"Okay, here's the idea-- [deep voice] You wouldn't lie on your tax return... "
"Sorry mate, I don't think that's going to work. What else could we say?"
"How about: You wouldn't take office stationery home for personal use"
"But they would, wouldn't they? Any more?"
"You wouldn't - um - you wouldn't take illegal drugs for recreational purposes?"
"Not every day, at least. "
"We could turn it around, though: You would bend the law and commit minor infringements when you can't be bothered about morality, but don't do that with DVDs, ok?"
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
New readers start here
Welcome to A Few Words, a writing blog I have been maintaining since 2004, off and on. Most visitors end up here after searching for a Marks and Spencer food advert parody , analysis of Bob Dylan's Desolation Row, Highlands, or Blowin' in the wind, or background about Sandi Thom's mysterious rise to fame. None of which represent the best or most interesting of the material.
Good places to start are:
Change and Decay:
a long short story about an archivist's visit to a crumbling gentry estate (this was posted in chapters here but is presented in the right order in its own blog; it can aslo be downloaded as ae pdf, or bought on paper, in the volume File Under Fiction.
Written in your heart:
a radio play about Friends Reunited, old girlfriends, and midlife crises;
Dooced:
a radio play about an employment tribunal for an employee sacked for blogging about her work (life shortly therafter imitating Art, or at least artifice, in the form of Petite Anglaise);
Martin Amis criticism:
A long-term endeavour to cover all of his works, eventually, if I don't lose patience with his current rabble-rousing geopolitical insights first;
Stuff which won't be found here is poetry, which is at Complete and Utter Poetry, and archaeological project management, which is at 10 Simple Steps.
This post is a sticky and will stay at the top until I get bored with it.
Good places to start are:
Change and Decay:
a long short story about an archivist's visit to a crumbling gentry estate (this was posted in chapters here but is presented in the right order in its own blog; it can aslo be downloaded as ae pdf, or bought on paper, in the volume File Under Fiction.
Written in your heart:
a radio play about Friends Reunited, old girlfriends, and midlife crises;
Dooced:
a radio play about an employment tribunal for an employee sacked for blogging about her work (life shortly therafter imitating Art, or at least artifice, in the form of Petite Anglaise);
Martin Amis criticism:
A long-term endeavour to cover all of his works, eventually, if I don't lose patience with his current rabble-rousing geopolitical insights first;
Stuff which won't be found here is poetry, which is at Complete and Utter Poetry, and archaeological project management, which is at 10 Simple Steps.
This post is a sticky and will stay at the top until I get bored with it.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Martin Amis: a guide for new readers
Martin Amis [MA] has managed the difficult feat becoming a Grand Old Man of English letters without relinquishing his status as its enfant terrible. He ignites controversy on an equal opportunities basis, offending the right, the left, feminists, the religious, anti-War protestors; he has always felt that a writer's job was to be honest about his thoughts and emotions, without considering whether they are wise, popular or acceptable, based on his assumption that others secretly share his views, sometimes rightly, sometimes not. But the political froth of press coverage would not occur without the underlying awareness that he was a, if not the, great literary novelist of our days.
Such a reputation is a little hard to explain. He is usually considered to have written a maximum of three great books; his plots are makeshift, founded on melodramatic devises such as lost letters, misassigned parentage, coincidicne and motiveless malice, overlain by post-modern tricksiness; his characterisations are vague, arbitary and slapdash, his interest in psychology limited; his vocubulary wilfully obscure. But what he dos have is a voice. It is distinctive - ranging from high to low registers, from slang to literariness, with a complete assurance, almost an arrogance - a poet of the modern world, alive to the existential anxieties of urban living, and the helplessness of facing impending armageddon, nuclear, terrorist or natural.
What follows is an attempt to capture for new readers the merits and faults of his works, without becoming too embroiled in plot summaries. I have tried to avoid spoilers.
Where to start: Money, The Information, London Fields
NOVELS
The Rachel Papers
Attitudes to The Rachel Papers depend critically on the reader's opinion of Charles Highway, the upper middle class prig whose uneasy transition from schoolboy to student it follows. Many find his naivety, faux sophistitication and self-centredness repellent. But there are two aspects of the book that rescue it from being solely of biographical or period interest: the accurate depiction of how the adult world, with its baffling motives and petty crimes, appears monstrous to those in the process of joining it, and a running theme contrasting experience with expectations derived from literature, an implicit critique of the Great Tradition as a guide to life.
On returning home after three months:
MA rebukes Literature for failing to reflect the reality of life, and implies a manifesto for greater honesty in fiction.
Dead Babies (aka Dark Secrets)
Dead Babies is an attempt at a rounded novel with multiple characters with names and back stories and motivations, and all that stuff, and real, however improbable, plot. The action follows housemates in the Oxfordshire countryside as, over the course of a sex- and drugs-filled weekend, their personal anxieties and conflicts reach a terrible climax, in a pattern familiar to any viewer of Big Brother. The characterisation is thin, especially of the women, who remain stubbornly lifeless; the show is stolen by the horrible Keith Whitehead, short, fat, horny and common, a fictional precursor to both Keith Talent in London Fields and Clint Smoker in Yellow Dog. MA's distinctive language shows through, in such coinings as street sadness and cancelled sex, and there are moments of profound emotion, such as the discovery of park bench graffiti where, partly erased by the latest 'K fucks J', the earlier 'W loves M' survives. The fictional universe has moved on from The Rachel Papers: this is expliclitly set in the near-future, and there is a magic realist acceptance of the fantastical as normal.
Success
Success explores the role of nature and nurture in the development of character by contrasting the fortunes in adulthood of common Terry Service and his adopted brother Gregory in the social, sex and work lives. MA uses unreliable narrators to distort a narrative of the illusion and reality of success. Terry's deadening environment of office politics is well invoked, as is the paranoia of the late 70s hanuted by change and unemployment.
Other People
Other People: A mystery story follows an amnesiac, Mary Lamb, through a nightamre landscape in which she has to re-learn the function and import of everyday objects while dealing with sinister and oblique human contacts. Even after all this time and trouble, the book is considered by many to be MA's worst. As a technical exercise in Martian poetical imagination it has some merit, but it fails as an attempt to dramatise a moral tale.
Money
Money: A Suicide Note is MA's best novel. John Self's exploration of fleshly delights is unsullied by culture or civilisation until his attempt to become a film director provides an expensive education.
(longer account in prep)
London Fields
London Fields is a sprawling Dickensian description of modern London in the shadow of nuclear apocalypse, drawings its cast from the criminal underclass to the wealthy Clinches. The plot, like Dickens', tends to the programmatic, the absurd, and the coincidental, relying, at a critical point, on an educated and intelligent person's igorance of the significance of the name Enola Gay. A writer returns to London, his childhood home, to die, and intends to fulfil his destiny by observing a murder involving a willing murderee, a murderer and a foil. throughout the novel there are hints of an inevitable fatal confrontation in international politics. Keith Talent is a would-be darts champion, his desire to be 'onna TV' leading him to neglect his moe uual activities of petty theft, violence and indiscriminate sex. Nicola Six is, perhasp, the archetypical Amis woman, an unbelievable male fantasy of eroticism, dispassionate pragmatism, and the elaborate manipulation of her swains. Cultured, unsqueamish and determined, she plans to destroy Guy Clinch for the sake of it. Guy, meanwhile, rattles round his large house, and spends much of his time coping with his hideously demanding son whose destructive powers are beyond any defence. His beautiful wife, Hope, is helpless; her elegance and efficiency is completely unappealing to Guy, who prefers the prospect of sordor. The book is enjoyable as a series of vignettes although it lacks coherence and credibility as a whole; the style is crisp and lively urban poetry.
Time's Arrow
Time's Arrow is a technical tour de force, while also being something of a trial to read. Its narrative conceit is to tell the strory in reverse order, paragraph by paragraph, applaying a mirror reflection to morality, so that the Nazi doctor whose life it recounts starts in comfortable obscurity in an American hospital, making the well sick, before leading back to the Holocaust and the resurrection of the dead on an industrial scale. The weakest part is the early life- we are left little the wiser about what makes a monster.
The Information
See my account here.
Night Train
In Night Train , Mike Hoolihan is a police (she's also female, and a recovering alcoholic), investigating the murder of the astrophysicist daughter of the retired police chief. MA writing a pllice procedural set in America - if that sounds a bizarre prsopect, well, yes, you're right. MA seeks to submerge his distinctive style beneath an adopted narrative voice, but neither the mystery nor the treatment justify the attempt. Night Train is usually held to run Other People close for the title of worst MA novel.
Yellow Dog
Yellow Dog received a pasting from reviewers on publication, almost as if jealous rivals had been waiting for a chance to finally put the boot in. MA confess that the novel represent a jittery attempt to respond to the fallout of 9/11 and what it ahd told us about violence. There are five strands to the story, varying in interest, complexity, and craftmanship.
The most perfunctory follows a widow and her husband's coffin on final flight home against the increasing malevolence of chance and weather. Others cover: a fictional version of the Royal family, capturing the surreal tedium of anachronistic feudal duty and deference; Xan Meo, successful actor, whose head injury forces him to re-learn how to be a man, commenting on sex and social roles, to end preaching the feminist messge that men should 'give the girls a go', sufficiently patronising to annoy those who might agree with the sentiment; gangster Joseph Andrews, from retirement in las Vegas, hoping to return to the old country to die; and Clint Smoker- a journalist working at a tabloid newspaper completely cynical about its readers and the stories it invents to amuse them- sex-obsessed, impotent, ugly, endowed with miniscule genitalia, who develops a text message relationship with the mysterious k8.
Of these, the royals and Clint work; the others are let down by failures in tone and credibility.
House of Meetings
See my review here.
Such a reputation is a little hard to explain. He is usually considered to have written a maximum of three great books; his plots are makeshift, founded on melodramatic devises such as lost letters, misassigned parentage, coincidicne and motiveless malice, overlain by post-modern tricksiness; his characterisations are vague, arbitary and slapdash, his interest in psychology limited; his vocubulary wilfully obscure. But what he dos have is a voice. It is distinctive - ranging from high to low registers, from slang to literariness, with a complete assurance, almost an arrogance - a poet of the modern world, alive to the existential anxieties of urban living, and the helplessness of facing impending armageddon, nuclear, terrorist or natural.
What follows is an attempt to capture for new readers the merits and faults of his works, without becoming too embroiled in plot summaries. I have tried to avoid spoilers.
Where to start: Money, The Information, London Fields
NOVELS
The Rachel Papers
Attitudes to The Rachel Papers depend critically on the reader's opinion of Charles Highway, the upper middle class prig whose uneasy transition from schoolboy to student it follows. Many find his naivety, faux sophistitication and self-centredness repellent. But there are two aspects of the book that rescue it from being solely of biographical or period interest: the accurate depiction of how the adult world, with its baffling motives and petty crimes, appears monstrous to those in the process of joining it, and a running theme contrasting experience with expectations derived from literature, an implicit critique of the Great Tradition as a guide to life.
On returning home after three months:
"It seemed I'd been away for years. No, not years. Days? No, not days. It seemed I had been away for three months."
MA rebukes Literature for failing to reflect the reality of life, and implies a manifesto for greater honesty in fiction.
Dead Babies (aka Dark Secrets)
Dead Babies is an attempt at a rounded novel with multiple characters with names and back stories and motivations, and all that stuff, and real, however improbable, plot. The action follows housemates in the Oxfordshire countryside as, over the course of a sex- and drugs-filled weekend, their personal anxieties and conflicts reach a terrible climax, in a pattern familiar to any viewer of Big Brother. The characterisation is thin, especially of the women, who remain stubbornly lifeless; the show is stolen by the horrible Keith Whitehead, short, fat, horny and common, a fictional precursor to both Keith Talent in London Fields and Clint Smoker in Yellow Dog. MA's distinctive language shows through, in such coinings as street sadness and cancelled sex, and there are moments of profound emotion, such as the discovery of park bench graffiti where, partly erased by the latest 'K fucks J', the earlier 'W loves M' survives. The fictional universe has moved on from The Rachel Papers: this is expliclitly set in the near-future, and there is a magic realist acceptance of the fantastical as normal.
Success
Success explores the role of nature and nurture in the development of character by contrasting the fortunes in adulthood of common Terry Service and his adopted brother Gregory in the social, sex and work lives. MA uses unreliable narrators to distort a narrative of the illusion and reality of success. Terry's deadening environment of office politics is well invoked, as is the paranoia of the late 70s hanuted by change and unemployment.
Other People
Other People: A mystery story follows an amnesiac, Mary Lamb, through a nightamre landscape in which she has to re-learn the function and import of everyday objects while dealing with sinister and oblique human contacts. Even after all this time and trouble, the book is considered by many to be MA's worst. As a technical exercise in Martian poetical imagination it has some merit, but it fails as an attempt to dramatise a moral tale.
Money
Money: A Suicide Note is MA's best novel. John Self's exploration of fleshly delights is unsullied by culture or civilisation until his attempt to become a film director provides an expensive education.
(longer account in prep)
London Fields
London Fields is a sprawling Dickensian description of modern London in the shadow of nuclear apocalypse, drawings its cast from the criminal underclass to the wealthy Clinches. The plot, like Dickens', tends to the programmatic, the absurd, and the coincidental, relying, at a critical point, on an educated and intelligent person's igorance of the significance of the name Enola Gay. A writer returns to London, his childhood home, to die, and intends to fulfil his destiny by observing a murder involving a willing murderee, a murderer and a foil. throughout the novel there are hints of an inevitable fatal confrontation in international politics. Keith Talent is a would-be darts champion, his desire to be 'onna TV' leading him to neglect his moe uual activities of petty theft, violence and indiscriminate sex. Nicola Six is, perhasp, the archetypical Amis woman, an unbelievable male fantasy of eroticism, dispassionate pragmatism, and the elaborate manipulation of her swains. Cultured, unsqueamish and determined, she plans to destroy Guy Clinch for the sake of it. Guy, meanwhile, rattles round his large house, and spends much of his time coping with his hideously demanding son whose destructive powers are beyond any defence. His beautiful wife, Hope, is helpless; her elegance and efficiency is completely unappealing to Guy, who prefers the prospect of sordor. The book is enjoyable as a series of vignettes although it lacks coherence and credibility as a whole; the style is crisp and lively urban poetry.
Time's Arrow
Time's Arrow is a technical tour de force, while also being something of a trial to read. Its narrative conceit is to tell the strory in reverse order, paragraph by paragraph, applaying a mirror reflection to morality, so that the Nazi doctor whose life it recounts starts in comfortable obscurity in an American hospital, making the well sick, before leading back to the Holocaust and the resurrection of the dead on an industrial scale. The weakest part is the early life- we are left little the wiser about what makes a monster.
The Information
See my account here.
Night Train
In Night Train , Mike Hoolihan is a police (she's also female, and a recovering alcoholic), investigating the murder of the astrophysicist daughter of the retired police chief. MA writing a pllice procedural set in America - if that sounds a bizarre prsopect, well, yes, you're right. MA seeks to submerge his distinctive style beneath an adopted narrative voice, but neither the mystery nor the treatment justify the attempt. Night Train is usually held to run Other People close for the title of worst MA novel.
Yellow Dog
Yellow Dog received a pasting from reviewers on publication, almost as if jealous rivals had been waiting for a chance to finally put the boot in. MA confess that the novel represent a jittery attempt to respond to the fallout of 9/11 and what it ahd told us about violence. There are five strands to the story, varying in interest, complexity, and craftmanship.
The most perfunctory follows a widow and her husband's coffin on final flight home against the increasing malevolence of chance and weather. Others cover: a fictional version of the Royal family, capturing the surreal tedium of anachronistic feudal duty and deference; Xan Meo, successful actor, whose head injury forces him to re-learn how to be a man, commenting on sex and social roles, to end preaching the feminist messge that men should 'give the girls a go', sufficiently patronising to annoy those who might agree with the sentiment; gangster Joseph Andrews, from retirement in las Vegas, hoping to return to the old country to die; and Clint Smoker- a journalist working at a tabloid newspaper completely cynical about its readers and the stories it invents to amuse them- sex-obsessed, impotent, ugly, endowed with miniscule genitalia, who develops a text message relationship with the mysterious k8.
Of these, the royals and Clint work; the others are let down by failures in tone and credibility.
House of Meetings
See my review here.
There is now a podcast The Amis Papers looking at each book in turn.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Coping with stress
We were given stress card at work to monitor our stress level through the day. I used to get quite stressed, but not so much thse days: I waver between blue (calm) and black (cilinically dead).
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Karen Carpenter and the Nick Drake effect
The 40th anniversary of the start of The Carpenters' career has been marked by a publicity push, revining some ancient meoroies. Although their music is some distance from my usual fare, I could recognise the quaility of production, good choise of song, pop craftsmanship and, above all, Karen's warm and clear voice. However, there is a major challenge to fully enjoying the music now, as a result of an inversion of teh Nick Drake effect. Nick's death, as a result of an accidental or deliberate overdose on his depression medication, has cast a retrospective sincerity and dignity over his all too scanty recorded output, adding a layer of irony to his musings on confusion, isolation and world weariness. In contrast, the knowledge that Karen died of anorexia, anxious and unhappy, makes it hard, or indeed impossible, to enjoy the optimism and joie de vivre that marked the Carpenters' best work, often in tesnion with the lyrical content.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Overheard
"Wait - you guys have got history?"
"History, biology, physical education - the whole curriculum!"
"What part did you fail on?"
"History, biology, physical education - the whole curriculum!"
"What part did you fail on?"
Overheard at the gym
"To tell the truth, I'm not that bothered about losing weight: I'm more interested in losing width."
Monday, October 12, 2009
Rock band name generator
A few suggestions:NSFW
lol
redlink
TB:DR
H1N1
Cervarix
The Moat Cleaners
Edit war
Special guests
Huggahoody
Stealth tax
Troper
BLIX
e:zing
What the thunder said
.. or is that the new music stage line-up for Glastonbury 2010?
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Obscured by obscurity: La Vallee (review)
The film La Vallee has intrigued me ever since seeing some stills on the cover of the Pink Floyd soundtrack album Obscured By Clouds, which I bought in 1974 or so on the grounds that it was cheaper than Dark Side of The Moon; it remains one of my favourite Floyd albums, partly because it retains a complexity and imprecision, recounting a narrative in verbal snapshots, interspersed with droning instrumentals.
It is hard for people nowadays to relaise just how obscure the obscure used to be. Even a film whose soundtrack was provided by one of the most famous groups in the world was almost impossible to access - it wasn't even shown in cinemas in the United States until 1978, and never made it onto VHS. It is easier these days to watch a celebrity sex tape than it used to be to watch a non-mainstream foreign film (or so I've heard). This is progress. A search result in You Tube suddenly reminded me that I could at last, with no expense and minimal effort, see the film in all its glory (La Vallee, I mean, not the sex tape). Although many clips have been posted on YouTube, most have been deleted for copyright reasons, but an apparently legitimate full version has been published on Google Video.
The film was directed by Barbet Schroeder, using a French cast (with some English dialogue), and was filmed in the mountains of Papua New Guinea, an area still remote and largely unexplored, and more so in 1973. The key character is Vivian (the beautiful Bulle Ogier) who travels (literally and metaphorically) from the unsatisfying materialistic world of a privileged Westerner to more primitive and simpler freedoms, in the company of a hippy gang and the natives they meet on the way to the mysterious valley whose location is unknown even to mapmakers since it is obscured by clouds.
Viewers should note that there some nudity and sex and some pigs being killed (less than these screenshots would imply - they have for some reason chosen the two most explicit parts of the whole film), but the main danger is that of boredom - its pace is slow and it adopts a documentary-style approach to both travel and encounters.
Is it any good? To me, there is strange culture historical shift in viewing a nearly-40-year-old film - the natives are still natives, but the colonials and the hippies are dinosaurs. The consistent moral contrast between white civilisation, violent, money-grubbing, exploitative and shallow, and primitive cultures which seemed happiest when far removed from contact, could be read as a critique of colonialism and cultural imperialism. But I don't think that Schroeder's intent is so political; he is more interested in the philosophical question of how we should live, and in particular, whether the path of Western consumerism and matrimony is a dead end as far as fulfilment is concerned.
For a long French film with an intellectual agenda, there is, in fact, remarkably little talking, let alone debate. Vivian's transformation is one of actions, not words. As ever with hippy films, the case for free love is unconvincingly made - here it appears to mean the freedom for women to spend time with a variety of selfish, lazy, pompous, arrogant, and sexist men (as someone once observed, free love was a godsend to ugly men because it made not sleeping with them seem uncool). But then, all of the hippies are shallow and feckless, keen on drugs, hugs and sex but little else; their intrinsic moral superiority to the colonial whites is pretty marginal. Unfortunately, the negative aspects of native culture are largely ignored, suggesting that moving closer to primitivism is a good thing, although, as one character says, they are just tourists, its lying to pretend you can fit in.
Not seeing the valley at the end frustrated some viewers, but unreasonably, I think. But this results from the more legitimate criticism, that having implied that modern and ancient culture and religion was lacking, there is no hint of what Schroeder feels should be put in their place.
So it's a bit boring. Any time Bulle is off-screen it drags; the plot is very literal, even if the filming is sumptuous. Perhaps the single biggest criticism is the poor use of the Pink Floyd soundtrack - apart from the credit sequences, most are used only in short segments, and they feel very much as an extraneous element to the film.
It is hard for people nowadays to relaise just how obscure the obscure used to be. Even a film whose soundtrack was provided by one of the most famous groups in the world was almost impossible to access - it wasn't even shown in cinemas in the United States until 1978, and never made it onto VHS. It is easier these days to watch a celebrity sex tape than it used to be to watch a non-mainstream foreign film (or so I've heard). This is progress. A search result in You Tube suddenly reminded me that I could at last, with no expense and minimal effort, see the film in all its glory (La Vallee, I mean, not the sex tape). Although many clips have been posted on YouTube, most have been deleted for copyright reasons, but an apparently legitimate full version has been published on Google Video.
The film was directed by Barbet Schroeder, using a French cast (with some English dialogue), and was filmed in the mountains of Papua New Guinea, an area still remote and largely unexplored, and more so in 1973. The key character is Vivian (the beautiful Bulle Ogier) who travels (literally and metaphorically) from the unsatisfying materialistic world of a privileged Westerner to more primitive and simpler freedoms, in the company of a hippy gang and the natives they meet on the way to the mysterious valley whose location is unknown even to mapmakers since it is obscured by clouds.
Viewers should note that there some nudity and sex and some pigs being killed (less than these screenshots would imply - they have for some reason chosen the two most explicit parts of the whole film), but the main danger is that of boredom - its pace is slow and it adopts a documentary-style approach to both travel and encounters.
Is it any good? To me, there is strange culture historical shift in viewing a nearly-40-year-old film - the natives are still natives, but the colonials and the hippies are dinosaurs. The consistent moral contrast between white civilisation, violent, money-grubbing, exploitative and shallow, and primitive cultures which seemed happiest when far removed from contact, could be read as a critique of colonialism and cultural imperialism. But I don't think that Schroeder's intent is so political; he is more interested in the philosophical question of how we should live, and in particular, whether the path of Western consumerism and matrimony is a dead end as far as fulfilment is concerned.
For a long French film with an intellectual agenda, there is, in fact, remarkably little talking, let alone debate. Vivian's transformation is one of actions, not words. As ever with hippy films, the case for free love is unconvincingly made - here it appears to mean the freedom for women to spend time with a variety of selfish, lazy, pompous, arrogant, and sexist men (as someone once observed, free love was a godsend to ugly men because it made not sleeping with them seem uncool). But then, all of the hippies are shallow and feckless, keen on drugs, hugs and sex but little else; their intrinsic moral superiority to the colonial whites is pretty marginal. Unfortunately, the negative aspects of native culture are largely ignored, suggesting that moving closer to primitivism is a good thing, although, as one character says, they are just tourists, its lying to pretend you can fit in.
Not seeing the valley at the end frustrated some viewers, but unreasonably, I think. But this results from the more legitimate criticism, that having implied that modern and ancient culture and religion was lacking, there is no hint of what Schroeder feels should be put in their place.
So it's a bit boring. Any time Bulle is off-screen it drags; the plot is very literal, even if the filming is sumptuous. Perhaps the single biggest criticism is the poor use of the Pink Floyd soundtrack - apart from the credit sequences, most are used only in short segments, and they feel very much as an extraneous element to the film.
Friday, September 11, 2009
David Gilmour - Live in Gdansk (CD review)
The packaging of the album reflects the contents quite well, in that one sticker calls him 'the voice and guitar of Pink Floyd' and the other highlights the inclusion of 'all the songs from the {solo) album On An Island', and two ost-Waters Pink Floyd songs (High Hopes and A Great Day for Freedom).
The Pink Floyd songs are well-chosen, including the first four tracks of Dark Side of the Moon and Shine On You Crazy Diamond. These are presented in almost precise replications of the record versions (assisted no doubt by the presence in the band of Richard Wright (keyboards) and Dick Parry (saxophone); in a way, this process is so accurate as to become pointless - why not listen to the original version? Echoes is stretched further by a long and meandering, almost jazz-style, keyboard / guitar work-out. 'Fat Old Sun' is rescued from the obscurity of Atom Heart Mother, and is better than the original mainly from improved vocals.
The solo material is worse, and it's hard to work out why. Partly, there is the obvious point that to choose ten Floyd songs from 15 or so albums is easier than all of the songs from one, so you would expect some drop in quality. But beyond that, the solo stuff suffers because the arrangements are guitar-heavy and lack the sophisticated interplay of a band where all the instrumentalists contribute. Finally, it must be said that Floyd's musical style, and Gilmour's guitar and voice, is prone to grandness and bombasticism, making them better suited to subjects like madness, war and death than seaside walks and being in love (this isn't quite true: the albums from 1968 to 1972 included a batch of touching whimsical murmured emotionally sincere tracks, but these have been largely overshadowed by the 'classic' (Waters-written) more popular work). As a result, the On An Island sequence comes across as strained and aimless, with nice (mainly instrumental) moments but no momentum.
So the album isn't bad, but hardly makes a case for being a necessary purchase for Floyd fans.
The Pink Floyd songs are well-chosen, including the first four tracks of Dark Side of the Moon and Shine On You Crazy Diamond. These are presented in almost precise replications of the record versions (assisted no doubt by the presence in the band of Richard Wright (keyboards) and Dick Parry (saxophone); in a way, this process is so accurate as to become pointless - why not listen to the original version? Echoes is stretched further by a long and meandering, almost jazz-style, keyboard / guitar work-out. 'Fat Old Sun' is rescued from the obscurity of Atom Heart Mother, and is better than the original mainly from improved vocals.
The solo material is worse, and it's hard to work out why. Partly, there is the obvious point that to choose ten Floyd songs from 15 or so albums is easier than all of the songs from one, so you would expect some drop in quality. But beyond that, the solo stuff suffers because the arrangements are guitar-heavy and lack the sophisticated interplay of a band where all the instrumentalists contribute. Finally, it must be said that Floyd's musical style, and Gilmour's guitar and voice, is prone to grandness and bombasticism, making them better suited to subjects like madness, war and death than seaside walks and being in love (this isn't quite true: the albums from 1968 to 1972 included a batch of touching whimsical murmured emotionally sincere tracks, but these have been largely overshadowed by the 'classic' (Waters-written) more popular work). As a result, the On An Island sequence comes across as strained and aimless, with nice (mainly instrumental) moments but no momentum.
So the album isn't bad, but hardly makes a case for being a necessary purchase for Floyd fans.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
You CAN be too careful - when the Precautionary Principle doesn't apply
The precautionary principle, that proposed changes should not be implemented unless it has been demonstrated that they will lead to improvement, has become a mantra of modern decision making, ranging from scientific and environmental developments to organisational management. In the context of climate change, Softest Pawn argues that it wrongly applied and flawed in any case. I don't agree in detail, but it has become such a commonplace that it is worth exploring some more conceptual aspects of the way it is used.
It assumes that the situation is stable
If the choice is change or no change, it is reasonable that the case for change should be robust. But in many contexts, this is not the choice being faced - rather it is change A or change B, or change a little or change a lot. The PP is no help here - the competing arguments must be considered on their merits.
It assumes that the current situation is acceptable
If the current solution is not resulting in the desired outcomes, then there is no reason to prefer it to changes which may offer better outcomes.
It assumes that timing is not critical
The PP is basically a holding position - the case for change requires more evidence or study, after which the question can be revisited. If the change is time-critical, the opportunity may have gone.
It assumes that the effects of both choices can be predicted
Sometimes they can't, or not accurately, in which case deciding which is 'safest' becomes problematic.
It places the burden of proof on change
A higher level of evidence may be demanded for change than for stability, illogically.
It arbitrarily favours the current situation
Because greater effort is required to initiate change A, judgement is balanced in favour of the status quo (B) - but if the situations were reversed, then option A would be preferred on the same evidence.
So the next time someone says 'better not do anything, to be on the safe side' you may well be able to argue that this is not the safe side at all.
It assumes that the situation is stable
If the choice is change or no change, it is reasonable that the case for change should be robust. But in many contexts, this is not the choice being faced - rather it is change A or change B, or change a little or change a lot. The PP is no help here - the competing arguments must be considered on their merits.
It assumes that the current situation is acceptable
If the current solution is not resulting in the desired outcomes, then there is no reason to prefer it to changes which may offer better outcomes.
It assumes that timing is not critical
The PP is basically a holding position - the case for change requires more evidence or study, after which the question can be revisited. If the change is time-critical, the opportunity may have gone.
It assumes that the effects of both choices can be predicted
Sometimes they can't, or not accurately, in which case deciding which is 'safest' becomes problematic.
It places the burden of proof on change
A higher level of evidence may be demanded for change than for stability, illogically.
It arbitrarily favours the current situation
Because greater effort is required to initiate change A, judgement is balanced in favour of the status quo (B) - but if the situations were reversed, then option A would be preferred on the same evidence.
So the next time someone says 'better not do anything, to be on the safe side' you may well be able to argue that this is not the safe side at all.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sinners, all: short story
Kaz untied her apron and handed the till keys over to Tim.
‘It’s been quiet this afternoon,’ she said, nodding at the loners and couples scattered around the bar.
‘Maybe it’ll pick up,’ replied Tim in Antipodean optimism.
‘Maybe,’ said Kaz, doubtfully, ‘See ya!’
Tim wiped down the counter, glancing up at the TV screen showing a music video channel.
At a corner table, two men were drinking coffee. The tabletop’s accumulation of used crockery showed that they’d been there for a while. The two were of similar age: well-preserved late middle age, but were otherwise contrasted in appearance. One had a rosy face framed by bushy white hair and beard; the other was tanned, with a neat goatee beard, short black hair, and inquisitive eyes, the last effect heightened by a habitually-arched eyebrow.
‘What about sin, then, the Cardinal Sins?’ asked the man with the black beard, in the easy tone of a friendly argument long continued.
‘People get mixed up,’ replied the man with the white beard. ‘Cardinal Sin’s quite a precise and obscure theological concept. I don’t think anyone said they were supposed to be of universal application.’
‘But you’re cheating again – you always say things like that when you’re cornered.’
White Beard shook his head and wordlelly held up his empty cup.
‘More coffee?’ asked Black Beard. ‘Or is it time to move onto stringer stuff?’
‘Perhaps a malt whisky, thanks.’
Black Beard walked up to the bar. Tim was scowling up at the screen.
‘Shoulda been me!’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyway, what can I get you?’
Black Beard navigated the laden tray back to the table.
‘Envy’s still going strong,’ he said.
‘That’s not the point,’ said White Beard. ‘Sure, people commit sins, but they’re not defined by them. They can always choose to be better people.’
Black Beard surveyed the room. ‘What about this lot? I bet they’re all stuck by habit into selfishness.’
White Beard leaned forward. ‘I’ll take that bet.’
Black Beard offered his hand. ‘Shake on it, then.’
‘The usual stake?’ asked White Beard, solemnly.
‘It’s a deal.’
They sat sipping their drinks, waiting for something to happen.
The door was pushed open abruptly. A man in shirtsleeves rushed in breathlessly. ‘Can you help me?’ he asked the room generally, ‘there’s someone collapsed outside.’
A couple of the drinkers stood up and accompanied him out, returning a little later burdened by the body of a tramp, his clothes stained with mud and reeking of the street. They laid him on the floor, while onlookers cleared a space around him. Coats were offered as pillows or blankets.
‘I’m a taxi driver,’ the first man explained, ‘I saw him collapse on the pavement. Is anyone here a doctor?’
Heads were shaken firmly. After a pause, someone spoke up. ‘I’m a first aider,’ he said, coming forward and kneeling down to check the tramp’s pulse.
‘Hi. I’m Michael. Can you hear me? What’s your name?’
His eyes opened briefly. ‘Harry,’ he coughed.
Michael looked up. ‘Call an ambulance – he’s in a bad way.’ Mobile phones were brandished at once.
Harry’s eyes flickered and closed, and his breathing grew more laboured. ‘He’s arresting, I think,’ said Peter. ‘We’re going to need to do CPR.’
By now, most of the patrons had gathered round, offering help, advice, or just commentary. Peter recruited a couple of them to assist in the rotations of breathing and chest compressions.
When the ambulance arrived, the paramedic took over, efficiently collecting the victim.
‘Is there anything we can do?’ asked someone.
‘No thanks, we’ve got him now,’ the paramedic replied, closing the door and heading off, siren screaming.
Now that the drama was over, people seemed embarrassed, and soon most had gone.
‘All right, there’s quite a few helpful people here’, said Black Beard, ‘but what about the barman?’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said White Beard.
“What did you mean earlier,’ Black Bear asked Tim, ‘when you said it should have been you?’
Tim took some time to think back before the tramp’s intrusion.
‘Oh, that. That lucky bugger on the video was at school with me – now he’s a big star, rolling in money and girls, and I’m here, behind a bar. But back in the day, it was going to me who made it.’
He paused, tilting his head judiciously, then shrugged.
‘Still, he was the one who went for it, I guess. He put in the hours, practicing, extra classes, special courses, learning the instrument; I never had the patience. So good luck to him.’
White Beard smiled at Black Beard. ‘I win, I believe.’ Black Beard asked Tim for a packet of peanuts, then wordlessly handed them to White Beard.
‘It’s good to see that the Devil’s a man of his word,’ said God.
‘You know me of old,’ said the Devil, and they walked out into the night.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
‘It’s been quiet this afternoon,’ she said, nodding at the loners and couples scattered around the bar.
‘Maybe it’ll pick up,’ replied Tim in Antipodean optimism.
‘Maybe,’ said Kaz, doubtfully, ‘See ya!’
Tim wiped down the counter, glancing up at the TV screen showing a music video channel.
At a corner table, two men were drinking coffee. The tabletop’s accumulation of used crockery showed that they’d been there for a while. The two were of similar age: well-preserved late middle age, but were otherwise contrasted in appearance. One had a rosy face framed by bushy white hair and beard; the other was tanned, with a neat goatee beard, short black hair, and inquisitive eyes, the last effect heightened by a habitually-arched eyebrow.
‘What about sin, then, the Cardinal Sins?’ asked the man with the black beard, in the easy tone of a friendly argument long continued.
‘People get mixed up,’ replied the man with the white beard. ‘Cardinal Sin’s quite a precise and obscure theological concept. I don’t think anyone said they were supposed to be of universal application.’
‘But you’re cheating again – you always say things like that when you’re cornered.’
White Beard shook his head and wordlelly held up his empty cup.
‘More coffee?’ asked Black Beard. ‘Or is it time to move onto stringer stuff?’
‘Perhaps a malt whisky, thanks.’
Black Beard walked up to the bar. Tim was scowling up at the screen.
‘Shoulda been me!’ he said bitterly. ‘Anyway, what can I get you?’
Black Beard navigated the laden tray back to the table.
‘Envy’s still going strong,’ he said.
‘That’s not the point,’ said White Beard. ‘Sure, people commit sins, but they’re not defined by them. They can always choose to be better people.’
Black Beard surveyed the room. ‘What about this lot? I bet they’re all stuck by habit into selfishness.’
White Beard leaned forward. ‘I’ll take that bet.’
Black Beard offered his hand. ‘Shake on it, then.’
‘The usual stake?’ asked White Beard, solemnly.
‘It’s a deal.’
They sat sipping their drinks, waiting for something to happen.
The door was pushed open abruptly. A man in shirtsleeves rushed in breathlessly. ‘Can you help me?’ he asked the room generally, ‘there’s someone collapsed outside.’
A couple of the drinkers stood up and accompanied him out, returning a little later burdened by the body of a tramp, his clothes stained with mud and reeking of the street. They laid him on the floor, while onlookers cleared a space around him. Coats were offered as pillows or blankets.
‘I’m a taxi driver,’ the first man explained, ‘I saw him collapse on the pavement. Is anyone here a doctor?’
Heads were shaken firmly. After a pause, someone spoke up. ‘I’m a first aider,’ he said, coming forward and kneeling down to check the tramp’s pulse.
‘Hi. I’m Michael. Can you hear me? What’s your name?’
His eyes opened briefly. ‘Harry,’ he coughed.
Michael looked up. ‘Call an ambulance – he’s in a bad way.’ Mobile phones were brandished at once.
Harry’s eyes flickered and closed, and his breathing grew more laboured. ‘He’s arresting, I think,’ said Peter. ‘We’re going to need to do CPR.’
By now, most of the patrons had gathered round, offering help, advice, or just commentary. Peter recruited a couple of them to assist in the rotations of breathing and chest compressions.
When the ambulance arrived, the paramedic took over, efficiently collecting the victim.
‘Is there anything we can do?’ asked someone.
‘No thanks, we’ve got him now,’ the paramedic replied, closing the door and heading off, siren screaming.
Now that the drama was over, people seemed embarrassed, and soon most had gone.
‘All right, there’s quite a few helpful people here’, said Black Beard, ‘but what about the barman?’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said White Beard.
“What did you mean earlier,’ Black Bear asked Tim, ‘when you said it should have been you?’
Tim took some time to think back before the tramp’s intrusion.
‘Oh, that. That lucky bugger on the video was at school with me – now he’s a big star, rolling in money and girls, and I’m here, behind a bar. But back in the day, it was going to me who made it.’
He paused, tilting his head judiciously, then shrugged.
‘Still, he was the one who went for it, I guess. He put in the hours, practicing, extra classes, special courses, learning the instrument; I never had the patience. So good luck to him.’
White Beard smiled at Black Beard. ‘I win, I believe.’ Black Beard asked Tim for a packet of peanuts, then wordlessly handed them to White Beard.
‘It’s good to see that the Devil’s a man of his word,’ said God.
‘You know me of old,’ said the Devil, and they walked out into the night.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
Street science: short story
I met Carl in the city hospital's casualty department. He hobbled into the waiting area shortly after I had been abandoned by my wife to the mercies of the health professionals, such as they were.
I had broken my leg falling from a ladder while re-routing the satellite dish cable across the front wall of the house. Somehow this was my fault, she implied, forgetting that she had been the one who argued that me paying hard-earned cash to a spiv tradesman was a waste. She had her reasons, of course - if anyone was going to be spending my executive bonus on pointless fripperies it should be her. The house is one of the big ones on the hill, set back from the road with broad gravel drives. Apart from the cleaner and the gardener, we didn't mix with the lower orders on the sloping streets around us.
Carl was unexceptional in appearance at first glance, but something about him caught my eye - he was aware, watchful; his quick gaze around the room absorbed both geography and population; he headed over on his crutches and sat down next to me, groaning and tutting. He pointed at my leg.
'Snap! Or should I say snapped?'
I nodded silently.
'No worries,' he said, 'at least we'll jump the queue. Triage, you see.'
I was surprised by his elaborately French pronunciation of the word, and must have shown it, for he went on.
'I've knocked around Europe, all over. I can order a beer in ten languages, swear in more. Life skills.'
He sat back, grinning in pleasure. I realised he was cleverer, and more thoughtful, than he looked. I glanced at his injury. He shrugged.
'War wound. War of the bloody sexes, that is. Fell down the stairs while retreating under heavy fire - verbal mostly, a few shoes. Caught me off-guard. A shame to my profession.'
'Which is?'
'Bouncer, or bodyguard, depending. I'm useful.'
He emphasized the final word to imply some unstated code, somehow managing to convey his judgement that I was, in those terms, useless.
'You must make a bit,' he added.
'I do quite well, yes,' I replied coldly.
'I can tell, you see,' he continued, steadfastly ignoring my tone. 'It's my radar. A scientist of the street, that's me.' He looked me up and down. 'So: winter ski tan, expensive watch, casual clothes with ironed creases, deck shoes. Simple.'
'And my accent, of course.'
'You'd be surprised - accent's a difficult one. These days, especially. It's not so much deliberate gentrification, it's how we absorb what we hear - from kids, TV, music, mates. And in any case, accent is about class, where you came from; it's nothing to do with profession, or trade, or current status. Although,' he paused, considering, 'if your parents were poor, you'd have designer-label casuals, some gold rings or chains, maybe some tattoos.'
There followed a pause as we both looked around the room and silently classified its occupants.
The sign was still showing a three hour waiting time, but it wasn't long before I had been checked, X-rayed and partially encased in plaster. Carl followed me out, and when he herd me order a taxi, he asked to tag along. He only lived a couple of streets away, on the far side of the great social divide. It would have been rude to refuse, so we travelled home together, and I left him outside his house, tottering up the steps on his crutches.
The days that followed were a bit like Rear Window, as I was trapped upstairs with little to do. But it was more like watching Rear Window on continuous repeat. It is surprising how little there is on TV when it's your only option.
The practice nurse at the surgery pronounced herself happy with my progress, and a few days later an appointment card arrived from the physiotherapy department at the hospital.
When I arrived there, I saw Carl in the waiting room. A moment's reflection established that this was no more than logical - similar injuries, on the same date, would have treatment programmes that run in parallel.
He greeted me enthusiastically.
'I'm an old hand here,' he said with a hint of ownership. 'A regular, you might say. My body gets a bit of punishment, even when I'm dishing it out.' He cracked his knuckles. I asked how he as managing.
'I'm not working - I can't. You have to have at least the threat of force. I do some security work - watching the CCTV. Bores me rigid, though: I read a lot.'
We were called through to the clinic together, greeted by an impossibly young and petite nurse. We soon found that she was stronger and more forceful than she looked, as she took us through a long routine of exercises and performance measurements. Carl seemed to lose a little of his self-assurance, and retaliated by a stream of innuendo and banter that she steadfastly ignored. After half an hour we were exhausted, muscles aching.
'Now this is important,' she said. 'If you just sit around for the bones to heal, you'll be facing months before you rebuild your muscle tone. You need to keep active, even while the plaster's on - that way, you should be fully recovered in a matter of weeks.' She handed us a card. 'Here's an exercise schedule.'
As we hobbled out, Carl suggested we meet up to walk around the neighbourhood, and I agreed it sounded like a good plan.
We made an odd couple, as we circled the streets, clanking on our crutches. It was an eye-opener for me to explore the intimate geography of the housing estate, its passageways, lock-ups, desolate parks, and glass-strewn playgrounds.
'Look,' he said, in a back alley, pointing up at a row of high garden walls. 'You can tell when they were robbed by the age of the protection.'
I looked along the variegated barriers - barbed wire, anti-vandal paint, cameras, lights, locks and chains.
'It's defending your patch, see. Round here, the public spaces are no-man's-land - even villains have right of way. So all you can do is look after your own territory. It's something of an arms race, too - thieves are lazy bastards. You don't have to make your property completely secure - just harder work to break into than your neighbours.'
Over time, our walking speed increased, and Carl's commentary shifted to the people we saw. We developed a contest - he would spot a pedestrian, and I would try to work out how tough they were. He relished these opportunities to demonstrate his superior knowledge.
'Nah, not him. He's not ripped, just fat. No stamina, see. Keep him arguing for a couple of minutes and he'll be puffing for air.'
'What about him?'
'See how he's walking - rocking from foot to foot, with his upper body straight. Boxer. Yeah, I wouldn't fancy taking him on.'
I learned a lot about tattoos, too - prison, gang, sailor, biker, fashion.
'That's gone to pot. I tell you, there was a time when they were like a badge for hard men. These days any sulky teenager can get some Chinese gibberish on her arm. Ditto for piercings. That's without mentioning the gays.'
He spat the word out as if he'd never heard of diversity training, let alone had any. He wouldn't have lasted long in an office, as I realised when I returned to work on light duties. It was strange to contrast the dull complacency of my staff of middle-class graduates with his eager curiosity and energy. As I sat watching the rain spatter the window, the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Carl.
'Michael, mate, I need a favour,' he panted. 'I'm back at Casualty. Can you bring my bird in? She's stuck at home.'
I picked her up from outside their flat. Stella sat silent and prim in the passenger seat as I negotiated the streets and threaded through the traffic. I parked and she dashed ahead of me into the hospital. I followed after locking the car, and was directed through to the cubicles.
He looked terrible. He now had an arm in plaster, and his chest was dappled with purple and black bruises. His face was criss-crossed with black ridges of dried blood where cuts had been stitched. Carl nodded weakly to me, his movements restricted by a neck brace. Stella patted his healthy arm.
'Christ, love. What happened?'
'I'm alright,' he whispered, 'never you mind.'
After they had chatted for a while he sent her off to get a cup of tea.
'Cheers, mate,' he said.
'No problem. Someone caught you out?'
'Squaddies.' He winced. 'Three of 'em. You got to be careful with them - they know how to fight, and they don't hesitate.'
'What was the problem.'
'They didn't like my attitude,' he replied dismissively.
'Are you going to report them?'
'Nah, keep the filth out of it.'
'How bad is it?
'A few weeks off work again, I reckon. They keep saying that they're worried about my brain, but people have been telling me that for years!'
He chuckled softly. I heard the door open behind me. 'Nothing to her, mind,' he said, putting a finger to his lips.
Stella said she could get home under her own steam, and I left to return to work.
So I wasn't there to witness Carl's dramatic deterioration, the rush of the nurses, the clatter of equipment, the flimsy privacy of the screens, the bleeps and shocks, the 'bad news' and 'we did our best.'
I attended the funeral, feeling out of place in the swirling crowd of thick necks, shaved heads, and pumped-up limbs. There was some bitter amusement to be gleaned from the minister's awkward search for euphemism as he tried to summarise Carl's character. I hope I've done a better job here.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
I had broken my leg falling from a ladder while re-routing the satellite dish cable across the front wall of the house. Somehow this was my fault, she implied, forgetting that she had been the one who argued that me paying hard-earned cash to a spiv tradesman was a waste. She had her reasons, of course - if anyone was going to be spending my executive bonus on pointless fripperies it should be her. The house is one of the big ones on the hill, set back from the road with broad gravel drives. Apart from the cleaner and the gardener, we didn't mix with the lower orders on the sloping streets around us.
Carl was unexceptional in appearance at first glance, but something about him caught my eye - he was aware, watchful; his quick gaze around the room absorbed both geography and population; he headed over on his crutches and sat down next to me, groaning and tutting. He pointed at my leg.
'Snap! Or should I say snapped?'
I nodded silently.
'No worries,' he said, 'at least we'll jump the queue. Triage, you see.'
I was surprised by his elaborately French pronunciation of the word, and must have shown it, for he went on.
'I've knocked around Europe, all over. I can order a beer in ten languages, swear in more. Life skills.'
He sat back, grinning in pleasure. I realised he was cleverer, and more thoughtful, than he looked. I glanced at his injury. He shrugged.
'War wound. War of the bloody sexes, that is. Fell down the stairs while retreating under heavy fire - verbal mostly, a few shoes. Caught me off-guard. A shame to my profession.'
'Which is?'
'Bouncer, or bodyguard, depending. I'm useful.'
He emphasized the final word to imply some unstated code, somehow managing to convey his judgement that I was, in those terms, useless.
'You must make a bit,' he added.
'I do quite well, yes,' I replied coldly.
'I can tell, you see,' he continued, steadfastly ignoring my tone. 'It's my radar. A scientist of the street, that's me.' He looked me up and down. 'So: winter ski tan, expensive watch, casual clothes with ironed creases, deck shoes. Simple.'
'And my accent, of course.'
'You'd be surprised - accent's a difficult one. These days, especially. It's not so much deliberate gentrification, it's how we absorb what we hear - from kids, TV, music, mates. And in any case, accent is about class, where you came from; it's nothing to do with profession, or trade, or current status. Although,' he paused, considering, 'if your parents were poor, you'd have designer-label casuals, some gold rings or chains, maybe some tattoos.'
There followed a pause as we both looked around the room and silently classified its occupants.
The sign was still showing a three hour waiting time, but it wasn't long before I had been checked, X-rayed and partially encased in plaster. Carl followed me out, and when he herd me order a taxi, he asked to tag along. He only lived a couple of streets away, on the far side of the great social divide. It would have been rude to refuse, so we travelled home together, and I left him outside his house, tottering up the steps on his crutches.
The days that followed were a bit like Rear Window, as I was trapped upstairs with little to do. But it was more like watching Rear Window on continuous repeat. It is surprising how little there is on TV when it's your only option.
The practice nurse at the surgery pronounced herself happy with my progress, and a few days later an appointment card arrived from the physiotherapy department at the hospital.
When I arrived there, I saw Carl in the waiting room. A moment's reflection established that this was no more than logical - similar injuries, on the same date, would have treatment programmes that run in parallel.
He greeted me enthusiastically.
'I'm an old hand here,' he said with a hint of ownership. 'A regular, you might say. My body gets a bit of punishment, even when I'm dishing it out.' He cracked his knuckles. I asked how he as managing.
'I'm not working - I can't. You have to have at least the threat of force. I do some security work - watching the CCTV. Bores me rigid, though: I read a lot.'
We were called through to the clinic together, greeted by an impossibly young and petite nurse. We soon found that she was stronger and more forceful than she looked, as she took us through a long routine of exercises and performance measurements. Carl seemed to lose a little of his self-assurance, and retaliated by a stream of innuendo and banter that she steadfastly ignored. After half an hour we were exhausted, muscles aching.
'Now this is important,' she said. 'If you just sit around for the bones to heal, you'll be facing months before you rebuild your muscle tone. You need to keep active, even while the plaster's on - that way, you should be fully recovered in a matter of weeks.' She handed us a card. 'Here's an exercise schedule.'
As we hobbled out, Carl suggested we meet up to walk around the neighbourhood, and I agreed it sounded like a good plan.
We made an odd couple, as we circled the streets, clanking on our crutches. It was an eye-opener for me to explore the intimate geography of the housing estate, its passageways, lock-ups, desolate parks, and glass-strewn playgrounds.
'Look,' he said, in a back alley, pointing up at a row of high garden walls. 'You can tell when they were robbed by the age of the protection.'
I looked along the variegated barriers - barbed wire, anti-vandal paint, cameras, lights, locks and chains.
'It's defending your patch, see. Round here, the public spaces are no-man's-land - even villains have right of way. So all you can do is look after your own territory. It's something of an arms race, too - thieves are lazy bastards. You don't have to make your property completely secure - just harder work to break into than your neighbours.'
Over time, our walking speed increased, and Carl's commentary shifted to the people we saw. We developed a contest - he would spot a pedestrian, and I would try to work out how tough they were. He relished these opportunities to demonstrate his superior knowledge.
'Nah, not him. He's not ripped, just fat. No stamina, see. Keep him arguing for a couple of minutes and he'll be puffing for air.'
'What about him?'
'See how he's walking - rocking from foot to foot, with his upper body straight. Boxer. Yeah, I wouldn't fancy taking him on.'
I learned a lot about tattoos, too - prison, gang, sailor, biker, fashion.
'That's gone to pot. I tell you, there was a time when they were like a badge for hard men. These days any sulky teenager can get some Chinese gibberish on her arm. Ditto for piercings. That's without mentioning the gays.'
He spat the word out as if he'd never heard of diversity training, let alone had any. He wouldn't have lasted long in an office, as I realised when I returned to work on light duties. It was strange to contrast the dull complacency of my staff of middle-class graduates with his eager curiosity and energy. As I sat watching the rain spatter the window, the phone rang. To my surprise, it was Carl.
'Michael, mate, I need a favour,' he panted. 'I'm back at Casualty. Can you bring my bird in? She's stuck at home.'
I picked her up from outside their flat. Stella sat silent and prim in the passenger seat as I negotiated the streets and threaded through the traffic. I parked and she dashed ahead of me into the hospital. I followed after locking the car, and was directed through to the cubicles.
He looked terrible. He now had an arm in plaster, and his chest was dappled with purple and black bruises. His face was criss-crossed with black ridges of dried blood where cuts had been stitched. Carl nodded weakly to me, his movements restricted by a neck brace. Stella patted his healthy arm.
'Christ, love. What happened?'
'I'm alright,' he whispered, 'never you mind.'
After they had chatted for a while he sent her off to get a cup of tea.
'Cheers, mate,' he said.
'No problem. Someone caught you out?'
'Squaddies.' He winced. 'Three of 'em. You got to be careful with them - they know how to fight, and they don't hesitate.'
'What was the problem.'
'They didn't like my attitude,' he replied dismissively.
'Are you going to report them?'
'Nah, keep the filth out of it.'
'How bad is it?
'A few weeks off work again, I reckon. They keep saying that they're worried about my brain, but people have been telling me that for years!'
He chuckled softly. I heard the door open behind me. 'Nothing to her, mind,' he said, putting a finger to his lips.
Stella said she could get home under her own steam, and I left to return to work.
So I wasn't there to witness Carl's dramatic deterioration, the rush of the nurses, the clatter of equipment, the flimsy privacy of the screens, the bleeps and shocks, the 'bad news' and 'we did our best.'
I attended the funeral, feeling out of place in the swirling crowd of thick necks, shaved heads, and pumped-up limbs. There was some bitter amusement to be gleaned from the minister's awkward search for euphemism as he tried to summarise Carl's character. I hope I've done a better job here.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
The price of everything: short story
I’ve got a favourite spot, between the Lloyd’s cash machine and the newsagent. There’s a closed-down office with marble steps up to the doorway, and a portico provides some cover from the rain. I sit on cardboard to keep out the worst of the cold coming up from the underlying stone. There’s a lot of competition for this pitch – location, you see, location, location, location, as I used to say when I was an estate agent, before buy-to-let turned into a passport to debt, taking home, car, job and wife with it. Maybe you knew me then – good old Flash Harry, king of the property jungle. Maybe you owe me one. More likely, maybe I owe you one. Hard luck, if so.
Anyway, about my spot. Begging is all about traffic, throughput. There’s a fraction of people who will drop you a coin as they pass – one per hundred, one per thousand, whatever it is. So the more go pass, the more you make. They say it’s dying out, begging, killed by the credit card. You get them, sometimes, walking past you patting their pockets, pretending they’ve only got plastic and so can’t give you the cash they otherwise would. Makes all the difference, I don’t think. And of course, the cash machine’s customers really haven’t got any coins.
You could argue these days that the traditional ‘price of a cuppa’ could easily be a note, but that’s not what it’s about. You used to get those stories about how you could get rich from begging, but they were lies, or at least, unrepresentative. If begging was hard, beggars couldn't do it. These are people who find remembering their name a challenge, washing a distant utopian ambition. Begging is what you do when you've run out of options. Every day there's the struggle, the desperate hope, putting the hours in until you've earned your target. If all you're feeding is your stomach, that's not so bad - a long morning will set you up. I wouldn’t want to be an addict - waiting for the cash to match the cost of a fix, penny by penny.
There are some people who can get £5 at a time - the posh lot, the buskers, slumming classical violinist or under-employed folk guitarists, who rake it in at Christmas by making the crowds feel good. I don't do that, spread the warm feelings. The best I can hope for is to be a lucky charm - sometimes passers-by reckon that if they give me money, they won't end up like me. So for me it's coins, one here, one there, Thank you, sir, Thank you love, Thanks, kid, adding up through the day.
They say that begging is like selling: it makes you cynical, eyeing up everybody as a possible mark. Not that I wasn't cynical before, but it's true, I guess. A lot of waiting in both jobs, of course. It's fun here, sometimes, watching everyone come and go. Best of all is the parking meter. For a start, you get to spot the liars who walk past you saying they've got no change, and then feed some into the meter. But there's the next bit, too - the traffic warden solemnly photographing the cars, checking his watch, reading the meter, then taking out his ticket pad.
It happened today, for example. A new BMW roars into the space, the driver, all suit and sunglasses, sprints into the shop, and comes back to find the red package on the windscreen. Oh dear, oh dear; my heart bleeds. Now the warden's come back, and the driver's arguing. The warden keeps calm.
'Surely, sir, if you can afford such a fine vehicle as this, you can find the parking fee?'
This doesn't go down well. The driver starts shouting about appeals and lawyers and complaints, and doesn't notice that the warden's speaking on his radio.
'You there!' the driver says, pointing at me, 'You saw it all - I was only there half a minute.'
I stand up and walk towards them, my legs stiff.
'What did I see?'
'You saw me arrive.'
'Did I? I don't remember you passing. Did you give me any money?'
'No, I . . .' He pauses as my meaning sinks in. He gets his wallet out. 'I was in a hurry then, but now - ' He fingers a £20 note. I turn to the traffic warden.
'He wasn't here long, you know.'
The warden nods grimly.
'Must just be your unlucky day, then, sir.'
The driver starts to put the note back in the wallet.
'Oi,' I say, 'I think that's mine.'
He shakes his head. But he doesn't notice what's happening behind him - the tow truck's now blocked his car in, and the crew is getting out of the cab. He looks around and starts shouting again. The traffic warden retreats and calls the police.
The driver sags in defeat, gets out his cash, pays the clampers, pays the warden. He looks at me in disgust. The feeling's mutual, mate. In minutes, the street clears.
I spot a pound coin in the gutter - that's my tea sorted for today, I think, so I head back to the hostel, feeling relatively positive for a change.
Tonight, no doubt, in some leafy suburb, in a stunning domestic residence enjoying extensive views, the driver's telling his uninterested wife about his day in the City, and how it cost him a hundred quid, bitterness curdling his stomach.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
Anyway, about my spot. Begging is all about traffic, throughput. There’s a fraction of people who will drop you a coin as they pass – one per hundred, one per thousand, whatever it is. So the more go pass, the more you make. They say it’s dying out, begging, killed by the credit card. You get them, sometimes, walking past you patting their pockets, pretending they’ve only got plastic and so can’t give you the cash they otherwise would. Makes all the difference, I don’t think. And of course, the cash machine’s customers really haven’t got any coins.
You could argue these days that the traditional ‘price of a cuppa’ could easily be a note, but that’s not what it’s about. You used to get those stories about how you could get rich from begging, but they were lies, or at least, unrepresentative. If begging was hard, beggars couldn't do it. These are people who find remembering their name a challenge, washing a distant utopian ambition. Begging is what you do when you've run out of options. Every day there's the struggle, the desperate hope, putting the hours in until you've earned your target. If all you're feeding is your stomach, that's not so bad - a long morning will set you up. I wouldn’t want to be an addict - waiting for the cash to match the cost of a fix, penny by penny.
There are some people who can get £5 at a time - the posh lot, the buskers, slumming classical violinist or under-employed folk guitarists, who rake it in at Christmas by making the crowds feel good. I don't do that, spread the warm feelings. The best I can hope for is to be a lucky charm - sometimes passers-by reckon that if they give me money, they won't end up like me. So for me it's coins, one here, one there, Thank you, sir, Thank you love, Thanks, kid, adding up through the day.
They say that begging is like selling: it makes you cynical, eyeing up everybody as a possible mark. Not that I wasn't cynical before, but it's true, I guess. A lot of waiting in both jobs, of course. It's fun here, sometimes, watching everyone come and go. Best of all is the parking meter. For a start, you get to spot the liars who walk past you saying they've got no change, and then feed some into the meter. But there's the next bit, too - the traffic warden solemnly photographing the cars, checking his watch, reading the meter, then taking out his ticket pad.
It happened today, for example. A new BMW roars into the space, the driver, all suit and sunglasses, sprints into the shop, and comes back to find the red package on the windscreen. Oh dear, oh dear; my heart bleeds. Now the warden's come back, and the driver's arguing. The warden keeps calm.
'Surely, sir, if you can afford such a fine vehicle as this, you can find the parking fee?'
This doesn't go down well. The driver starts shouting about appeals and lawyers and complaints, and doesn't notice that the warden's speaking on his radio.
'You there!' the driver says, pointing at me, 'You saw it all - I was only there half a minute.'
I stand up and walk towards them, my legs stiff.
'What did I see?'
'You saw me arrive.'
'Did I? I don't remember you passing. Did you give me any money?'
'No, I . . .' He pauses as my meaning sinks in. He gets his wallet out. 'I was in a hurry then, but now - ' He fingers a £20 note. I turn to the traffic warden.
'He wasn't here long, you know.'
The warden nods grimly.
'Must just be your unlucky day, then, sir.'
The driver starts to put the note back in the wallet.
'Oi,' I say, 'I think that's mine.'
He shakes his head. But he doesn't notice what's happening behind him - the tow truck's now blocked his car in, and the crew is getting out of the cab. He looks around and starts shouting again. The traffic warden retreats and calls the police.
The driver sags in defeat, gets out his cash, pays the clampers, pays the warden. He looks at me in disgust. The feeling's mutual, mate. In minutes, the street clears.
I spot a pound coin in the gutter - that's my tea sorted for today, I think, so I head back to the hostel, feeling relatively positive for a change.
Tonight, no doubt, in some leafy suburb, in a stunning domestic residence enjoying extensive views, the driver's telling his uninterested wife about his day in the City, and how it cost him a hundred quid, bitterness curdling his stomach.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
The seducer's tale: flash fiction
'Not bad, not bad,' Phil said out loud, looking at his reflection. Condensation from the shower framed his features. He worked his way through the tedious toolkit of body care - clippers, sprays, trimmers. He decided against shaving, the stubble serving to disguise the thickening of his chin. There was a touch of salt-and-pepper greyness coming through, he noted. Oh well, he'd have to face that soon.
Fresher's Balls had changed a lot over the years since Phil's first one. The days of wide-eyed ingénues overwhelmed by the heady mixture of freedom, alcohol, music, and social unease, ripe to be entranced and exploited, had gone. Nowadays the would-be squire needed a bit more on his side than age and wisdom - he had to differentiate himself from the young lads whose charmless innuendoes rolled off their tongues like football chants. Phil could usually count on finding some girl to inveigle into a quiet corner, where he provided mature advice and sympathy, a paternal voice . . . Phil shook himself. From his PhD research, he knew enough about Freud to want to avoid the whole question of why some men liked young women and women liked older men. It amazed him that the term 'Daddy's girl' was bandied around in polite society without raising any concerns. He thought for a second and shook his head. His motives were clear enough - it wasn't youth he wanted, just opportunity. For some reason, he found it difficult to sustain relationships with women of his own age - they seemed to find him safe and boring, and self-obsessed. 'Well, who else should I be interested in?' he had countered in one final row. 'Me!' she had answered.
He had hopes for tonight. He combed his hair, cleaned his teeth, and slid a condom packet into his pocket.
* * *
Kaz blinked at the brightness as the bathroom light flickered on. She swayed across the cool tiles, rested her hands on the sink, and stood, waiting for her head to clear. The E she'd taken before coming out was wearing off, leaving her feeling flat. She opened her clutch bag and took out a sachet. She expertly rolled a bank-note and sniffed up the coke. 'Just sprinkling some magic dust,' she thought to herself, 'I'll be a princess!'
Prince Charming left something to be desired, though. Paul or Pete or Phil or whatever his name was, was waiting in his bedroom. Oh well, she'd had worse, she thought, remembering wild antics in nightclub toilets, bus shelters, cars, parks, car parks, even beds, sometimes. Her new flatmate buddy had abandoned her earlier, gone off with some stud, leaving her alone until this chap had turned up. He seemed to think she was new to all this, and she hadn't corrected him. He'll be in for a shock when he discovers my metalwork down there, she thought. This struck her as funny, and set off a giggling fit. She subsided onto the floor.
As she moved, a cupboard door swung open, revealing a hot water bottle and a jar of liniment. She sobered up. What was she reminded of? That's right - her parents. He was old, too old.
Kaz considered her options, and decided to leave without explanation. That was best, she'd found - made her seem mysterious and willful. She smiled. Men are such dopes, she thought.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
Fresher's Balls had changed a lot over the years since Phil's first one. The days of wide-eyed ingénues overwhelmed by the heady mixture of freedom, alcohol, music, and social unease, ripe to be entranced and exploited, had gone. Nowadays the would-be squire needed a bit more on his side than age and wisdom - he had to differentiate himself from the young lads whose charmless innuendoes rolled off their tongues like football chants. Phil could usually count on finding some girl to inveigle into a quiet corner, where he provided mature advice and sympathy, a paternal voice . . . Phil shook himself. From his PhD research, he knew enough about Freud to want to avoid the whole question of why some men liked young women and women liked older men. It amazed him that the term 'Daddy's girl' was bandied around in polite society without raising any concerns. He thought for a second and shook his head. His motives were clear enough - it wasn't youth he wanted, just opportunity. For some reason, he found it difficult to sustain relationships with women of his own age - they seemed to find him safe and boring, and self-obsessed. 'Well, who else should I be interested in?' he had countered in one final row. 'Me!' she had answered.
He had hopes for tonight. He combed his hair, cleaned his teeth, and slid a condom packet into his pocket.
* * *
Kaz blinked at the brightness as the bathroom light flickered on. She swayed across the cool tiles, rested her hands on the sink, and stood, waiting for her head to clear. The E she'd taken before coming out was wearing off, leaving her feeling flat. She opened her clutch bag and took out a sachet. She expertly rolled a bank-note and sniffed up the coke. 'Just sprinkling some magic dust,' she thought to herself, 'I'll be a princess!'
Prince Charming left something to be desired, though. Paul or Pete or Phil or whatever his name was, was waiting in his bedroom. Oh well, she'd had worse, she thought, remembering wild antics in nightclub toilets, bus shelters, cars, parks, car parks, even beds, sometimes. Her new flatmate buddy had abandoned her earlier, gone off with some stud, leaving her alone until this chap had turned up. He seemed to think she was new to all this, and she hadn't corrected him. He'll be in for a shock when he discovers my metalwork down there, she thought. This struck her as funny, and set off a giggling fit. She subsided onto the floor.
As she moved, a cupboard door swung open, revealing a hot water bottle and a jar of liniment. She sobered up. What was she reminded of? That's right - her parents. He was old, too old.
Kaz considered her options, and decided to leave without explanation. That was best, she'd found - made her seem mysterious and willful. She smiled. Men are such dopes, she thought.
This story appears in File Under Fiction.
New expanded and improved version of File Under Fiction
File Under Fiction is now completely re-formatted, expanded with six extra stories including A night like this, and parodies of Jane Austen and Thomas Boswell. See contents here.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Radio 4 comedy: no laughing matter
The much-anticipated post-Huphrey Lyttleton series of I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue has now started, under the genial chairmanship of His Twittership Stephen Fry. I didn't think it worked very well. Even under Humphrey, the programme had become stretched and formulaic, giving increasing time over to rounds to allow bad singers to sing badly, at the expense of lively wit. But Fry didn't work very well, mainly because he followed so closely the phrasing and persona established by Humphrey. The same occurred when Angus Deayton was replaced on Have I Got News For You? : not only did his successors sound like ill-at-ease imitators, by demonstrating how much was scripted, it cast a retrospective pall over Deayton's talent by revealing its origins. It seemed to be a lack of confidence by the Clue producers: Samantha and Sven have been a running joke for 10 years or more - isn't it time to start a new one? And when Fry introduced Sound Charades with a reference to Give Us a Clue, last broadcsat in 1992, didn't someone pause to calculate how many people will never have seen it? It is a shame that the opportunity to introduce some new rounds or jokes was missed.
But it is still the best comedy on Radio 4, compared to the anaemic Hut 33, the bizarre and laughter-free WW2 Bletchley Park drama, in which the cast do what they can with funny accents and overacting to compensate for the lack of jokes, or Elvenquest, the Lord of the Rings parody. Successful parodies of fantasies have to be based on a credible sincerity about the world they inhabit: Elvenquest instead was a rag-bag of incongruous banter. This wouldn't matter so much if the elements had been original, but they included an evil master suffering disillusionment at his role and an incompetent sidekick (as in Old Harry's Game), a dog's view on human behaviour (as in About a Dog), and the central relationship between a dithering 'hero' and a strong and dismissive heroine (as in Hitchkiker's Guide to the Galaxy). This last comparison is fatal - at one point I thought to myslef 'that's nearly up to H2G2 standards' - in other words, the comdey had almost got as far as a programme made 30 years ago.
There appears to be a strangehlold of large-cast underwritten mediocrity at the moment, in which series like Claire in the Community and Old Harry's Game stand out like beacons of competence.
But it is still the best comedy on Radio 4, compared to the anaemic Hut 33, the bizarre and laughter-free WW2 Bletchley Park drama, in which the cast do what they can with funny accents and overacting to compensate for the lack of jokes, or Elvenquest, the Lord of the Rings parody. Successful parodies of fantasies have to be based on a credible sincerity about the world they inhabit: Elvenquest instead was a rag-bag of incongruous banter. This wouldn't matter so much if the elements had been original, but they included an evil master suffering disillusionment at his role and an incompetent sidekick (as in Old Harry's Game), a dog's view on human behaviour (as in About a Dog), and the central relationship between a dithering 'hero' and a strong and dismissive heroine (as in Hitchkiker's Guide to the Galaxy). This last comparison is fatal - at one point I thought to myslef 'that's nearly up to H2G2 standards' - in other words, the comdey had almost got as far as a programme made 30 years ago.
There appears to be a strangehlold of large-cast underwritten mediocrity at the moment, in which series like Claire in the Community and Old Harry's Game stand out like beacons of competence.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Nadine Dorries MP and her expenses: not good enough, would-be minister
The great expenses saga has generated more heat than light, and enough hot air to threaten our climate change targets. A lot of people are outraged that MPs have two houses and buy expensive things, even though nobody would become an MP for the money (working barristers who become MPs suffer a dramatic drop in salary). It seems these days that we no longer hate the rich because they're rich: we are supposed to admire people like Richard Branson or Bill Gates. But we still feel an unease that other people may be getting an easy ride, while we don't. There is something appealingly anachronistic about someone claiming for cleaning out their moat or managing their mole problems, but the truth is that these would be counted as legitimiate business expenses by an estate, farm, or self-employed person.
However, MPs have been taken by surprise at the virulence of the hatred they have unleashed, because they misunderstand its underlying cause: what people care more about money is equitable treatment. Fairness is such a core principle in our psyche that we would prefer that nobody was given a prize rather than it should go to the wrong person. It's interesting in this context to consider the case of Nadine Dorries, the Conservative MP, who is one of the few MPs so far to come out robustly defending her actions. Commenters have queried how many houses she has (and therefore the basis of her claim for an 'additional' house in her constinuency), and she responded with further clarification which sounds complicated but seems reasonable.
But in her response to the Daily Telegraph questions, she concedes the really damaging point. Their first question is:
She responds:
On a personal level, and perhaps as an MP, maybe this IS a minor matter. But Dorries is touted as ministerial material for the next Conservative government, and one would hesitate to give her oversight of a department when she is transparently unable to run an efficient and honest staff.
However, MPs have been taken by surprise at the virulence of the hatred they have unleashed, because they misunderstand its underlying cause: what people care more about money is equitable treatment. Fairness is such a core principle in our psyche that we would prefer that nobody was given a prize rather than it should go to the wrong person. It's interesting in this context to consider the case of Nadine Dorries, the Conservative MP, who is one of the few MPs so far to come out robustly defending her actions. Commenters have queried how many houses she has (and therefore the basis of her claim for an 'additional' house in her constinuency), and she responded with further clarification which sounds complicated but seems reasonable.
But in her response to the Daily Telegraph questions, she concedes the really damaging point. Their first question is:
1. In 2006 you claimed for the cost of a hotel stay on New Year's Eve and another just a few days before Christmas, when the House was not sitting. Please can you explain why you felt this was an appropriate use of public funds.
She responds:
I have never spent a New Years Eve away from my daughters and I have never spent it in a hotel, ever. In fact, New Years Eve 2006 is when I held a party and cooked a 12 bird roast and I blogged the entire evening. Anyone reading this can check it out.
The Telegraph has an invoice charged to MR N Dorries, which was submitted, but never paid. I don’t actually submit the invoices, my PA does, and that one may have been submitted in error, In error - because I never stayed at any hotel on New Years Eve ever if it had ever been paid it would have been refunded IMMEDIATLEY. What may have happened is that someone who is not a member of the Carlton Club may have booked a room in my name, friends do, however; my other point is that I am not even sure the Carlton Club is open over Xmas and New Year?
The fact is though that an invoice was submitted from my office, for a room I didn’t stay in, which is obviously an error and no money was paid to me for that invoice.
She implies it should have been obvious to anyone with any familiarity with her movements and lifestyle that the invoice submitted as a claim was not an expense she had any involvement with.
Which is true.
But what she has admitted is that the invoice which would have been totally out of character for her to have incurred, was submitted to the Fees Office by her PA, who would presumably have known what Dorries did that New Year's Eve. The fact that the claim was never paid does not alter the farudulent nature of that claim submitted on her behalf by her staff.
"Members must ensure that claims do not give rise to, or give the appearance of giving rise to, an improper personal financial benefit to themselves or anyone else."
(Green Book)
However steadfast she is in addressing the other concerns, she has conceded that:
- her office is so chaotic she cannot keep irrelevant paperwork separated from her offical records
- her staff prepare and submit claims on her behalf without her checking them (since she would have spotted at a glance that the invoice couldn't be right)
- the claim made would, if paid, have been in breach of the Green Book rules since she would have been paid for an invoice which was not a legitiamte expense
On a personal level, and perhaps as an MP, maybe this IS a minor matter. But Dorries is touted as ministerial material for the next Conservative government, and one would hesitate to give her oversight of a department when she is transparently unable to run an efficient and honest staff.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Work in progress
There is an interesting distinction between prose and poetry writers and their attitudes to ideas. Poets without inspiration can do nothing, but can pursue any idle thought without investing too much time; they therefore tend to be passive and, if uninspired, concerned. Prose writers will usually have more ideas than they have time to deal with, and therefore treat the writing process as more of a routine chore. This doesn't, however, make them any happier about talking about a work in progress.
For a start, there is the superstitious fear that saying out loud that it's going well will be the cue for it to stop. Then there is the more rational advice that if you tell somebody about how the story ends, you will lose all interest in typing it, since you have reached the conclusion. But the biggest stumbling block is trying to capture the nuances of the tale which reaches beyond bald plot summaries. I remember seeing a discussion about the value of writer's endorsements on the c0ver : 'I wished I'd written it!' - Dan Brown. The conclusion was that publishers are very keen on them but buyers aren't: they ignore them. What they want, and are often denied, is an idea of what the book is about.
I'm not sure, though, that this really helps. When I say on the back of File Under Fiction that it has a story about a gentry family living on a country estate, I presumably may arouse the interest of fans of Evelyn Waugh, Jilly Cooper, or Joanna Trollope, but most of them would be disappointed. The danger is that in the abstract most stories sound dull - imagine a novel about this big shark, that eats some swimmers, and then is caught; or, a whaling captain tries to catch a whale; or an old man tries to catch a big fish. None of them sound like winners, really. You really do need some sort of meta characterisation about pure plot, to give readers hints about the sort of book it is.
These days most of this information about style is provided typographically: chick lit books are instantly defined by the zany font and colour scheme, just as thrillers will have short titles in bold letters. Although this can be convenient, it does tend to ghetto-ize people's reading habits, so that they only read the sort of books they have read.
The reason I'm thinking about this is that the book is finished, and at 180 pages is something you could point at as something substantial, something that could be marketed. But who to? But another reason is that I feel I've reached a natural end-point; I have been working on and off on the long stories for five years or more, and now they're done I'm wondering what's next. I've got some ideas, but they would sound even stranger than the ones I've completed. But one thing I have noticed recently is that I really can sit down and write: the Dylan story was complete in outline in my head by the time I was back home from the gig, and complete on paper the next day. So whatever it is, it should go smoother.
For a start, there is the superstitious fear that saying out loud that it's going well will be the cue for it to stop. Then there is the more rational advice that if you tell somebody about how the story ends, you will lose all interest in typing it, since you have reached the conclusion. But the biggest stumbling block is trying to capture the nuances of the tale which reaches beyond bald plot summaries. I remember seeing a discussion about the value of writer's endorsements on the c0ver : 'I wished I'd written it!' - Dan Brown. The conclusion was that publishers are very keen on them but buyers aren't: they ignore them. What they want, and are often denied, is an idea of what the book is about.
I'm not sure, though, that this really helps. When I say on the back of File Under Fiction that it has a story about a gentry family living on a country estate, I presumably may arouse the interest of fans of Evelyn Waugh, Jilly Cooper, or Joanna Trollope, but most of them would be disappointed. The danger is that in the abstract most stories sound dull - imagine a novel about this big shark, that eats some swimmers, and then is caught; or, a whaling captain tries to catch a whale; or an old man tries to catch a big fish. None of them sound like winners, really. You really do need some sort of meta characterisation about pure plot, to give readers hints about the sort of book it is.
These days most of this information about style is provided typographically: chick lit books are instantly defined by the zany font and colour scheme, just as thrillers will have short titles in bold letters. Although this can be convenient, it does tend to ghetto-ize people's reading habits, so that they only read the sort of books they have read.
The reason I'm thinking about this is that the book is finished, and at 180 pages is something you could point at as something substantial, something that could be marketed. But who to? But another reason is that I feel I've reached a natural end-point; I have been working on and off on the long stories for five years or more, and now they're done I'm wondering what's next. I've got some ideas, but they would sound even stranger than the ones I've completed. But one thing I have noticed recently is that I really can sit down and write: the Dylan story was complete in outline in my head by the time I was back home from the gig, and complete on paper the next day. So whatever it is, it should go smoother.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
A night like this (January 7th 1974): short story
Phil awoke, cold and stiff. He was alone, still clothed. He must have dropped off where he sat. The scent of tobacco and dope smoke engrained in his crumpled clothes competed with the unfamiliar apartment's own odour of damp and decay.
From the stereo speakers in the corner came the repeating click and hiss as the needle followed the circling groove around the label; on the floor lay the shiny album sleeve, disfigured with stamped warnings: the review copy of Planet Waves which he'd picked up yesterday at the gig. It wouldn't be in stores for a few days. Outside, dogs barked in the street.
He patted his pockets for cigarettes, found none, and coughed instead. He looked around the room, taking in the glasses, ashtrays, and bottles. And books. His memory nagged at him; there was something important he'd found out last night.
He'd first noticed the chick in the crowd at the Maple Leaf Gardens arena, while standing in the darkness of the auditorium waiting for Bob Dylan and The Band to come on stage. She stood with her eyes closed, arms part raised, ringed fingers extended, rocking and swaying gently to some silent rhythm. As the concert started, she opened her eyes and stared at Bob intently, following his every move. As the crowd shifted over the next half hour, she ended up alongside Phil as he lit up a joint; in response to her questioning look he passed it to her.
Then, as Bob ended 'Just like a woman' with a magically inventive and expressive harmonica solo, their eyes locked and they nodded in recognition of the artistry they had witnessed. Putting his arm around her shoulders seems a natural response, and by the time the lights went out on the encore of 'Most likely you'll go your way and I'll go mine', they were kissing passionately. Things were looking good, he thought.
They stepped into the cold hard air of the night. Toronto was quiet to his ringing ears.
'Where do you live?' he asked.
'Not far, McGill Street,' she replied, 'although it's nothing much.'
They settled on her place; his was nothing much either. Being a music reviewer for a small alternative magazine wasn't a job for people interested in material success.
They crossed the street to the empty sidewalk and went down an alleyway between two tattered billboards, emerging in a back street. As they mounted the spidery lattice of the fire escape, she turned towards him.
'He's great, isn't he? Bob? So complex.'
I revealed the treasure in my bag.
'I know,' she said, 'I saw you get it at the gig: I can't wait to hear it!'
She squealed and ran up the steps.
They settled down on the sofa as the music started. She sat up with a start as 'Tough mama' began, shaking off his hand.
'Wait,' she said, 'I'm listening.' He listened too; it counted as work, after all. When the track finished, she stood up and repositioned the needle to start it again. She picked up a battered notebook, opened it to a fresh page, and wrote down notes as she picked out the key phrases. When the song ended, she let the album play on, but only because she was reaching up to a book shelf.
'New morning was about the Abrahamic God as Father,' she said over her shoulder, 'I think this is changing to the female principle - don't you see? Goddess - angel - beauty - mama.'
Phil nodded dejectedly. She took down a Bible, its pages interleaved with Tarot cards used as bookmarks.
'Cities of the plain,' she muttered.
Phil felt he should make some contribution, what with being an English major and professional critic and all.
'There's a Eugene O'Neill play about drug addiction - Long day's journey into night - I'm sure he's alluding to it with 'night's long journey',' he said.
'Of course,' she replied dismissively, 'or it's re-birth: that would fit better, wouldn't it?'
And so the night had gone - research, theory, listening, reading. He was eventually overcome by exhaustion and boredom.
He yawned, stretched, and stood up. He went to knock on the bedroom door, but it swung open to his pressure. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, still dressed; it was concealed benath a mat of paper, books lying open, and closely-written index cards.
'Oh, hi,' she said distractedly. 'You fell asleep. I feel like I'm getting somewhere.' She gestured at her notes. 'The number nineteen is the key, you see.'
The walls were covered with posters of Dylan, newspaper cuttings, occult symbols, and handwritten transcriptions of lyrics.
Now Phil remembered what it was. She was crazy. Not crazy like a crazy mama, or crazy like a fox. Call-the-nut-wagon, straitjacket, padded cell crazy. What were the chances of him picking up someone like that?
As he retrieved the album and crept out of the building, he realised that the chances were quite high, all things considered.
Author's note
A night like this was devised after seeing Dylan live for the first time recently. I had looked around the audience and noted the preponderance of male fans; most of the female fans had come as part of couple. 'What were the ones who came alone like?' I wondered, and realised that I knew, or could guess. The story's setting is as true as research can make it, although normally I wouldn't count that as a particularly important question: credibility is more vital than accuracy. Dylanologists will enjoy spotting references to songs in the text.
This story is included in the new edition of File under fiction.
From the stereo speakers in the corner came the repeating click and hiss as the needle followed the circling groove around the label; on the floor lay the shiny album sleeve, disfigured with stamped warnings: the review copy of Planet Waves which he'd picked up yesterday at the gig. It wouldn't be in stores for a few days. Outside, dogs barked in the street.
He patted his pockets for cigarettes, found none, and coughed instead. He looked around the room, taking in the glasses, ashtrays, and bottles. And books. His memory nagged at him; there was something important he'd found out last night.
He'd first noticed the chick in the crowd at the Maple Leaf Gardens arena, while standing in the darkness of the auditorium waiting for Bob Dylan and The Band to come on stage. She stood with her eyes closed, arms part raised, ringed fingers extended, rocking and swaying gently to some silent rhythm. As the concert started, she opened her eyes and stared at Bob intently, following his every move. As the crowd shifted over the next half hour, she ended up alongside Phil as he lit up a joint; in response to her questioning look he passed it to her.
Then, as Bob ended 'Just like a woman' with a magically inventive and expressive harmonica solo, their eyes locked and they nodded in recognition of the artistry they had witnessed. Putting his arm around her shoulders seems a natural response, and by the time the lights went out on the encore of 'Most likely you'll go your way and I'll go mine', they were kissing passionately. Things were looking good, he thought.
They stepped into the cold hard air of the night. Toronto was quiet to his ringing ears.
'Where do you live?' he asked.
'Not far, McGill Street,' she replied, 'although it's nothing much.'
They settled on her place; his was nothing much either. Being a music reviewer for a small alternative magazine wasn't a job for people interested in material success.
They crossed the street to the empty sidewalk and went down an alleyway between two tattered billboards, emerging in a back street. As they mounted the spidery lattice of the fire escape, she turned towards him.
'He's great, isn't he? Bob? So complex.'
I revealed the treasure in my bag.
'I know,' she said, 'I saw you get it at the gig: I can't wait to hear it!'
She squealed and ran up the steps.
They settled down on the sofa as the music started. She sat up with a start as 'Tough mama' began, shaking off his hand.
'Wait,' she said, 'I'm listening.' He listened too; it counted as work, after all. When the track finished, she stood up and repositioned the needle to start it again. She picked up a battered notebook, opened it to a fresh page, and wrote down notes as she picked out the key phrases. When the song ended, she let the album play on, but only because she was reaching up to a book shelf.
'New morning was about the Abrahamic God as Father,' she said over her shoulder, 'I think this is changing to the female principle - don't you see? Goddess - angel - beauty - mama.'
Phil nodded dejectedly. She took down a Bible, its pages interleaved with Tarot cards used as bookmarks.
'Cities of the plain,' she muttered.
Phil felt he should make some contribution, what with being an English major and professional critic and all.
'There's a Eugene O'Neill play about drug addiction - Long day's journey into night - I'm sure he's alluding to it with 'night's long journey',' he said.
'Of course,' she replied dismissively, 'or it's re-birth: that would fit better, wouldn't it?'
And so the night had gone - research, theory, listening, reading. He was eventually overcome by exhaustion and boredom.
He yawned, stretched, and stood up. He went to knock on the bedroom door, but it swung open to his pressure. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, still dressed; it was concealed benath a mat of paper, books lying open, and closely-written index cards.
'Oh, hi,' she said distractedly. 'You fell asleep. I feel like I'm getting somewhere.' She gestured at her notes. 'The number nineteen is the key, you see.'
The walls were covered with posters of Dylan, newspaper cuttings, occult symbols, and handwritten transcriptions of lyrics.
Now Phil remembered what it was. She was crazy. Not crazy like a crazy mama, or crazy like a fox. Call-the-nut-wagon, straitjacket, padded cell crazy. What were the chances of him picking up someone like that?
As he retrieved the album and crept out of the building, he realised that the chances were quite high, all things considered.
Author's note
A night like this was devised after seeing Dylan live for the first time recently. I had looked around the audience and noted the preponderance of male fans; most of the female fans had come as part of couple. 'What were the ones who came alone like?' I wondered, and realised that I knew, or could guess. The story's setting is as true as research can make it, although normally I wouldn't count that as a particularly important question: credibility is more vital than accuracy. Dylanologists will enjoy spotting references to songs in the text.
This story is included in the new edition of File under fiction.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Overheard
marketeer #1 "How did the pitch for the animal hospice account go?"
marketeer #2 "Badly- they didn't like our strapline."
marketeer#1 "What was it?"
marketeer #2 "Die like the dog you are."
marketeer #2 "Badly- they didn't like our strapline."
marketeer#1 "What was it?"
marketeer #2 "Die like the dog you are."
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Q: What is the definition of surrealism?
A: A fish.
Dreams are notoriously poorly drafted narratives, which is hardly surprising since they can abandon internal logic at any point. But I've had some strange ideas recently which may merit re-use at some time:
the Architectural Cheese Society what? well, yes, exactly
the Welsh Handshake Association dedicated to the study and practice of traditional and new techniques of hand-shaking
and strangest of all, the Sleeping Saints, a sect whose members say goodbye to their families and then lie face down on their bed, arms outstretched, until they die of starvation. Odd.
Dreams are notoriously poorly drafted narratives, which is hardly surprising since they can abandon internal logic at any point. But I've had some strange ideas recently which may merit re-use at some time:
the Architectural Cheese Society what? well, yes, exactly
the Welsh Handshake Association dedicated to the study and practice of traditional and new techniques of hand-shaking
and strangest of all, the Sleeping Saints, a sect whose members say goodbye to their families and then lie face down on their bed, arms outstretched, until they die of starvation. Odd.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Atheist buses
After all the row over the 'There's probably no God' adverts, there's a sign generator at
http://ruletheweb.co.uk/b3ta/bus/
http://ruletheweb.co.uk/b3ta/bus/
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Brinsley Schwarz is beautiful
There isn't much rational about which bands or artists people latch onto as their favourites. Whenever I try to triangulate my tastes the results don't work: how can I like Pink Floyd, Deep Purple and Wishbone Ash but not Genesis, Led Zep and U2? I don't think that it is coincidental that my attachment to these bands was formed in the late 70s when I was a teenager. It's odd, now, looking back: when people talk about 1977, or 1976, as the year of punk, I remember it as the year that I bought Pink Floyd's 60s albums. Almost all of my listening was an exercise in rediscovery. Unlike the purist muso, who loves nothing better than knowing of some obscure work of which nobody else has heard, I have always felt isolated: surely I can't be the only one who likes Patrik Fitzgerald?
Brinsley Schwarz: Brinsley Schwarz (1970)
My interest in Brinsley Schwarz was first inspired by recognising that the guitarist in The Rumour used to have a band; when I found that it also contained Ian Gomm and Nick Lowe, both of whom I had heard and liked, it seemed likely that I would also like it. I did, I suppose, although it was a bit of a shock: 50s and 60s retro, country rock, reggae, all in a strange mix with sharp lyrics.
Listening now, what you notice is the super-abundance of talent: a Hammond organ riff is overlain by sparkling melodic guitar, punctuated by a bubbling bass line, creating a joyous noise packed full of grace notes. The group stands head and shoulders above their contemporaries.
You can see, though, why they never broke through. Quite apart from the early hostility of the music press, who felt they'd been hyped, the records they made weren't really pop, any more than Nick Lowe's work is now. Good, yes, pop, no. And there is a thinness to the writing: every album has a couple of fillers, and the reliance as a fall-back on good-time rock and roll cliches can get wearing. I guess I'm trying to justify my opinion that, as all muso purists say, the early stuff is the best:
"Warm summer morning with nothing to do
Over my shoulder there's a beautiful blue
Guess I'll walk the four miles to Ebury Down
Go to see my lady when there's noone around"
Ebury Down (Nick Lowe) from Despite It All
I find it impossible to listen to their music without smiling and thinking of summer.
Brinsley Schwarz: Brinsley Schwarz (1970)My interest in Brinsley Schwarz was first inspired by recognising that the guitarist in The Rumour used to have a band; when I found that it also contained Ian Gomm and Nick Lowe, both of whom I had heard and liked, it seemed likely that I would also like it. I did, I suppose, although it was a bit of a shock: 50s and 60s retro, country rock, reggae, all in a strange mix with sharp lyrics.
Listening now, what you notice is the super-abundance of talent: a Hammond organ riff is overlain by sparkling melodic guitar, punctuated by a bubbling bass line, creating a joyous noise packed full of grace notes. The group stands head and shoulders above their contemporaries.
You can see, though, why they never broke through. Quite apart from the early hostility of the music press, who felt they'd been hyped, the records they made weren't really pop, any more than Nick Lowe's work is now. Good, yes, pop, no. And there is a thinness to the writing: every album has a couple of fillers, and the reliance as a fall-back on good-time rock and roll cliches can get wearing. I guess I'm trying to justify my opinion that, as all muso purists say, the early stuff is the best:
"Warm summer morning with nothing to do
Over my shoulder there's a beautiful blue
Guess I'll walk the four miles to Ebury Down
Go to see my lady when there's noone around"
Ebury Down (Nick Lowe) from Despite It All
I find it impossible to listen to their music without smiling and thinking of summer.
The gift of the gab (short story)
I suppose you're wondering how an innocent, or fairly innocent, PR guy from England ended up in the cellar of an Italian deli in Toronto waiting for the Mafia bosses upstairs to decide how they were going to 'take care of me', or take care of me. To tell the truth, so am I. The start of the slippery slope was a year ago, in the form of a coincidence or accident. Back then, I was still working for a big public relations agency - although these days they prefer to brand themselves as 'relationship managers' or 'image consultants'. Whatever. Anyway, I won't bother telling you their name: you won't have heard of them. Only in England, I used to say bitterly, would you get a PR company that prized modesty and self-deprecation. They managed to stay below everybody's radar, including that of their clients, and money was always tight.
The firm had a fixed rule about travel expenses: if the client is paying, go first class, if the company's paying, go coach. As a result, I had become wearily resigned to arriving at obscure little airfields, miles from the labeled destination, at the whim of inventive bargain airlines. I had argued in vain before that the cost in time and energy of dealing with the transit links outweighed any saving in the fare, and repeated this opinion at length while preparing for a trip to Stockholm for a client presentation. My tantrum extracted a vague promise from the office manager that they would have a go at organising a car to pick me up from the airport while I was in the air.
So when I arrived in the cold, dark, windswept, hangar and trudged through customs, I was pleased to see a smartly-dressed chauffeur at the barrier holding a sign for "Mr Wite". I was used to answering to multiple personalities thanks to the vagaries of phonetics and accents, so I greeted him, gave him my bag, and gratefully entered the cosy interior of the hotel's courtesy car. After a painless and worry-free half hour, we reached the hotel. The driver gave me my case on the steps and was hailed by a departing guest; within seconds he was off again, leaving me to walk to reception. The hotel seemed well above our usual budget, but I wasn't complaining. It was only when I came to register that things came unstuck: the booking wasn't for me, Dick Wright, but for a Gary White, who was presumably still standing at the airport. The staff apologized for the mistake, and directed me to a nearby hotel which had vacancies. I was happy: I had been spared a lot of hassle and some expense.
It was only later that I realized that this was a trick that could be used deliberately: whenever I didn't fancy using public transport, I could pick out a driver with a name sign (proving that they didn't know the person they were meeting) and be whisked away. I tried this a few times, with varying success: sometimes I found myself ensconced in a pre-paid luxury room, sometimes there was a long and loud exchange of views on the steps of a run-down hotel. But it wasn't dull, and it was free, and I could usually employ my eloquence to escape any consequences.
The cost became a significant factor for me when I started to work on my own, my employers having tired of my freely-imparted wisdom. Unfortunately, clients proved hard to find. When I heard that Deano Rosso, the film star, was in need of representation, I had little choice but to max out my credit card on a plane ticket to Toronto in the hope of signing him up. Deano liked to call himself the Italian Rapscallion, but he was more generally known in the industry at The Meathead. He was a jerk, more famous for his bizarre and outrageous off-screen behaviour than for his talent. But I wasn't a critic: somebody with a lot of negative press attention was somebody who needed a publicity handler. His previous spokesman, who had tipped me off, was entering witness protection, having testified to a grand jury about some of Deano's earlier exploits.
So I arrived at Toronto needing a cheap way to the city centre. My spirits also needed lifting after seven hours sitting between a loquacious woman from Yorkshire impervious to her audience's indifference and a teenager whose earphones leaked tinny rock music for the entire flight. I was on the look-out for a suitable ride; there wasn't a lot of choice, so I had to answer to a different surname: I selected the name 'Giorgio', held up by a thin man in his twenties wearing sunglasses, a dark tie and sharp suit. When I went up to him, he simply nodded and led me silently to an old-fashioned limo with tinted windows. The interior smelt of leather; I sank back into the seat and enjoyed the ride. After the freeway and main route, we dived off into a tangle of smaller streets and smoothly drew up outside an old-fashioned building festooned with Italian flags. It wasn't a hotel: it was a deli. That's odd, I thought, while mentally I started to prepare an exit line so I could walk off. Before I had a chance, the driver had opened the door and hustled me across the pavement, through the deserted shop, to a staircase behind the counter. Here two more men were standing, also dressed in suits and sunglasses. The straps of shoulder holsters were visible beneath their jackets. I started to speak but was silenced by their immediate response: raising a finger to their lips. One pointed up the stairs, so I started to climb. There was a wood-panelled door; I knocked and entered.
The room was set out for a formal function: a table ran the length of it; on the far side were sat a row of men, dressed in suits. In the centre was a white-haired man, his thick fingered hands resting on the white tablecloth in a gesture of welcome. An empty chair was in the centre of the room, facing him; I sat in it as instructed. A little light entered the room through the vertical blinds on the street frontage; there were no other windows.
'You're probably wondering why you're here,' he started, 'after all- Vince Bellow's been in charge of this town since whenever. For a hundred years we have looked after ourselves. We have strong family traditions, and loyalties, and of course we have our commercial operations, our funders, and our colleagues in uniform. We're proud of our record. But we must be realistic - we cannot live on our past glories. And we have a problem.'
The men seated at his sides, who had been nodding smugly, leaned forward with interest.
'Over the last few years, the police and the FBI have been chipping away at us, and since Peter Safowicz became DA, we can’t move. They seem to know every member, follow every automobile, they track emails, tap phones, and check bank accounts. And they're beginning to get somewhere - it's not just the foot soldiers any more. They're moving up the hierarchy. Some of the fall guys are making deals; the city has lost its respect for us. They ain't scared of us no more. Our old friends in the police force can't help. They can tell us what's going on, but they can't protect us. We need to roll this back. That's where you come in, Mr Giorgio.'
I had been listening to his speech with mounting horror, and at last had my chance to speak. Unfortunately, my mouth flapped wordlessly and so he continued.
'We got a plan, you see, a perfect plan. If we are too well-known to get away with anything like that, we'll bring in an outsider. That's why you're here. Next Saturday, my daughter is getting married in the cathedral. The entire organisation will be there. I've invited politicians, police and the media. We'll have the firmest alibis ever seen. And while we're there, you'll be doing your job: shooting Safowicz. That should stop the rot and get the FBI running scared.'
He paused to look at his colleagues, savouring their evident relief. He smiled a little until I spoke.
'I'm sorry,' I started, my voice coming out as a squeak, 'there's been a mistake. Your driver picked up the wrong man. I'm Dick Wright, from England.'
Bellow gestured to someone behind me. I was pushed back into the chair and patted.
'He's clean. No wires or weapons', the searcher reported. Bellow relaxed a little. A thought struck him, and he turned to his neighbour, who was looking worried.
'Well Michael, where the fuck is our man?' he asked.
Michael produced his cell phone and started to punch at the buttons. Others started to mutter, the mood of confidence evaporating in an instant. Bellow tapped the table. Silence fell obediently.
'The plan is still sound: we just gotta wait. Take this pansy downstairs. We'll decide what to do with him later.'
So there I was, unwontedly privy to Mafia secrets, the condemned man in a cell, as good as. No doubt their best approach would be to kill me and dump the body somewhere obscure. I wouldn't be missed for days. Self-pity washed over me.
But then I started to rally. Maybe I wasn't going to make a pitch to Rosso. From a management perspective, though, the Mafia sounded like a business in trouble, with major reputation problems. The big secret with good PR is understanding your client's psychology, and I could sense how Bellow was feeling.
If I begged for mercy, he'd crush me like a cockroach without a thought. But he was astute enough to recognize that his operation was in a difficult situation, where his old certainties no longer applied. He had to be a leader, but he had no real idea where he was going. That was his weakness, and maybe I could exploit it by showing him a way out. I'd have to be convincing, though - I'd be pitching for my life, literally. And to make any impression I'd have to transform myself in their eyes from a quivering effeminate wimp to a master of business. I started to smarten myself up, and paced up and down the room, rehearsing phrases in my head. Then I knocked on the door: the guard glanced in without interest.
'Tell your boss I've got a deal to make,' I said.
He shrugged and led me back upstairs. As we approached the room, raised voices could be heard, which continued as we entered.
Michael was staring at his phone in disbelief. 'Are you telling me he was here? He landed? But the Feds got him? Shit!'
A concerned murmur ran round the room. I stepped forward and spoke loudly.
'You've got a problem - I've got a solution.'
The room quietened a little. Bellow gestured for silence, then spoke.
'You -help us? How? Right now you ain't got much of a future. Unless you're a sharpshooter?'
'No. I am an expert, though, at what I do. Which is to help organizations. I tell you what: you give me ten minutes to make my case. If by the end you haven't got three new actions based on my advice, you can shoot me.'
'Thanks for the permission,' Bellow smirked, but I could tell he was interested.
'I'll start with the obvious. You seem to be surprised that the police can spot you. But I could spot you, just because of the way you dress. Wearing sunglasses indoors, cars with tinted windows: you might as well put up a sign saying Something illegal happening here. Why do you think rock starts go around like that: is it so nobody notices them? I don't think so.'
One of the men quietly removed his sunglasses, prompting sniggers from his neighbours, and from Bellow.
'More generally, though,' I continued, 'you wear a uniform. Nobody wears suits any more.'
I lost the room: they sat back, offended.
'No, come on. There was a time, a generation ago, when you'd be wearing the same sort of clothes as everyone else: a little sharper, a little better cut, but broadly comparable. You haven't moved on: everyone else has. Again, you're standing out from the crowd. I can see why you might want to, but it’s not helping you at the moment. You think you're the only people with this problem? Every family business runs into this: there comes a time when the traditions and skills can no longer help, and you risk losing out to newer firms who are better attuned to the new opportunities.'
I stepped across to the window and opened the blinds. Those sat nearest the window flinched a little, as if half expecting a sniper's bullet; they then attempted to look unruffled.
'Look out there: main street. Small shops, small businesses. I suppose you go round and pick up protection: bags of coins, some low-value bank notes. The city's moved on, leaving just the small change behind. And see that office block: International Trading Partners, it says. What do they do? I have no idea- nor do you, or anyone. It's just an office; I bet the police walk past that every day without ever going inside. They could be running complex currency fraud, for all we know. Electronic money. And the beauty of it is that they can look after themselves. Their security is tight: they've got CCTV, and they've got guards who wear weapons openly. Just think about it!'
It was clear that I was persuading them.
'But let's go back to basics. Your ancestors looked for the opportunities of the time, and took them. You need to do the same. Think big. You know these boiler rooms: rooms full of scammers chiselling a few hundred dollars from investors' savings. Hard work, for little gain, when you think abouyt something like Enron, or Madoff's hedge fund. Reputable people queuing up to hand over their cash, no questions asked: that's the way to go!'
'And here isn't really the place to do it; you're wide open to scrutiny. You should follow the legitimate businesses out of town: get your own building in the middle of nowhere, with a perimeter fence and secure parking.'
Suddenly, people's eyes widened. I'd done it. They started nodding.
'That's what I've been saying,' whined one.
'It would help with the commute: I spend goddam hours on the freeway,' said another.
'We could have a firing range in the basement.'
Bellow looked around at the buzzing room, approving. He clapped his hands for silence.
'I'm impressed. You're smarter than you look. But now you're solving our problems for us, what's your big plan? How do we change?'
'That's not really my area, but since you ask me, I'd say you need to reposition yourselves in the market. Your old operations are the ones that are generating all this police interest. You could close them down, but it might be better to sell them off to your competition: you get the cash, they get to deal with the law. If you felt like it, you might even drop a few hints to the police: you won't be needing to pay them off anymore. But that's up to you. The biggest problem you'd have left is that there will be a lot of loose ends, unsolved crimes. I'd suggest persuading a few people to confess to all of them, and that would be that. I think my time's up.'
Bellow stood up and extended his hand. I shook it as firmly as I could.
'So why are you in town?' he asked.
I explained about my quest for a client to represent.
A little later we parted on good times and I stumbled to a hotel. The next morning, I tracked down Rosso's apartment and arrived there. He seemed hungover and confused, but was happy enough to see me.
'Hiya,' he mumbled, 'I hear you're good.'
I wondered who might have praised me, before I remembered that the Italian community was probably quite well-connected.
'Well, you've got the job: you can start straight off.'
For the second time in two days, things were looking up.
'Now,' he continued, 'I've had some trouble, and the press are all over it again. What you gotta know to start with is, I swear I thought that sheep was female.'
THE END
Copyright Martin Locock
The firm had a fixed rule about travel expenses: if the client is paying, go first class, if the company's paying, go coach. As a result, I had become wearily resigned to arriving at obscure little airfields, miles from the labeled destination, at the whim of inventive bargain airlines. I had argued in vain before that the cost in time and energy of dealing with the transit links outweighed any saving in the fare, and repeated this opinion at length while preparing for a trip to Stockholm for a client presentation. My tantrum extracted a vague promise from the office manager that they would have a go at organising a car to pick me up from the airport while I was in the air.
So when I arrived in the cold, dark, windswept, hangar and trudged through customs, I was pleased to see a smartly-dressed chauffeur at the barrier holding a sign for "Mr Wite". I was used to answering to multiple personalities thanks to the vagaries of phonetics and accents, so I greeted him, gave him my bag, and gratefully entered the cosy interior of the hotel's courtesy car. After a painless and worry-free half hour, we reached the hotel. The driver gave me my case on the steps and was hailed by a departing guest; within seconds he was off again, leaving me to walk to reception. The hotel seemed well above our usual budget, but I wasn't complaining. It was only when I came to register that things came unstuck: the booking wasn't for me, Dick Wright, but for a Gary White, who was presumably still standing at the airport. The staff apologized for the mistake, and directed me to a nearby hotel which had vacancies. I was happy: I had been spared a lot of hassle and some expense.
It was only later that I realized that this was a trick that could be used deliberately: whenever I didn't fancy using public transport, I could pick out a driver with a name sign (proving that they didn't know the person they were meeting) and be whisked away. I tried this a few times, with varying success: sometimes I found myself ensconced in a pre-paid luxury room, sometimes there was a long and loud exchange of views on the steps of a run-down hotel. But it wasn't dull, and it was free, and I could usually employ my eloquence to escape any consequences.
The cost became a significant factor for me when I started to work on my own, my employers having tired of my freely-imparted wisdom. Unfortunately, clients proved hard to find. When I heard that Deano Rosso, the film star, was in need of representation, I had little choice but to max out my credit card on a plane ticket to Toronto in the hope of signing him up. Deano liked to call himself the Italian Rapscallion, but he was more generally known in the industry at The Meathead. He was a jerk, more famous for his bizarre and outrageous off-screen behaviour than for his talent. But I wasn't a critic: somebody with a lot of negative press attention was somebody who needed a publicity handler. His previous spokesman, who had tipped me off, was entering witness protection, having testified to a grand jury about some of Deano's earlier exploits.
So I arrived at Toronto needing a cheap way to the city centre. My spirits also needed lifting after seven hours sitting between a loquacious woman from Yorkshire impervious to her audience's indifference and a teenager whose earphones leaked tinny rock music for the entire flight. I was on the look-out for a suitable ride; there wasn't a lot of choice, so I had to answer to a different surname: I selected the name 'Giorgio', held up by a thin man in his twenties wearing sunglasses, a dark tie and sharp suit. When I went up to him, he simply nodded and led me silently to an old-fashioned limo with tinted windows. The interior smelt of leather; I sank back into the seat and enjoyed the ride. After the freeway and main route, we dived off into a tangle of smaller streets and smoothly drew up outside an old-fashioned building festooned with Italian flags. It wasn't a hotel: it was a deli. That's odd, I thought, while mentally I started to prepare an exit line so I could walk off. Before I had a chance, the driver had opened the door and hustled me across the pavement, through the deserted shop, to a staircase behind the counter. Here two more men were standing, also dressed in suits and sunglasses. The straps of shoulder holsters were visible beneath their jackets. I started to speak but was silenced by their immediate response: raising a finger to their lips. One pointed up the stairs, so I started to climb. There was a wood-panelled door; I knocked and entered.
The room was set out for a formal function: a table ran the length of it; on the far side were sat a row of men, dressed in suits. In the centre was a white-haired man, his thick fingered hands resting on the white tablecloth in a gesture of welcome. An empty chair was in the centre of the room, facing him; I sat in it as instructed. A little light entered the room through the vertical blinds on the street frontage; there were no other windows.
'You're probably wondering why you're here,' he started, 'after all- Vince Bellow's been in charge of this town since whenever. For a hundred years we have looked after ourselves. We have strong family traditions, and loyalties, and of course we have our commercial operations, our funders, and our colleagues in uniform. We're proud of our record. But we must be realistic - we cannot live on our past glories. And we have a problem.'
The men seated at his sides, who had been nodding smugly, leaned forward with interest.
'Over the last few years, the police and the FBI have been chipping away at us, and since Peter Safowicz became DA, we can’t move. They seem to know every member, follow every automobile, they track emails, tap phones, and check bank accounts. And they're beginning to get somewhere - it's not just the foot soldiers any more. They're moving up the hierarchy. Some of the fall guys are making deals; the city has lost its respect for us. They ain't scared of us no more. Our old friends in the police force can't help. They can tell us what's going on, but they can't protect us. We need to roll this back. That's where you come in, Mr Giorgio.'
I had been listening to his speech with mounting horror, and at last had my chance to speak. Unfortunately, my mouth flapped wordlessly and so he continued.
'We got a plan, you see, a perfect plan. If we are too well-known to get away with anything like that, we'll bring in an outsider. That's why you're here. Next Saturday, my daughter is getting married in the cathedral. The entire organisation will be there. I've invited politicians, police and the media. We'll have the firmest alibis ever seen. And while we're there, you'll be doing your job: shooting Safowicz. That should stop the rot and get the FBI running scared.'
He paused to look at his colleagues, savouring their evident relief. He smiled a little until I spoke.
'I'm sorry,' I started, my voice coming out as a squeak, 'there's been a mistake. Your driver picked up the wrong man. I'm Dick Wright, from England.'
Bellow gestured to someone behind me. I was pushed back into the chair and patted.
'He's clean. No wires or weapons', the searcher reported. Bellow relaxed a little. A thought struck him, and he turned to his neighbour, who was looking worried.
'Well Michael, where the fuck is our man?' he asked.
Michael produced his cell phone and started to punch at the buttons. Others started to mutter, the mood of confidence evaporating in an instant. Bellow tapped the table. Silence fell obediently.
'The plan is still sound: we just gotta wait. Take this pansy downstairs. We'll decide what to do with him later.'
So there I was, unwontedly privy to Mafia secrets, the condemned man in a cell, as good as. No doubt their best approach would be to kill me and dump the body somewhere obscure. I wouldn't be missed for days. Self-pity washed over me.
But then I started to rally. Maybe I wasn't going to make a pitch to Rosso. From a management perspective, though, the Mafia sounded like a business in trouble, with major reputation problems. The big secret with good PR is understanding your client's psychology, and I could sense how Bellow was feeling.
If I begged for mercy, he'd crush me like a cockroach without a thought. But he was astute enough to recognize that his operation was in a difficult situation, where his old certainties no longer applied. He had to be a leader, but he had no real idea where he was going. That was his weakness, and maybe I could exploit it by showing him a way out. I'd have to be convincing, though - I'd be pitching for my life, literally. And to make any impression I'd have to transform myself in their eyes from a quivering effeminate wimp to a master of business. I started to smarten myself up, and paced up and down the room, rehearsing phrases in my head. Then I knocked on the door: the guard glanced in without interest.
'Tell your boss I've got a deal to make,' I said.
He shrugged and led me back upstairs. As we approached the room, raised voices could be heard, which continued as we entered.
Michael was staring at his phone in disbelief. 'Are you telling me he was here? He landed? But the Feds got him? Shit!'
A concerned murmur ran round the room. I stepped forward and spoke loudly.
'You've got a problem - I've got a solution.'
The room quietened a little. Bellow gestured for silence, then spoke.
'You -help us? How? Right now you ain't got much of a future. Unless you're a sharpshooter?'
'No. I am an expert, though, at what I do. Which is to help organizations. I tell you what: you give me ten minutes to make my case. If by the end you haven't got three new actions based on my advice, you can shoot me.'
'Thanks for the permission,' Bellow smirked, but I could tell he was interested.
'I'll start with the obvious. You seem to be surprised that the police can spot you. But I could spot you, just because of the way you dress. Wearing sunglasses indoors, cars with tinted windows: you might as well put up a sign saying Something illegal happening here. Why do you think rock starts go around like that: is it so nobody notices them? I don't think so.'
One of the men quietly removed his sunglasses, prompting sniggers from his neighbours, and from Bellow.
'More generally, though,' I continued, 'you wear a uniform. Nobody wears suits any more.'
I lost the room: they sat back, offended.
'No, come on. There was a time, a generation ago, when you'd be wearing the same sort of clothes as everyone else: a little sharper, a little better cut, but broadly comparable. You haven't moved on: everyone else has. Again, you're standing out from the crowd. I can see why you might want to, but it’s not helping you at the moment. You think you're the only people with this problem? Every family business runs into this: there comes a time when the traditions and skills can no longer help, and you risk losing out to newer firms who are better attuned to the new opportunities.'
I stepped across to the window and opened the blinds. Those sat nearest the window flinched a little, as if half expecting a sniper's bullet; they then attempted to look unruffled.
'Look out there: main street. Small shops, small businesses. I suppose you go round and pick up protection: bags of coins, some low-value bank notes. The city's moved on, leaving just the small change behind. And see that office block: International Trading Partners, it says. What do they do? I have no idea- nor do you, or anyone. It's just an office; I bet the police walk past that every day without ever going inside. They could be running complex currency fraud, for all we know. Electronic money. And the beauty of it is that they can look after themselves. Their security is tight: they've got CCTV, and they've got guards who wear weapons openly. Just think about it!'
It was clear that I was persuading them.
'But let's go back to basics. Your ancestors looked for the opportunities of the time, and took them. You need to do the same. Think big. You know these boiler rooms: rooms full of scammers chiselling a few hundred dollars from investors' savings. Hard work, for little gain, when you think abouyt something like Enron, or Madoff's hedge fund. Reputable people queuing up to hand over their cash, no questions asked: that's the way to go!'
'And here isn't really the place to do it; you're wide open to scrutiny. You should follow the legitimate businesses out of town: get your own building in the middle of nowhere, with a perimeter fence and secure parking.'
Suddenly, people's eyes widened. I'd done it. They started nodding.
'That's what I've been saying,' whined one.
'It would help with the commute: I spend goddam hours on the freeway,' said another.
'We could have a firing range in the basement.'
Bellow looked around at the buzzing room, approving. He clapped his hands for silence.
'I'm impressed. You're smarter than you look. But now you're solving our problems for us, what's your big plan? How do we change?'
'That's not really my area, but since you ask me, I'd say you need to reposition yourselves in the market. Your old operations are the ones that are generating all this police interest. You could close them down, but it might be better to sell them off to your competition: you get the cash, they get to deal with the law. If you felt like it, you might even drop a few hints to the police: you won't be needing to pay them off anymore. But that's up to you. The biggest problem you'd have left is that there will be a lot of loose ends, unsolved crimes. I'd suggest persuading a few people to confess to all of them, and that would be that. I think my time's up.'
Bellow stood up and extended his hand. I shook it as firmly as I could.
'So why are you in town?' he asked.
I explained about my quest for a client to represent.
A little later we parted on good times and I stumbled to a hotel. The next morning, I tracked down Rosso's apartment and arrived there. He seemed hungover and confused, but was happy enough to see me.
'Hiya,' he mumbled, 'I hear you're good.'
I wondered who might have praised me, before I remembered that the Italian community was probably quite well-connected.
'Well, you've got the job: you can start straight off.'
For the second time in two days, things were looking up.
'Now,' he continued, 'I've had some trouble, and the press are all over it again. What you gotta know to start with is, I swear I thought that sheep was female.'
THE END
Copyright Martin Locock
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)