Cannibal comparison - Holocaust vs Ferox

The UK’s Director of Public Prosecutions put together a list of official video nasties, thus creating a convenient must-see list for horror fans. From my bolt hole behind the counter in Abdul’s shop, I worked my way through the list, picking the ones which would spark most debate to take into school. Abdul also subscribed to Video World and Video – the magazine. When I wasn’t watching videos, I was reading about them. I came close to Abdul’s level of knowledge, at least as far as the nasties were concerned. These were the films most people wanted to know about. The tabloid outrage was generating lots of free publicity. One man came up to the counter with the boxes for Cannibal Holocaust and Cannibal Ferox. “Which one of these is better?” he asked.

            I knew this would require a lengthy answer. I wished I’d taken up smoking so I could roll a cigarette like my dad would have done. As it was, I stepped from behind the counter so the man could appreciate my illustrative hand gestures. “The cinematography in Holocaust is more interesting. There’s an effective contrast between the multiple camera set-ups of the main film and the handheld material of the film within a film.” It was a clumsy way of describing it, but I didn’t know the term ‘found footage’ in those days. “The best you can say about the cinematography in Ferox is that it’s workmanlike. The music in Holocaust is excellent. The main theme is a gorgeous concerto for guitar and orchestra in G major. To be honest, it’s far too good for a film like this. It was written by Riz Ortolani, who had a habit of casting his pearls before swine. His song ‘More’ featured in Mondo Cane, thus allowing that grubby little film to call itself Oscar-nominated. As for Ferox, there’s a doom-laden musical motif running through it, which has more than a hint of Cream’s ‘White Room’ about it. The main theme sounds like it belongs in some show from the seventies, probably one where a cop discovers his ex-wife is the new precinct chief with hilarious consequences. My main issue with Ferox, however, is it’s based on a flawed premise. It’s the story of an academic who goes into the Amazon jungle to prove cannibalism no longer exists. How’s she going to do that unless she visits every last inch of the place? I went for a walk in the woods the other day and I didn’t see a badger. Can I therefore conclude badgers do not exist?”

            I must have inherited some of my dad’s talent as a compelling speaker, because the man let me get through all this. Only when I paused for breath did he ask, “What are you going on about, mate? Which one of these films is better?”

            “You should ask which of these films is worse. Holocaust shows a woman impaled on a spike. Ferox shows a woman hung up by her breasts.”

            “All the violence is against women?”

            I didn’t like the way he asked this, but if Abdul insisted on serving racists, I guessed he felt the same about misogynists. I put him straight. “Not all. It also doesn’t go well for you if you’re a turtle or a penis. The cannibals’ machete makes short work of them too.”

            “I’ll take both,” he said.

Extract from Beatles, Bolt Holes, and Video Nasties - available now

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The Damned - live at the Eventim Apollo - Saturday 29 October 2022 - review

In the interests of full disclosure, I must say we arrived a bit late and caught only the tail end of the Smalltown Tigers. What I heard sounded good and I’ll be investigating them further.

I took advantage of the break to get the beers in. There was a nice atmosphere in the Eventim Apollo. It felt good to be surrounded by other guys with Damned and Sex Pistols t-shirts stretched over their middle-aged paunches. These are my people!

TV Smith opened with ‘No Time To Be 21,’ which is no doubt true, but so not a problem for this audience. It’s also no time to be 61. He blasted through his set with aggression and passion. The highlight was the classic ‘Gary Gilmore’s Eyes’ which gave the crowd its first real singalong of the night.

The Rezillos were the big disappointment. I’d been looking forward to seeing them. They had plenty of stage presence, but the sound was all wrong. Fay Fife’s vocals were barely audible and listening to ‘Top of the Pops’ was like hearing it played on a transistor radio two doors away. I’ve heard tales of sound crews being told to mess up the support’s levels so the main act sounds better by comparison. I’d like to think the Damned are above such things, but listening to the Rezillos was disorienting. It was often hard to know which song they were doing or where they were in it. Also, Eugene Reynolds’s look had more than a hint of Gary Glitter about it and that’s not a good role model for anyone. The sound issues were partially resolved for their closing number, ‘Somebody’s Gonna Get Their Head Kicked In Tonight.’ Everyone sang along to that one, but fortunately didn’t act on it.

Then it was time for the main event of the evening. I’ve seen the Damned walk on to the organ introduction of ‘Sanctum Sanctorum’ and the Mars movement from Holst’s Planet Suite. This time, it was the theme to Dr Who. I guess this was to create the idea of time travel back to 1976. As the band emerged from the shadows, it was important to appreciate just how momentous this was. These four legends of punk had put aside their differences and were all in the same place for the first time in years. When they started playing, it was clear just how tight the band was – four individuals working as one machine to produce a rock-solid sound.

It was good to see Brian James again. He’s kept the profile low recently. I have to say he did not look well. Hidden by hat and beard, he stood still on his patch of carpet, not saying anything or singing backing vocals. His guitar-playing was great and that’s what he was there to do. The crunchy chords and riffs rang out with more power than ever.

Captain Sensible seemed a bit reined-in – at least until the end of the show. There was only a little of his trademark banter between songs. He was concentrating on being a musician rather than a showman. It worked. He proved he’s almost as good with four strings as with six. OK, let’s get this out of the way …. Captain Sensible is one of my all-time heroes. I love that man, but I didn’t like watching him smash his bass at the end of the show. I don’t want to be po-faced about it, but this sort of destruction was tin eared at a time when people are struggling financially. If you don’t want your bass, Captain, give it away. There are thousands of Damned fans who would love a genuine Sensible bass. Auction it off for charity. I just hate that moment on the second or third whack where it loses its shape and something useful is deliberately made useless. It was a dick move when Hendrix and Townshend did it in the sixties and it hasn’t got any better since. (Here endeth the rant.)

Dave Vanian was on great form. When I saw A Night of a Thousand Vampires, he looked confused, sometimes forgetting his words. During ‘Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,’ he was so entranced by what the Circus of Horrors was doing that he forgot to sing altogether. At this show, however, he was reenergised. He’s lost so much weight and slathered on so much Grecian 2000 you could almost believe he is indeed one of the undead and hasn’t aged since 1976. He scuttled round the stage like a malevolent sprite. His kind-hearted side came out during ‘New Rose’ when a little guy from the crowd ran on stage and was literally sat on by one of the security guards. Dave peeled the bouncer off him and let him come up front to dance and sing along. Must have been a great moment for the guy.

The biggest revelation of the evening was the return of Rat Scabies, who might regret that nickname now he’s a respectable man in his sixties and seeker of the Holy Grail. I mean no disrespect to Pinch, who’s a good drummer, but the group sounds so much more like the Damned with Rat’s distinctive drumming. It was great to hear those thunderous fills again. I haven’t heard Will Taylor yet and I’m sure he’s good, but I can’t help hoping that Rat joins the current line-up. That, to me, would be the Holy Grail.

Apart from a few covers, the group stuck resolutely to songs from the albums on which Brian James played. I don’t see any good reason for this. When the Rolling Stones do shows, Ronnie Wood happily plays on songs originally recorded in the Brian Jones and Mick Taylor eras. I’m sure it’s not beyond Brian James to learn the guitar parts to ‘Love Song’ or ‘Wait For The Blackout’ and it would be interesting to hear his take on them. Don’t get me wrong, I like Damned Damned Damned and Music For Pleasure, but the songs get a bit samey after a while. For my money, their best work was the golden triumvirate of Machine Gun Etiquette, The Black Album, and Strawberries. A few numbers from those albums would have made for a more varied show.

That aside, it was wonderful to see the original line-up back together and playing so well. The evening ended with a great version of the Stones’ ‘The Last Time.’ Maybe it was the last time, I don’t know. Given how popular – and presumably profitable – this reunion was, I wouldn’t be surprised if we see the fab four on stage again before too long.

The Paul is dead clues - why give the game away?

Paul McCartney died on 9 November 1966. He was replaced in The Beatles by a lookalike. The band then peppered their songs and album covers with clues about his death. Hold a mirror horizontally along the middle of the drum on the cover of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and you see the words ‘HE DIE’ separated by an arrow pointing up at Paul. At the end of ‘Strawberry Fields Forever,’ John can be heard saying, “I buried Paul,” (or “cranberry sauce” or “I’m very bored” – the jury is still out.) John mumbles something at the end of ‘I’m So Tired.’ Play it backwards and you hear, “Paul is dead, man. Miss him, miss him, miss him.” (At least, it says that if you want it to. It never made any more sense to me backwards than forwards.) On the cover of Abbey Road, Paul is barefoot. In many cultures, people are buried without shoes, so it’s a clear sign Paul is ready for interment. He has tried to explain this away by saying it was a really hot day, so he slipped his shoes off to try and stay cool. It makes sense. On hot days, I like to walk barefoot on sizzling tarmac. He’s also holding a cigarette – or coffin nail – in his right hand. Everyone knows the real Paul was left-handed. In the background is a Volkswagen Beetle bearing the number plate LMW 281F. The first part is an abbreviation of ‘Linda McCartney weeps.’ Paul and Linda met for the first time on 15 May 1967. As this was after the death of the original Paul, the only one she’d ever known was the replacement, so it’s unclear who she was weeping for. The second part of the number plate indicates that Paul would have been 28 if he’d survived. Paul was 27 at the time of the photo shoot, but The Beatles were interested in Eastern religions, some of which believe we spend the first year of our life in the womb and are one year old at birth.

Some of the clues are born out of over-active imaginations. Others are harder to ignore.

However, if we believe The Beatles did genuinely plant clues about Paul’s death, the question is: why? Why would you engineer an elaborate cover-up and then risk giving the game away? Let’s look at some possible answers to this question.

They were taunting us. A serial killer will sometimes send notes to the police with oblique indications about when and where he’s going to strike next. He likes thinking he’s so much smarter than the police that they can’t catch him even with his help. Were The Beatles doing a similar thing? We’ve swapped out one of the most famous people in the world with a lookalike and you didn’t notice! We even gave you clues and you still couldn’t see it! How dumb are you guys? This would seem rather sick in the circumstances. John Lennon was known for his dry, caustic sense of humour. However, if your best friend and song writing partner has recently died and, for some reason, you’ve had to accept a replacement into your band, it seems odd to turn this into an opportunity to tease people with how clever you are.

They were breaking the news gently. It’s a controversial matter. If you have bad news for someone, is it better to rip the Band Aid and get it over with? I’m not sure. I’ve had relationships that fizzled out. We realised we hadn’t contacted each other in two months so we were probably finished. That was a lot less painful than thinking I was with the love my love only for her to say, “You’re fat, you’re ugly, you smell, and you’re moving out tomorrow.” A big headline announcing ‘PAUL McCARTNEY DIES’ would have caused mass hysteria and possibly even suicides. More than thirty years later, UK suicide rates rose by 17% following the death of Princess Diana. Did The Beatles fear a similar spike and didn’t want a lot of young people’s deaths on their conscience? If the news dripped out slowly through the clues, people would come to terms with his death gradually and so it would have a less dramatic impact on them.

I think the most plausible explanation – and the one I explore in my novel Sing the Dead Man’s Songs – is that The Beatles were forced into the deception. Paul died and a lookalike was put in place against their will. Some sort of threat or blackmail stopped them telling people what had happened directly so they used the clues to reveal the truth surreptitiously. But who would force them into it? A lot of people stood to lose money if Paul’s death became known. The Beatles were a cash cow for EMI records. Other bands had changed line-ups, but the names of John, Paul, George, and Ringo were as famous as the name The Beatles. Would the public accept anyone else in that second spot? A word in John’s ear about possible danger to his wife, Cynthia, or his Aunt Mimi could have secured his co-operation. Even if he continued making music like nothing had happened, respect for his friend’s memory demanded that the truth come out somehow. So he started planting clues. The bigwigs at EMI spent more time studying balance sheets than album covers. But he knew the fans would pore over every inch of them just as they obsessively analysed every second of sound he produced. He found a way of getting the truth out there.

What about you? Do you think the clues are really there or is it just a case of people seeing what they want to see? And if they are really there … why?

So I went to the casino

On a whim, I went to the casino in Reading. I put ten pounds into one of the electronic roulette machines and put the virtual chips on the virtual table in a pattern that’s worked before. The wheel span five times and I won every time. I had turned ten pounds into fifty. This was the time when I’d normally think: I’m on a roll; better keep this going. But, for once, I did the right thing and decided to quit while I was ahead.

            Cashing in my ticket, I felt embarrassed. It felt rude to go in, take their money, then leave after ten minutes. I soon got over this. The nice young man at the cashier’s desk gave me my fifty pounds and I went out. Walking home, I thought:

            I clearly have The Gift. I know how to win at roulette. My problem is, I’m not thinking big enough. If I’d multiplied all my stakes by ten, I’d have an extra five hundred pounds in my wallet instead of fifty. I never have to work again. I simply go to the casino every morning, leave ten minutes later with five hundred pounds, and the rest of the day’s my own. Even with time off for religious holidays, I’ll still clear sixty grand a year. I should head back to the casino right now and kick this off.

            Fortunately, I stopped myself. The truth is, I don’t have The Gift. I got lucky. I could go back to the casino, lay the chips out in the exact same way, and be wiped out in three spins. Casinos get rich off people who believe they have The Gift or some system that means they can’t lose.

            I don’t really have the soul of a gambler, at least not in this country. When I’m in Las Vegas, I’m more devil may care. As an English guy, I regard US dollars as little more than holiday tokens. They allow me to play the games in this adult amusement park. It’s different when I’m at home, using Great British pounds that sport a portrait of the Queen, Gawd bless her. This is the same money I use to buy important things like food, clothes, heating. I’m less inclined to drop it into a casino’s over-stuffed coffers.

            I’ll carry on visiting the casino once every two months. I’ll put ten pounds into the machine. If I win, great. If I lose, I feel foolish for the next hour, then get over it.

In defence of ‘Revolution 9’

Most rankings of Beatles’ songs are predictable. ‘Hey Jude,’ ‘A Day in the Life,’ and ‘Yesterday’ are normally near the top. At the other end of the scale, we find such numbers as ‘Wild Honey Pie,’ which is a man amusing himself with random noodling on a guitar and bass drum. It’s only because the man is called Paul McCartney that the track got released at all. The original Let It Be album features ‘Dig It’ and ‘Maggie Mae’ which are snippets from a raucous jam session. Beatles For Sale was recorded in a hurry. They’d used up most of their new songs on A Hard Day’s Night so filled up their next album with under-inspired covers such as ‘Honey Don’t’ and ‘Mr Moonlight,’ neither of which are likely to appear in anyone’s top ten.

            But if there’s one track that has even the most ardent Beatlemaniacs reaching for the skip button, it’s ‘Revolution 9.’ It squats near the end of the White Album like a troll ready to pounce on anyone who thinks the Beatles are all pretty harmonies and wanting to hold your hand. ‘Revolution 9’ isn’t a song but snippets of conversation, bursts of music, and a voice saying “number nine” over and over like he’s testing the microphone.

            I like ‘Revolution 9.’ There, I said it. To me, it captures the chaos of an uprising. There is revolutionary fervour as a new convert to the cause is handed a weapon and told, “Take this brother. May it serve you well.” Some of the music is upbeat and martial, suggesting an enthusiastic charge into battle. There are also screams of pain as people are caught up in the conflict. Someone spinning the dial on a radio desperate for any news might well hear random snatches of music and dialogue. The report from the front comes in, “They are standing still.” There are sad reflections. A man finds the only café still open and laments into his drink, “Every one of them knew that as time went by, they’d get a little bit older and a little bit slower.”

            If I could only take one Beatles’ track with me to a desert island, I might well choose this one. Much as I love songs like ‘Think For Yourself’ and ‘Hey Bulldog,’ I’d get bored if I could listen to nothing else because there are no more surprises in them for me. I’ve been listening to ‘Revolution 9’ for forty years and I hear something new in it every time. The only other Beatles’ song that does that for me is ‘I Am The Walrus.’

            I will add this to the list of unpopular opinions I hold:

            Diamonds Are Forever is my favourite James Bond film.

            I don’t think Sofia Coppola was that bad in The Godfather Part III.

            I prefer the Scissor Sisters’ version of ‘Comfortably Numb’ to Pink Floyd’s.

            And ‘Revolution 9’ is one of the most interesting things the Beatles ever did.

The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle – revisited

I was obsessed with punk in 1984. I know I came to that party late, but I was only six when the Sex Pistols played the 100 Club in London and my mum didn’t want to take me. I must have watched The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle more than twenty times during my teens. With one thing and another, though, I hadn’t seen it since. One of my resolutions for the lockdown was to watch all the old videos and get them out the door before the VHS player gives up the ghost. One of these was The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle. How would it hold up today?

            The answer is: mixed. Watching it now, I get the impression the filmmakers ran out of usable archive footage halfway through and filled up the running time with scenes that don’t amount to much. To his credit, Johnny Rotten refused to have anything to do with the sequence where the band flew to Brazil to meet train robber Ronnie Biggs. Johnny said he didn’t want to glamourise anyone who’d left a train driver as a vegetable. It’s hard to see what’s added by this sequence – which must have been the most expensive part of the film. The antics on the beach and a boat aren’t funny. The music they made with Biggs ranks low in the Pistols’ canon. ‘No One Is Innocent’ is a series of deliberately tasteless benedictions, asking God’s blessing on Myra Hindley and Nazis on the run. Their version of ‘Belsen Was A Gas’ is the Pistols’ foray into AOR. It even has a saxophone solo, for heaven’s sake. Biggs’s cockney honk does not compare with Rotten’s cackling sneer. It is as ghastly as it sounds.

            This, however, is not my main problem with the film. The story, such as it is, involves Malcolm McLaren explaining how he swindled his way to the top of the record industry, using publicity stunts to promote a group that couldn’t play. I have two issues with this. One, that wouldn’t work. All the marketing in the world won’t help if you don’t have a good product behind it. Does anyone remember Sigue Sigue Sputnik? They were hyped relentlessly in the mid-eighties, but had only limited success because they weren’t a good band. My other issue is that the Sex Pistols could play. Their rendition of ‘Anarchy in the UK’ on So It Goes is one of the most stunning performances ever captured on film. Johnny Rotten is at his snarling best and the band behind him are tight and powerful. The one album they released during their brief lifetime, Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols, is one great tune after another. It still regularly features in lists of greatest albums of all time. No clever marketing ploys could ever make that happen.

            Despite all this, I still find things to enjoy in The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle. It captures some great songs. It’s often Pythonesque in its mix of bizarre sketches and surrealist cartoons. A woman gives a scathing critique of the band while ants crawl over her face. Guitarist Steve Jones, who’s supposed to be looking for McLaren, gets a vital lead from a talking guard dog. Not everything works, but you never know what’s coming next and that’s enough to keep you watching. The other film Julien Temple made about the band, The Filth and the Fury, is a much more accurate history of the Sex Pistols. It’s also not as much fun.

            My advice about The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle is to watch the first half for the clips but take everything McLaren says with a dustbin full of salt. Skip the scenes in Brazil and the ones of Sid Vicious as Parisian flâneur. Go straight to the closing credits to hear ‘Friggin’ in the Riggin.’’ Yes, the lyrics belong in a rugby club locker room, but the interplay between electric guitar and orchestra make it a great piece of music.

How does American Beauty stand up today?

Please note: this film is more than twenty years old, so I assume you’ve already seen it if you want to, but there are spoilers in this article.

 When American Beauty was released in 1999, it was widely lauded and few people begrudged the five Oscars it took home. It was praised for its appeal to both middle-aged and younger viewers.

It captures the angst of forty-two-year-old Lester Burnham, who wonders if life has any more to offer except work, retirement, and a slow decline towards death. He kicks against inevitability by working out, smoking cannabis, and lusting after his daughter’s pretty friend. At eighteen, his daughter Jane is just as confused and angry about what life has to offer. Her only certainty is that she doesn’t want to be like her parents. She rebels by getting together with Ricky, the weird guy next door, so they can share their love of the morbid and transgressive.

            Watching the film again recently, though, I was struck by how both these plot strands are the fantasies of a middle-aged man. Lester fancies an eighteen-year-old, which is icky but plausible. Where we get into pure fantasy is when she fancies him right back. I’m sure many a man in his forties has sucked in his paunch, combed over the bald patch, and wondered if his daughter’s friends find him attractive. No, they don’t. At best, they think you’re funny; at worst, creepy. An uncomfortable aspect of the film is that the audience is invited to leer along with Lester. In the end, he decides not to take advantage of the young girl, but not before we’ve had a good look at her breasts.

            The story about the two young people smacks of another fantasy, this time about what should have happened in the past. One advantage of being a writer is you can put right the things that went wrong in real life. (When my characters get into arguments, they actually deliver the devastating comebacks that I thought of too late.) You remember the sexy goth girl at school? She wore black eye shadow, listened to the Sisters of Mercy, and wrote poems about the futility of existence. What she should have done was realise you were equally strange and fall into your arms. Somehow, she neglected to do this and went off with the rugby player who listened to Bryan Adams and thought poetry was a bit gay. But in the film, everything goes as it should and the two emo teenagers get together. In some ways, this part is even creepier than the lust-across-generations story. Ricky films Jane without her consent. Instead of taking out a restraining order, she starts a relationship with him. What sort of message does that send?

            For all my issues with this film, I found much to admire in it. It’s well made. No one who’s seen Skyfall will doubt Sam Mendes is a great director. The performances are uniformly excellent. Whatever Kevin Spacey may or may not have done in his private life, there’s no denying the man can act. It was written by Alan Ball, who’s gay. I have to give him credit for so accurately tapping into middle-aged straight men’s wish-fulfilment. His screenplay crackles with good lines: “Today I quit my job. Then, I told my boss to go fuck himself, and then I blackmailed him for almost $60,000. Pass the asparagus.”

My experience of Covid-19

I couldn’t taste anything. I wondered if I’d forgotten to put more coffee in when I refilled the mug. It was like drinking hot water. I went downstairs and chugged pure lime juice. I was aware of something acidic in my mouth, but it could have been lime, lemon, or hydrochloric. I squirted air freshener and cologne all round the bathroom, but couldn’t smell a thing.

I broke the news to my wife and we trudged off to the test centre. Imagine snorting a line of cat hair and you’ll have some idea how it feels to have a cotton bud jammed up your nose just a little too far. After much sneezing and retching, we went home. The text came through the next day to say we had tested positive for Covid-19 and had to stay at home for ten days. Fortunately, the local supermarket delivers, or we’d have been mixing up all the things at the back of the pantry we never got round to eating. Not that it would have bothered me. In fact, having no sense of taste was a good opportunity to use up all the things I don’t like.

I had a pre-existing condition in my left shoulder. I thought it was just an unfortunate coincidence that it flared up again when I had Covid, but the doctor said the virus often inflamed existing aches and pains.

I spent a couple of nights lying awake in agony. You get to thinking when you can’t sleep. As it was the main thing on my mind, I pondered the nature of pain. I can see that it’s useful sometimes – warning us not to touch things that are too hot, for example. But after I’d acknowledged there was a problem with my shoulder, I couldn’t see why I needed to be kept awake all night by this insistent throbbing. What evolutionary purpose does that serve? Or, if you’re on the other side of that particular fence, how is this part of a loving God’s plan?

The doctor prescribed industrial strength painkillers and sleeping tablets. For three days, I hardly left my bed. In a very odd way, I kind of enjoyed this. I drifted in and out of sleep, sliding between fever dreams and regular dreams, never sure which was which. It was pretty trippy.

Apart from shoulder pain and existential crisis, it was like flu. Aching muscles. High temperature. Extreme fatigue.

After a while, I was able to get out of bed. I was still exhausted. Emailing took a long time. I opened an email. Had to take a break. I read half of it. Another break. I read the rest of it. Little lie down. Replying to it. Maybe tomorrow.

I’m still tired, but more or less functioning again. Don’t ask me to compete in the World’s Strongest Man any time soon, but I can work. I can also share stories with other Covid veterans. Did you lose your sense of smell? Yeah, for three days. Fever of 38 degrees. I got up to 39 at the worst point. If anyone who hasn’t had the disease tries to interrupt, we cut him down with a, “You don’t know what it was like, man. You weren’t there!”

I had a scare last weekend when I was eating my lunch and couldn’t taste anything. But I was eating a plant-based fake chicken product, so what did I expect?

Are you stuck with your body shape?

There was an episode of Penn and Teller’s Bullshit that called out the bodybuilding and diet supplement industries. You’ve seen the adverts. A wimpy little guy spends half an hour at the gym and drinks a special milkshake. Suddenly, he’s a man mountain striding down the street. The women all want him. The men all fear him.  According to the programme, this never happens. You’re born into one of three body shapes.

            Endomorphs are fat fucks.

            Ectomorphs are skinny fucks.

            Mesomorphs are the big fuck-off fucks.

            There’s not much you can do to change that. It’s your genetic destiny and you’re stuck with it.

            All I can say is, that’s not my experience. Throughout my childhood, I was a skinny fuck. My PE teacher described me as a stick of celery in a t-shirt. After leaving school, I moved in with my girlfriend. She was a great cook, who went in for a rich creamy sauces. I devoured them eagerly and soon had that skinny bloke with a belly look. Fortunately, she found it cute. Then I went to university, where I found a subsidised bar with Guinness at £1.40 a pint. Before I knew it, I was a full-on fat fuck.

            There are endless opportunities for people with philosophy degrees and I was able to land a job in that most desirable place, Slough. The office was right next to a gym. I went there four times a week, worked with a personal trainer, lifted heavy weights, and became a big fuck-off fuck.

            Nothing lasts forever, though. Soon, I was forced to leave my beloved Slough and slum it in Paris. It’s a great place to live, but eye-wateringly expensive, so economies had to be made. Not so many meals out. Lots of fruit and vegetables in my apartment. I also went running along the Canal Saint-Martin every evening because I couldn’t afford to do anything else. Soon, I was a skinny fuck again.

            We’ve been in lockdown for eighteen months. The gym’s been closed. The shop that sells beer and chocolate has been open throughout. I’m now once more … well, go figure.

            Everyone’s different, but, in my experience, the idea that you’re stuck with one body shape for life is bullshit!

The Advantage of Having a Writing Buddy

In her book, Better Than Before – Mastering The Habits Of Our Everyday Lives, Gretchen Rubin divides people into three groups based on how we respond to outer and inner expectations. Outer expectations are demands put on us by other people - family, boss, editor etc. Inner expectations are demands we place on ourselves - lose weight, learn Russian, write 2000 words a day etc.

According to Rubin, if you're an UPHOLDER, you meet both sets of expectations. You do whatever anyone else wants you to do and hit all the targets you set for yourself. In other words, you're superhuman.

If you're a REBEL, you refuse - consciously or unconsciously - to do what other people tell you. You also kick against the expectations you put on yourself. No one tells you what to do - not even you.

If you're an OBLIGER, you do what other people want you to do. But you're no good when it comes to your own goals.

Rubin doesn't specify what you are if you meet your own expectations, but never those of anyone else. So I'll call this sort of person a SELFISH BASTARD.

Which one are you?

When it comes to writing, I’m definitely an OBLIGER. If my editor is expecting a script by a certain date, I can write for twelve hours a day. Fuelled by coffee and Maltesers, I skip meals and bedtimes. The only thing that matters is meeting the deadline.

But there are times when a writer just has to write with no deadline, no contract, and no promise that anyone will ever read the stuff. These are the times when distracting questions come into my head. What have my friends on Facebook done in the ten minutes since I last checked? Is ‘Rocky Raccoon’ the last Beatles song on which John Lennon played mouth organ – I mean, I need to know?

If any of this sounds familiar, you might find it useful to have a Writing Buddy. Your Buddy is a fellow writer. It’s not about critiquing each other’s work, or even reading it. You make a pact to keep each other motivated by agreeing goals and then checking in to see if these goals have been achieved. In other words, inner expectations take on the form of outer expectations.

You can meet your Buddy face to face – although, be warned, this will often descend into a bitchfest about the literary world and editors who wouldn’t recognize true genius if they were slapped with it. Or you can talk on the phone. The way that works best for my Buddy and me is that I email her on Sunday evening to tell her all my writing objectives for the next seven days. For example, “By this time next week, I will have written 4000 words of my new novel. I will have completed the first edit of the book I’m going to send off next month. I will have started researching the article I’m planning to write.”

I never give myself get-out clauses. I don’t say, “I’m very busy this week, so it’s going to be difficult, but, if possible, I’d like to write 1000 words of my new novel, but I might not have the time.” Life will sometimes get in the way of writing, but I prefer to go into the process with a positive expectation that I will achieve my goals.

She replies, telling me what she’s going to do.

Then, on Friday or Saturday, we email each other again. “I’ve had a good week. I wrote 4356 words. I completed the edit. I didn’t get round to researching the article, so that’s a goal for next week.” We could combine the goal-setting and review emails into one, but we find it works better this way. New week. New start.

Having a Writing Buddy won’t work if you’re a REBEL. Sooner or later, you’ll tell your Buddy where he can stick his expectations and go back to what you were doing before.

If you’re a SELFISH BASTARD, you won’t be interested in your Buddy’s objectives. Your Buddy will soon drop out of the process if it’s not two-way. You and your Buddy must motivate each other.

And if you’re an UPHOLDER, you’ve already finished your book, cleaned the house, learned Russian, and spent four hours volunteering at a homeless shelter. You don’t need anyone to motivate you and you’re already an inspiration to everyone who knows you.

But if you’re an OBLIGER, you will be more productive if you have a Writing Buddy. I’ve been surprised at how well it works. Just making an agreement with someone else that I will write a certain amount by a certain time keeps me going.

Saying Goodbye to Dusty

Our dog Dusty started throwing up in the early hours of Thursday 17 December. I called the vet as soon as the practice opened. I hoped she’d say it was a 24-hour bug and he’d be better soon. She told me to bring him in. As I walked him to the surgery, I couldn’t shake the feeling this was our last walk together. Covid precautions meant the vet came out to the car park to see him. She’d spent enough time with him to know he didn’t look right. He had to stay there for tests.

I went home alone and tried to get on with my work while waiting for news. She phoned me that afternoon with the X-ray results. They showed thickening of Dusty’s stomach wall - a sign of cancer. On the Friday, he was moved to another vet’s in Wokingham where further tests could be done. The biggest problem was that he refused to eat anything.

We went to visit him on Saturday morning. He was pleased to see us and came for a little walk round the car park. But we couldn’t get him to eat. My wife tried him with his favourite meat. He’d always loved licking cream off my finger, but wasn’t even interested in that. The Wokingham vet stayed upbeat and said it was worth continuing treatment. Late on Saturday, the night nurse called to say Dusty was having trouble breathing. She asked if we wanted him put into an oxygen tent, but warned it would be expensive. We agreed immediately. We weren’t going to count the pennies when it came to our little lad.

I spent a sleepless night with my phone beside me, expecting bad news to come through at any moment. On Sunday morning, we phoned the vet again, who said Dusty was breathing more easily and could carry on with treatment. In the evening, though, the vet’s tone changed. Dusty wasn’t eating. They’d tried many times to feed him with a tube, but he just threw up immediately. They kept him hydrated with a drip, but with no way of getting food inside him, he would starve. This could be a long and painful process, so it was time to let him go.

We had a melancholy ride over to Wokingham. Covid restrictions were relaxed and we were able to go into one of the consulting rooms, where Dusty was lying on a blanket on the floor. He tried to get up to greet us, but was too weak.

Ever since we got Dusty, I’d dreaded the prospect of one day signing his death warrant. How could I give someone permission to kill an animal I loved so much? I saw how weak Dusty was and how much distress was in his eyes. I signed the form with no hesitation. The vet left us alone with him. We stroked his head and told him how much we loved him. The vet came back in with a needle discreetly hidden in his hand. I looked at my wife, who nodded. “Let’s do it,” I told the vet. He found the vein in Dusty’s front leg and inserted the needle. He pushed the liquid in slowly. Dusty kept breathing for a long time and I found myself hoping he’d survive. Finally, all movement stopped. The vet put his stethoscope to Dusty’s chest and confirmed there was no heartbeat. He asked if we wanted to stay a bit longer, but Dusty had gone. The body on the floor wasn’t him. We thanked the vet for everything he’d done, wished him a merry Christmas, and went home.

Brackets in Song Titles

The biggest crisis facing humanity today is not Covid or even global warming, but brackets in song titles. This struck me when I watched one of those nostalgic music programmes and discovered that Peter Sarstedt’s biggie is called ‘Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?’ Either the song is called ‘Where Do You Go To?’ or ‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely?’ Both are perfectly good song titles, but make up your mind, Peter. Don’t use brackets to fudge the issue and try to have it both ways.

 Even the world’s greatest artists fall prey to this. The last single John Lennon released before he died was called, ‘(Just Like) Starting Over.’ No one has ever said, “I don’t know John Lennon’s ‘Starting Over,’ oh, you mean, ‘(Just Like) Starting Over,’ I love that song.” But if the (Just Like) were crucial for identifying the song, it should simply have been called ‘Just Like Starting Over.’

You might say there are times when words in brackets are informative. If you don’t know Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘59th Street Bridge Song,’ you’ll probably recognise it once you see ‘(Feelin’ Groovy)’ after it. You could even argue that sometimes words in brackets should be added. ‘(Everybody Must Get Stoned)’ after the title ‘Rainy Day Women #12 & 35’ would help the casual Bob Dylan fan to know which song this is. To this, I say no, absolutely not. If a title does not adequately identify the song, it is not doing its job and should be changed. Just call the songs ‘Feelin’ Groovy’ and ‘Everybody Must Get Stoned’ and stop trying to be clever.

What can we do about this? Make your voice heard. Write to your MP. Let the people in power know that this is something we’re no longer prepared to tolerate.

Alternatively, you might know of a good reason for putting brackets in song titles. In which case, leave a comment below.