? Arguments need to be tested on merit, not locked away.
As I've quoted before, I think the most realistic song on politics is The Who's 'Won't Get Fooled Again'. Unlike most political songs it's written from the standpoint of the powerless, the little person observing that the heat of political battle is often just froth (for them). Things just have a habit of working out.
I pick up my guitar and play // just like yesterday// and get on my knees and pray// We don't get fooled again // Meet the new boss // Same as the old boss
Anyway, the debate is screwed up currently. Hopefully, the good sense of the British people will see past the tragic murder of an MP - who was a mother and politics professional, who had dodgy views - and make a decision.
I almost wrote informed there. But informed is not where we're at. It's in the instinct, the gut; this is no technocratic X in a box. This is about YOU as a person.
I will return to this.
RIP Jo Cox
Tim
Terry Meets Julie
How the Brexit was won
Britain is great for many reasons: Parliamentary democracy, inventor of team sports, abolition of slavery, religious tolerance, war-like but fair-minded; these are sterling attributes. But that is not the subject of today's ramble through the back waters of my memory - no, today we're gonna talk about Britain and pop / rock music.
Any small land that produced - off the top of my head, it's not hard - The Beatles, The Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Elton John, Eric Clapton, Rod Stewart, The Sex Pistols, Duran Duran, Wham, The Smiths, The Stone Roses, Oasis, Coldplay can't be all bad (aside - are we shit now? Take That were all right but One Direction?)...
No other country except the USA - infinitely larger - can go toe-to-toe with us. (I haven't even mentioned my own musical career.) That's the embarrassment of riches we have here.
England : Stones, Beatles, Led Zep, Oasis, The Smiths, Lisa Stansfield (Rochdale reference)
Wales: Tom Jones, Stereophonics, Manic Street Preachers
Scotland: Teenage Fanclub, Del Amitri, The Lost Soul Band, Rod Stewart (by his own definition)
Northern Ireland: Van Morrison, The Undertones
All right. England and Scotland punch above their weight. Wales and Northern Ireland less so. I might return to this. Certainly an article on Jock Rock is overdue and why 'You Can't Win Them All Mum' is just about the best song you've never heard of ever...
But here are some great Brexit songs from lesser known bands, that sum up the UK for me:-
Sham 69 - If The Kids Are United
Any group who have a chorus, ‘We’re going down the pub!’ is both bold and just right. Sham 69 were, for about five minutes in the late 70’s, famous for their very English, very football terraces sing-a-long tunes. Hersham Boys, Hurry up Harry, and If The Kids are United. These may not be great art – I don’t think Jimmy Pursey ever intended them to be – but they do go for the balls like all the best songs. They represent an English white working class culture that is often ignored, often derided but still exists if you look for it. These guys manned the squares at Assaye and Waterloo, fought in the trenches and battled fascism saving Europe (not the EU) with their spirit, banter and patriotism.
The Kinks - Waterloo Sunset
Before Ray Davies tumbled up his own arse in the 70’s, he was a damn fine song-writer. Addressing English type subjects in See My Friends, Days, Dedicated Follower of Fashion, The Kinks were a very English band (once they’d got over playing souped up versions of Louie Louie). Stuff like The Village Green Preservation Society I can take or leave, but a song like Victoria will always be greeted with a smile. There’s a great line in it: “Land of Hope and Gloria, Land of my Victoria.” Doesn’t get much better than that! But for pop genius, observational subtlety, the summation of ordinary life, this story of young lovers meeting after work in London has to be top. Yes, Waterloo Sunset is that strange thing, a perfect pop song. From the distinctive guitar lick, to the plaintive but catchy melody to the ordinary but so special lyrics “Terry meets Julie every Friday at five o’clock.” A moment of sunshine on a cloudy day.
The La's - There She Goes
The gods offered Achilles the choice of a short and marvellous life or a long and boring one. Some shit like that anyway. He chose, of course, short and famous. Some rock god must have come down to Lee Mavers in Liverpool the 80’s and, after paying a quid to mind his car, offered young Lee the same bargain; one hit wonder or a long career of mediocrity. Luckily for us Lee chose, one hit wonder. The La’s There She Goes is a wonderful thing; the chiming Byrds like guitar@, the infectious tune, the ambiguous lyrics. This Scouse pop rings out - even thirty years later - as fresh as a 17-year boy pissed on cider in a room full of scantily clad girls. I love by the way, the setting of this song in the 90’s remake of the film Parent Trap as the American Lynsey Lohan is driven around the sights of London in a Rolls Royce. Clichéd perhaps but countries are defined in broad brush strokes, not detail. This song, complete with Lee Mavers, should have been played at 2012 Olympics.
Why is it that Britain is so good at this stuff? Why is it - after years of French bitching - not only does everyone at the Eurovision sing in English but the presenters now don't even bother with their home language anymore (let alone French). Possibly it's down to the (historically disputed) vote in the US after independence to vote for English as the official language and not German. Whatever; the talent of Beatles to write catchy songs, the Stones to write brilliant riffs and Led Zep to turn poor black blues into heavy rock gold - would have won out anyway.
We should celebrate our artists more. And we don't need the fucking EU to - as Pete says - 'Pick up our guitar and play, just like yesterday, and get on our knees and pray, WE DON'T GET FOOLED AGAIN.' (yes, spurious 1975 reference alert).
Vote leave.
Tim
A Sort of Update
I commute up to London everyday. Which gives me time to read and time to write. I don't know whether it's because I'm older but I don't seem to sleep on trains the way I used to.
I've got two or three short stories on the go at the moment. They inch forward everyday; a changed word here, a scrubbed sentence there, a plot development sometimes. Mainly though I edit on trains. I leave inspiration for snatched moments, scribbled notes in forgotten pockets.
I've also started reading again. Just finished The Dubliners by Joyce and The Well Beloved by Hardy. For my recent birthday - thank you all for the cards and gifts - I got some notable short story writers. I'm at a stage where I think I have my own voice, but it's always useful to check back to see how others have done it, to see how they undermined or subverted conventions (or not).
So, I've finally got around to reading Charles Buchowski. I'm reading Hardy's short stories, and collections of shorter works by Balzac and Maupassant. I do it because I like them and get pleasure from them and, if an attractive lady, sat opposite me on the train, thinks I'm well read and interesting by my choice of reading material, who am I to disabuse her?
(Normandy brown cows, in orchards, eating buttercups and long grass before making camembert. Classic image. In the rain.)
Night
Je suis en vacances....
A view of Honfleur that is not the old harbour.
Crepes, cidre, galettes... Yes, I must be back in Normandy (with a brief trip to Brittany next door).
Went to the Caen Memorial musee today. Wanted my kids to understand what previous generations of British, Americans and Canadians did to liberate Europe. We forget so soon. I think a longer blogpost is called for on this subject and this excellent French museum (I always think the French do these things very well).
But, until then, another cidre and see you soon!
Tim
All Must Have Prizes
Tom ponders Tim Robson's new story - The Winter Train
I was long-listed in a recent writing competition (TSS Quarterly short story competition)**.
What on earth does long-listed mean? Is it some hideous all must have prizes* bollocks where, even in a competitive medium, organisers must assuage the egos and feelings of the entrants? Possibly. Personally I would prefer a straight forward hierarchy, like this:-
1st Place, 2nd Place, 3rd Place. Losers (you're shit and you know it).
I suppose I am becoming a dreadful curmudgeon. So I shall take my long-listing positively in a - 'I didn't win but I wasn't totally crap' type way. Which is awfully big of me. Mature even.
So what was 'The Winter Train' (for that is what my entry was called) about, I hear you ask. Okay you didn't ask and don't care but this is my blog, on my website, so I will bloody-well talk about it.
Well, since you ask, it's about old lovers meeting by chance after twenty years, both observing the passing of time on the faces and personality of the other, both assessing how the equilibrium of power in their relationship might have changed so many years later. Yes, serious themes from a serious writer at the top of his (long-listed) game. A real page-turner.
As a literary joke - i.e. not a funny one - I incorporated many lines and themes from the poetry of Thomas Hardy into the story. Particularly poignant were his later poems where he recalled in verse the courtship of his recently deceased wife, Emma. I even called the main characters Tom and Emma FFS!
I've been rereading Hardy's poems recently. Let me end this blog with At Castle Boterel one of his most evocative, and as I get older, most moving poems. I may have borrowed - as Hardy did himself in his prose - themes and words from this and other poems. We are all referential; I take mine, de haut en bas - so here is the high.
At Castle Boterel (1913)
As I drive to the junction of lane and highway,
And the drizzle bedrenches the waggonette,
I look behind at the fading byway,
And see on its slope, now glistening wet,
Distinctly yet
Myself and a girlish form benighted
In dry March weather. We climb the road
Beside a chaise. We had just alighted
To ease the sturdy pony’s load
When he sighed and slowed.
What we did as we climbed, and what we talked of
Matters not much, nor to what it led,—
Something that life will not be balked of
Without rude reason till hope is dead,
And feeling fled.
It filled but a minute. But was there ever
A time of such quality, since or before,
In that hill’s story? To one mind never,
Though it has been climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore,
By thousands more.
Primaeval rocks form the road’s steep border,
And much have they faced there, first and last,
Of the transitory in Earth’s long order;
But what they record in colour and cast
Is—that we two passed.
And to me, though Time’s unflinching rigour,
In mindless rote, has ruled from sight
The substance now, one phantom figure
Remains on the slope, as when that night
Saw us alight.
I look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking,
I look back at it amid the rain
For the very last time; for my sand is sinking,
And I shall traverse old love’s domain
Never again.
NOTES (yes I realise that notes on a blog post is intellectual masturbation. Don't knock my hobbies. But sometimes extra info, credits or explanations are in order. Deal with it.)
* All Must Have Prizes - A quote from Alice in Wonderland (which I've never read to be honest). My adaptation of it is from the great Melanie Phillips' book of the same name which details the corrosive effect of decades of progressive thought in education. Dumbing down teaching so that, literally, for our super-special snowflakes, 'all must have prizes'.
** I always know when I'm up for a prize because I start to get some interest in one of the most unvisited parts of my website - Other Writing. The judges of competitions always check here to see if I've already published my short story entry - in contravention to the rules - on this august public forum. Me being me, I decided to change the content of the page to an open 'Dear Judges' letter which ends with a plea for them to give me the prize and offering them a kick-back if they do so. Realising that this might be counter-productive to my chances of winning contests, I've amended the text recently. Sometimes my urge to joke is not funny.
The Star of Brexit - The Movie
About 1 hour, 6 minutes and 40 seconds into Brexit The Movie, Adonis appears
The Leave side in the EU referendum have released a feature length documentary on the reasons why the UK should free itself from the tentacles of Brussels. It’s called Brexit - The Movie.
You can find it on YouTube. Yeah, it’s partisan but, that’s the point, right? It marshals the arguments about why the UK should become at one stroke more internationalist and independent by voting out.
All good stuff, but, if I may drag this away from high politics and into, er, the realm of the individual for a moment.
You see, at 1 hour, 6 minutes and 40 seconds – at a guess, I’ve not checked, today anyway– well, yours truly plays a walk on part in Brexit – The Movie.
In fact, it’s a key scene and some (well, me) are already saying it’s a pivotal scene.
Check it out. Both the movie and my inadvertent – but happy - bolstering of the Brexit cause.
I didn’t even get paid! But some things are more important than money.
Vote in for Europe (love Europe) and out of the the EU (hate unelected, supra-national corporatists)
Cheers
Tim
Lord Farage appears in this movie. As do I.
I Love The Way You Walk...
I am, I said. "I know," says the weird chair with bunny ears, "Tell me about it."
Spring has hit the UK! London (and Sussex) is warm and cheerful with daffs handing the baton over to bluebells before the grinning faces of Marguerites sprint down the back straight and breast the tape of summer. Girls are wearing summer dresses and I've even put away my John Lewis mac. At least for this week (though, perversely, it's now raining in London).
I was dancing around in the kitchen the other night making a curry and playing some decent tunes. When I dance, I dance. When I rock, I roll. When I cook, I dance. And so the circle turns. There is nothing new under the sun. For everything there is a season. Anyway, I was blasting out The Crystals 'Da Do Ron Ron' which is one of the best feel-good songs ever. But - sorry Phil - not great in the lyrics department. So I thought I'd do a quick article on crap lyrics, starting with:-
The Crystals - Da Do Ron Ron (1963)
"Yeah my heart stood still. Yeah, his name was Bill."
Nuff said. Great song (BTW - I think the last 20 seconds of this song, a classic anyway, when Spectre goes into overdrive, is possibly one of the finest moments of pop - ever!). Barmy lyrics though.
Cast - Sandstorm (1995) (who? Yeah, I know. Scouse group. Bass player of the La's. Briefly famous.)
If there was a list of books that will never be written 'The wit and wisdom of Cast's lyrics' must be, unlike their records, Top 3. John Power writes the shittiest lyrics. He can't see a lady without discussing how she 'walks' and, yes, this leads inevitably to a comment on how she 'talks'. Searing insight mate.
The true awfulness of his lyrics come in the following double couplet with a happy ending:-
Let me take you by the hand
Try to understand, walk me to a land, try to understand
I ain't nothing but a man
Neil Diamond - I Am, I Said (1971)
As is well known, I am Neil's biggest fan. The moody man in black of the 60's, to the long hair denim Live At the Greek incarnation through his later years as Mr Sparkly Shirt... He's my guy. So this one hurts.
I Am, I Said is one of my favourite songs. About his sense of disenchantment at the false promise of fame, his relocation from New York to LA, his disintegrating marriage; this is the ultimate facing yourself in the mirror and telling it as it is song. The lyrics are actually very good, but Neil drops the world's biggest clanger in the chorus:-
I am I said, to no one there // And no-one heard, not even the chair.
Not known for their listening skills chairs, usually Neil. I can't defend this lazy writing.
Rhythm is a Dancer - Snap! (1992)
This one is suggested my good friend and ex-colleague Glenna. I actually quite like the lyric for its ridiculousness and Euro-babble nonsense. It's hard-hitting, uncompromising and plainly daft.
"I'm as serious as cancer when I say rhythm is a dancer"
Yeah, mate. Did Goethe or Hegel write that, first? Bollox it may be but, it can't be denied, it's a great dance tune.
Billy Bragg / Kirsty McColl - New England (1983/4)
I was 21 years when I wrote this song // I'm 22 now but I won't be for long.
Huh? They're good lyrics, surely Tim? Yes, actually they are, I agree. But compare and contrast to Simon and Garfunkel's 'Leaves That Are Green' from 1965:-
I was 21 years when I wrote this song // I'm 22 now but I won't be for long.
Eh? How's that happen? Pure laziness and, er, theft. It's not as though Billy's usually crap at lyrics (even if his politics are shit). Even New England has some of the sharpest lines from a pop song ever. Poor, very poor. But I do have a good idea for the opening of this novel I'm writing:-
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
Sounds good, yeah?
And now, as I have to complete a new short story inspired partially by the literary conceit adopted by Thomas Hardy in The Well Beloved, I must leave you.
From Battersea, good night
Tim
Story published in Artificium
Here is the link to Artificium where my story 'The £20 Note' is published.
Election Day. Not the Arcadia Song
Probably a fan of Brexit
Today is election day in the UK for many things large and small. London's mayor is up for grabs as are the devolved governments of Scotland and Wales. Plenty of local authorities are also being contested. Down here in Sussex we have, well, not so much actually. The Police and Crime Commissioner election. The 'Who?" and 'Why' election. PCC's as they are known, oversee the strategic direction and budget of local police forces and can hire and fire the chief constables.
The idea, in theory, is a sound one: let the public vote for someone who will implement the type of policing they like, you know, the old fashioned stuff - bobbies on the beat, catching burglars, sorting out unruly teenagers hanging around on street. As opposed to monitoring Twitter, policing 'hate crime' and not enforcing laws they don't like (step forward cannabis possession).
Well, forgive me for not noticing, but has anyone seen any difference in the last four years since these local sheriffs were introduced? Possibly you might have noticed some attention-seeking twat making grandiose statements and pursuing political and personal battles with the resources of their office. Dick-measuring arguments with chief constables in the local press, perhaps. But I still can't remember the last time I saw a policeman out in the open (other than doing crowd control at Clapham Junction Station when the railways fuck up and the paying public get pissed off).
So, I guess the question is, does democracy actually matter? I mean, isn't it the cornerstone of every civilised state? Don't we go to war because the lack of democracy and insist on its presence before admitting countries into civilised clubs like the EU?
It is important. Of course. The Churchill quote on democracy is a bit hackneyed now but it cuts to the nub of the issue: “Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others.” But on it's own democracy does not guarantee anything. You need other pillars of a state which, I'm increasingly persuaded, are as important.
For example - an election is held and Party A wins the election with 50.1% of the vote. It's main policy is to pass a law killing anyone in the 49.9% who voted for party B. That's democracy in action, no? Absurd though. What about the rule of law? What about the constitution? What about a head of state to veto said policy? Law courts? The separation of powers? Public consent? Society's norms?
What about the nature of the democracy itself? Which system? Who chooses the system? Who draws up the constituencies? Who makes the rules? Who supervises the elections? Does the state fund any parties? If so who and why? Who draws up these rules? Who gets to select the candidates? Do you get to vote for a candidate or a party? What is the strength of a mandate a party gets who may have a 1000 point manifesto but I get only one vote? Should we have a direct plebiscite on important issues? On all issues? On some issues? Who decides when we have a referendum? Should an elected government apply the result of a referendum?
This is why you hear oft derided commentators say that you can't impose democracy on country XYZ (newly liberated from an authoritarian dictator) because they have no history of democracy. Usually these objections are dismissed as reactionary - the commentator is basically saying that the people of country XYZ shouldn't have the same rights as our shiny democracy. But that is to make the grave assumption that an outcome (a peaceful democracy) is inevitable. It is not. There are things which underpin an outcome like democracy:-
- Rule of Law. Freedom from arbitrary arrest. Rights. Neutral courts. Neutral and accepted head of state. A non politicised police force or army.*
- Public Consent - through years (sometimes hundreds of years) a cultural backdrop that has gradually fallen into a system that is accepted.
- A tolerance of other views (religious, political - no windows into a person's soul**) and a willingness to accept a result that goes against your point of view. Similarly a willingness on those who win to be magnanimous and not use the state power against those opposed to them.
- A demos. A Greek concept this. There cannot be a democracy without a demos. I'm not arguing for cultural homogeneity. That ship has sailed. But some acceptance that in any given country there has been a certain path, a certain ethos, a certain system to be respected. If I lived in France I'm sure I would be exasperated and amazed in equal measure by their state apparatus. But I would abide by rules fashioned by their collective history, their republic, their "La garde meurt et ne se rend pas!" bloodymindedness. ***
The brighter amongst you will recognise that I've described Britain. Hell fucking yeah.
Vote out FFS.
NOTES
* And it is a bloody Police FORCE not a police SERVICE. The police are the agents of the state on behalf of the people to enforce the people's laws. This is not a service. This is state power. A force. If everything is working correctly, it is the will of the people in a uniform.
** One of the completely fundamental foundations of the UK. Elizabeth I said she didn't want a window into men's soul. So tolerant. So British. So fucking NOW. Our country isn't the haven and peaceful democracy it is by accident you dumb-fucks! IT IS NO ACCIDENT. We had hundreds of years to get this right. Those who oppose 'The West' do not - now - have this point of view.
*** It's a blog I've been meaning to write for a long time. The 'cheese eating surrender monkeys' trope by ignorant assholes against the French pisses me off. This famous quote - "La garde meurt et ne se rend pas!" (The Guard dies and does does not surrender!) was reportedly uttered at Waterloo by Pierre Cambronne, Colonel of The Old Guard. Completely outnumbered by the combined British, Belgian, Dutch, Hannovian & Prussian troops at the end of the battle, the Old Guard covered the retreat of the defeated and demoralised French army. Like the British troops earlier in the day, the Guard formed defensive squares but went down to a man against overwhelming odds as they retreated agonising foot by foot. Offered an honourable surrender by the British, Cambronne shouted this defiant reply. We do not surrender. We die. The French, under Napoleon and earlier under Charlemagne, conquered most of Europe through their martial spirit. Fuck off ignorance! Vive La France! Rant over.
The Cult of The Dead
Woo! That's a big one!
In the Mash Tun pub in Brighton, they used to run a sweepstakes on who would be the next celebrity to die. I seem to remember Shane McGowan being odds on favourite most of the time. He's still alive, yeah? Pretty sick but also funny in a dark kind of way.
Anyway, it seems that there's a celeb plague out there this year bumping off revered artists and TV also-rans. In some macabre version of virtue-signalling, one feels almost honour bound to write some appreciation, essay a critical appraisal of the recently deceased star. Well, no more. I have a plan.
I will construct a list and if the dead celebrity is not on the list, then no obit on this site. Harsh but fair. I have other issues to write about, important matters to discuss. I can't keep being blown off course by the cut strings of an arbitrary fate. Blah Blah, RIP and all that. Sad for the families.
Music (for it was, as the song says, my first love)
Beatles - Paul McCartney and RIngo Star, of course
The Stones - Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill, Mick Taylor and, yeah, Ronnie Wood
The Who - Pete or Roger (The Ox and Mooney having already bought the farm).
Led Zep - Percy or Page. John Paul-Jones
Byrds - McGuinn, Crosby, Hillman
Randoms....
Ray Davies, Morrissey or Marr, Ian Brown, John Squire, Mani or Reni, Madonna, Johnny Rotten, Simon or Garfunkel, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Rod Stewart, Elton John, Trevor Horn (leave space so I can insert later the name of someone really obvious who I've forgotten).
One mustn't always discount the possibility of some random dying who's time is most certainly not due (Prince, for example).
And that's it.
Cheers, ears
Tim
Purple Rain.... RIP
The news came through, in ripples, in shocked voices, that Prince was dead as I wrote my economics article below. No, surely not. Too young! But no, it's true. FFS.
I'm not gonna be some obituary service (Christ 2016 is such a shit year) but Prince. Prince!! Only ten years older than me. Such a talent. So cool. Such integrity.
I grew up in the 80's. No more to be said. If you were there, you knew what Prince meant.
What I'm really glad about is that - well annoyed by some no-mark singing Purple Rain on the Voice a couple of weeks ago - I made my kids watch the below video of Prince battling and beating the elements at the Super Bowl in 2007. They know he's brilliant. All this week, spookily, I've been listening to Purple Rain on my way to work. Eights minutes of brilliance - that guitar solo!
Lots of Purple Rain, Kiss, Sign o' the Times and, my own fav, I Could Never Take the Place of your man, being played at my house tonight.
RIP Prince.
Bollocks in, Bollocks out
It's a little known fact that I trained as an economist at Sussex University. The economics department in those days of peak Thatcherism were all zealots of econometrics which, in layman's terms, means bastard sized equations to estimate outcomes like aggregate demand or inflation. We'd all go along to our tutorials quaking in our buckled boots fearing we'd have to go to the blackboard and write one of these algebraic monsters in front of our peers, or worse, our tutor. Our tutor, a man of Delphic persuasion would puff on his pipe and raise a quizzical eyebrow at our pathetic efforts to prove by mathematical formulas why the demand curve slopes downwards to the right and the supply curve the reverse.
"Are you sure?" he'd say as I hadn't a clue whether I was proving an incomes augmented philips curve or the half life of a hangover.
Happy days.
Anyway, I raise this nostalgic ghost from the graveyard of dead Tim stories to illustrate that I have some background in economics. As I've grown older - and wiser - my scepticism towards the dismal science has grown.*
For part of my life I used to dream up models to enable a global corporation to justify multi million dollar investments. You know, if we spend X amount on hiring extra sales-people, they will produce Y amount of extra revenue in Z amount of time. Behind these three outcomes would be legions of assumptions. Some pretty robust - seasonality perhaps, some grounded in observable fact from incomplete data - the time historically it takes from a contract being signed to revenue coming in perhaps and some, absolute guesses - maybe how much a new salesforce will sell after six months or customer attrition rates. I just plugged in numbers, hit the return key and answers would spew forth! Scientific, yeah?
Now could I control the state of the economy? No. Could I control the exchange rate? Of course not. What about simple stuff like hiring the right candidates? No. Would they all be ready to go on a certain date? Never. How many would stay after the first month? Less than 100%. How many would we fire for being shit after six months? Twenty five percent? Gawd knows. All this had to be factored in with - you guessed it - assumptions.
Was I right? Of course not. Only God knows the future and my deity muscles are a bit rusty. Us mortals merely adjust as we go along based on the observable data you have at the time. Everyone who works in models and predictions knows this.
So, by training and by experience, I have some idea about models, about how models work and about how much humility anyone who peddles versions of an unknowable future should display. The future is inscrutable. The only facts are historical. And they can be argued.
So, George Osborne's Treasury released the findings of a model this week which stated, in broad terms, that in 14 years time, if we stayed in the EU, each household in the UK would be about £4500 a year better off than if we left the EU.
What does that mean? Well it means that across the millions of decisions made by companies and individuals, and not knowing what technology will throw up, not having a clue about the state of the economy in 12 months let alone 14 years, the Treasury built two scenarios which said that Scenario 1 (Remain) will be better than Scenario 2 (Leave) in more than a decade.
The hubris would laughable if the useful idiots of the press didn't repeat the model's findings as gospel. Either the people who repeat this guff are stupid or knowingly pushing an agenda. Either way, it stinks. Not everyone has my experience of how these numbers are created and might therefore believe what they hear as a fact, not as opinion, for opinion it most undoubtably is.
We all know the truism garbage in garbage out, of course. And that is perhaps the greatest truism about models one can repeat for it is ridiculously true. But what about cognitive bias where we seek out the answers we want and discard those we don't. Now imagine someone sat in the Treasury inputting literally thousands of variables and assumptions. They know the answer their political masters want from the model. I don't believe I'm being paranoid to state that I suspect all the assumptions go in one way, and not the other.
It's a human instinct but don't for a minute call it science.
There have been many claims in this Brexit referendum. Most are totally shameless and self-serving but I think that the Treasury report this week stands out as the most shocking in a crowded field. It's not as though they have a great record on predictions. It's too wearisome to go through them all but weren't we supposed to have eliminated the deficit by now, George. What we haven't? But you predicted that just six years ago. You mean predictions can be wrong? Really? I'm shocked. Shocked, I say!
The economic term for this is 'bollocks'.
Next week we'll go through mal-investment and the Austrian School.
Cheers ears
Tim
The Boogie of Victory!!!
Tim showing mild pleasure at the arrival of his new book.
Returned home, brow sweated and furrowed from life, work, romantic entanglements (oh yeah!), to find a package on my doormat.
Yes, the latest Tim Robson book - Artificium 2 - has hit the stands of Amazon. My author copies just arrived. My story - The £20 Note - is, I modestly assert - me at my best. Brutal, honest and yet literate. It is what I am; assertion masking insecurity masking an irreducible core. My successes don't happen by error. I know that now. One day my kids will be proud of me!
Until then, I'll have to do the job myself!!!
Well done Tim.
Tim
An Interview With Tim Robson
Tell us something about Tim Robson.
Tim is six foot, attractive, loads of hair. Girls tend to be drawn to his looks but then back off when they realise he has no depth. He’s lost many girlfriends to this short, bald guy who follows him around cracking intellectual jokes.
When and why did you start writing stories?
The 70’s. To get girls.
How would you describe your writing style?
Better than it was last year. Not as good as next year.
Where do you get your ideas and inspiration from?
Overachievement.
What is your favourite time for writing?
When the bar is open. Your round?
Where is your favourite location for writing and why?
See the answer above. I live it, man.
What other writing do you do – non-fiction, poetry, etc?
Abusive comments on the Guardian’s Comment is Free website.
What is your earliest memory of writing a story?
Seven
Are you someone who plans their writing in detail or do you just launch into an idea and see where it goes?
Preplanners should be rounded up and placed against a wall. And have their fucking research thrown at them. Write with total freedom. But edit like a Nazi.
People say you should only write about what you know. What is your view on this?
Right wing.
Writing can be a lonely occupation or hobby. What is your advice for coping with this?
Masturbation.
It’s said that in the future everyone will be published but no one will be read. What is your view on this statement?
I would like to introduce whoever said it to my good friend, Mr Baseball Bat.
How do you cope when your writing is ignored or rejected?
I blog. My stuff tends to be accepted.
Do you ever experience writer’s block? How do you overcome this?
Life is far too interesting for there to be a white page in your mind. Walk, look, observe. Sit in a bar and listen. Walk the streets. Look at each thing and ask wherein lies its story, its value. It’s purpose.
What do your friends and family think of your writing?
Little.
Who is your favourite author and what is it that really strikes you about their writing?
Balzac, Hardy, 80’s Amis, Iain Banks, On The Road, French Lieutenant’s woman. Hank Moodie. Anything by Tim Robson.
What has been your proudest moment so far with your writing?
The first cheque. 1994. £500 quid. Paid my council tax FFS.
What do you hope to achieve in the future with your writing?
World domination. Money. Multiple attractive sexual partners in various combinations. The Freedom of the City of Rochdale.
If you had to give one piece of advice to a novice writer, what would it be?
F*** Off.
Beneath the Veneer, The Past Appears
The past reappears
Hiding for years behind an advertising board, this older pre-war painted advert for a long dead company appears like a tidal island on a house on Wandsworth Road. The board that obscured it for so long also protected it and kept its colours fresh.
(Underneath the current modern advertisement board there's another old style ad peaking out for the same company.)
An amazing find. Am I alone in finding these things fascinating?
More Clapham Stories?
The Lavender Hill Mob
To supplement my earnings as a writer (cue laughter).... What? I don't make millions from my scribblings? Sadly no. Anyway, to supplement my earnings as a writer, I started working for a great, small company a couple of months ago. It's based on Wandsworth Road, London, just beyond Lavender Hill and close to Clapham Old Town / Common. Which means, I'm commuting again.
(Should I write a blog post about the frustrations of being a commuter, the appalling manners and habits of my fellow passengers? Maybe - right after I finish this novel I'm writing about a boy wizard in a school for magic, who has a dark past...)
My walk to and from work takes me past the Grade 2 listed Battersea Arts Centre. Formerly Battersea's town hall before absorption into Wandsworth, it's a beautiful late Victorian building. It's currently undergoing a renovation. I know this because the outside steps and pavement are being revamped as I write - beautiful slabs of stone awaiting to be laid. They're not doing it on the cheap. It's good this piece of heritage is in such good hands.
The restoration work going on April 2016
Anyway, it is my custom to stop here as I await my evening train and write the odd blog post (hello world!), pen hackneyed poetry - my new thing - or tweak a short story. The bar is a great space - the vibe of an old school refectory hall with parquet floor, mismatched furniture and flickering candles. I can people-watch the pre-theatre crowd as they tweak their beards or polish their nose rings.
Actually it's a bit more broad based than that (well, not much to be fair) but the clientele are a merry bunch, like the bar staff. A simple menu of rustic burgers (beef/jerk chicken/ pan fried humus or some shit like that) and sharing plates tempt the hungry writer... The plays my hipster friends are here to see however, all seem to be absolute leftie bollox - unchallenged, lazy victimhood-claiming rants spewed out to an unthinking Guardian reading audience. Perhaps I should go along! Or put my nob in a blender. Choices. Choices.
Amusingly, the beard who's sharing my table with his - not unattractive - date, is seriously over-reaching. He's wanking on about some Time-Out review of tonight's opus about whales (called Wails). Aside - I wonder if I could get a whale steak here? Probably not. Anyway - he's earnest in his denunciation of those global capitalistic, UKIP supporting whalers who are triggering the safe spaces of tuna or bearded twats or something. Blah Blah Blah. Probably Donald Trump's fault. Anyway, this seems to be working with his date who's nodding her head at his sage bon mots. Maybe I should update my routine, no?
Anyway - the wail of the curtain going up has moved my good friends from the table and I'm now alone penning sundry character assassinations. But - and this is the bit I want to leave you with - you can never close off a place, or shut out people just because you don't agree with them. I laugh at them and poke fun at them in a public forum because I live in land where to do so is part of our culture and I'm free to do so. And hideous lefties that they undoubtably are, what I share with them is SO much more than what I disagree with them about.
Everything is permitted in the UK unless banned. Other cultures and countries give you licence to do certain things. Think about it. There's a world of difference.
But I'm happy to be here in the lovely confines of Battersea Arts Centre and I'm glad even the lefties will have a good night with their righteousness to keep them warm. I think my earnest friend may well have something else to keep him warm!
1993 seems to have been a good year...
I was halfway through a blogpost on great gigs from history that I didn’t go to but wish I had. But I ran out of steam chugging through some old familiars - Elvis, Beatles, Stones. Yeah, yeah yeah. Whatever granddad. I've saved the draft so it will doubtless appear on these pages one spring morn when I'm short of ideas about urban architecture or obscure ancient philosophy.
I decided a more interesting, truthful and insightful article might be to record some decent gigs I actually did see. Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, I lived once and have the stolen set-lists to prove it! Whilst Taylor Swift puts on a helluva show, and Sam Smith has a high voice, I have been in the mosh pit a few times in the past and have worn the spilt lager with pride. So let's sift the memory for musical gold and share some nuggets with you.
Teenage Fanclub / Julianna Hatfield Trio - Brighton Event 1993
The Fannies were touring their album Thirteen which, although containing the classic homage to the late great Gene Clark - called imaginatively 'Gene Clark' - was a bit shit and a let down after Bandwagonesque. But they're good live and played The Concept and Everything Flows and were generally loose and in what you could term 'high spirits'. What was a revelation however was the undercard, Julianna Hatfield. I knew her not before that cold night on Brighton seafront. She was great! I've been a fan ever since. The Trio was loud, heavy and just right in those dancing days of grunge before Kurt chewed on a shotgun and blasted us into Britpop. And she played one of my - now - all time favourites - I Got No Idols (guitar version). So, a special night all round. Not sure I got laid later on but it feels like I did. In my memory.
Probably didn't though.
Rod Stewart - Hyde Park 2011
Always loved Mr Stewart but bollox'd on free corporate VIP booze I farkin' luv'd the Rod! Ronnie Wood was there, Stevie Nicks did that floaty thing, Adam Ant reminded us it was an awfully long time ago since he was famous. I was around the back in the VIP area, artfully smoking cafe cremes and drinking Gin and Tonics, laconically watching the backstage live video monitor and soaking up the atmosphere of a corporate fat cat. Then, before I knew it, I was mingling with the plebs in the crowd yelling my head off with Rod for 90 minutes. I remember a phone message I left someone from the gig - hoarse, drunken, shouting along to Sailing or Baby Jane or Hot Legs... Happy Times.
Lisa Stansfield and Blue Zone - Rochdale Football Club 1986
Musically, a bit of a bore, frankly. I was there because I did Classical Studies with Lisa's then musical, and now real-life, partner Ian Devaney. I knew Lisa from years before when we were both in the school play together. Oh the stories I could tell! But on that night I was not there for the music (not really my scene). No, young be-mulleted Tim was mainly trying to chat up girls from my sixth form. I was about as successful at this as Blue Zone was storming the charts. But I remember Lisa providing me with a live personal soundtrack as I cranked out those mid-80s chat up lines to young girls with big hair and shoulder pads.
Blur – Reading Festival 1993
This has gone down in history as the day Blur re-invented themselves and played a storming set on the second stage that ushered in Britpop. Yes, they did premier quite a bit of Parklife and yes they played most of my personal favourite, Modern Life is Rubbish. I hate festivals usually so what the hell was I doing there? Wish I knew. Glad I did but no idea. In retrospect the music at the festival was mainly shit – the headliners were The The FFS – so you can see why Blur caused all those writers of NME to mythologise their set as year zero for a British fightback. Seen Blur many times before and since but this was the best gig I have ever seen them play. Interestingly enough, Radiohead were on before Blur and I probably saw them for a couple of minutes dashing back from Eddie Izzard. But who knows - they were shit in those days.
More tales from 1993 (and other years) another time. Won;t be talking about my experiences watching New Model Army, Dr and The Medics, Tanita Takarum, Sleeper, Alexander O'Neil (why oh why oh why)....
Laters, potatas
Tim
Maybe, Maybe, Maple Ladies...
It was only recently that I realised that a great many of the female singers of my favourite songs were all from Canada. I've spoken in the past about my conversion, slowly like Constantine and Christianity, towards female music. It was a process that could never be pinned down to a specific date but, as in The Battles of The Milvian Bridge or Frigidus, it's only later that the real significance can be discerned (or imputed retrospectively).
Canada has produced some pretty damn fine female singers. Let's take them in chronological order, as they appeared to me, shall we? And give them a song each.
Alanis Morrisette - Head over Heels
Anyone who doesn't like Jagged Little Pill (1995) is a fucking idiot. There aren't many perfect albums out there. The odd Beatles long player, Astral Weeks - Van Morrison, Achtung Baby - U2, The Byrds first album, but Alanis delivers HUGH on her third album. It's funny, provocative, and the music is as tight as it gets. I picked Head Over Heels because I think it's the most complete song on the album, musically and lyrically. It's optimistic and happy, a honeymoon period song. The sort of song you'd always hope someone would write about you before they find you out.
It was, of course, the high water mark of Alanis. A bat-shit crazy hippy, she'd delivered her one stab at posterity before disappearing up her own backside. She's still there allowing her to hand over to her fellow compatriots...
Celine Dion - Think Twice (1994)
Okay, so she's like your mum and hogs the middle of the road like some corporate VP asked to comment on anything controversial at a staff meeting. And seriously, what was the point of General Wolfe dying folks? Vous avez un fucking rire. True but no one denies that the girl can sing and sometimes, given serendipity and the right song, she's queen of the last dance, erection section. I always liked 'Falling into You' which is dreamy and fluid, and shows off Celine's beautiful tone. But recently I've been drawn towards Think Twice. She floats in this song, serenely sailing towards the island of beautiful melodies, thousands of waving lighters marking the way. Noodling heavy guitar and treated drum 90's beats, provide the requisite soft-rock back drop to this classic. And that high sustained note! You go girl!
Fun fact; Think Twice was written by British song writer Andy Hill, who, if he did nothing else, is famous for writing all my favourite Bucks Fizz songs including the 80's pop masterwork that is Piece of the Action.
Well I know it sounds funny but I don't wanna be in love // I just want a piece of the action.
Another unsung British hero.
Shania Twain - You're Still The One
I had a view about Shania Twain for years - namely that she was sexy and sassy and the singer of comedy lightweight country songs that had punning titles - step forward, Man, I Feel Like A Woman. And then I came across this song. A totally different vein. There's a vulnerability about her voice, it sounds raw, late night, cracked; honest. No jokes, no routines, just a sincere acoustic strum you could image down The Bluebird Cafe (yes, I watch Nashville). I love the backing vocals and the way they anticipate Shania's lead on the chorus by half a bar - "You're still the one..." The tune is special but the way she delivers it. Man, I Feel That Woman's Power.
Shania's got a very devoted fanbase and reading their comments about the behaviour of her erstwhile husband, Mutt Lange, who's the subject of this song, is instructive. Apparently Mutt thought it good idea to cheat on the beautiful Shania with her best friend. Classy mate. Real classy. I guess Mutt's no longer the one.
Avril Lavigne - Take Me Away
She's like so, whatever // And you could do so much better
Sure she's a brat and - like Pink - if her lyrics are anything like her real personality, she's probably really hard to be with... But. But. I love her shouty grungy guitar driven sound, even if she is, in her own words 'A motherfucking princess'. I first got into Avril around 2003, about the same time as Lucie Silvas. I'd play her album 'Let Go' constantly - getting down to Sk8ter Boi, Complicated, chuckling to the smut of Things I'll Never Say. But the apogee of Avril, for me, was her second album, Under My Skin, where the guitars are ramped up to eleven, the vocals still crystal clear, the harmonies challenging, not smooth. This is RAWK album, sung by a teenage girl backed by some severe amplification. Hell yeah! I could pick any of the songs on this album - Together, Forgotten, My Happy Ending - but Take Me Away is probably the most representative - borrowing grunge trick number 1 (this is the quiet bit / this is the loud bit), angsty lyrics, great singing, great harmonies.
I can't handle this confusion / I'm unable... // Come and take me away,
Footnote to the Avril story. My girls have graduated a little away from Taylor Swift and into shouty arms of Avril. I'm cool with that. I'm down with the kids, yeah. I was there first! Now I just await their conversion into Beatles fans. Elvis fans. Stones fans. I'll save The Smiths for myself!
Competitions Update
"Like form and shadow, destined to look alike but never meet."
It's an exciting time.
Apocalypse Tales - After The Fall is now out in Kindle and will be out in paperback on Amazon 31st March.
Check out this
You gotta love the scarf action and the 'I'm not looking at the camera' selfie pose. Humble and yet assured.
Well in that vein - my latest literary success was announced this week. I came third in another competition this time with my story 'The Twenty Pound Note'. I'll post a link once I've penned my author profile and selected the appropriate 'hello ladies!' picture. It is, after all, a calling card for my brand. I'll have to work on those brand values.
And it's sunny. And the magnolia trees are coming into bloom.
- On the lash in Brighton tonight.
Both high, and low.
Tim
Classical Britain
In did those feet in ancient time walk upon Rochdale's green and pleasant hills?
My British soundtrack...
Let's start with classical first. I'll return to rock, pop and folk later... I'm not exactly breaking any barriers with my selections here. They are all rather safe and well known. But, that doesn't stop them from being damn fine tunes and each in their own way, evocative of Britain.
Elgar - Nimrod, from the Enigma Variations
Majestic and stately, respectful and slow to anger but shaking the earth with its wrath when roused, Nimrod is England in musical form. Or at least, my England. A lot of people go with Pomp and Circumstance as the patriotic high point of Elgar and I agree that Land of Hope and Glory is a perfect, end of the proms, flag waving, ditty. But Nimrod... Swelling is the description I would go with. Building and building until it's power dominates the room but then, fading just as swiftly as it has come. Along with Vivaldi's Winter (Largo) this is one of two essential classical pieces for me. And to me - it is England - not boastful nor proud but solid, right and beautiful.
Parry / Blake - Jerusalem
There's a recording of me and my mate Stephen singing this in 1986 accompanied by my drunken Casio keyboard playing (with clap-clap drumbeat). Not my greatest recording ever. I only say this as an illustration that it's always been a favourite of mine. Based on a poem by William Blake (written whilst in West Sussex - green and pleasant land, indeed), the musical setting was provided by Hubert Parry in 1916. Rightly Jerusalem has come back recently as an anthem for everyone (the Suffragettes used to use it with Parry's permission) and not just the Tory Party. If England needs a national anthem, this is it.
And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green
Anonymous (but let's go with the Vaughn Williams setting) - Greensleeves
One from Tim's Desert Island Discs circa 1975. Who could not like this medieval song from the 16th century? Probably not written by Henry VIII, it is nethertheless a window into Tudor times when so much of our national story was forged (Church of England, the break with Rome, religious tolerance, Shakespeare, the first colonies, a powerful queen, the successful defence of the realm by the nascent royal navy). I particularly like the interpretation of the lyrics that suggests that the Lady Greensleeves was a whore because whores' dresses were green from lying in the grass so much! No, let's give the lady a little more class than that, shall we? I like the Vaughn Williams orchestral fantasia version because it seemed to summarise Merrie Olde England as characterised by, say, the Carry On Films. There's something very English about the tune and something very post-war about the WIlliams' setting (even if he did write it in the 30's).
Yeah, I know. All three are very English. Sorry about that Celtic fringes. Occasionally England needs to be heard too!