The Tiger Who Came to Tea: Not about Nazis, but absolutely about Nazis.

Judith Kerr has quite definitively stated that the Tiger Who Came To Tea is not about the Nazis. As far as the author is concerned, she's already covered this ground with When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit -- a child's view of the horrors of not only war, but of the unimaginable inhumanity of Nazi Germany.

So. That's that, right? But authors writing one thing and having it interpreted another way is nothing new. In the case of Bram Stoker's Dracula, that interpretation has steamrolled his own meaning behind the piece. He may not have known he was writing a homoerotic novel, but he was. 

And so in comparable fashion, Judith Kerr was inadvertently writing about the effect of the war on the home front. Take the opening. A ring at the doorbell and immediately the mum cycles through the people it could be. The milkman? The grocer? Dad? That's it. All she can think about is food, or her husband. Somehow the mention that he "has his key" makes it feel even more like he could be back at any moment, but he's been gone a long time. 

Anyway. She opens the door, and it is, obviously, the Tiger. 

The Tiger's first thought? Food. Everyone is hungry. 

He immediately sits down to eat with them, and immediately eats all the food. All of it. It's all gone, which is when he finally decides to leave. 

Again, the mother's thoughts turn to the husband. She has no food for his supper. Or, perhaps, her home is in disarray upon his return from the war. 

They're completely at a loss, until dad gets home, and he announces the end of rationing, the end of war. It's over. He's back. 

Look at his face. Not convinced? 

Look at it. The things he's seen. Things they'll never know. The most important picture in the whole book though, is of course, this one: 

Firstly, the explosion of colour. Until now we've been in a white nowherespace, with just whatever table or fridge or kitchen counter the mum or Sophie is dealing with. This, by contrast, is an entire street. The way it takes up two pages, so you don't see it coming until you turn the page and it bursts into view. All the shops have their lights on. Everything's open, at night -- that's right, no more blitz. The father's head is down but he's happy. He's back, but forever, irreparably, changed. The mum and daughter look toward him, effectively holding him up, carrying their hero. 

But also notice two other things. The cat-tiger, an easy spot, represents our previously terrifying war-rations-death creature that once invaded our home and took all our food and upended our life. Now? It's a tiny little cat. They're literally walking past it, leaving it in the past, leaving it behind. It's small and insignificant. 

And the other thing? The man. 

Here we have the casualties. Those that didn't come back, those that came back and were so changed they couldn't function in their normal life. He's the first thing that catches the eye when you open this colourful page, and it's intentional. He's the what could have been. The maybe. The fear. 

So maybe after all, it's not about Nazis. It's about an impossibly large event, a looming fear -- which is then somehow avoided. 

Opting out

I used to like the idea of an online profile. Not one that people knew about in the modern sense, but a different one per forum, or, later, a different one per platform. 

On skateboarding forums I'd pick whatever avatar represented my tastes at that time and write my replies in the same considered style. This sounds idiotic, but it's true. And then I'd move into music forums and do the same. Maybe I'd be lower case posts, maybe proper grammar and spelling. It was fun to present a style to other users. 

And then it moved into social media. A chosen Facebook photo that's both casual (because whoever cares too much is weird) but considered, and only posts that are the same. An Instagram feed of nice photos, nothing too wordy, nothing too emotional, presenting a digital life that looks fun. 

Don't get me wrong here. I'm not talking about presenting a "false" life, or only sharing the good things in life in order to inspire jealously in others. It's different, but hard to explain. You want people to look at your profile and think "cool". They'll look at the avatar or profile pic (at one point it was pretty sharp if you had a photo of a photo, like a passport pic, as your profile), and think this a nicely curated selection of stuff. 

And over time that curation gets more and more selective, in a Spinal Tap kind of way, and soon you're not posting at all. It's like millenials and ring tones. We turned them off. I didn't realise this was a thing until I read it -- we all, as a generation, have our phones on silent. Not even vibrate. And so too, our social media presence is mostly on mute, as we simply opt out of whatever is going on. I just don't care anymore. Like this blog. I realised I like writing but I don't want comments, or even views. If you read it, great, I don't want to know about it. Go away. Comments are turned off. Forever. 

This is not the same as a digital-detox, or grounding, or some other way of replacing what having a Facebook profile once gave you. It has no replacement -- it just disappears. There's no joining clubs (IRL), learning a new skill (and then writing articles about it), or pouring yourself into some other social media platform. There is simply no longer any desire to reach into the world and see what resonates, whatsoever. The thing about the internet is that you can find your tribe -- we found them -- and then we lost interest.

There is only the further and furthering pruning of an online life until the online-you doesn't exist at all. 

What I learned.

I've spent the last week in a bedroom hiding away from my family with COVID. I'm the one with covid. Not them. Which is why I was hiding away. It's not that complicated, is it?

Anyway. At first I thought I'd use this time for something productive. In hindsight I'm not sure if I let myself off immediately from this. I thought of the cartoon of the bloke in a rowboat in a raging sea and how he's thinking to himself that he should use this time wisely. And I obviously thought of fucking Shakespeare and his fucking plague and his fucking writing hamlet. The prick. 

But then I realised that was his job. He just worked from home. He wrote plays all day every day. This was no different. For me, it was a massive shift from my daily routine, which I was now trying to use as some sort of creative retreat. Cue the bloke in the rowboat. 

But, eventually, I did use the time. And I learnt, or relearnt, a few things about myself and my creative process. 

1. Writing an outline is very hard, especially when you try to use Tom hanks "blowing through an 11 page treatment" of that thing you do "in a week". Was it even a week? Anyway. He clearly had a clear idea clearly in his clear head about that film and the treatment was just getting it on paper for someone else to read. Me, my treatments are more like a screaming brainstorm as I try to get the idea to stand up straight. The only way out of that situation is to type and try and work it out. Pick out the bits you can see and try to link them up. Colour around and outside the lines until the inside is clear. I went from an idea full of holes to a structure that allowed me to pour lampshades into the holes. Which is good enough for me. 

2. You can't write without the outline or the treatment. Or at least you can't get very far. Having a rough set of words to follow when tapping it into a script allows you to speed ahead and not get caught up in not knowing. 

3. You need an ending first. It might change later on, but you need an ending that feels good enough to work towards.

So. What would I take from this going forward? The lack of fear. The outline, the document of nonsense, is key. You start with that. Trying to pants a screenplay is insane and self defeating. Trying to pants an outline is how an outline should be written. I had a series of beats for the start of the story and then realised they were impossible to write unless I had the latter half sorted out already to some degree. So I wrote the latter half. And once that was done it was a lot easier to slot the start on. And now the start is done I can go through and fill in the holes, add little callbacks, link things up. 

What would I do for my next script? I'm excited. Because the biggest barrier has always been not having any fucking scripts. And now I feel I've figured out ho to write them. I feel like I can churn them out now, as long as I have the outline and the ending. And the fear of doing the outline ... well. I guess we'll see how that goes. I'm not sure how I got over the fear of the outline this time. I think I just wrote my fears of the holes in the story and eventually a coherent piece appeared from all the crap. I specifically remember typing a lot of freaked out shit about having no clear idea what I was doing and how much pressure I was putting on my self over it, until suddenly it was there. I think breaking things down into manageable beats, and then even more manageable beats, if it's not manageable, make it even smaller, over and over, until you can handle it. 

So. Let's try this with our next thing. It's going to be the phantom manor. We're going to make an outline. Break the bits down until we can handle them. We have the opening, with the handshake deal. And we have the Marie Celeste house scene. And we have Ethel skeletons coming out of the soil. And we have dad getting sucked into the Earth. And meeting the other kid. And then they go to the house for some reason. Something leads them there. Who tells them about it? I guess they know. Maybe they dig a hole to try find dad. Anyway. The ending. He reveals he sacrificed himself for his children unlike his idiot parents and this sacrifice is more than the phantom can handle (because he made a deal with the oil Earth to save himself but end we up sacrificing his own family) which breaks the curse. A nice logical ending. No boys, it was meant to be this way. And do they get him back? Maybe. Who knows. So I've got the beginning and the end and the dad is a fun buffoon character who actually has a heart of gold and love for his child. That's beginning and end and a tiny bit of the middle. So we're off. Let's fill that middle in.  

Oh I forgot the one other thing I learned. I learned I actually do like this. I like the act of writing. I like it. It's fun. What I don't like is hesitating and staring at the blank page. So as long as I fill it up, I think we're good. Get that outline, get that ending. 

I should clarify that the outline starts off like a professional log line kind of synopsis and then devolves into snatches of dialogue or whole scenes and random question marks and other nonsense. It's bits to be stitched together later. 

A Monk's Perspective

 

A monk's perspective, eh? A monk's perspective. You know what I always want to hear from when I'm getting up in the morning to continue mandatory participation in a capitalist society? From some hippie who lives outside it. 

Look at him, peering at our strange lives from that little box. He can't make head nor tails of it. What's that device you're pointing at me, he says. To film me? For what purpose? For views? To what end? For GoogleAdservices dollars? What could that possibly do for you? Here, do some light agricultural work instead.

Come on, man! He's a monk! Does he even have to commute? Does he get paid? Who washes his clothes? Is it him? Does he find it therapeutic? I bet he does, the arse.

To save you from watching the video (and the thousands of others like it, lots of monks out there I guess), his 5 "things" (because we can't do "tips" anymore, just "things") are as follows:

1. Be a monk

2. Be a monk

3. Be a monk

4. Be a monk

5. Watch loads of stupid youtube videos about productivity until the sun sets again and it's time to roll over and try again tomorrow.

Dickheads worrying about crap

Like everyone, I read too much crap. Not novels or even magazines, but crap. Crap is defined by the dictionary as here's-my-newsletter-with-50-links-to-articles-I-have-"consumed" and I've-rewatched-the-Sopranos-through-the-lens-of-mordern-America. 

Buddy you can rewatch the Sopranos or literally anything through any lens you want. Season 3 of the Simpsons is still achingly relevant to our contemporary discourse. I bet the first episode of Rugrats offers a tellingly prescient glimpse of a post-worth culture manifesting itself in the haphazard nature of modern parenting in the shadow of the 80s (or, thrillingly, the 2008 financial crash). 

What does our relationship to work say about our need to be productive? What does our work say to our relationship with sending mindless emails about non-meetings that no one needs to attend? Is work work or is it work work work? 

One man looks at his Spotify account and cries.

One man (it's always a man, isn't it) looks at his Instagram account and cries.

One man realises he spends more time listening to podcasts about shame and the trauma of shame and the shame of trauma than talking to his damn children.

I don't have to read these things but you don't have to write 'em either.

Indeed and jobs as salvation

That Indeed advert. 

The portrayal of jobseekers as lost and desperate, the choral faux-gospel music saying "rise up", the woman crying in stunned disbelief that she was finally accepted at some miserable hellhole job that almost definitely doesn't deserve her or her skills and will only serve to keep her fed and warm until she can claw her way out of that pit and into a new one---it all communicates one thing. Work as salvation. Not just work. Acceptance by a corporate gatekeeper. Definitely corporate, because no one gets a job down the road from Indeed. Indeed is jobs at desks or jobs that pretend they're at desks but are actually at cashiers. Hoping that some recruitment HR doofus will decide you're dynamic enough to work there, when we (millennials) know that anyone can do anything at an Indeed-desk-job if they know how to google. 

Getting Away With It

 Why is Ed Sheeran so big?

I hate to come off like one of those people who pay attention to lyrics like they're the most important thing in a song, or that Rihanna's Work is insipid due to it's repeated use of the title. It's not. It is a song for dancing to. The lyrics fulfil the purpose. A frequent victim of men-who-like-lyrics is Beyoncé's Run The World, which again, fulfils it's purpose. By the end of the song, you know who runs the world. 

Now let's look at Ed. Why are Ed Sheeran's lyrics so crap? 

Why do they say she's in the Class A team? Because she does class A drugs. Duh. But what does that mean? Does she frequently pity the fool that tries to stop her using drugs? Is she a master of disguise? Is she a hardened veteran? What has the A Team element, a crack squad of vigilantes, got to do with it at all? She might as well be a Class A Road, on a one way trip to an early death, or a Class AC, because aircon is cold and meth is also called ice. Apparently. 

Perhaps wisely, Ed never elaborates on the title line. Maybe it's just something stupid his peer group said and therefore he's only reporting it. It's not his fault a bunch of teenagers are idiots with crap wordplay. 

So, then, who is to blame for Lego House? He says he'll pick up the pieces and build a Lego house and then they can knock it down again. Leaving aside that he is singing about a fragile relationship prone to implosion and that the use of sturdy, robust and colourful Lego is not the best metaphor, he again is not arsed about elaborating on it. He has his title line, and that's enough. Job done. The rest of the song has lyrics interchangeable with any of his others about broken relationships. Not even a mention at the end that his Lego house is now standing strong without her. Not even that! It's half a thought. Not even a last verse from her point of view. Perhaps he's unable to imagine such a thing. 

This might seem unfair, picking on two of his older songs, so, fine, how about his latest? Visiting Hours. Again, we have our title line, and little else. I get it -- someone has died and he'd like to speak to them again. That's it. There's nothing further. You could compare that to Tears In Heaven, which is not only the same concept but already took it further; would the deceased even remember me? What use is an afterlife if the people you live don't even know you when you get there? Visiting Hours, on the other hand, is a mere postcard, a Facebook comment, from the living to the dead. That's it. Not even "visiting hours wouldn't be enough". Not even "I hope my loved ones can visit me when I am dead, too", not even a rumination on what happens if the living keep aging and growing but the deceased stays the same. Nothing. Just "lots has changed, mate." 

This would all be forgivable if the melody was any cop, but it's not. The opening lines are soulfully warbled, as if still searching for the hook, and the chorus rises and falls almost exactly like Candle in the Wind's mid-chorus, followed by some attempts at interest with a chromatic melody line, before having a go at a Ryan Adam's style linger at the end. It's ultimately a half finished Sam Smith song, a lesser Tom Odell work, even weaker than a subpar toss-off by James Bay. 

All three of them must be utterly baffled by his continued dominance and nearly billion quid in the bank. I don't fault anyone for liking this stuff but if Lewis Capaldi isn't a billionaire in a decades time then I'll have to believe the whole thing is rigged. 

It's extraordinary the level of laziness he gets away with, when even the first Taylor Swift album has both melodic pop songs and lyrics that offer something to the listener. She was about 17 then. Her first album written entirely by herself, Speak Now, has the staggering Dear John, a song Ed could never write on a billion years. Even a simple song like Mine is more sophisticated than anything he's ever written, purely because the last chorus is sung from the boyfriends point of view, confirming her feelings that she has expressed through the rest of the song. Ed would just repeat the same chorus, if he has one. Visiting Hours proves that sometimes he doesn't even have that.

The only time I can forgive his lyrics are in his dance songs. Sing, and now Bad Habits, both offer more than his ballads. Maybe he should try writing a Beyoncé song. 

The definitive artistic statement of 2021

You can hear it when the chorus hits.

It’s not often that you can hear a singer smiling while singing, but you can hear it in the "Taylor’s Version" of Love Story. The song has come home.

For those not on the frontline, 2020 was largely about turning inward. That could be reassessing what’s important (“why am I commuting two hours a day just to use my laptop in a different building?”), or reassessing what’s not important (“trousers”).

For Taylor Swift, country megastar and planet-eating pop-Galactus, it was to pursue a new musical direction while simultaneously dragging her beginnings into the future with her. It was about navel-gazing to the point of releasing two albums within six months of each other. New year, new pandemic, new you -- she used the time to release something that reflected where she was now musically, a break with the previous pure pop of 2019’s Lover. 

This might, then, seem like a weird time to release your first albums all over again. Most artists would look at their beginnings, especially if they’ve moved entirely out of the genre they started in, with a sense of cringe. But not Swift. She chose to wrap both ends of her career inside a big cardigan and pull them together like the siblings they are.

She chose to record the definitive artistic statement of 2021.

The audacity of following through with it, based purely on principle and 'fuck you'. What once seemed an impossible Goliath to defeat is now slain, like returning to your hometown with superpowers and showing everyone who's boss. The decision to keep the same players as the original. The decision to ever so-slightly turn up the country elements, but otherwise leave it the same.

It's not a remake, it's the song, again, a twin, free from the clutches of an evil money-grubbing bastard. You can hear that in her voice as the chorus takes off, flying away from the grasping claws of Scooter Braun and whichever private equity scumbag he's sold her masters to now. It's off, up, and away, out of here, into its rightful place with its writer and creator and the band playing on it. It's free.

The song feels light under their fingers. A decade of playing it has made it second nature, but the act of re-recording it has awakened that killer instinct, powering home a version of the song like a seasoned pro showing you how it's done. It's muscular, lean, light, forceful, match-fit.

She clearly doesn’t need the money. Both 2020 releases went to number one and sold a million copies each. Her house has a Wikipedia page. And besides -- the royalties would continue to flow in regardless of which faceless private equity firm owned the masters. 

This was about something else, something more important than money. It was about control, about the self, about what you're willing to put with.

This was about bringing something back to where it rightfully belonged, taking something sullied by business and making it pure again.

Bringing it home, again.

Non-Explodey

Jeff Bezos's trip to space has generated a surprising amount of pieces on his safety or lack thereof whilst journeying to the stars. As if space travel is dangerous.

It'll be fine, though, right? 

Take the first fact of this little adventure. A billionaire, going into space. Rich men trying to defy God is a pretty common thread for disaster films, but space travel is no longer seen by God as much of a slight (since we've done it a bit and there hasn't been at least a directly identifiable line of smiting). So this one is fine. It's not like, I dunno, Icarus, or anything. 

Secondly, the name of the ship is New Shepherd. Sounds good, normal, non-explodey. 

His brother is going with him. Which makes it extra safe. Like JFK Jr and Carolyn taking Lauren along for a light aircraft flight. 

Fourthly, and perhaps the most un-worrying of all, is the inclusion of an auction winner in the crew. The chance of a lifetime! Literally?

And then, to cap off how perfectly safe and smooth this will all be: the presence of Wally Funk, a trained astronaut who never got the chance to go into space, but finally will at the narratively handy age of 83. 

If anything, this crew is made up of such unremarkable people that I can't even imagine how the biopic will play out. Who would they even focus on? The billionaire who climbed too high? The mysterious auction winner who turned out to be evil? The hapless, Billy Carter-esque brother? The 83 year old Space Cowboy?

The answer: none of them. Because this trip is so boring and safe and absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong. 

Isles of wonder

 I remember watching it go out live.

We had planned to move but this cemented it. It was like a ripcord being pulled. 

I remember my wife, then girlfriend, crying, as we watched it at some ungodly hour. 

I can't remember which bit finished her off. Was it the NHS beds? Kenneth Branagh watching the satanic mills shoot up out of the countryside? James Bond?

It all sounds a bit silly on paper, but even now it moves me to tears. Even the BBCs opening bit, flying down the Thames, is magic.

It's a sincere outpouring of love for a country. 

A beacon.

I might go watch it now.

A distant ship

 You ever hear a lyric that sounds like a whole world?

"A distant ship smoke on the horizon".

It sort of comes out of nowhere in Comfortably Numb. There's no other mention of ships, horizons, seafaring. Maybe it links to the "waves" in the next line -- It's purely a metaphor for some trouble or pain now being distant and no longer relevant except for it very slowly washing up on your shores -- but I also love the way it causes a mental image to flash in front of your eyes.

There is no pain, you are receding. Ok. More medical stuff. And then -- a distant ship smoke on the horizon. Look. You can see it, right now, a little ship, way off, barely perceptible, with a small plume of black smoke drifting away from it into the darkening blue skies above an impossibly huge, a comfortingly huge, ocean. It bobs around on the currents, detached from whatever turmoil is going on back on land. 

I sometimes wonder if it's referring to a painting the protagonist saw in a doctors office as a child. After the waves line he leads into a half-remembered memory of an illness as a child. A fever. A fleeting glimpse. The painting burning into his memory forever through the formative and traumatic trip to the emergency room. 

You can imagine that image, the painting, the ship, returning to his fevered mind as an adult. He lies back and goes into a Proustian stupor, instead of a biscuit (was there more to Proust than the biscuit?) it's the numbness of narcotics. They, obviously remind him of being an ill child (or just a child, The Wall seems to be entirely about adults dealing with childhood trauma), and that's where the painting of the calm, soothing ship appears in his mind and he slips back into the haze.

Instructions

 I can't read instructions. 

I don't mean I can't read them. I understand what the words mean. I can make out the letters. 

It's just when I try to act on them, comprehend them, I somehow mess it all up. It's not a "I can't do anything right!" kind of thing either. I just go into a sort of blindspot situation. 

I tear into packaging all wrong. I once opened an M&S sandwich from the side and wiggled it out sideways. I can open cereal boxes but the little freshness tab at the top is a luxury I have yet to experience, with mine forever a torn up mess.

 I remember when I first learnt to drive I'd see signs with "Shoulder Closed" appearing in the distance and I'd panic. Shoulder closed! Oh no! And I'd grip the wheel and look around and keep driving and then the sign would disappear and I'd wipe my brow, phew, managed to slip myself out of that tight spot. Years later I discovered the sign was simply telling me I could not pull over here. 

The first time I did a home Covid test, I read the instructions about ten times -- and still fucked it up. The more logical I try to be, the more of Occam's razor I try to apply, the more likely I am to completely misunderstand an instruction and do something completely insane instead. 

Ironically, I have a graduate diploma in instructions. Technical writing, it's called. I studied instructions for a year. I had to critique bad ones, and later on, write my own. I have no idea how I passed this. 

What's even more ironic is that I did it before I finished my undergraduate degree. I thought I'd finished it, but once I completed the diploma I discovered I had another year to go. I had, simply, not done the electives. I had elected not to do them.

And so, in a neat little circle, we come back to my inability to read instructions. I'm just man who might be still in the middle of higher education, opening sandwiches from the wrong end, worried about closed shoulders that he didn't need to use anyway.

Somewhere else

 Have you ever found a little bit of your small town that looked like somewhere else and, if you blocked out whatever was on either side of it, you could pretend you were somewhere else?

Hamilton has a few of those. One of them was a passage next to the central library. For apparently no reason this passage was done up in an Art Deco style. I think it even had a name, as if it was a tiny shopping mall. There was a barbers in it, and some other business. How either of them attracted customers with zero roadside visibility is a mystery. 

Anyway. If you walked down this passage you could almost convince yourself you were in New York City. Or Chicago. Or one of the sets of either of those cities in a muppets movie. Nearby, a pizza place parped out that olivey, peppery, tomatoey, bready smell, a bit like the nose onslaught of Subway today but I don't think it was on purpose. It was more likely just a shitty building with ventilation ducts that vented into other parts of it rather than just straight outside. 

Anyway. Pizza. Art Deco. Muppets. Essential ingredients to convince one's sad library-going brain that they were somewhere far more exciting and atmospheric than bloody Hamilton. 

Apparently actual adults felt the same way, and they soon built a Mediterranean inspired passage across town, called Casabella Lane. It had white, Greek island inspired walls, cafes with metal outdoor furniture, and boutiques that seemed to just sell shit with fake flowers stuck on it. Directly outside the passage was a massive car park for a paint shop and an instrument store, and at the other end was a mostly vacant street with a Salvation Army store and a discount electronics place. 

But if you blocked out whatever was on either side of it, you could pretend you were somewhere else. 

A news jolt -- hit me

 You ever get that feeling when you feel a lil on edge, but not quite enough, and think "I could really do with a solid jolt of News right now"? Just 100 volts of the good shit. What are the Tories up to now? Zzzt! They're privatising what? Zzzzt! Gerrymandering who? Zzzztt! 

Ah. It's great. Really gets the heart pumping. Gets you snapping at your friends and family. Gets you comfort eating. Comfort staring at yourself in the mirror. Comfort trying to formulate a barnstormer House of Commons speech that will singlehandedly bring about the collapse of the Tory machine and the class system with it, heralding in a new age of fairness and public service founded on the principles of the post-War consensus but going so much further, lifting all boats higher on a sea of justice and equality--zzzztttt

Tories to turn London Assembly into giant festival of farts. Robert Jenrick to specifically "call in" your bed and toss it into the street. 

It's weird thinking about these actions and feeing that they affect you and you alone. It certainly feels like it because somewhere, somehow, other people (who are apparently unaffected by these things despite participating in the same economy that is being ravaged by them) continue to vote for them. I read about the latest dent to our world-beating broadcast sector (we only care about world-beating when it's stuff we don't have, or no longer, or will never have. Stuff we currently have? Bullshit, for bullshit people) due to the comical mishandling of EU negotiations by active pensioner and whisky fan Lord Frost and I feel like I am the only person who works in it. 

But I'm not. All over the country, millions of other people all getting these jolts.

Zzztt  

An unfinished blog from October 2015.

my day

intersperse with tom ford day

- I slide awake with the disinterested grimace I went to sleep with. A dull day followed by dull dreams. Less lying down than slumping into the mattress. It's shut down. I don't sleep, I just turn off for 8 hours.

- embarrassing memories return in the shower. grunting and groaning to chase them away

- standing at the sink, staring at my hair in the mirror. will today be a good day for the hair? we'll see

- leave house. late. admire the blossoming trees in the common.

- step around slow arses on the way to tube. some fucker has stopped in the gate. impotently huff and puff behind them.

- tear down stairs to departing tube train. get cut-off by another commuter, wonder angrily what their fucking problem is there's another train coming, idiot.

- get on train. wonder why no one fucking moves to let you on.

- stand obliviously still at next stop as other passengers attempt to board.

- dash out of waterloo station. some fucker's trying to enter using the exit gate. beep through, blowing their mind as i stride through their group.

- put coat on chair. turn on computer. wander off for coffee.

- return with coffee. fuck about endlessly on the internet.

- lunch

- go home. repeat steps in reverse.

- track rougly 3 kilometres flouncing around sainsbury's. why is that fucker just stopped there?

- sit down on sofa. aimlessly twangle on guitar. zone out.

5 Nice Things

 1. Writing. It's still nice. Look. I can do it! Some people aren't very good. I am above average at writing. That's something. Don't tell me it's not. 

2. London. Still here. Always here. Long after you fucks have tried to destroy it. Try to level it down. Saw off the bits you don't like. I'm not even talking about property developers or gentrifying or anything like that. London has always had that. London is that. London was built on the twin powers of geography and commerce (like any town, obviously) and London will continue to exist because of them. You can snap little bits of and put them elsewhere in a misguided attempt to grow a bit of London somewhere else but it'll just grow back, back down here, in London. Pour money into what already exists in those other places. They have the tools already. They don't need London's, which are only ever going to be temporary. It's not hard. 

3. This was mean to be about nice things but it's turned into a rant. Or a pep talk to myself. Weird. I guess a third nice thing is donuts. Yep. 

4. GarageBand. It's great! Where has this been all my life. I can't believe I'd been struggling about with random Windows programmes like Acoustica MixCraft -- as good as it is, or could be, it's just not the same. It's just not an entire studio in a phone, that runs with zero lag. I don't know how they do it and I don't care. MixCraft probably had more dynamic range (I can never quite recreate the miles-away-across-the-fields reverb in GarageBand) but everything took forever because I could never afford a powerful enough computer to run the fucker. Things that I would puzzle over for months are now worked out and discarded within days. 

5. My wife. 

Form 1, Form 2

In Form 1, my teacher seemed to regard me as a writing genius. If you think this blog doesn't match up to such high praise, well, consider the fact that I haven't actually improved or progressed linguistically since Form 1. Quite impressive then, less so now. 

I remember receiving praise for every story I wrote, having my work read to the class, and a note on my picture book project that said "please keep this for your grandchildren". My school speech was received rapturously and I consequently had the confidence to read it to the school. People laughed. None of it get like a bad idea. My teacher and I knew it was good and funny and fluent and so I read it without shame. Looking back, this was probably the first encouragement I received from school as a writer. Since I seem to recall it all so vividly I suspect it's had a lasting impression. I could even say that I'm still operating on the fumes generated from those compliments, two decades ago. 

The following year (Form 2, if you can believe it), I had a different teacher and my talents were appraised in a completely different direction. Sure, I had my work read to the class, but I also had the weird punishment of being made to read a hastily written poem in front of the entire school. This was nothing like the speech situation of the year before. We, my new teacher and I, both new it was garbage. I had left it until the last minute and was sighted writing it before school -- it was, obviously, awful. But despite that it was somehow considered as good as or better than the majority and I was told it had been selected for presentation at the school assembly. I had to read this fucking thing. In front of people. It was about a cat, hunting a mouse. One line was simply: "darkness". It blew ass. Three words into the recital I pretended that I forgot the words and sat down again. In hindsight that probably just made the event stick out in people's minds more - you can zone out during a performance but as soon as silence hits your ear you snap awake. The absence of student drone breaks the spell. Someone out there probably still remembers it. I know I remember it more than the successful speech of Form 1 -- in fact I only remembered the speech when I started thinking about the poem. The success of that speech is completely overshadowed by the enormous failure of the poem. 

Two teachers, two different approaches. But was it me? Had I changed significantly in between those years that the only way to deal with me was the approach the new teacher took? Or was what was an appealing trait in a 1st Former actually quite horrible in a 2nd former? Was it me? Or them? There had to have been some way of dealing with me that was more positive than the one I received. I guess we'll never know. 

Elizabeth Day's How To Fail with Elizabeth Day, presented by Elizabeth Day, with your host, Elizabeth Day

One of my favourite bits about How to Fail with Elizabeth Day, presented by Elizabeth Day, is that her name appears in the title. 

It's as if we're actively failing with her, alongside her. I'm sure it doesn't really mean that and it's actually just a kind of branding exercise so that the podcast name is linked with her name in your mind. But it did get me wondering why it's written like that, and why she introduces it as such: "welcome to How to Fail with Elizabeth Day, with your host, Elizabeth Day". 

You might wonder why I'm not curious about the titles of The Adam Buxton Show and Richard Herring's Leicester Square Theatre Podcast -- the difference, besides my obvious failure to examine my own gender biases, is that they have no format. The pitch is: a man, talking with (or at) another person. With How to Fail, with its rigid three-failures-per-guest format, the format is as important as the host, like a regular Radio 4 programme. Presumably, like those, you can swap out the host--but in this instance I don't think that's possible.

Take how she often says "thrilled", "so lovely", and "beautiful". It's that slightly posh (as in, person who went to university in the 1990s, not actually old-money-posh) way that sounds sincere and insincere all at once. I suppose the insincerity comes from my own perception -- no one could possibly be that thrilled. Or even thrilled at all. I spend my life either impotently enraged or aggressively disinterested. Hearing someone who is actively thrilled by anything is lovely to hear. Imagine tuning into my podcast, a series of half-finished mutterances about what's pissed me off in the news today but I've blocked out most of the really enraging details of the story in order to continue to function without constantly shitting with rage. 

It's a good podcast. There's no real snark. It's somehow one of those "celebs have thoughts!?" podcasts but without being one of those. It's part of the endless ring round of comedians going on each other's podcasts but at the same time it's different because of the structure and because Day doesn't really riff with the guest like Adam Buxton or Richard Herring. In fact maybe the key difference is that those two podcasts are as much about their hosts (which is why they are so good) as they are about the guest. I deliberately put on the Jack Whitehall episode of RHLSTP purely to hear Herring boil over with unrestrained resentment at his massively successful young guest (if you're wondering--he does not disappoint. It's fantastic).

All of this suggest Elizabeth Day is a mere sounding board for her guests. She's not. That genuine sense of being thrilled and of caring about her guests pathetic little failures (or their massive life changing ones) isn't really apparent in any one I can think of. The closest comparison to How to Fail is Desert Island Discs, and yet the hosts of that, or at least the best hosts, have been fairly arms length. My favourite was Sue Lawley, who seems deeply suspicious of everyone placed in front of her. It's now a bit different, a bit more of a therapy session, which is fine -- after so long on air the show has inevitably become This Is Your Life with music. And yet I don't think any of the post-Lawley DDD hosts could replace Day on How to Fail. Trying to imagine the podcast without her would render it a completely different podcast. You can't have How to Fail without Elizabeth Day. Format and host are inextricably bound together, and I hope they're stuck together for years to come.

A short and unfinished analysis of the personality types that create the humour maelstrom of How Did This Get Made?

 I could listen to any episode of How Did This Get Made. It used to be dependent on having seen the film, or heard about it a bit, or knew of the lead actor. But none of this is a requirement anymore. The strength of the three presenters -- Jason, June, Paul -- is such that they can riff on absolutely anything and it's entertaining. There's a dynamic there that is rock solid. The stereotype of each host is Jason = chaotic, Paul = straightman, June = confused. Or at least, that's how I first approached it. But what's become clear is that those initial personality traits are really just masks for a deeper one. 

Jason Mantzoukas often comes across as widely read, or widely watched, and has knowledge of things you wouldn't assume he has (women's clothing, women's health, women in general, perhaps). This might seem like a weird thing to point out, a pointless bit of info about him, but it so often plays up against Paul's fellow "secret" personality trait. 

Paul appears to have had one of the strangest childhoods imaginable, which has lead to some strange ideas (or at least a willingness to reveal the strange ideas he used to have) about relationships. Jason is often the one to pop in with "what?" when Paul gets going with a bizarre anecdote about trying to french someone he really should not have been trying to kiss. 

June comes off as confused but she's not confused. More often than not, she's angry. Not in a campaigning sort of way (although she obviously has done this also), but in a defiant, I-will-not-watch-multiple-Marvel-films-just-to-have-the-adequate-amount-of-back-story-required-to-watch-the-latest-one kind of way. "I will not pander to those people" she said recently, when asked if she had explored the backstory of Super Girl within the wider DC universe. Absolutely not.

What this ultimately gives us is a wildman who is actually very reserved and sane, a straightman who is deeply unhinged on a subterranean level, and a confused woman who is actually razor-sharp in her focus. Somehow these are not contradictory traits, it's as if they all choose to be the initial personality in order to function with the second. The second is perhaps their true personality. Maybe the pain of being intelligent and knowing the world is full of bonkers nonsense causes Mantzoukas to lash out and embrace the chaos. Maybe the pain of growing up utterly abnormal causes Scheer to act as Normal as possible. Maybe the righteous fury within Diane Raphael causes her to use confusion as a shield, a way to keep her simmering rage-brain under control, to shield it from yet more bullshit and nerds. You could argue that's a common trait for almost all women. 

Driverless Trains: the quintessential Tory policy

Driverless trains are part of TfL's new settlement. It enables the government to claim they're smashing the last union with real power in the country (levelling up!), as well as claim they're at the forefront of technology (in London, though, so not really levelling up because levelling up is only allowed in Not London). 

There's several issues here, one of which is cost. TfL recently abandoned Piccadilly line signalling upgrades due to lack of funds from central government. Driverless trains, of course, would require a lot of new signalling, in order to work with the new AI-driver. TfL also recently put on hold tunneling out the Bakerloo line extension due to lack of funds from central government. Driverless trains, of course, would require the addition of safety-gates on all platforms, which means those curved-platforms of Embankment, Waterloo, and hundreds of others, would all have to straightened out by tunneling out a larger station and, for example, shifting them sideways. 

The final issue is, as London Reconnections put so succinctly -- any AI driver that is advanced enough to navigate the ancient London Underground will finish its first shift and immediately join a union. 

So it's some way off, then. Like a lot of Tory policies it's all scary and disrupting -- and then nothing happens.

In some ways, "Driverless Trains" is the ultimate post-Thatcher Tory policy. 

You could apply Driverless Trains to the entire Tory policy output. Driverless trains, on its own, is not an impossible or even a bad idea. But to achieve it, you need to either:

a) Completely replace the entire London Underground

b) Invest in an entirely new, elevated rail line, like a central London DLR, that would be built driverless from the get-go. 

Both of these are, as you can imagine, expensive, and, if done properly, would provide adequate public transport to London for decades to come. I might be cynical but neither of these are particularly Tory things to do.

It's perhaps emblematic of their entire approach. Make a claim on an endpoint, put no funds into achieving it, then claim either everyone else has failed you, or that we need to be frugal in times like these. Meanwhile, you pick up that distant carrot of Driverless Trains and hurl it into the horizon once more, for the next election. 

The Driverless Trains fallacy can be applied to Whitehall. The government has long stated its desire to cut back on Whitehall staff, or to shift civil servants to far flung parts of the country in an effort to boost those areas. Fair enough. But here comes the Driverless Train: without moving the government itself, Whitehall will never really move. Ministers won't be moved out of London, so their top civil servants won't be moved out of London. The servants directly below them won't be moved out, until eventually someone is moved out, but they're so unimportant that they're ultimately replaced, back in London, with someone else. The new regional Whitehall office becomes just that, regional, and is eventually wound up. Without replacing the London Underground, an AI-train can't run.

Levelling Up, in general terms, is about boosting England's underperforming areas. In cynical terms, is about smashing down London and allow the regions to become successful, if only in relative terms to the fall of London. In realistic terms, it should be about replicating London's success in those English regions. But here we come to the Driverless Train of Levelling Up: London's success is largely through its devolved government and its control over its own transport. Central Government has repeatedly shown it despises not just the Mayor of London but the London Assembly itself, continuing to overrule planning permissions or even the London Plan. If you were really committed to Levelling Up the English regions, you'd also be committed to devolution. There is simply no other way to achieve it, short of blasting money into the regions (another very un-Tory thing to do). Of course, they say they want devolution, that they support English devolution. But they want it without laying any of the framework for it. Just like they want Driverless Trains without spending the money on a new Underground or a new light railway, they also want to give more power to the English regions by not actually giving them any power. 

I suppose the biggest Driverless Train in the government's world right now is post-Brexit trade. They can see an endpoint in their minds that they want but they cannot be bothered working it out or spending the money or making sure it works. As a result, Northern Ireland is in crisis. And crisis is, ultimately, all that Tory policies can ever hope to achieve. 

I Keep Crawling Back To You

The opening, tumbling piano is almost too much to bear. You can get past the jagged little bursts of muted guitar that ease you into the song, but when the piano hits you in the soul, it's all over. That title, "Crawling Back To You", is somehow spoken by those piano chords. It sounds like someone falling to their knees. 

Somewhere between the piano and the drums, it sounds like the 90s. Not grunge, not hip-hop influences, but that weird bit of the 90s where the dinosaurs came back, as Eric Clapton creaked back into our lives, Pink Floyd put out another album, and everyone who had a hit album in the 70s put out at least one greatest hits album. The piano and drums sound like a 90s dinner party. Maybe it's a memory only I have, but it sounds like men getting into hi-fi systems in order to play the new Clapton Unplugged as crystal clear as possible, and as completely inappropriate dinner party music. It sounds like Baby Boomer torment. If you were a Boomer and your marriage collapsed, it probably did so in the 90s. Maybe, it was soundtracked by "Crawling Back To You".

It's one of those songs that uses fairly cryptic lyrics in the verses, before cutting you off at the knees with a blunt, straight-to-the-point chorus line. I keep crawling back to you. In a strange way, because they're so different, it reminds me of the biblical language in the verses of Frankie Goes To Hollywood's "Power of Love"--

Ah, fuck--sorry, the guitar solo just hit. Jesus Christ. Have you heard the live version, on the recently released Wildflowers and All The Rest? Good God. What was a fairly restrained guitar-interpretation of inner torment becomes a wounded dog howl in the live version. You could probably play anything in this bit, as long as it's in key, and as long as you just hit the thing with the right amount of force. 

Anyway. Back to the lyrics. The Power of Love. Right? "Dreams are like angels / They keep bad at bay / Love is the light / Scaring darkness away" -- it's utter bollocks, but it's well intentioned bollocks. You feel the narrator aiming for Great Art, a huge painting, a big gesture. He's reaching up at the sky and trying to take a swipe at the moon. But it falls short, and he drops the bullshit for a vulnerable, heart-stopping second: "I'm so in love with you". It kills me every time. It hits even harder later on when the bollocks is kicked up a notch: "This time we go sublime / Lovers entwined divine / Love is danger, love is pleasure / Love is pure, the only treasure" -- what? I mean, I get it, but, what? And then, again, "I'm so in love with you". He tosses the easel to the floor, kicks over the paints, throws out his notebook. I'm so in love with you. 

Tom Petty does the same here.  "The ranger came with burning eyes / The chambermaid awoke surprised" -- it almost sounds like "I Want You" by Bob Dylan, and they perform a similar trick. Here's line after line of poetry, followed by a chorus which clears that all away. I want you. I'm so in love with you. I keep crawling back to you. 

Video rental stores and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Before Netflix, Amazon Prime, and Disney+, there were video stores. I'd like to say it seems weird now but it doesn't. I could imagine video stores coming back, even now. It seems like movies are more popular than ever and if someone somehow came up with a way to make physical video tapes a profit making business, people would go get them. Eventually the streaming services will merge and de-merge and monetise and throw adverts on what is already a pay-service, to a point where you find yourself locked out once again and marveling at the concept of being able to rent a single movie without signing up for a year's worth of streaming. 

In some places, though, video rental shops never really went away. Where I grew up, in Hamilton, NZ, you could map the city by video stores alone. There was Hillcrest Video Ezy, Hamilton East United Video, The Source just over the bridge in town, the big United Video on the way out of town and into Frankton, The Source in Frankton. That's three competing chains in one small town alone. A fourth, Civic Video, inexplicably joined them in the mid-2000s.  

Each store required its own membership, even within a chain, so you'd end up with multiple Video Ezy accounts if you found yourself stranded in a zone of Hamilton without a video store less than 300 metres from you. It could happen! 

We usually went to the United Video in Hamilton East, once a week, one video for a week's rental. It was on the way home from the central city, and probably had the best parking which was obviously a deciding factor for my dad. United Video also had a pretty large range, although they seemed to lose interest in having actual categories of films and instead opted to just bung everything in an ever-growing 'Highly Recommended' section that soon took up 3/4s of the shop. 

For some reason, we once branched out and went to The Source in Frankton. The Source was weird. There were fewer of them, they had a weird name, and they had the most constantly played TV ads despite having fewer stores. After years of United Video, The Source was a strange new world with strange new videos. An unfamiliar children's section located perilously close to the horror section, with a few adult cartoons like Heavy Metal randomly thrown in there by either some mischievous teenage employee, or someone who had no idea that they did cartoons for adults. 

Usually we would only sign up for a membership to a new video store if they had something we couldn't find anywhere else. This time, that something, was a previously unknown Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film. I'd seen the first one, and Secrets of the Ooze, and even TMNT 3: Turtles in Time. But here, at The Source Frankton, was apparently a fourth TMNT film. I couldn't believe it. 

My dad duly registered for an account at The Source and I rented out this incredible new film, got home, and popped it in the VCR.

The first hint that something was amiss was the box art. I can only assume I was overcome with a kind of delirium upon sighting a new TMNT film and didn't sober up until I'd got home. As I looked at the box, I noticed the turtles themselves looked a bit cheap, a bit weird, and Shredder was wearing possibly the most revealing crotchwear since David Bowie in Labyrinth. It was, essentially, Shredder's junk pushing out of the box art at the viewer. 

We hit play and the red flags continued. The film opened with an introduction sequence, featuring Russell the Rooster, a poorly designed and assembled puppet from a New Zealand children's show. That's weird, I thought. I didn't think TMNT had any connection to New Zealand. Maybe this was just a NZ-only bit tacked onto the start? Something for the local audience. Yeah. Despite this self-assurance, a wave of dread washed over me as the tape rolled. 

There were crowd noises. An audience seemed to be in this movie somehow. OK. Maybe it started with a crowd number. Vanilla Ice was in one of the other films. It's not completely out of the ordinary. Except this time it was a static shot. Even as a child, I could feel the difference between a movie camera angle and whatever this was. Lights came on. A curtain went up. More crowd cheering, noises. An announcer whooped, and the turtles bounded out onto the stage to perform an excruciating rock-rap number. 

My sister and I stared at the screen as this madness unfolded, at first laughing at it, and then cowering in embarrassment by association (we made the choice to rent this after all), before the sheer sadness set in as we realised this was the film we'd wasted this week's rental on. We had this thing for a week. 

I stared at Shredder's freaky mound one more time before silently placing the tape by the front door for Dad to return on his next drive past the video shop.