No reflection upon the rest of the public

Fella came into the shop last week; one of the semi-regulars, someone we’ll see maybe every two or three months. Small, bad skin, ill-fitting leather jacket. You know the sort.

“Hello Steve,” I said. “How have you been?”

I should point out that Steve buys only a particular type of publication from us; he’s very into pictures of large-breasted women in very skimpy outfits. Who isn’t, though?

“Rotten,” he says. “Bastard Mayans said the world was gonna end, so I took out a bank loan and blew it all on a week with a dominatrix. Thought I wouldn’t have to pay it back ‘cause the world was gonna end. World didn’t end, I’m up to me arse in debt. Fucking Mayans.”

And Now, Some Music

Thanks to this fella, who is Canadian and who did one of those 'Best of last year' lists, I discovered these, who are Canadian also.

I rather like it, despite there being several reasons - the Tom Waits soundalikee air to it, the fey female vocal that sounds destined for a mobile phone advert - not to.

But, y'know, that's me.

(I'd also recommend the live version, in which Leah Fay is covered in... something.)

Unchained from an Idiot

Sitting round at my brother's, catching up on television that we'd both missed over the holiday period.

We were watching an overview of the pop music of 1978, something the BBC has done for the last couple of years as a kind of taster for its weekly re-runs of that year's Top Of The Pops (something they may not be able to continue for much longer, given that a good proportion of both hosts and performers have turned out to be rapists and/or child molestors).

On comes footage of Blondie performing 'Picture This': Debbie Harry at the height of her powers, staring at the camera, chewing non-existent gum, genuinely looking like she'd happily carve your heart out and hand it to you on a plate and not give a damn about it. She's wearing a bright yellow mini-dress and tights, with the pencil-thin strap of her handbag crossing over her chest just to make absolutely sure that you pay enough attention to her figure.

We both sit there, entranced, for the full length of the footage. When it ends, I turn to look at him with a 'I can't believe how good that was' look on my face, and say:

"The production on that song was fucking amazing!"

Next week: an appreciation of the lighting and production design of 'Danish Lesbian Nurses IV: Drilling and Filling'

Lebensraum

Been meaning to do this for a while, so...

Meanwhile, over here, I shall talk about comics, thus leaving the lush green pastures of Tottenhamista unsullied by such low pastimes. 

And I hope you're happy about that.

Me And Him And Them And Me

Enjoying a wintry trudge through the dirty sludge that had turned the walkways of Alexandra Park into a freezing quagmire, and while speculating on exactly what manner of damage each snowboarder, tobogganist and sledger had done to themself as they hurtled down the steep slopes on their expensive snowboard or their improvised-out-of-an-estage-agent’s-signboard toboggan and made unexpected yet high-speed contact with one of the park’s many trees - some of which had been especially planted, years ago, expressly for the purpose of causing hurt to winter sports enthusiasts - my thoughts turned to Michael Gove. 

Had he ever, I pondered, after a long day of selling off playing fields or selecting new frames for his ‘Joe 90 all growed up’ spectacles or just generally being chinless, considered what was going on that very day in the Great Hall of Alexandra Palace?  Probably not, for I cannot see Mr Gove ever sitting down, be it in person at the event or simply at home in front of the telly, to enjoy the many depths of a game of snooker. 

The classroom of the future

This is a shame, as a great deal of the average school’s curriculum could easily be replaced by the careful study of a frame or two. Geometry, given the need to calculate the angle of strike between cue and object balls (plus the delicious spanner thrown in by the smaller size of the white, necessitating all manner of extra formulae). Physics, required to determine the amount of force to be imparted from the player, through the cue, through the white, to the colour, so impelling these joyous spheres to their destination in the table’s pockets. More thrillingly, the combination of both these disciplines needed to not only pot a colour but also leave the cue ball with just the right amount of momentum to cease its motion in exactly the right position to set up the next stroke. 

And the simpler lessons to be learned, no less important; basic mathematics, so a player may keep score, and project their future points tally, and estimate the number of snookers needed. Most importantly, the glorious sense of good old-fashioned British fair play, as so joyously exemplified by the player who, at the crucial moment of a crucial game, brushed a ball from its position with his waistcoat; he then called a foul on himself, and by doing so lost the frame and the match. This wonderful embodiment of the sporting ethic thus expelled himself from the tournament. Would this happen among the over-paid jessies of the soccer field? I doubt there is need to even ask. 

Admittedly, some teachers needed something of a makeover.

So: think on, Michael Gove. Consider the cost savings to be made. One second-hand table (or, for inner-city comprehensives, a trip to Rowan’s in Finsbury Park in the company of a roll-up smoking, weasel-faced herbert who could surely be sourced from the swollen ranks of those seeking work) could easily replace three teachers. And, should a pupil take to the game, imagine the tax they’ll pay on their winnings. As for those dinky little waistcoat-and-bowtie combos they’d wear, a smart suit shows a smart mind. You should know that, given the calibre of the Cabinet’s schmutter, eh?

It’s a win-win situation, Michael. In fact, I’ll tell you what, if you need a little more persuading, how about you come along to the next tournament at Ally Pally and I’ll guide you through a few frames. Obviously it would be a terrible faux pas to speak loudly during a game and so distract the players, so it’d be best if we met outside, possibly in the car park. No, the one at the bottom of the hill, the one without much by way of lighting. Oh, and, my schedule means I can really only make it in the evenings, after dark. 

But please, do come. How will you recognise me? I’ll be the one in the ski-mask. Well, it’s cold at this time of year. Just to be sure, I’ll be holding a snooker ball. In a sock. 

Dear John...

I like to read. An important part of my word intake is a daily newspaper; my newspaper of choice is The Independent. A frequent contributor to the paper is John Walsh; he writes a regular column and a number of restaurant reviews, and these are always entertaining, informative, well-written. 

So this isn’t going to be a hatchet job. It’s a response. Nothing more.

Mr. Walsh, in his column of 22nd November (though in its online form it’s listed as being published on the 21st), said this:

Extraordinary to see graphic books turn up in two categories in the Costa Prize, among the novels and biographies. I wish I admired comic-strip fiction as the French do, but it always seems to me a bastard version of the real thing. As one shortlistee, Joff Winterhart, says, “My book isn’t a novel in the conventional sense, it’s a comic with pictures and speech boards.” Quite.

Good novels are made of words, without drawings that helpfully show the expressions on characters’ faces. It’s cruel but true: illustrations in novels are for children, or those who have trouble keeping up.

Well, first of all, it’s not just the French, it’s also the Belgians and the Japanese and the Brazilians and the Americans and, to an increasing extent, it’s the British and the rest of the world. 

What I have to take issue with is the idea that a novel which “isn’t a novel in the conventional sense” is somehow lesser than a “good” novel, “made of words”. A good graphic novel stands up quite easily against a good prose novel, and can be better than a great deal of merely adequate prose novels. Also, if we define a “good” novel as Mr. Walsh does, then where do we begin to exclude works that stray from that definition? 

A quick look across my own bookshelves reveals works by Charles Burns, Chris Ware, Harvey Pekar, David Mazzuchelli and many others: graphic novels which, using Mr. Walsh’s definition, are not “good” books. But I also have “good” books such as Alisdair Gray’s Unlikely Stories, Mostly which relies to a large extent on typographical tricks and  illustrations to convey certain meanings and events. I have a copy of B S Johnson’s Christie Malry’s Own Double-Entry, some of which is told in the form of entries in a book-keeping ledger. I have three copies of Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (one of which is an adaptation in graphic form by Martin Rowson, who also works for The Independent) which relies on typographical tricks just as Gray does, but also features such things as the infamous ‘black page’, which allows the reader to imagine for themselves what happens in that sequence. Tom Wolfe’s new book, Back To Blood, uses all manner of :::::!!!!&%@ strange \\\((())¢#ª≠ typography. And! Punc-tu^ation as a narrative device. The Independent’s reviewer said 

it seems remarkable that at 81 he should still be writing with such verve. Back to Blood is energising, fascinating – and utterly exhausting.

To be fair, that reviewer wasn’t Mr. Walsh, and we shouldn’t expect all writers for a particular publication to hold or express the same opinions.

All of the above, and many more besides, are novels “made of words” which, just as a graphic novel does, use story-telling devices other than words to convey their narrative and their subtext. Are these no longer “good” books? 

Moving on to Mr. Walsh’s second point: 

It’s cruel but true: illustrations in novels are for children, or those who have trouble keeping up.

I’m afraid, Mr. Walsh, I have to take this as something of a personal insult. As I’ve said, I read all manner of books. Some of those books are highbrow literary fiction, some of them are pot-boilers, some are biography, some history, some science texts. Some of them are graphic novels. Some, like the different versions of Tristram Shandy, are both, and the different media reveal different sides of the work. But it seems that because I enjoy novels that have illustrations, I’m either a child (and why should age be a barrier to literature? Surely a child can enjoy ‘grown-up’ books as much as an adult can get pleasure from Alice In Wonderland or even You’re A Bad Man, Mr. Gum) or a bit of a thicko. 

So it looks like I'm not good enough. Obviously I have “trouble keeping up” and I’m going to have to adjust my bookshelves accordingly and get rid of everything for which I’m too slow. Goodbye to Thomas Pynchon, Julian Barnes, Evelyn Waugh, Amis pere et fils, both David Mitchells, Jim Thompson, Don deLillo, Alan Coren, Albert Camus…

Oh, and I suppose The Independent’s out as well. Which is a pity, as I happen to know that  one of Mr. Walsh’s senior colleagues on the paper is a big fan of comics. Let’s hope that, at the next big editorial meeting, he doesn’t have trouble keeping up. 

Now That I Own the BBC

In a few weeks time the present hoo-hah about the BBC – a hoo-hah mostly manufactured by others in the print media who are desperately trying to head Lord Leveson off at the pass – will, with any luck, be reduced to an item on the end-of-year news round-ups that fill a few hours at the end of December.

A couple of suggestions, then, as to what should happen next:

Firstly, abolish the post of Director General. It’s simply too big a job for any one man to be able adequately to fill. Replace it with two positions;  Director General (Operations) and Director General (Production). The first takes care of the business and political end of the corporation, deals with shitstorms like the one going on right now, and decides where the money’s to be spent. He also simplifies the management structure that has beknighted the BBC since John Birt was in charge. The other handles the creative side of the BBC, allocates the budget given by DG (Ops), and makes sure the corporation’s output is what it should be - the best television and radio it’s possible to be. This post should be filled by someone from the creative industries, someone along the lines of Michael Grade. In fact, it should be held by Michael Grade, full stop,

Secondly, change the way the BBC is funded. No, calm down over there in Daily Mail Land, not abolish the licence fee (although maybe the new DG (Ops) should make ‘we will abolish the licence fee’ his first public statement, just to give Rupert Murdoch that final fatal heart attack. Then he can say “Just kidding!” and get on with his job unbothered by the ancient bastard). I advocate we abolish the system by which the licence fee goes to the Government who then decide how much of it goes to the BBC. 

Instead, we just give it to the BBC. Free the corporation from having to kowtow to some arse who’d really rather see it sold off or crippled. Let it know that the licence fee is there wholly as funding for a media giant that is free of outside influence and commercial necessity, but also let it know that the fee is reliant on those who pay it, and whose consideration must absolutely be at the forefront of everything the BBC does.

Because, quite simply, the BBC is glorious. It must stay that way. Yes, it makes mistakes, and it has done recently in a shockingly bad way, but those mistakes must be reconciled, and apologised for, and those adversely affected must be compensated. And when that’s done the BBC should be allowed to get on with the job of being glorious, of making astounding television programmes, and unmissable radio, and of having the only news organisation that is completely vital, and it must be allowed to do this without some high-pitched nincompoop trying to sell the user some type of appalling rubbish every ten minutes, without having to worry whether a new series is bland enough to pull in enough advertisers, without the need – a need which is absolutely a part of any commercial medium – to consider anything other that the satisfaction of its users.

That is all.