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Tread Softly...

3/1/2017

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Karin was always the first person to whom I turned when I’d written something new. She was the greatest ‘first reader’. She knew that her main job was not honesty (nor falsity) but to be a tailwind. She understood that to a writer a new piece of work is like a treasured pet. And she understood that writers are full of self-doubt about their work, particularly if, like us, they lacked the validation of publication, sales and an adoring audience.

She always found some words of encouragement, was never in the cheap seats throwing rotten veg. I’d know if she genuinely loved it or not but, even if not, she’d leave me feeling good about myself in general and the piece of writing in particular. She gave me enough of a tailwind so that I could launch myself back into the project anew.

When we were writing Farewell Trip, we were, of course, each other’s first readers, but also felt we needed some first readers from amongst our friends. One of these hit the brief perfectly. Another three gave woolly encouragement, which was fine. And one woman wrote back “I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to read something like this.” I like to think we took it like grown-ups, although it’s also true to say that Karin never spoke to her again.

For us, the role of the first reader was to reassure us that the work was not a pile of poo. That indeed it was brilliant and, with the odd tweak, was a racing certainty for the Booker. Once our loins had been girded by such friendly validation we would be strong enough to give the work to a ‘second reader’ – an editor probably – who would point out that, no, we were right all along, it really is a pile of poo.

Us non-league writers probably need a phalanx of kindly first readers, long before we can bear the savaging of a second reader. What mustn’t happen is for the readers to become mixed-up – in this instance that a first reader should act like a second reader. What we mustn’t have is a first reader coming on all Craig Revel Horwood when we what we need is some of Bruno Tonioli’s hot-loving.

Which brings me to my latest novel, or pile of poo, as we might as well have it. For I sent it out to a few old friends for first reader comments and the first, first reader has responded. The book is loosely - sort of - about bankers, and other voices, and set in London 2015. The first reader, let’s call him John, wrote to say that basically I

a)  hadn’t got the bankers right
b)  hadn’t got the other voices right   
c)  hadn’t got London right.
 
So, that’s alright then.
 
There’s a scene in Quadrophenia where Phil Daniels is at his lowest ebb, and has a road traffic accident where a postal van runs over his Lambretta. He sits in the road, effing and blinding in anger, cradles his bike in his arms, and whines “You’ve killed me scooter.”    

If any of you ever get the chance to be a first reader, here’s what I’d say – watch out for the scooter.  


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Day Four in the Big Brexit House

28/6/2016

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I cried watching the news tonight. I don't mean I howled, grumbled or scorned as I usually do. I mean I burst into tears.  Not intentionally obviously.  It caught me completely unawares. And not in a sentimental way - which admittedly is a lot of my life these days. But it wasn't like I was watching a film, or sport, or some other uplifting whatnot.

I mean it was the same as when something deeply personal happens - like my Dad dying. Like Karin dying. Like Monkey or Laurel dying.  I've never done that before. Just watching the news. Cried for my country dying.

Um, that's all... 


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Shrewsbury's Indoor Market v Tooting's Indoor Markets

9/6/2016

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I met Anne in Shrewsbury this afternoon for her birthday.

We went to the Market Hall, an indoor market in the centre of town for I know how to treat a woman. Seriously, indoor markets are potentially such a great thing, and we've been to some wonderful ones all across Europe, latterly when boating down the Canal du Midi, where we stocked up at the one in Narbonne, spending unimaginable sums on the best food and drink you could imagine.

But let's be honest, English indoor markets, not so much. They tend towards the, um, poor and run down. A great place to get some dish-cloths, sundry knick-knacks and some dog treats. Not overflowing with fresh produce, smoked fish, charcuterie, spit-roast chicken or cheese. And not great places to eat unless you want a very cheap full English. Or tripe. Now. don't get me wrong, I like these places and cheap tupperware as much as the next Englishman, but I'll be honest they do not make my heart soar as an eagle.

Shrewsbury, as is the case with much of this understated and underrated town, managed to include all of the original features (including a balcony full of second hand books) but also had more than enough of a whiff of the new potential. A potential which I've no doubt even the hopelessly rundown Tooting Indoor Markets have embraced since our departure – DVD stores mutating into pop-up Mexican restaurants, in my mind's eye at least. And whilst that would make me slightly sad in Tooting, in Shrewsbury it makes me sing a little.

And, anyway, as far as I'm aware, Shrewsbury got there before you Tooting. For we could have had tapas at the Spanish-ish place, or we could have had a seafood platter at the Waterfront-ish place, or indeed we could have had a full English, twice. But we didn't. We chose the small Thai café where they had a specials board and, when you placed your order, they walked along to the grocers next door, bought your ingredients and cooked it in front of you.

At indoor market prices. Beautiful. Oof Tooting! Take that Sadiq!

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Those City Lights...

2/2/2016

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The racing at Taunton reverted to the usual non-winter starting time today, with the first race not off until 2:15 pm, for it is the 2nd Feb - Imbolc, or Candlemas or, if you prefer, Groundhog Day.

Now, we all know that Spring doesn't really start until the tapes go up on the Supreme Novices Hurdle, which means this year on Tuesday March 15th. But today's celebration that lies halfway between the winter and spring solstice seems to be saying something even more heart-warming. It seems to be saying - “we survived, that's another winter beaten off, we endured.”

I have written about this before, but it's only something I've noticed since I moved to Shropshire. It was around this time several years ago that I sensed how the afternoon was starting to linger lighter longer, and someone said to me “ah yes, Imbolc”. Which begs the question of why I'd never noticed before and the answer, I think, comes from another milestone. For it was reported that Monday (yesterday) is also known as National Sickie Day – the day of the year when more people call in sick than any other.

This seems a remarkable mismatch – between how we should be feeling and how we are feeling. But of course if you do a full day's work and commute, you will still be getting up in the dark and getting home in the dark and spending your day under terrible artificial lighting. So, if you do live in a city and work silly hours in an office or shop and threw a duvet day yesterday, hey – don't despair, you survived another winter, you endured.

Celebrate.  
 




(Photograph: Sarah McKean)



           
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A City Farm for Rural Kids...

1/3/2015

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There was a thing on Countryfile about bussing city kids out to the countryside where they lived on the farm for a week, learning how to milk goats, hug piglets, wassail and sleep with their sister. No killing lambs obviously, but all very laudable, I'm sure.

Apparently, we deem it nourishing, life-enhancing, generally a good thing for city kids to connect with modern farming practices. Fair enough, but I was thinking, what about their rural cousins? What do they know of London, who only Shropshire know? Tooting doesn't need a city farm, it needs a place where country kids can come and stay and learn how to survive in the big city. I have an itinerary. Brochure to follow.


For starters they'll learn to get around. Navigating a major London railway terminus without being scooped up and sold into the white meat sex trade; which carriage to board on the Victoria Line to be able to cross straight onto the Northern Line at Stockwell; how to get a black cab driver to go South of the river (clue – offer to let him play his Rod Stewart CD); how to get across London for free by Boris bike; how to negotiate the Oxford Circus scramble without being runover by Japanese tourists.

For main course, they'll forage round the back of Pret A Manger and hunker down in a doorway on the Strand with a sleeping bag and a dog named Bugsy. Come Saturday and the kids will be expected to have manned a street food van round the back of Kings Cross selling soft shell crab in a brioche bun with piri piri sauce at £8.50 without fries, and to have opened up a Mexican themed pop-up restaurant in the Old Street underpass with free graffiti classes and Chris Coco supplying ambient music.

And for dessert they can meet some funny-coloured people. Well, stare at them on the tube...





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Engel's Shropshire

11/11/2014

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The journalist and (ex) editor of Wisden, Matthew Engel has just written a book visiting all the counties of England. It's in the tradition of Rural Rides and English Journey. I read the Shropshire chapter first - ahead of London even - which I guess is progress.

He ticks off most of the topics covered in my own book – the modern Olympics, Housman's imaginary land, place names and how to pronounce Shrewsbury, a quick turn round most of the market towns (though not Shifnal obviously), and an ascent of the Long Mynd – though his description of the latter is far less shteep and shcary than mine.

In writing the book he comes to see that each county is largely defined by its distance from, and relationship to, London. For example, Shropshire, he says, is the only county without a direct train service to London, 'not that they actually want to go to London. They just think they have a right to go.'

And on he rattles, seemingly enthusiastic, but tempered with a selection of observations that read like a collection of two star reviews on Trip Advisor:

'A few Scottish-border villages excepted, nowhere in England feels more remote from London.'

'This is a county for the conscientious and the unambitious.'

'Shropshire can seem a bit small-minded and backward.'

'It is a county, the county, of small towns, now almost all forgotten by the railways, and often by major roads, and to some extent by time itself.'

In case you think Engel is being a bit harsh or blinkered, just another member of the metropolitan elite denigrating anything outside of his own posh life in London, it's probably worth pointing out that he actually lives in that mighty bastion of cosmopolitanism, Herefordshire.






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Bermondsey Street, London, and the more things change...

17/9/2014

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Here's four snapshots of London. The first three of these are collected in a lovely book, “A London Year” compiled by Travis Elborough and Nick Rennison. The fourth isn't.


London - The Centre of Good and Evil

And now, London, I must bid thee 'Farewell.' Thou art the centre of Good and Evil, of Virtue and Vice! How many and how various are the characters which inhabit thy walls! How magnificent thy palaces? How mean thy cottages! How miserable some, how happy others! Some fatten on the spoils of poverty, others starve in the midst of plenty. How many thousands are insufficient to supply the luxury of some, while others want a crust of bread to satiate the calls of hunger!
(Thomas Asline Ward - Diary - August 1804)



The Advantages of London

But you must not think I am a discontented person and grumble all day at being in London. There are many advantages here, as I say to myself whenever it is particularly disagreeable; and if we can't see even a leaf or a sparrow without soot on it, there are the parrots at the Zoological Gardens and the paintings at the Royal Academy; and real live poets above all, with their heads full of the trees and birds and sunshine of paradise.
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning – Letter to Miss Commeline – August 1837)



London is the Place for Me

Poets may talk of the beauties of nature, the enjoyments of a country life, and rural innocence, but there is another kind of life which, though unsung by bards, is yet to me infinitely superior to the dull uniformity of country life. London is the place for me. Its smoky atmosphere, and its muddy river, charm me more than the pure air of Hertfordshire, and the crystal currents of the river Rib. Nothing is equal to the splendid varieties of London life, 'the fine flow of London talk', and the dazzling brilliancy of London spectacles. Such are my sentiments, and, if I ever publish poetry, it shall not be pastoral.
(Thomas Macaulay - Letter to a friend - August 1815)




London Has Let Me Go

London has let me go. I felt the moment quite clearly. I was walking down Bermondsey Street overwhelmed by the difference between how I remembered the place and what it has become - greasy caffs turned into chi-chi coffee bars; smoky old boozers into gastropubs; Barry into Torquil. Of course, what did I expect? Moniza, and Sharon and all the others I taught, were gone, gone girls long ago. But the change hasn't happened slowly over the last three decades, it's swept through in the few years we've been in Shropshire. And, of course, some of the old still lurks in the shadows. I tried to reach out and touch it, tried to turn it into poetry, but failed. As I walked back towards Tooley Street I passed The Garrison and in its clear glass window caught sight of London walking behind me. He tapped me on the shoulder. 'You don’t belong here any more' he whispered.
(August 2014)



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Some Like it Hot

18/7/2014

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Media coverage of the weather continues to delight.

A few months ago we were suffering a plague of Saharan sand. Up to our necks, supposedly. I'd been out walking every day and had noticed nothing so I guessed it was just one of them London things – like rising house prices and herpes. But then there was a picture in The Guardian of a bunch of people walking in the fields above Buildwas Power Station, wearing face masks. What big babies we are.

Yesterday, the front page of the Telegraph cautioned us not to leave the house between the hours of 11am and 2pm. And this at the exact moment of our great summer migration to sunnier climes. Is the Telegraph suggesting that the great British traditions of sunburn, sangria and sucking off the rugby squad are somehow harmful? What else is there to do in Fowey? Is The Telegraph daring to tell us that Englishmen are not allowed to be mad dogs any more?  

Indeed it is. If we dare go outside thousands of us are going to die. Instead, we are told to close our curtains, newspaper the windows, take the door off its hinges, fashion a shelter and hunker down till the all clear siren. To be honest, I definitely put this latest scare down to a London thing – like pop-up Mexican restaurants and investment bankers. When I read the article I was in Sunderland - “the hottest day of the year by far, pet.” It was grey and muggy and vaguely pleasant – like milky tea. When I arrived back in Shropshire it was raining...     




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One Dog and His Man

6/6/2014

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So, after much ado, by which I mean two long years failing to get the damned thing published, and in which time I've managed to co-write and publish a novel, here's the cover and new title for my little Shropshire book. 



Out soon...

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Dim Sum. Chinatown. London.

14/5/2014

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A friend sent me some internet clickbait proclaiming the 10 best Dim Sum places in London, for he knows this is very much my thing. And I fell on it like a starving person eating his fellow shipwrecked passengers, only to be disappointed. Which would cover most tourist experiences in Chinatown. You've got to doubt any review that doesn't mention the Royal China chain, yet includes that place in The Shard that Giles Coren gave 1/10. Internet twaddle.

Besides, it missed the point. The real beauty of dim sum isn't any Michelin starred over-priced fussiness and reverence. It's the slow unravelling of an afternoon with friends, hours which should be unctious and fried and never ending, cheap enough to stand several bottles of house red, and forgiving of terrible table manners and loud voices. Off-piste morsels of lusciousness sourced from unexpected parts of animals are added bonuses, before pouring yourself into the fading light of a late Chinese afternoon, giggling, naughty, replete and generally in love with the world.

We had a great one a week or so ago in Chinatown despite ending up in the wrong restaurant entirely and the food was generally awful. One a month keeps the doctors away...


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