The Grasshopper and the Cow. A modern guide to dating.
Tim Robson in Brighton looking sharp. He's single girls!
“Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field.” *
One of the problems of dating in Brighton - if you hold what some might classify as right-wing views - is that your potential date will be, with a 90% level of certainty, a virtue-signalling leftie. You're stuck with a choice - to stay quiet and fail gracefully to get sex or to reveal your politics and be damn certain not to.
Saying you voted Brexit perhaps, or admire Nigel Farage, is literally like turning up to the wine bar dressed in full Gestapo uniform with a copy of The Final Solution in your top pocket. There again... The hard left these days seem to love a bit of anti-semitism. Can't get enough of it.
Saying you support low taxes, a small state, free trade and capitalism is usually - and disingenuously - met with hysterical guilt-by-association accusations. That's because, to a leftie, holding a few non leftie views means you must subscribe to a whole set of others too. So, I say, Brexit for democratic reasons, they say racist; I say low taxes and they say I want to burn the poor. Maybe piss on them first.
Therefore, on a date, it's easier to take the cowardly, pragmatic approach. When your leftie date jabbers on about some social justice outrage de jour, just smile and take the conversation off at a tangent. Lefties generally - and especially in their natural environment within Brighton - tend not to meet people who disagree with them out loud. Silence is taken as assent. So she'll not spot the evasion but will take the change of subject as affirmation of her point of view - a point so obvious it should be, like, the law or something. The science is settled, the debate is over, the platform is not open, safe spaces are not going to be invaded.
It's a bit like Facebook (of which I'm not longer a member). The busy grasshoppers chirp noisily all over the timeline whilst the bovine Brexit / Tory supporting multitudes stay suspiciously quiet. Hence the outrage when these special snowflakes actually lose (see my article on 1992 election and the narcism of the self-righteous). They literally cannot comprehend it. Everyone agrees with them.
But - Edmund Burke fans - in looney-tunes Brighton, the fucking grasshoppers are in charge of the town and rigidly boss the poor cows about.
Does that mean I'm a cow? Hell no, I'm a bull me. El torre! Just a rather quiet one.
So where does that leave the nominal right-winger (libertarian actually, thanks) in his quest to bed the leftie date? Well, about in the same position as with a right wing date. Or a liberal date. Or a date with woman of no political views.
Politics, I've found, aren't actually the primary driver in the dating scene. Other, more corporeal attributes, claim that sovereignty.
It's possible I may return to this subject.
Tim
* A rather good, and prescient quote from Edmund Burke. Beware the mob!
The Clapham Sect
The Holy Trinity Church, Clapham July 2016
I work in South London, in Clapham. On Wandsworth Road. Just off The Common.
Surprisingly, although I did my Masters degree just down the road at Southbank University, I never really explored the area that much. My girlfriend and I used to take the tube north and wander around Pimlico, neglecting the wonders of South London.
I can put that right now. Battersea Arts Centre you know about already. I'm working on an article / short story called The Dead Pubs of Clapham which, well, talks about the dead pubs of Clapham. You'll like that.
Clapham Old Town is just a few minutes stroll from my office. And there lies, workmanlike and unshow-ey, The Holy Trinity Church. Splendidly set on the Common itself this eighteenth century evangelical church was the home of the Clapham Sect.
The Clapham sect - including William Wilberforce - used to meet and pray here. They were prime movers behind the Slave Trade Act in 1807 and the 1833 Abolition of Slavery Act. But not only did they drive the abolition of slavery in both Britain and her Empire but, with the establishment of the naval West Africa Squadron in 1807, Britain then used her considerable military muscle to stop the trade completely. Our navy was employed to enforce the abolition of the slave trade.
The church still stands in splendid isolation on the Common. If you are in the area (and it's a beautiful area) take a few moments to visit it, reflect and think of those who came before us who fought the good fight. And it was a hard fight. The easy thing would have been to do nothing. I'm sure most countries in the world have proud boasts, acts of enlightenment and empathy that are produced to show they are a great society.
But Britain has many. Many proud boasts. Standing on Clapham Common, passed daily by thousands of people, is a representation of one of them. We should talk about our past more and not through the unseeing eyes of today, the triviality, easy choices.
The landmarks series continues next week with my views on the pies at the Amex Stadium in Brighton.
Read On
The Dead Pubs of Clapham explores the area more.
What about reading about Lavender Hill?
Or my London Walks (and other places)?
Thoughts on Trump
The Donald likes Tim's Blog
If I were to vote in American elections, I'd be severely unhappy. Americans seem to face a choice between an hereditary Bush or an hereditary Clinton. Obama came out of nowhere. He certainly was the first black president and he was so good he secured the Nobel Peace Prize in his first month in office. Yeah. Way to go Barry!
Clearly I'm more on the Republican side than the Democrat. If I lived in the US (and was a citizen) then I'd be a registered Republican. My choice for presidential candidate last time would have been the libertarian Ron Paul. My choice this time would have been his son, Rand Paul. I like the fact that they are so unfashionable they hark back to unyielding founding principles, principles which offend today's society that likes to bend rules based on emotionalism or expediency. I like the fact that both are strict Austrians in economics - no borrowing, currency backed up by real worth, no support for mal-investment, the superiority of the market over political judgement. They also are also anti-war which, as I've written before, is probably one of three or four dominant political characteristics (along with democracy, free speech and capitalism) I believe in.
But both lost. Ron, controversially against Mitt (only in America) and Rand to the force of nature that is Donald Trump.
Now I didn't follow the Republican debates until about October / November but then - as usual - I was hooked. Okay, they're false formats and candidates with with well scripted (and delivered) one -liners often do best over the more cerebral, reflective candidates. Sorry Jeb! But this is democracy in the raw. America is great at that (though big money is, I admit, a problem).
I became, after Rand's early demise following the New Hampshire primary, fascinated by Trump. And not especially because of what he said, or what he'd do (BTW these two concepts can be very different animals - hello Barry, talking about you, again).
So why's Trump interesting as a phenomenon?
- He is politically incorrect. I'm fucking tired of people telling me what to think or say. Politicians are scared to say anything controversial these days. This timidity has spread to social media, corporations. How long before this cultural stalinism spreads into the private sphere? It's a deadweight on ideas, thoughts, creativity, laughter. Good manners and civility should be a person's guide. One thing about Trump we can all agree on; he's not politically correct.
- Trump isn't beholden to vested interests as he self-finances (see the above about campaign finance). I'm not saying that I support rich people only running for office - of course not - but I think America needs a good dose of 'fuck you' juice sprayed at lobbyists.
- He isn't scripted. He says what he wants. For the antithesis of Trump, see The Marco-bot as he trotted out the same answer four times when challenged by NJ Governor Chris Christie. The career politician - in the US, in the UK - who parrots the party line, eyes closed or focused on the mid distance, gets my goat. I love the mavericks - the Farage, the Livingstone, the Franks Fields. Party politicians - like executives at big companies - always live in fear and slavishly toe the party line.
- He's successful outside politics. Yeah, sure he fronts the American Apprentice but he is also a successful business-man. Now I don't worship businessmen - they need balance - but I prefer them to career politicians or corporate wankers. Businessmen who own their own company know about risk, making decisions and taking accountability. Most politicians do not. They just like to spend other people's money gathered by force.
- He's funny! He is! Watch a speech. Funny goes a long way. Humour is very under-rated. Humour shows to me a real person. Someone who is funny (it's a skill) shows intelligence both intellectual and emotional.
- He might cause a massive re-alignment. Talking to those who are always written off - lower classes, tax payers, the law abiding - might catch on. Sort of a Brexit demographic. He might just bring the whole shit-house down. Good. Democracy is too precious for the parties to think they own it. Fuck 'em! In a democracy, the people are always right.*
- 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.**
So this is The Donald without me looking into his policies (and did I mention his unbelievably attractive wife Melania and his daughter Ivanka. No? Whoops just did!).
Shit hair though.
Cheers
Tim
Notes
* People are always right. This is always true and I don't buy the view that the people are too stupid or will be led astray by populists. However, my own caution to this would be that ordinarily a representative democracy works best and also that there should always be a decent lead up before a populace votes. Otherwise you run the risk of the Facebook-isation of politics (virtue signalling votes as 'likes', short-termism, shallow not contiguous policies).
** As a democrat I've never been more appalled than I have been over the last few days where Facebook emotionalism allies with hard-core and nasty undemocratic forces. What some unthoughtful people on the losing side of referendum. The Guardian, BBC etc (usual suspects) are playing a VERY dangerous game. In a democracy you have to accept an adverse result. To do otherwise leads only to violence and civil war. I never thought I'd write that about Britain and I pray the cry-bullies think about what they are doing and pull back. Not respecting democracy might become a habit which can be learned by all sides. And the denigration of their fellow citizens as stupid is right out of Marx's false consciousness playbook. And we know that dictatorship follows.
John Major and all that.
Oh boy! Did I not like this result!
In June 1992, John Major - against the odds - won a Parliamentary majority in the UK General Election. He hadn't been predicted to win and Labour, under Neil Kinnock, looked like it was finally to take over the reins of power after thirteen long years. The Tories were tired and had killed off the great Matriarch, Margaret Thatcher. Me and everyone I knew, voted Labour. We had the momentum, we had all the celebrity endorsements. Our moment was now. How could we lose?
And then the results came through and the feeling of giddy anticipation turned to dread as one-by-one Labour candidates went down against their opponents. The pleasure at seeing Tory Chairman Chris Patten lose Bath was negated at the realisation that Major had a workable majority and that 13 long years would now be 18, at least.
Gosh! I wish social media had been around in those days! I would have spent the whole of the next day ranting on Facebook, posting links to articles that called into question the democratic verdict of my fellow citizens, how really Kinnock and Labour had won all the arguments and that only old and selfish people had kept them from government.
I went to work the next day full of righteous anger and fully expecting my colleagues to be similarly burning with the injustice of it all. No such luck. Most of my team at work had voted Tory. Older, wiser perhaps. I was shocked. They never talked politics in the office. They never disagreed with my leftie rants. And yet they still voted Tory!
Up until now, I didn't know anyone who voted Tory. And here I was surrounded by them. How had I not known (didn't they roast babies on fires to keep warm?) and how could they have been so stupid? Readers, I was shocked and angry. Selfish bastards. Stupid bastards, brainwashed by the Sun, The Mail, The Tory Media. Bitching about them later with my friends - who all voted Labour - we moaned 'why didn't they think for themselves'?
I was twenty four. I was also stupid.
I can relay this story now because, well, I'm older and perhaps have a little more perspective on life. I wouldn't call it wisdom because the first casualty of experience is, certainty. The old 'the more I know, the less I know' trope. The future is unknowable, unmade, events and inventions happen. What doesn't change however, is human nature.
Which is kind of a long intro into Thursday's vote... Interestingly enough, in 1992 I was editor of the staff magazine at a large multi national. Before the 92 election I penned an article (never published) on what I considered to be the biggest non-issue of the ballot - the EC, as then was, the EU now. My view was that all three main parties supported membership and that the issue wasn't discussed. I wanted to know who I could vote for to express my point of view.
And my point of view on the EU has been pretty consistent for about 30 years, ever since Jacques Delors came to TUC congress in 1988 and persuaded the left to support a supra-national, non democratic way of getting their domestic agenda imposed on Thatcher's Britain. I was appalled at the willingness of many 'progressives' to jettison their mistrust of a non-democratic, corporatist club in order to win some baubles (The Social Chapter). Denied the ability to introduce their policies in the UK due to the good sense of the British public, they decided to go over the public's head.
And at the time I supported the ends but not the means. For, I reasoned back then, what happens if this benign dictatorship does something I don't like? How do I change that? How do you veto it? How can you change the leadership? Of course now, 2016, I support neither the ends nor the means. I'm a bit of a purist on this - Britain should decide its government and its policies for the good of Britain. If we don't like it, or the government make a mess of it, we can chuck them out. To me, the symbol of Britain's democracy has never been Big Ben, Parliament, our free press and courts but, on the morning following an election, a removal van. A van bustling out the departing Prime Minister, so powerful just the day before but now, scuttling peacefully away at the will of the people.
That my friends is democracy. We just got that back.
To those bitching on Facebook, starting petitions; basically throwing their toys out of the pram, I say this, accept the result, move on and embrace the new opportunities we now have to forge our way in the world. We have many friends across the world, a well used language and, despite the EU elites being angry, many envious - non fascist - friends across Europe. Never forget, the Dutch and French also had their referenda in 2005. Both voted no to The Lisbon Treaty. Both were ignored. When democratic means no longer work, non democratic means become the logical solution. We have escaped that (though some people don't realise it). Let's hope my good friends in Europe get the chance (again) to have self-governing peaceful democracies.
Cheers
Tim
Today I resigned from Facebook. It's an amplified version of that 1992 pub conversation my friends and I had following John Major's win. Back in those days you had to win arguments - now you just signal arguments. I think we've lost something.
Sign here to petition Parliament to remove David Lammy the Labour MP who has actually suggested ignoring the results of the referendum. Not only is it stupid and laughable but dangerous. This man is not fit to be an MP. Thanks to the great Rod Liddle for starting this.
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!