The average human laughs a couple of dozen times each day but very few of them stick. I can remember all of the significant laughs of my life: the time a friend clutched his injured knee and for some reason yelled “my kidneys!”; the time I went shopping for my sister’s Christmas card and bought one that said “You’re like a sister to me” on the front; the time I ate a piece of cake that was so enjoyable I laughed for a solid minute. One of my all-time favourites finds me alone in my university library reading Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life – a warm, joyful memoir structured as a reference book. The instigating entry read:
How great is it to find a few stray bonus fries at the bottom of your McDonald’s bag?”
It’s difficult to express quite how profoundly I was affected by this sentiment. Stray bonus fries were a splendid part of my life, so modest that I’d never even thought about their existence before, and here they were sitting in a book, waiting for me all along. Look at what good writing can accomplish! My body had no idea how to respond to such a pleasure, so I started to laugh.
That moment in the library – in itself a stray bonus fry, modest and splendid – is one I’ve returned to again and again in the weeks since learning of Amy’s recent death from ovarian cancer at the age of 51. On the list of people to have been touched by the author’s death I’m easily some way towards the bottom. I’m not a family member, friend or collaborator. I never even met her at a book signing or replied to one of her tweets. She was just the writer of a book and I was just its reader. The emotional commodification of celebrity deaths lately has become numbing, but it remains true that most people have a few public figures that genuinely mean a great deal to them during some part of their life, and that figure’s death moves them like they weren’t just a face on a screen or a voice on the radio. When it happens, you find yourself surprised at the depth of feeling it generates. It hurts. Their death doesn’t belong to you just because you liked their art, but they were still a part of your history, a major factor in the way you came to identify yourself, a mentor, an old friend. I was sad when George Michael died; my sister was bereft.
With one sentence about French fries Amy Krouse Rosenthal changed my life. I’m sure that sounds like hyperbole but few writers have influenced me on such a fundamental level. Thank heavens she was funny. Amy taught me the extraordinary value of the ordinary. When I look at my life over the dozen years since that spell in the library, I see her fingerprints everywhere. If I hadn’t come across her work, would I count my best laughs? Would I understand the importance of rogue chips? Would I take the time to enjoy the feeling of grass beneath my bare feet, or slightly oily rainbows in puddles, or the way ice pings and cracks when you pour a cold drink over it? The finest writers endow you with their understanding of being alive, and it helps shape the world around you.
The impact of Amy’s work on my own ultimately has nothing to do with why I was upset. I was upset because I really liked her. There are many authors whose writing you adore, but few become like a companion in your head. You aren’t just fond of their flair for nouns, you’re fond of them. Amy was playful and wise. She had wonderful opinions about ambulances. The creative invention of her work was always driven by an earnest desire to connect with others. She seemed like the type of person you’d call if you received bad news, or for that matter if you received good news. I never got to meet her but I loved her company. I cared about her.
The first thing I did when I saw the obituary was retrieve my copy of Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life from my bookcase. Inevitably, it was the most worn book on the shelf – it looked like it had been in a fight with an older, meaner book. Reading it after she’d gone was an odd experience: I was simultaneously heartsore and delighted to be reminded of how vivid she was, of how much life there was in her life. I came to an entry stating that it would be difficult to convince her that leaning has no effect whatsoever on the outcome of her bowling, and a fanciful but resolutely true thought came to mind: I met her in her words and she’s still there. She always will be.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Eight.
Knowledge in everyday life so often arrives wearing the garments of the pub bore, the explainer who behaves as if they somehow own the facts they know, who doesn’t share information so much as wields it. Overwhelmed by the prospect of laborious detail, it is always a pleasure to find the kind of enthusiasm that doesn’t belittle but instead sweeps you up and carries you along with it, whether you’d expected it to or not. It is this welcoming, irresistible zeal that Sarah Vowell carries when writing about presidential murder.
Assassination Vacation finds the author – a lifelong enthusiast on the subject of America’s callow years – as she takes a ramble across the country to visit increasingly tangential sites associated with the assassinations of Abraham Lincoln, James Garfield and William McKinley, the 16th, 20th and 25th U.S. presidents. The idea of a person travelling hundreds of miles just to view fragments of Lincoln’s skull or McKinley’s bloodstained pyjamas sounds morbid but she writes with such humour, scholarship and passion that you can’t help but get excited in her presence. As her friends accompany her on her various trips Vowell talks about them as if they have the patience of saints, but her joy in esoteric historical tourism is so infectious that it’s easy to understand why they’ve tagged along. To continued amusement, she just can’t help gush about gunshot wounds and Lincoln’s fourteen funerals and the endless two and a half months it took Garfield to finally succumb.“When I’m around strangers, I turn into a conversational Mount St. Helens”, she writes. “I’m dormant, dormant, quiet, quiet, old-guy loners build log cabins on the slopes of my silence and then, boom, it’s 1980. Once I erupt, they’ll be wiping my verbal ashes off their windshields as far away as North Dakota”.
In the world of high-concept travelogues you can usually tell when someone’s faking, but it’s obvious that she would be doing all of this even if she wasn’t writing a book about it. What prevents Assassination Vacation from turning into grisly historical true crime is its curious, discursive nature, as the always wry Vowell becomes fascinated by a 19th century vegetarian biblical sex cult and the spread of neoclassical Doric columns through Washington D.C.’s legislative architecture. She possesses that elusive quality that only the best writers have: whatever she’s interested in, you become interested in it too.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Eight.
I was 27 when I first learned that The Beatles is a pun. Even though I’ve known how to spell “beetle” for some time, I’d somehow never made the connection that the name evokes the Merseybeat scene from which the group initially sprang. Last month, despite having been a journalist for most of my adult life, it dawned on me that “news” is the plural of “new”, meaning that the news is a compilation of different new things that have happened. It’s possible that I am just exceedingly dim, but sometimes a piece of knowledge is so simple and self-evident that you are unable to recognise it. Such information is the nose in your field of vision: always there, unchanging, so the brain ignores it entirely. I bring this up because I’ve only recently realised that it might not be healthy to know what everyone you’ve ever met is currently doing with their lives.
The satirical American newspaper The Onion once published an article titled “Report: Everyone Starting New Exciting Stage Of Life Except You” – if, for whatever reason Mark Zuckerberg lost the rights to the name Facebook, this would be an ideal (albeit unwieldy) replacement. In an attempt to kill time while waiting for trains to arrive and kettles to boil, we have found ourselves in a sadomasochistic relationship with a gargantuan corporate entity. This entity uses the lives of people we know to make us feel bad about our own lives, and yet we cannot stop ourselves. Look at the interesting meals your former colleague has eaten. Look at the wedding of a childhood friend. Look at how many exotic countries your co-worker is visiting. Look at the house that the friend of your friend has bought. Look at your dream job being done by your university coursemate. Look at the beautiful child of your ex. It’s their birthday. They’re having cake. Social media can feel like everyone you know is at a party you’re not invited to, one you’re compelled to watch from afar. These people aren’t necessarily more content than you, but when confronted with curated glimpses of pleasure we can only reflect on our own comparative drabness: they are doing an exciting thing while we are looking at a picture, alone on the internet.
Study after study indicates that the passive consumption of online broadcasts from acquaintances increases feelings of loneliness and depression: the longer you spend visiting somewhere like Facebook or Instagram, the unhappier you become. We’re hard-wired to absorb information that is immediately available, and so we’re held captive by the stimulus around us. It isn’t just pop-up ads stealing seconds of your finite concentration and time: you hop online to quickly message a friend and before you know it you’re thumbing through the holiday snaps of someone who attended the same primary school as you, dissatisfied and obscurely glum.
The belated conclusion I came to, however, didn’t concern social media’s well-documented emotional impediments, as troubling as they can be. An equally pressing problem, I’ve found, is that we’ve inadvertently constructed a system whereby it’s possible to never lose touch with anyone ever again. Where once the default was that most people entered our lives and eventually left them again, now we have to make a deliberate decision to unfriend, unfollow or withdraw completely. Unless rigour is applied, the only people you ever conclusively disengage from are either horrible or insignificant enough to have left no impression at all. Everyone else is still there, simultaneously in our lives and not in them, their presence chiefly taking the form of random periodic reminders that they still exist. You’ve lost touch with them and yet you’re passing a spare minute by looking at photos of them attending the hen party of someone you don’t know.
At first glance, this seems like a quietly cheering innovation. So long as you don’t spend too long dwelling online, it can be heartening to see that someone who once meant something to you is doing well. If you’d been born any earlier in history you probably wouldn’t have spoken to that person from your primary school ever again, but now you get to see that they’ve become a seemingly functional adult with a job and a family and very strong opinions about car shopping. Good for them.
The mystery of what happened to people from our past isn’t more valuable than the answer, but we learn things about ourselves by moving forward, by shedding parts of our identity and taking on new elements as we go. Surely it isn’t helpful to see continual written and photographic documentation of all of the earlier strands of your life, as if they’re all still happening right now. The human condition is best served by a fading past, a vivid present and an uncertain future. There is value in drifting away from our past, in having people we know naturally fade into memory.
This isn’t about the dispiriting effect of these reminders: maybe the sight of someone you’ve been in a relationship with is acceptable on an emotional level, but how can you truly get over a person when evidence of them is presented to you by an algorithm every other time you’re waiting for public transport? How can the memory of someone from your past guide you when they still technically exist in your present? The secret to moving forward isn’t to act as if the past never happened, but it also isn’t to proceed as if it is moving along with you. For us to also become functional adults with strong opinions on car shopping then we need to keep the past exactly where it can play the most meaningful role: behind us.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Seven. Illustration by Ana Godis.
My lack of a criminal past owes more to cowardice than an abundance of virtue. I’ve always been uncomfortable with the prospect of rebellion, which made me an unlikely candidate for the task of getting expelled from the British Museum. The plan was hatched to explore unpalatable forms of touch, namely by nuzzling different artefacts until I unleashed an ancient curse/angered someone wearing a lanyard. For my quarry, I selected possibly the most famous space of any museum in the world: Room 4 (Egyptian Sculpture). If I was going to embark on a life of crime, this seemed like a fine place to start. What follows are my notes, scribbled as I dodged tourists and the wrath of Imhotep.
Rosetta Stone (196 BC)
For those with only an hour to spare, the British Museum provides a guide of nine objects all visitors should see. The Rosetta Stone is listed first. Their crowning glory makes an obvious target for devilry, but a knock on the thick glass confirms I’m getting nowhere near it.
Obstacles: Constant crowd, glass case, monumental historical value.
Difficulty level: 9/10
Sarcophagus of Merymose (1380 BC)
Devoid of any advanced “glass” security, the Sarcophagus of Merymose sits in the open, its only hurdle being the Please do not touch sign. As I scope out the joint, a tourist is photographed pretending to lick Merymose’s head. I conclude that touching the sarcophagus will make me literally no different from this buffoon.
Obstacles: Reproachful sign, idiots.
Difficulty level: 6/10
“The Younger Memnon” (1270 BC)
The noble, haunting face of Ramesses II is one of my most-loved pieces in the museum, but rests atop a plinth taller than me. While I could theoretically use the neighbouring “Statue of Roy” to aid my ascension, Roy presumably wouldn’t be pleased.
Obstacles: Personal attachment, statue placed out of reach like a biscuit tin, Roy.
Difficulty level: 8/10
Stela of Ptolemy IX & Cleopatra III (115 BC)
The stela looks like a towering granite fishfinger and stands on a marble block standing on three random bits of wood, as if someone has been playing Jenga with inappropriate pieces. Surely a hearty thwack to the correct spot would topple it – with a lucky aim, I could definitely smush the sarcophagus lid of Padihorhepui, maybe even King Psamtek I’s screen slab. As I wonder whether I can file my copy from jail (do prisons have good wi-fi?), I read the accompanying text. The stela was originally larger but two thirds of it were reused as building materials. It’s suffered enough.
Obstacles: Ancient instance of recycling functioning as contemporary guilt trip.
Difficulty level: 7/10
Colossal scarab (399 BC – 300 BC)
It certainly is a very large scarab. “This is one of the largest representations of scarab beetles to survive”, the caption agrees. Another eye-level piece, the statue depicts the god Khepri as a dung beetle, because sure, why not, and boasts a nearby guard. The conditions are perfect – with his fluorescent tabard the guard means business – so why can’t I strike?
In my research it became clear that touching things in museums, even in the name of dubious scientific research, is foolhardy. Aside from the perils of handling old, fragile materials, when we touch objects our fingertips leave a residue of dirt, sweat, dead skin cells, and sebaceous oils that devastate over time. The British Museum receives seven million visitors’ worth of dead skin yearly.
Infractions here are common but people pet the scarab like it’s an animal. They can’t help themselves. They see something amazing and reach out to touch it. I am reminded of my 8th birthday party when my mother spent hours making an elaborate swimming pool cake. The two-tone gelatine representation of water was so realistic that my friend Oliver felt compelled to poke it, prompting my exhausted mum to instinctively whomp the poor child on the head. Confronted with an ancient statue of an ancient god we are all transformed into children excitedly defiling a swimming pool-themed birthday cake. The action is understandable – we naturally use touch to gather information – but it’s worth at least a whomp.
I retreat to a bench to watch the scarab. It looks beautiful, and I reflect that it has looked beautiful for over two thousand years. It looked beautiful in the temple of Atum in Heliopolis, it looked beautiful in Alexandria, it looked beautiful in Constantinople, and now it looks beautiful in Holborn on a damp Wednesday. If it’s cared for properly it has another few thousand years left in it. Long, long after you and I have disappeared, this absurd, miraculous scarab will be sitting in a museum somewhere, and it will still confound the heart. This is my favourite place in London, perhaps. I hope no-one kicks me out.
Obstacles: Change of mind.
Difficulty level: 10/10
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Seven. Illustration by Jia Dong Lin.
On certain days it’s possible to wake up in a country you don’t quite recognise. From bruising austerity cuts to the spread of nationalism, it hasn’t been the easiest decade to believe in a fairer, more compassionate society. It’s one thing to lose a fight, and another to lose it over and over again. In search of some practical idealism, we spoke to Josie Long – comedian and co-founder of the charity Arts Emergency – about the positive steps that someone can take if current events have left them dispirited.
When you formed Arts Emergency you wrote a manifesto, and its final point said “Optimism is a weapon”. Why do you think optimism is essential?
The notion of not being cynical and resigned doesn’t feel like a mainstream concept. The whole nature of our press and even the national character is “just put up with it”. Much of the discourse in the country and a lot of what it means to be British is to deny yourself the idea that there might be something better out there and that there might be a chance to have a more humane society. Optimism is essential but I also don’t think it’s been an entirely depressing time. I’ve met so many people and been able to join in with things that have given me hope and consolation. If you look at activist organisations that have formed in the last seven years like UK Uncut and Sisters Uncut, they’ve managed to get issues such as inequality and tax evasion onto the news agenda. I’m inspired by people who are managing to effect change on a local level.
How do you think we got to this point?
What’s happened since Thatcher is the erosion of civil society, the erosion of ways that people can feel rooted in their community and useful as participating citizens in the longer term. That’s exacerbated by the housing crisis where young people have to move and move and move, and by pay going down in real terms so people are working harder but have less money. People are desperate and frustrated but they’re also disconnected from one another, and they feel let down by those who represent them. To contest this, I would say the best thing to do is to contribute regularly as part of something, no matter how small or seemingly disconnected from politics. I’m literally talking about joining a local group that helps young people learn how to garden. Anything where you’re engaging with people in a sphere that’s not inherently capitalist is useful to building a society that has different values.
If people are interested in such actions, what should be their first step?
You don’t need to set up your own organisation. A small amount of googling will find something to get involved with that you don’t even need to do the work of starting. It’s hard because services are being cut to the bone, but if you do have any ideas about what might be useful and there aren’t local groups already doing them it might be worth attempting to set them up. If you do have any sort of passions or a desire to work with younger or older people, now is the time to try.
I’d imagine it’s also a way to learn that there are those who share your values?
If you’re looking for enemies you’ll find them and if you’re looking for a fight you’ll find it, but by that same reasoning if you look for friends you’ll find them always. There are wonderful organisations everywhere if you scratch the surface, and the people in them will inspire you and make you feel like you can carry on. There’s a case to be made for caring for each other on a broader level. It’s not enough to say you’ll just look after your family and friends. We all have a responsibility to act as citizens and participate in whatever way we can. There’s a beautiful idea that you should live like you’re already in the early days of a better society.
What advice would you give someone who feels particularly demoralised?
The first thing I’d say is read Hope in the Dark by Rebecca Solnit, which is a really useful book. She says you must “make yourself one small republic of unconquered spirit”. Remember that you’re allowed to hold values that are different to your government and you’re not wrong and you’re not insane and you’re not in any way treacherous for wanting to have a kinder society that has values other than extreme capitalism. It’s important, just like with self-care and mental health, to repeat your values to yourself as a positive mantra. Don’t be unrealistic about the composition of the United Kingdom or what politics might mean at the moment. It’s wrong to expect socialism to suddenly romp home to victory when money and power are entrenched, but even though the Conservatives control something like 90% of the British media doesn’t mean that 90% of Britain holds far right views, it just means currently that’s the fight to be won. If regressive beliefs are dominant, that doesn’t mean there will never be room in this country for a social democracy. Things are difficult but you’re not going anywhere. You learn from loss and you try your hardest to regroup. You just have to keep going, because what else are you going to do?
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Seven. Portrait by Ellie Smith.
The relentless electioneering of recent years has been exhausting and demoralising, but politics isn’t wholly bleak: it will always be funny, at least, when animals gain constitutional power. “Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office” may sound like a ceremonial position, but consider this: the UK employs over 100,000 cats to catch rodents on government property. If cats were people – furry, serial-killing people – they’d be our fourth largest workforce. It’s crucial in a democracy to scrutinise those in charge, even when they happen to be a goat wearing a mayoral sash.
Felines have stalked Britain’s literal and figurative corridors of power since the 16th century, when Cardinal Wolsey’s cat attended official meetings. As tensions mounted across Europe pre-World War II, however, naming suffered: there was Peter, forced to diet due to indulgent civil servants; Peter II, killed by a car within months; and Peter III, called “Peter the Great” mostly because no-one ran him over and he stayed in shape. After keeping his patch rodent-free during that optimistic post-war idyll from 1947 to 1964, Peter’s death drew condolences from prominent pets including Etti-Cat, a cat enlisted to promote courtesy among New York subway users – in its letter, quite sweetly, Etti-Cat encloses a photo and requests one of Peter for its scrapbook.
What’s most impressive about Boss “Bosco” Ramos becoming mayor of Sunol, California is not that he was a black labrador mix, or that he defeated two human candidates, but that he occupied the post for 13 whole years. Upon hearing of the election, the Chinese newspaper People’s Daily called Bosco’s victory “a wakeup tonic for those kind-hearted people who are naïve and ignorant and blindly worship Western democracy”; in response, the dog-mayor accompanied a group of Chinese students to a pro-democracy rally. A bronze statue of the human rights advocate/belly rub enthusiast now stands in front of Sunol’s post office. Interviewed about Bosco two decades later, local resident Dave Rodgers was unequivocal: “He was the best mayor we ever had”.
As the Home Office reeled from the loss of Peter III, a replacement was found: a Manx cat called Manninagh Katedhu, promptly renamed “Peta”. Where previous cats were donated by cleaners, Peta was a gift from the Isle of Man’s Lieutenant Governor; her salary was double that of her predecessors, but in a blow for class equality, this was because she came from a diplomatic background rather than “the industrial grades”. Unlike her illustrious forebear, Peta was decidedly not great: internal memos described her as “inordinately fat” and she got into trouble for brawling with Harold Wilson’s Siamese cat Nemo. Eventually Peta was sent away to enjoy “a break in the country”, which is surely some sort of euphemism.
While Bubbles never held a formal title, his role as Michael Jackson’s consort made him the world’s most famous chimpanzee. In the late 1980s the pair were inseparable, with the primate accompanying Jackson on tour and sitting in during the recording of Bad. Inevitably this couldn’t last: as an adult Bubbles became aggressive and was returned to his original owner. Thankfully such mistreatment is increasingly unacceptable, but the old tabloid stories retain their appeal: the National Enquirer once reported that Prince had attempted to interfere with Bubbles using extrasensory perception, causing Jackson to ask, “What kind of sicko would mess with a monkey?” Bubbles now lives at a sanctuary for animals rescued from the entertainment industry, free from funkadelic telepathy.
Having endured two conservative premierships, Chief Mouser Humphrey met his match in Cherie Blair. The barrister attempted to get Humphrey ejected from Downing Street, but this caused such outrage that a photo op had to be arranged of her holding the black-and-white cat – to make Humphrey comply, Alastair Campbell sedated him. The story gets weirder. Humphrey was finally relocated “for medical reasons”, sparking rumours of murder: MP Alan Clark commented “Humphrey is now a missing person. Unless I hear from him or he makes a public appearance, I suspect he has been shot”. This forced a second photoshoot, in a secret location, of the cat posing with that day’s newspapers. Humphrey was alive, but had apparently become a hostage.
When the Wakayama Electric Railway destaffed its Kishigawa Line stations in 2006 to cut costs, stationmasters were sought to help the struggling line. The recruit for Kishi station was Toshiko Koyama, who would bring along his tortoiseshell cat Tama to greet passengers. A year later Tama was officially hired as stationmaster, and the former stray became so popular that she added 1.1bn yen annually to the local economy. Tama ascended steadily during her eight years in charge, becoming super-stationmaster, ultra-stationmaster and eventually vice president of the rail company. In 2015 news of her death elicited nationwide mourning and 3,000 people attended the funeral. Having genuinely rescued the rural line from oblivion, Tama posthumously received one final promotion: Honourable Eternal Stationmaster.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Seven. Illustrations by Jisun Lee.
In retrospect it was quite a coup for the 12th Pontypridd Scout Group to come into the possession of Lord Nelson’s body. He was down in the basement, our patrol leader swore, laid out on a table. Apparently our 50p weekly dues were stretching further than anticipated.
The patrol was enthusiastic but unfazed: when you’re 11 you take a lot of things in your stride. We were told that the Hero of Trafalgar was in remarkably good condition (relatively speaking – he’d lost his arm and the use of his right eye in battle, after all) despite dying two centuries prior. It was forbidden, however, to look upon his cadaver. This sounded reasonable enough.
One by one we were blindfolded and led into the basement. There’s a very specific age where you’re old enough to know you’re being told a fantastical story and young enough that your conviction can falter ever so slightly. You may never say it out loud, might never admit it to another person, but just for a moment you can allow yourself to believe in something impossible. It wasn’t Nelson’s body, obviously, but there had to be something down there, right?
The older scouts, who’d undergone this in the distant past of a year ago, met our queries with silence and amused smiles. What occurs to me now is that it wasn’t the notion of pawing a historical corpse that excited but the prospect of taking part in a rite. Others had done this before and others would do it afterwards. It was a silly game but our turn to play it.
More specifically, it was my turn. The scoutmaster went into his spiel. Here lies Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson. These are his boots. I felt the boots. These are the buttons on his jacket. I felt the buttons on his jacket. This is his missing arm. My hand was guided into the empty sleeve.
And this is his right eye.
I knew then and know now that it wasn’t real. Of course it wasn’t the damaged eyeball of a famous deceased naval figure. Of course it was just a tomato that had been left out in the sun. Of course this was a trick being played in a basement with a kid on a table and some fruit. For a moment, though, I really did touch Nelson’s eye, and to my delight it was absolutely disgusting.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Seven.
I am staring up at where the ceiling should be, except the ceiling isn’t there any more. In its place is blackness, and so I stare up at the blackness, at the abyss above my head. Sleep is no longer an acquaintance of mine. Like my old school friends, my former colleagues, my ex-housemates and almost everyone I’ve ever kissed, I have lost touch with sleep. Sleep feels like love: it would be nice, but it’s something that happens to other people now. I turn my pillow over as if that will do something to help.
My thoughts wander in the dark. There’s this thing in my mother’s head that she told me about once, and I thought she was teasing me until I looked it up and sure enough, it happens to other people as well. The thing she has is that she hears music that isn’t there. The synapses in her head fire as if she is listening to a song, but without any actual music to work from her brain just makes up the noises as it goes. A couple of years ago I realised that a version of this was happening to me too. When I am particularly tired I hear voices in my head, in all sorts of accents, saying things that people might say. These phantom sentences have nothing to do with each other, I haven’t heard them spoken aloud before, and they are not interesting, but they rattle on anyway. They start again now, and I pay them little notice.
I stare up at where the ceiling used to be and try to make sense of the darkness. There is not enough light for my eyes to adjust to much of anything. My curtains have been left slightly open, I suspect, as a faint orange crack on the mirror grows in detail. Logically I’m aware that it isn’t night everywhere in the world, or even that everyone nearby is asleep, but it doesn’t feel that way. At this hour it’s just me and the foxes.
Also: the radiator is making a new sound. I don’t know what that’s all about.
There is a place where each of us have lingered but that we rarely discuss. Human life is divided into three discrete sections: being awake, being asleep, and the bit which is both and neither. The latter is where I am writing from. At this exact moment – technically 02:37, but if you told me it was 03:37 or 04:37 I’d also believe you – I am lying in bed, my eyes squinting against the cold glow of my electronic tablet. It is now the only light in the room. The world reduces itself, at this time of night, to individual parts: the sensation of my right foot pushing against my left, the outline of my bookcase, the stray creaks from the radiator, the silence in the other rooms.
I used to live here, in this place. As a child I suffered from chronic low-level insomnia. Eventually I’d fall asleep, but it would take hours upon hours as I became progressively more afraid that I’d never sleep again. I felt guilty, like I was going to fail at school the next day, like school was already happening at that moment and I wasn’t there. The obstacle was that I was unable to switch my brain off. My body had not learned to slow its cognitive functions in the way it’s supposed to when you remove all stimulus and lie down on a comfortable bed in a darkened room. If anything it felt as if those functions were speeding up, thrown into sharp relief against the quiet gloom. Without anything meaningful to fill the gap, I would think about my inability to stop thinking, agonising endlessly as sleep revealed itself to be an impossible concept someone had made up in order to torment me.
This, like other childhood terrors, was a significant problem until the day it left and I virtually forgot about it. I’d still visit that place where everything is still except your mind, but I was only passing through. There was no profit to be had in loitering, surely.
The radiator has stopped making any noise at all, which is probably some kind of sign about the lateness of the hour. I’m trying not to look at the little clock at the top of my screen. It would not be a helpful activity. Anyway. As it’s just you and me, here’s something that I’ve never told anyone before.
Since I was a teenager I’ve maintained a ritual to fall asleep. What I’ll do is curl up into a ball and pull the duvet over every inch of my body, so that no light can enter and no part of me is exposed. Then I will imagine to myself that I am the participant in an urgent, highly-advanced scientific experiment. Perhaps even the fate of all life depends on its outcome, but this isn’t always clear. While dozens of shirted men and women scribble on clipboard nervously and jab pencils in the direction of a bank of monitors, my bed sits in the middle of a cavernous underground complex that a Bond villain probably hires out on the weekends. Every single person across the world is watching on their televisions, a global held breath, as machines clank away and numbers are counted down towards zero. My bed rises towards the ceiling and in that final moment, something impossible happens: everything outside of the duvet vanishes.
The universe has gone. Not only that, but it has never existed at all. I scrunch up my toes as I experience the entirety of time and space. This turns out to be a comfort beyond most others. Nothing bad has ever happened. Nothing is complicated or difficult. No-one has ever had an unkind thought about me, or fallen out of love with me, or been annoyed by or disappointed in me. From this position of cosmic solitude I’m aware that I’ll be able to bring the universe back later, and the world will be better for what’s happened, but until then there is just me, and beyond that, the void.
It doesn’t take much effort to understand what I find soothing about this scenario. It’s a fantasy I tell myself in which any worries I might have are erased from my life, and I am somehow feted for this. It isn’t just the nullification of the universe that provides solace: sometimes I imagine I’m on a raft floating down a river through black countryside at night, the only light coming from the pinpricks of stars overhead. I don’t believe the condition is unique to me; it isn’t the result of distress about my circumstances but instead comes from commonplace anxiety of the kind that naturally accumulates through the day. As we lie in our beds, we all attempt to shed our daily concerns so that we’re free to get a restful night’s sleep. Why else would we sleep alone or just with a loved one, covered up in the most private space in our home? Why else would we switch the lights off? We create a situation where the world disappears for a little while – I just happen to visualise the process. If my brain is going to trample ahead unimpeded, I may as well get something out of it.
“Resist the temptation to stay up all night writing before watching the sun rise with a cigarette”, our lecturer Ian warned us, “it’s not romantic and your work won’t be any good.” He was attempting to stop us delaying our essays until the final minute and esteeming bleary relief over the benefit of patiently constructed work. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work. In the fevered stretch before any deadline, the library would transform into an impromptu class party: even if you had finished your work, you would be tempted to visit just to be where the (critical film theory) action was.
In contrast to my peers, I mostly followed Ian’s advice, give or take a night where I’d spent 17p on two litres of own brand cola and go to town on Laura Mulvey’s Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. This wouldn’t last. Much like my student loan debt, I brought writing deadlines along with me when I graduated from university. As my professional life grew around delivering quantities of words by specific, always impending dates, all-nighters became a part of my emergency writing kit, a toothbrush stashed in the side compartment of a rucksack. While I’m sure my lecturer was right that 19-year-old students shouldn’t procrastinate until the night before their deadlines (although they always will), there is value in working when the rhythms of life have slowed.
In his non-fiction book On Writing, Stephen King states that you should write “with the door closed”, a goal that’s increasingly difficult when the terrifying world news doesn’t end and a device hums softly in your pocket every few minutes. What I’ve found in these long late-night sessions is not the agitation of my youthful bedroom or the mad panic of the study hall, but a strange sort of calm. At night, the phone is in no danger of ringing. I’ve said farewell to my housemate. Everyone I know on twitter has gone to bed, and if I wait long enough, all of the Americans will go to bed too. E-mails stop arriving in my inbox, even the press releases and the spam. The distractions and the excuses fall away in equal measure.
This is not a new discovery. I’ve accidentally stolen a book from a former colleague on the daily rituals of the famous dead, and many of them were similarly drawn to the small hours. Marcel Proust wrote exclusively in bed while lying horizontally, his head propped up by pillows (Proust also lived off of two cups of coffee and one or two croissants every day, and that certainly will not do for me.) But as someone who spent their childhood trembling at the notion of a place which isn’t asleep or awake, it’s a revelation to find myself welcome here. As the world reduces itself to individual parts, eventually there’s just me and a blank screen, with seemingly all the time I need to fill it. The universe has gone, and I’m ready to begin.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Six. Photograph by Laura Ward.
It’s late. Very late. Extremely late. So late it’s early, as your aunt used to say. Instead of trying to get back to sleep like a sensible person, why not try these activities to while away the hours?
Ride a bus to end of its route
Alcohol is often unintentionally responsible for this late night enterprise, but for the mild-tempered there’s a reckless thrill in staying on a bus to see just how far you can go.
Listen to the World Service
You’re never alone so long as the BBC exists. After the Shipping Forecast reports on FitzRoy and Lundy, Radio 4 cedes its frequencies to the World Service, to the comfort of insomniacs everywhere.
Eat a bagel
Most of Britain shuts down by 1 in the morning. Brick Lane’s Beigel Bake, luckily, is not most of Britain, offering bagels whenever you bloody well please. Best of luck to it.
Watch the stars
A three-season sleeping bag can change your life. Buy one today and spend tonight under the stars. If you get a bivouac you don’t even need a tent. Also you get to say “bivouac” a lot.
Get a haircut
For reasons that aren’t entirely clear, the Neil Cornelius salon in Mayfair offers 24-hour hair appointments. Presumably it’s a more peaceful experience, and you can look your best for the binman.
Do some exercise
Find your nearest canal and go for a lovely jog, preferably without any high-vis clothing so that you don’t bother the ducks. You will definitely not end up murdered.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Six.
It’s possible to wake up one day and completely change the world. Yes! We have it within us to see something amiss in society and to find a way to set things right. It’s why tyrants eventually fall and justice ultimately prevails: as a people we possess the capacity for action, for solidarity, for transformation. For every hard-fought strike, advance in civil rights or inspiring act of progressive defiance, however, there are those other occasions when it might have been wiser to not bother at all.
Paying Weezer to quit
When it comes to our favourite groups, the best always seems to be behind us: the strange new album with its strange new songs can’t possibly compare to the one we’ve lived with for years. Indie band Weezer have suffered from a notably acute version of this phenomenon, consistently upsetting fans since around 1996. 14 years on from that early apogee, Seattle-based grouch James Burns attempted to raise $10 million to convince them to call it quits, writing in his online proposal: “I beg you, Weezer. Take our money and disappear”. The band said they’d do it for $20 million, but regrettably for James the campaign only raised a few hundred dollars. Weezer are currently working on their disappointing 11th album.
Overthrowing George II
It isn’t easy to rebel against your own government. Historically most insurrections end in bloodshed and failure, and even if you do evict your ruler there’s a reasonable chance you’ll end up as much of a despot as they were. If you’re planning sedition, then, you’d better have good reasons. Charles Edward Stuart did not. In 1745 “Bonnie Prince Charlie” challenged George II’s throne believing that it belonged to his family, but failed after making tactical errors during the Battle of Culloden. A century later Jacobitism experienced a romantic revival, but essentially it was one aristocrat trying to replace another. Defeated, Charlie fled Britain disguised as a maid called Betty Burke. People were apparently easier to fool in the 1700s.
Electing a monkey
Hartlepool has a weird thing about monkeys. During the Napoleonic Wars – so goes the exquisitely bizarre, almost certainly apocryphal story – a French warship sank off the town’s coast, with its only survivor being a monkey dressed in full military uniform. Assumed to be a Frenchman, the simian was duly tried in court and hung as a spy. In tribute to this historic injustice, Hartlepool F.C. decided to make their mascot “H’Angus the monkey”. H’Angus fared better than his inspiration by being elected as mayor of the town on a platform of free bananas for schoolchildren. Stuart Drummond, the man inside the monkey, swiftly ditched the costume and served three terms despite failing to deliver on his banana pledge.
Constructing a Death Star
It’s extraordinary what people can accomplish when they get together. Please note that the word “extraordinary” does not necessarily mean good, or even halfway-sensible. In a valiant, misguided attempt to give its citizens a voice on important issues, the U.S. government launched a platform in 2011 for creating online petitions: if one garnered over 25,000 signatures it would receive a White House response. Inevitably, silliness ensued, as 34,400 people signed a petition asking for a Death Star to be built in the interests of national security. A government official – it’s possible they weren’t treating the matter with utmost seriousness – politely refused, explaining that it’d cost around $850 quadrillion and also “the Administration does not support blowing up planets”.
Repealing New Coke
Emotional attachment to grocery items runs deep, as anyone who is still calling them them Opal Fruits (19 years later) will tell you. A prime example: in 1985 consumers responded furiously when Coca-Cola’s formula was updated in order to keep up with sweeter rival Pepsi. Even though taste tests suggested a preference for the new version, executives hadn’t counted on the power of lifetime habits. The endeavour was considered one of the biggest marketing disasters of all time, and 77 days after the launch “Coca-Cola Classic” was deployed to soothe nostalgic customers, eventually displacing New Coke altogether. In a delicious twist, ingredient changes had been rolled out over the previous few years, so it wasn’t quite the same drink as before anyway.
Voting yourself out of existence
Many things that can arouse an existential crisis: a depressing tax return, reaching a particular age, an old classmate’s facebook post, 20 minutes in Primark. Unless you once lived in Castlewood, Virginia, though, it’s rare for dark nights of the soul to be caused by a ballot initiative. Faced with heavy taxes after the population dropped from 20,000 to 9,000 over a decade, council members proposed a de-chartering measure that would see the town absorbed by the larger Russell County. “There are more cows than people around these parts” said a councilman, presumably before sighing heavily. 749 residents voted for, 622 against, and Castlewood officially ceased to exist. At last count its population was 2,045. The message is clear: referendums are terrible.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Six. Illustrations by Jessica Wheeler.
The programme was called Mean Town. Pearl Mackie hadn’t heard of it before, but had been asked by her agent if she might be available. Since leaving drama school five years earlier she’d mostly performed at fringe theatres, but a lengthy spell in the West End production of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time suggested that she was ready to move on to the next stage in her career. Mean Time, she would soon learn, was an anagram of “Woman Ten”, which was itself a codename for Bill Potts, the name of the eponymous Time Lord’s next companion in the tenth series of Doctor Who.
Pearl was to become well-acquainted with elaborate acts of subterfuge; few television programmes invite as much speculation as Doctor Who, a genuine national institution over fifty years into its run. Suddenly the word “unknown” was being attached to every description of her in the press, and she was sequestered in Cardiff for ten months to film the series. When we meet she is only weeks from the end of her marathon shoot, exhausted but palpably excited. “I just can’t wait for people to meet Bill,” she says, meaning it, “She’s the kind of person I’d want to be friends with. I think she’s awesome, but I’m probably biased because she’s me.”
More than most programmes, people are hungry to find out what’s going on in Doctor Who. What’s it like to work on something for almost a year under intense scrutiny?
Everyone wants to know about it. Friends keep asking me what’s happening, begging me to send them pictures. It can be difficult when you come home from work and you’ve had an amazing day, filming something really cool, and you want to tell someone but you can’t. I’ve gotten very good at discussing the show in non-specific terms, so I can explain without giving anything away. I just hate spoilers. My cousin used to tell me the ends of movies all the time. Five minutes into the film she’d say, “Oh I’ve seen this, he dies”. I’ve just started watching it! Now what do I do – should I carry on watching, knowing that this poor man is going to die? It ruins the experience.
How far in advance did you learn what would be happening?
We get the scripts episode by episode, which has actually been great. It’s something I’ve never experienced before: when you’re in a play you know the whole story from beginning to end, but one of the best things about this job is that I don’t know what’s going to happen next. As a real person I don’t know what’s going to happen to me tomorrow, so it’s interesting to have the same thing with a character, to gradually build on her over time. Very occasionally though there’s something you read and you think, ah, I didn’t know about that, if I had I would have put it in earlier!
Did you feel any pressure about joining such a well-established show?
I’d watched a few episodes, bits and bobs, but Doctor Who was never a massive part of my life. I’m 29 so I didn’t grow up with it. The show came back when I was about 16, and pretty much the only thing I watched back then was The O.C., in bed on Sundays. When I got the job I said, “okay, give me the back catalogue, let me watch it all”, but they told me no. Bill doesn’t know anything about that world, so they liked the idea that I was discovering it all at the same time as her. Also, it’s hard as an actor to watch a brilliant performance and not subconsciously take a little bit from it. If I watched any of the previous companions, who are all fantastic actresses, I’d struggle to not emulate some parts of their performances within my own, especially as they’d be in similar situations. I thought maybe it’s best not to do that for now, and when I’m finished I can binge-watch the whole thing.
You’re from South London, so is it helpful to film away from home?
It really is. I’m mainly able to head back at weekends but I do get homesick sometimes. It’s useful though because during the week I can put my head down and work hard, which I need because I have to be up at twenty past five every morning. At night I get in and have a bath, eat dinner, learn my lines and go to bed, so it’s handy to not be distracted by my mates wanting to go out for food, or they’re doing something and want me to join them. Even swinging by for an hour would be scary. “I’ve got to get back, it’s past my bedtime!” I’ve become Cinderella.
Was it an adjustment to act in an effects-heavy TV programme after mostly working on stage?
There’s a myth that you have to act smaller for camera. You can be quieter as you don’t have to project to the back of the auditorium, but there’s definitely room for subtlety on stage and broad emotional work on screen. The way my performance has changed regarding the technical aspects is that I didn’t really know what I was doing before! Peter Capaldi has been very helpful with that. He’s so experienced, it’s fascinating seeing the difference in his work: his performance looks great in real life but then you see it on screen and it’s phenomenal. I’ve learned to use camera angles – how to hit marks and tailor my acting to the frame they’re using. If it’s a close-up then you don’t want to do stuff that’s too big because it’s distracting. By the end of the first block, six weeks in, I’d probably done more consecutive hours of filming than lots of my friends who’ve been doing television episodes for years. I feel like I’ve learned my craft in front of the camera. But I haven’t seen it yet, so don’t take my word for it.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Six. Portrait by Liz Seabrook.
On your side
Your tendency to lie on your side at night speaks to your adaptability and a deep sensitivity for the world, as well as trust in others. You are a natural leader and a gifted marksman. Culture has always been a part of your life, ever since you were run over by Andi Peters as a child. Apparently he’s quite buff now, or so you’ve heard. Your world turned upside down when you discovered the existence of a long-running Croatian comic strip devoted to lampooning you and your actions. It didn’t help to learn that the comic, Idiotpatrola (translation: Idiot patrol), is the second most popular satirical cartoon in the Slavic region, or that it has taught several generations to read and write, or that it somehow provided a much-needed boost to the state’s agricultural sector. The rumours that you were also the inspiration for Hey Jude remain unfounded, but plausible.
You find it more comfortable to sleep without pyjamas, but this also indicates your restless creativity. Few will forget the day you stood up in front of your whole family and told them you wanted to conquer the erotic arts. Princess Diana’s funeral, it was. Certainly, it has not been an easy road: your charity Christmas single became deeply unpopular after tabloid revelations that you had stolen both the melody and lyrics from Stay Another Day (their real complaint, they said, was that the song isn’t even really about Christmas, it just has some bells in it). To pile indignity on top of indignity, you’ve started to suspect that your parents were lying when they said that you’re an only child. If you really have no brothers or sisters, then who’s that girl who’s been hanging around your house since you were three? Why does she share your surname and genetic material? Why does she insist on writing thinly-veiled fiction about you? What is going on?
On your back
You will die a horrible, horrible death. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but probably this Thursday around 16:45, by the bins. There is no doubt about it: soon, definitely by next spring, you will meet your maker. “Hahahahaha”, he will say, “Why didn’t you use the microfilm?” “What microfilm?” you will reply, confused, patting down your coat pockets in an exaggerated manner. “Oh, that microfilm”, you’ll say, answering your own question as you locate the item that would have saved your life and brought you international recognition and a string of hot dates. Before all this, or perhaps after, you’ll find that you have indeed turned into your father: a bald henchman, dangling from a helicopter as a secret agent tells him to hand over a briefcase. But by then, of course, it will be too late.
On your stomach
Oh boy. You’re a real piece of work, you know that? When you visit a restaurant with a friend, you always make them use an individual chair while you take a bench against the wall. You have never watered any plant that you’ve promised to. You keep applying to be a contestant on The Apprentice. As leader of the opposition you lied unconvincingly about the number of pints you were able to drink. It’s been several weeks now and nobody at work has figured out that you’re really an ambitious sheepdog wearing a fake moustache. Your biggest dream is to open a club in Milton Keynes called “Scandals”. You spent a brief spell as a warlord after a personal shopper told you that tan was your colour. Recently you’ve been going to the woods to feed some wolves but you won’t tell anyone why. And you sleep on your stomach, like some kind of pervert.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Six
One of the hardest parts of growing up takes place years after the actual growing up. It comes when you revisit a person or place that was instrumental in your youth and find that they, or it, became something entirely different in your absence. You felt as if you had invented this person, imagined this street in your own head, only to see they had almost nothing to do with you at all. You thought you were the protagonist of a story, but you were just there.
There is much heartbreak to be found in Jonathan Lethem’s partially-autobiographical The Fortress of Solitude, which depicts the upbringing of two boys in the ragged, pre-gentrified Brooklyn of the 1970s, but it is the sombre recognition of this fact which is the saddest thing about it. After 300 pages breathlessly detailing the minutiae of graffiti, street games, soul music, silver age comic books and the birth of hip-hop, not to mention drug abuse, poverty, damaged, damaging parents and above all the societal challenges of race, the story leaps 18 years into the future to discover its heroes set down radically different paths, abstracted from one another. After making us care deeply about the residents of Boerum Hill, Lethem captures the sensation, depressing and strangely embarrassing, of seeing someone for the first time in decades and finding they’ve been swallowed whole by a thing you escaped.
Until that juncture though, there is youth: giddy, anxious, fleeting. In being so specific and expansive about a time and place, the author captures something universal not just about being young, but about how it feels to remember being young. While Lethem later introduces one significant, superhero-inspired element of magical realism, his writing is at its most evocative when articulating the vivid-yet-hazy quality of memory. During one gorgeous passage, he describes a game of stickball on an endless day in late August, the sort of game – “One kid’s mom yelled for half an hour and even then nobody else paid attention, nobody went inside” – that inspires nostalgia as it’s happening, the sort of game that will eventually expand in the act of recollection to encompass all similar recollections of that period. Like any miraculous thing it seems to last forever until, all of a sudden, it’s become the past. “Summer on Dean Street had lasted one day and that day was over, it was dark out, had been for hours.”
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Six
You die on a Tuesday, which surprises you for several reasons. Over the years before that fateful weekday you had generally avoided contemplating the circumstances which might prompt your untimely demise, but even if you had given it some thought, you certainly wouldn’t have anticipated that your death would come from tripping into the road after failing to tie your shoelaces. This was, after all, something that your mother had explicitly warned you about. In retrospect you’re lucky to have made it this far without dying elaborately as a result of not tidying your bedroom.
Before the enormity of the change sinks in, you find that you are slightly excited to be dead. It had not been in your plans for the week. Logically you understood that it would happen eventually, but in a small, unconquerable bit of your heart you always secretly believed that you would never actually die. Now that you have perished, it is like you’ve prematurely seen the final episode of a television programme that everyone is obsessed with. It was neither as painful nor as scary as you might have feared. It was not even the worst thing to ever happen to you. You have definitely had breakups worse than your own death.
You leave your body in the street and continue on with your day. It does not take long to adapt to the new reality of your existence. The closest you come to sadness is a passing concern that you should be feeling more sad than you are. Your death was just another part of your life, you understand now. What is unexpected however is that you are given no guidance about what to do next. This is much the same as during life, you suppose, but you had been conditioned to expect at least a brief consultation with some manner of celestial administrator. Even in death, you are still essentially on your own, and while this doesn’t upset you, it does leave you with a lot of time on your hands. It is probably not worth going to work any more, and your social calendar has emptied dramatically.
The sudden lack of a corporeal form is difficult. You spend a fruitless afternoon in a local library trying to read over people’s shoulders, but they are either too slow or too quick for you, and you soon lose patience. Cinemas and museums are better, and you discover that you now possess a level of attention that was previously absent when there was a million things to worry about. You rarely visit figures from your life: it is hard to see them upset, and almost as hard to see them happy. As fatigue has ceased being an issue, you cultivate an interest in hiking. Perhaps it might be fun to walk to another country, you think, although if you didn’t like the area then the return journey would take ages. You’re not sure if this is going to be it, forever, or if this is just a stage like the ones that came before, but you do know that you should probably come up with a plan. On balance, you mostly wasted your life; you do not want to waste your death as well.
What do you do next?
Originally published in Oh Comely’s newsletter.
When we think about physical performance, we have a tendency to ignore the journey in favour of the result: how much, how high, how long, how fast. A career of effort, persistence and ambition can be judged on milliseconds, but a sporting life isn’t just measured by one’s personal best or the number of medals on the shelf.
As the theme of this issue is strength, we decided to speak to four women who are dedicating their lives to physical excellence. Although their pursuits and stories differ greatly, they’re each united by the same determination, the same bloodymindedness, the same audacious grit.
Megan Giglia, Paralympic track cyclist
Achievements: C3 world records in 3km Individual Pursuit and 500m Time Trial, gold at the 2016 Summer Paralympics in Individual Pursuit, gold in Individual Pursuit and Time Trial at the 2016 Para-cycling Track World Championship, and an MBE for services to cycling.
How did you become interested in cycling? In January 2013 I had a brain haemorrhage that resulted in a massive stroke. I have issues with memory and co-ordination and my physical abilities, as well as other neurological problems and epilepsy. I used the bike originally just to get movement back in my right side. It was a way of handling my emotions: when I wasn’t ready to deal with them I’d blast it out on the road. Six months later I considered doing it competitively. My pre-stroke relationship broke down and I ended up cycling 120 miles to a friend’s house with my foot tied to the pedal and my hand tied to the handlebar. I don’t know how I made it there alive. My friend’s mum had terminal cancer, and she told me I couldn’t let others hold me back, that I should find something and take it all the way. I’ve always loved sports – I used to coach – and it’s the one part of me that’s stayed the same. The routine and structure of competition gave me a focus and a new beginning.
What was hardest about the experience? That period, where I’d gone from being completely fine, able-bodied as they call it, having my job, my family, a life around me, and suddenly I’d lost it all and had to create a new past. I couldn’t remember family members’ names, or what I liked, and I couldn’t taste so didn’t even know what food I enjoyed. You have to relearn so much about yourself, and because it’s not something I was born with, I had to work out what was wrong as well. It took two to three years to be able to say, “this is who I am”, rather than always refer to who I was. I call myself Megan the Second now.
What do you enjoy most about cycling? I strive for competition. When you go into the competitive environment it’s a breath of fresh air because it’s about what you can do rather than what you can’t. There’s a quote I like: ‘I’m not what happened to me, I’m what I choose to become.’ Within my C3 category, everyone is there because they cycle. They just want to pedal their bikes.
Have you had to make any sacrifices? You’ve got to be completely professional, focused solely on what you’re doing. It can become unhealthily addictive, and I’m definitely addicted to my sport. It becomes your life. Before Rio I had a partner for two years who I met after my stroke. I never thought I’d find someone who’d love and accept me for who I was, but I actually ended that relationship in order to progress. I didn’t have time for it and couldn’t give her what she needed, and I needed to focus on being the best I could be. You sacrifice so much. Sports is very selfish and I’m beginning to realise that, but I’ve got a better balance now. I have a new partner who’s very supportive and we’re dealing with things as they come along.
What are your goals for the future? I’m hoping to go to World Championships this year in Los Angeles, but we’ll see what happens. I’ve got a long way to go before I’m the best. I’ve got a Paralympic gold and two world records, but that doesn’t mean I’m the best cyclist. There are still so many technical skills I can improve on. I love what I do and that’s the only way I’ll get better. The day I stop loving cycling is the day I stop.
Emily Ackner, multi-sport athlete
Achievements: Completed solo 300-mile run across Cornwall in 12 days, founder of challenge-focused coaching programme Fit for That.
How did you get into an active lifestyle? From a young age I played a huge amount of sports. As I got older, I started skiing and snowboarding and got into coaching. Growing up in Cornwall, nature has always been at the forefront of everything I want to do and create. I like having an outdoor life.
What’s the toughest thing about training? I’ve had to become a morning person. You need to commit to days when it’s raining and horrible and sometimes you might not want to get out of bed, but that’s part of it. If you weren’t able to get through those tougher moments then the joy and celebration of actually completing a challenge wouldn’t be as sweet. If it was easy then you wouldn’t feel like you’d accomplished anything.
What do you enjoy most about it? You discover things about yourself. I love how it feels to push myself physically in the moment of taking a challenge. There’s real focus and clarity that you get from that time, be it on the road, on the trail, or in the open water. You can use your body as a vehicle for fun and adventure rather than just pleasing people with how you look. I want to lead an active life and to ensure through training that my body is strong enough to keep me going. From a coaching perspective, I want to help grow a community of women who enjoy exploring but also are mindful of putting in the work.
Have you had to make any sacrifices? If you’ve chosen something you’re passionate about then it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice. My lifestyle has changed greatly over the last few years as I’ve prioritised fitness and that’s not something I regret. It doesn’t feel like it’s one or the other for me.
What are your goals for the future? I’m very much of the mindset that it’s easier to work towards a specific goal if you set yourself a big challenge. Over the last couple of years I’ve focused on endurance challenges which incorporate exploration so there’s something of a journey to be had both metaphorically and physically in getting to the finish line. I like to have one big physical challenge that I can do in a year that revolves around logistical planning, so this year I’m travelling across Croatia with a group of cyclists to raise money for a refugee cause – I’m going to swim 50 miles up the coast of Croatia, cycle from Trieste down to Dubrovnik, swim 50 miles back up and then finish with a 48km mountain race in Italy. Having a training focus like that keeps me going in the bleak winter months. That’s the main thing I’d advocate to anyone – have a goal that excites you. It’s a sure-fire way to ensure that you take the time to commit.
Maëva Berthelot, contemporary dancer
Achievements: Founding member of dance, live music and video collective Collectif Larsen, six years as a full-time member of the Hofesh Shechter Company, work with choreographers including Wayne McGregor and Emanuel Gat.
How did you become interested in dance? I started dancing when I started walking. I was always a very active child and gave anything a try. I had the schedule of a prime minister, and grew up surrounded by contemporary dancers. My mum taught dance, in a very different way from how I do now. It wasn’t strictly dance, but working with little humans to encourage movement and play. I spent Saturdays and Wednesdays at her best friend’s dance school. From nine in the morning until nine at night, going to every single class. It became more focused when I turned ten – I started doing half school, half dance, taking classes for people that wanted to become dance teachers – it was just me and lots of adults.
What’s the toughest thing about it? It’s not physically demanding so much as it’s exhausting. If you’re a full-time member of a dance company you don’t get a minute for yourself. You perform the work again and again, you tour again and again, and when you don’t perform you’re teaching or rehearsing. To be honest it’s been tricky. I could say it’s always fantastic but even as a teacher I try to make my students aware that it’s a hard job. There’s very little recognition or financial reward, so you do it for the love, and the level of commitment and dedication is something else. You work 365 days a year and you’re devoting all your time and energy. You don’t really have a life outside of the company. It’s been hard for me to sustain friendships and relationships.
What do you enjoy most about dancing? It demands everything but the feelings you experience, they’re amazing. My love for it has definitely gone up and down: when your passion becomes a routine it’s easily killable. It’s a daily challenge to make it fresh, to keep something spontaneous and honest in the work. That’s mainly why I teach. In a company, the dimension of enjoyment isn’t what you focus on. You don’t have fun, you work. You work hard. So my class is the opposite. I don’t necessarily teach a style, but try to help people find themselves in dance. Everything is connected to that first feeling when you started dancing, to those bursts of pleasure in movement. Sometimes you have to train to get that love back.
What are your goals for the future? I’m taking this year to do personal projects that I’ve always wanted to try. I feel like I need to work with movement in a different context – video art, photography, film. The dance audience, I know how to play with them, how to grasp their attention. I want to start working in a new way. After 30 years of focusing so much on one craft, it’s time to make sure I don’t fall asleep. I just want to start playing again. I want to keep on challenging myself, to keep learning and growing. I’m in a period of reconnecting with pure creative enjoyment.
Sorrell Walsh, marathon runner
Achievements: Completed five ultra marathons and 15 marathons with a sub-three hour personal best, co-founder of running crew Still Waters Run Deep and women’s collective WMN RUN.
How did you get into running? About five years ago my brother was training for the London Marathon, and I wondered why on earth was he going out running for 20 miles at a time. I was always active at school and then had a stagnant period through college, so I tried a one-mile loop near my parents’ house. I dry heaved the first time I did it but started to build up from there.
What do you enjoy most about it? For me running is about so many things but it gives me balance: if I don’t feel great one day I can go for a run and come back feeling better. I like the feeling that I’m achieving more out of life. Running is a physical activity but it’s very much a mental experience as well. If I achieve something with my own body I never thought I could, then I can apply that to other areas. I’m not saying I can become an astronaut, but it does open your mind up to possibilities of life, career or anything really. If there’s something I think I can’t do, maybe I am able to achieve it.
Have you had to make any sacrifices? I don’t feel like they’re sacrifices. I can always find more hours in the day; if I’m busy, maybe I’ll get some running done at lunchtime. I enjoy juggling life like that. Then again, when I’m home for Christmas and my family are all around, I feel like I have to get my work out in the morning because if I’m running all day it’s not fair to them. Sometimes it can be a bit of a strain but that’s my own responsibility. No-one’s forcing me to do this. If I want to get somewhere then I have to keep at it.
What are your goals for the future? It’s good to have lofty goals – whether I reach them or not depends on what I can actually achieve. I’d love to do the UltraTrail du Mont-Blanc, and the Bob Graham Round challenge in the Lake District, and in my lifetime I’d like to get a marathon time of 2:45. At the moment I’m trying to get faster, so I’ve got a coach now which is really exciting. Place and landscape is a big part of why I enjoy running so I’ve done marathons to see a new place or visit a new city: for instance, last year I ran the Sierra Leone marathon. The media portrays it as a place you should be scared to visit, let alone run around, but actually it was incredible. I’ve never met people who are so welcoming, even though they don’t have much. I only learned that by going. The temperature was about 35 degrees, but it’s more the humidity. You can’t naturally cool down so you have to watch your own body. Not that I would expect to get heatstroke, but they don’t have life support machines there. Obviously that’s a risk, but a lot of running is knowing your own body and your limits. And then pushing them.
The reed bends with the wind, so says the parable, while the oak tree breaks in the storm. This is a lesson about flexibility in turbulent times, or possibly about effective arboreal care, but it also argues that there are different kinds of strength. You don’t need to pull a boxcar with a rope or throw a beer keg over a beam to be strong. If you want to win World’s Strongest Man then you should definitely do these things, otherwise, remember that fortitude manifests in the most surprising places.
We are prejudiced by the limits of our own perspective. If an ant was the same size as an elephant, we’d recognise that they are incredible creatures, shortly before running away in terror. This would be unsuccessful as there are over 100 trillion of the sugar-loving creeps. In terms of power-to-weight ratio, the 47 species of leafcutter ant in the Americas are some of Earth’s strongest animals, capable of carrying leaves more than 50 times their own body weight. They feed these leaves to a fungus which they have carefully domesticated over a period of 30 million years, in order to sustain a colony containing millions of burly, tiny farmers. More impressive still is that they carry this remarkable weight in their jaws, which must be really annoying when you consider it.
The idea of “hysterical strength” grew from legend: Ireland’s mythological Cú Chulaind underwent a frenzy called a warp spasm while Norse Beserkers, devoted to a bear cult, supposedly charged howling into battle without mail-coats. Contemporary examples are less furious: in 2015, 19-year-old Charlotte Heffelmire lifted a burning pick-up truck to rescue her pinned father then drove it away on its three remaining tyres. Such acts aren’t quite superhuman – to briefly raise the end of a vehicle is extraordinary but not physically unfeasible – yet they are no less stunning for that. For all our problems, it is comforting to live in a world that produces 5ft 6in teenagers brave and selfless enough to lift flaming trucks when someone’s in danger.
London had a rough 17th century. After the turmoil of civil war and devastation from four major Black Death epidemics came the unimaginatively-titled Great Fire of London, which robbed 70,000 of its 80,000 plague-survivor residents of their homes. Staple Inn, built in 1585 to train and house legal professionals, was one of the few buildings to withstand the catastrophe, escaping the fire by metres. Over the following 350 years it would also survive direct hits from several Luftwaffe bombs, constant citywide development and the brief popularity of Noel’s House Party. Today Staple Inn hosts meetings for the body representing actuaries: it’s a testament to the building’s tenacity that it has endured so much for so long and still remains fundamentally boring.
A wedge (also: Milo of Croton)
Admittedly, Milo of Croton’s presence here seems anomalous. Far from being unexpectedly strong, the wrestler was famed for his physical prowess, winning six Olympic titles. Like many illustrious athletes in ancient Greece, Milo’s capabilities were exaggerated to semi-divine levels: one story involves him carrying a calf on his back every day until it became a full-grown – and presumably rather grumpy – bull. His appearance is instead warranted by his demise. Out walking, Milo saw a tree trunk split by a wedge. On attempting to cleave the trunk to prove his vigour, the wedge fell, trapping his hand. He was subsequently eaten by wolves. In one of the silliest, and therefore greatest, deaths in ancient history, Greece’s champion was bested by a bit of wood.
There is nothing about oobleck that doesn’t sound made up. This simple mixture of cornflour and water is named after a havok-causing slime in a Dr. Seuss story and is the cousin of mayonnaise, lava, blood and cement slurry. Its properties are where thing get truly suspicious: as a non-newtonian fluid, oobleck acts either like a solid or a liquid depending on the force acting upon it. You can slowly dip a finger into it, but if you try to jab it then the ridiculous substance will fight back. Oobleck is often used as a educational tool with hip teachers walking on it or slathering it on subwoofers, whereupon the force of low-frequency sound waves causes it to dance (if your definition of dancing is to judder around wildly, which mine is). One day, oobleck will surely enslave us all.
Hear me out. There is honour in accomplishing gruelling yet entirely pointless tasks. Perhaps while standing on one foot (at just the right angle to seem like he was levitating) magician David Blaine became interested in undertaking feats of endurance, which was strange given that people would obviously assume trickery was involved. His most famous effort was spending 44 days, for no good reason at all, inside a plexiglass box suspended by the Thames. For a short blessed spell in 2003, a whole city united in good-humoured bafflement. Crowds gathered daily. Paul McCartney showed up to see what the fuss was about. A reporter used a remote-controlled helicopter to taunt Blaine with a hovering cheeseburger. It was a simpler, better time.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Five. Illustrations by Rose Wong.
Some negative qualities are sexier than others. Literature groans under the weight of moody, narcissistic and casually cruel characters that readers can’t help but forgive as they’re so damned charming. We tolerate rogues, scoundrels and other assorted miscreants because they’re the most fun to read about, even if they’re going to eventually break our hearts. In non-fiction we even allow ourselves to become infatuated with tiresomely-hip misanthropes, as if being cynical is the same thing as being interesting. Despite our repeated misplacing of affections, though, the one type of character we have trouble warming to is the unsympathetic curmudgeon. The crank. The grouser. The sourpuss. The Jonathan Franzen.
It’s reductive to look too intently for evidence of autobiography in a 576-page novel that’s about everything from marriage to gentrification to the Iraq War, but of the four main characters in Freedom, it initially seemed as if the closest thing to an author surrogate was Robert Katz, Franzen’s portrait of an indie musician suddenly finding himself uncomfortably popular after decades toiling in commercial obscurity. As time has passed, however, and the novelist has become an online symbol of musty, irritable Ludditism for his tendency to fume about social media and make carelessly needling remarks, it’s become apparent that a better candidate is Robert’s college roommate Walter Berglund: a conscientious man deeply concerned about the environment, clinging to values incompatible with the modern world.
Over the course of Freedom, its narrative leapfrogging from character to character to document a span of decades, Walter’s passion curdles into a sore-headed rage which culminates in a televised rant indistinguishable from a breakdown. Like Franzen, Walter has important points to make about overpopulation, overdevelopment and the avian genocide perpetrated by domestic housecats, but he consistently gets in his own way. Even though he’s right, he’s so much of a prig that people resent his warnings. Franzen’s gift for plotting and the lyricism of his words are rightfully praised, but his greatest asset is his compassion for his characters and ability to make readers feel the same. The tiny miracle he performs is that you still care for Walter. He becomes a curmudgeon but remains thoughtful and sincere, capable of kindness and grace. The same is also true of Jonathan Franzen.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Five
Due to a clerical error at the job centre you have been employed as the new Father Christmas. There is little on your CV to suggest that you would be the appropriate candidate to become the personification of Christmas, but perhaps they were swayed by your stated willingness to relocate, you think, or maybe you impressed someone with details of the winter you spent as a teenager working shifts in an Argos stockroom. In any case, at least it’s better than more admin work.
On the sleigh ride towards your first day at the job, you rub your mittens together and ponder the reasons why you’d traditionally be unsuitable for the gig. This, you remind yourself, is called imposter syndrome. Why shouldn’t you be the presiding spirit of Yuletide? The season holds many lessons, and one of the better ones is that Christmas can be anything you want it to be. Apparently that concept now includes your newfound career as festive gift-bringer. You enter the workshop with your head held high, until you realise you have a foot or two on your tallest colleague and that you might seem rude for the act.
The elves are unexpectedly spry given that they are each hundreds of years old, but you are disappointed to learn that their pay has barely risen over that time. This wage stagnation is despite the growing complexity of their work, as wooden toys have been supplanted by all manner of complicated electronic devices. One of your first acts is to encourage the elves to unionise, and although this is admittedly inspired by procrastination – much of your job involves reading thousands of letters and attempting not to nod off – it definitely feels like the right thing to do.
After months of diligent reindeer upkeep, the big day arrives. When you were younger and more sceptical you would occasionally ask your mother how Father Christmas was able to deliver presents to everyone across the world in a single night. She would always give the same gnomic, classic-mum response: time zones. It turns out that she was right. You have far longer than you were anticipating to complete your task, but it is still the most hectic night of your life. There is a certain thrill however in being so busy that you don’t have a moment to think about what you’re doing. You are all determination and instinct, or, more accurately, determination, instinct and an increasing quantity of mince pies.
Barring a few overenthusiastic canines the night is a success, and before you know it your sleigh is gliding onto the roof of your final house. As you swing your legs into the flue of the chimney you reflect on how excited everyone is going to be in a couple of hours. For some reason you’ve been thinking about Christmas more than usual this year. Your new job is partially responsible, but you’ve also been taken with the idea that everyone just needs Christmas a little more at the moment. It isn’t the presents or the food or the parties or the days off work: it’s about having the opportunity to be kind. A friend once told you that she liked Christmas because it was simple and tender, and you believe that’s exactly what we all need right now.
The first thing you notice on exiting the fireplace is that a plate hasn’t been left out for you. While you’ve certainly had more than enough mince pies at this point, it seems a shame that the reindeer don’t have one last carrot to share. At this moment you realise that the room’s furnishings look familiar. This should be unsurprising: it’s your house. You reach into your sack and find that there is one final present. It is red and green and gold, and is bedecked with enough ribbons that you could probably start your own haberdashery if the Father Christmas work eventually dries up. The writing on the tag says “Merry Christmas!”, and in smaller letters underneath this, “Thank you”. As you chuckle to yourself – you’ve gotten very good at chuckling lately – you place the present under the tree. You don’t even need to open it to know what’s inside. The present is, of course, the one thing you’ve always wanted.
What did the elves give you for Christmas?
Originally published in the Oh Comely 2016 Christmas newsletter.
In the introduction to Animal: The Autobiography of a Female Body, Sara Pascoe writes, “I’m not attempting to be the last word in a conversation, I just want to be part of it, and then I’ll sit back and listen some more”. The statement is beautiful but unnecessary: at every turn in the book, the comedian demonstrates an inquisitiveness towards subjects that tend to make people dogmatic. Existing in the space between memoir and scientific non-fiction, Animal explores love, the female body and consent from an evolutionary and sociological perspective, using bracingly honest examples from Sara’s own life. Miraculously, it is somehow also very funny. Sara sat down with us to discuss her work.
Why did you decide to create a book rather than another stand-up set?
In 2014 I was writing a show that was about all of the inherited things that you take into a new relationship, which was happening to me at the time. You have these three kinds of history: your own relationship history, your parents’ relationship and then genetic inheritance, what we’re conditioned to do. I was researching and kept finding things out that I wished I’d learned as a teenager or child, but what’s frustrating about comedy is that if something doesn’t have a punchline it’s difficult to find a legitimate reason for saying it on stage. I was going to do an entirely non-fiction scientific book, and then I thought that although personal stories are utterly subjective – the exact opposite of science – there could be a balance between the two. When we read a book, we filter it through our own lives and experience. The ones we really love feel like an amazing counselling session: you understand things about yourself.
What was the writing process like?
It mutated a lot. I originally had 10 chapter headings which would each be a part of the body. I wanted to do one on the clitoris, the vulva, the brain, but it became a complicated way of organising it. This is what people who want to write a book and haven’t should remember: writing is really messy, you just only see the final version. I wrote 20,000 words on karaoke that was never used, but it was a breakthrough because I realised I had personal things to say, and some of them wouldn’t be relevant but I needed to get them out of my system. With stand-up you always think your fear is the audience saying horrible things. What you realise when you’re alone is that you heckle yourself constantly. The thing you have to battle is your own lack of self-belief, the voice saying you’re not good enough. You have to shout back: “Shut up you! I’m going to do it anyway. You don’t have to read it!”
There’s a lot of equivocation in Animal: you always take pains to mention that it’s just your experience and doesn’t stand for all women. Why was that important?
My hackles rise when I read other people not doing it. We all make the mistake of projecting our subjectivity onto everyone, and in feminism that’s a real problem. It’s meant there are women who feel unsupported by other feminists, especially women who aren’t born into female bodies. I’ve written a book about female bodies, and so I had to make sure I was inclusive. My insecurity was also at the idea that a 40-year-old man would read it. Have I convinced him too? It forced me to ensure my arguments were sound, to stop a passive aggressive guy saying “well, what about this?” I always answered that question for him.
Were you surprised by any responses you received?
I’ve not really dealt with them. This is a helpful thing I’ve learned from stand-up. I thought at some point I would harden, that I’d get used to negative comments, and also positive ones where you’re misinterpreted, but I haven’t. So I’ve really protected myself, otherwise those bad sentences tattoo themselves onto your brain. Once someone tweeted about how I had a grating laugh on panel shows, and now every time I do one, at some point I’ll hear myself laugh and remember – oh, I’ve got a grating laugh. I’ll think I shouldn’t be laughing. I get in my head and that’s a place where you need to do the opposite. The internet is a door you can close, and you can choose what comes through to you.
The book argues that many of our evolutionary instincts that have developed over millennia are unsuitable for the modern world. Do you feel that this encompasses the internet?
Well, the dopamine cycle in the brain goes crazy with messages. Dopamine is essentially a chemical incentive to do things: our brain rewards us for making new social connections because that’s a sign of strength in the tribal group, and it does the same when we learn new information so we can avoid danger and stay alive. On the internet those two things are happening all the time, so we get depletion and need bigger hits. It’s an addiction circuit like any other drug that releases dopamine. Scientists did an experiment with chickens: you can train a chicken so they peck a button a certain number of times and get some corn, but if you make it a random number then the chicken pecks forever because it’s addicted to the process. It isn’t a regular pattern so they can’t walk away, because it never knows when the corn’s coming. That’s the same thing with checking e-mails. When I used to have wi-fi on my phone, every few days I’d get an exciting e-mail about work, but then I was checking my phone every 20 seconds, getting sad at the weekends because nothing was arriving. It’s a personal journey though. I would never tell anyone how to use their phones, especially if you get pleasure from it. It’s only if it starts to wear you down, or you feel depressed and you think one of the things affecting you might be that you’re getting your dopamine from a tiny computer rather than from people.
The end of the line. The final stop. This bus terminates here. There is a place where each of us is heading, a biological inevitability built into our cells. Just about the only sure thing concerning life is that it will end, and this makes cheating death the ultimate defiance of nature: to return from the grave is typically to become a messiah or the monster in a horror movie. Unless you happen to be a revenant, then, you need to get creative in order to escape your certain fate.
While the 19th century fear of premature burial was disproportionately widespread, there were enough real incidents to unsettle. Contemporary newspapers reported that on a July afternoon in 1894, Undertaker Jones and his assistant James were taking a coffin to their hearse. Its occupant Eleanor Markham had died two days earlier, and yet James claimed to hear noises. “You shut your flannel mouth, will you?” Jones told his colleague. “She is alive,” James replied. “Don’t you hear her knocking?” “Let us carry her as far as the hearse anyway”, the undertaker instructed but the family, by now aware of the commotion, ordered the coffin open. The attending doctor told the not-dead Eleanor to calm down. “It is a mistake easily rectified.”
The terror skink
Perhaps in an effort to avoid the limelight that comes from having the greatest name of any lizard, in 1876 the terror skink vanished. Native to a single islet in the Pacific, the reptile was considered extinct until its rediscovery in 1993. Accordingly it’s known as a Lazarus taxon, a species that disappears from the fossil record before reappearing again. In this the skink is not alone. Dozens of species have also faked their own deaths: the cahow was thought extinct for 330 years before 18 pairs were founding nesting on an uninhabited rock, while the Bermuda land snail disappeared sometime in the 1970s before a colony was found in an alleyway in 2014, presumably getting up to no good.
Saint Oran of Iona
European folklore is giddy with undead countesses surprising grave-robber sextons and dead peasants carrying their own coffins through the streets, but few tales conclude as deliciously as Saint Oran’s. Along with companion Saint Columba, the missionary tried to build a chapel on Iona’s ancient pagan burial site, but each attempt failed. A voice told Oran that a living man needed to be buried in the foundations, and so he agreed to be entombed. Days later, though, he stuck his head out of the ground, unhappily declaring “There is no such great wonder in death, nor is Hell or Heaven what it has been described.” Aghast, Columba reburied his companion, exclaiming in Gaelic, “Earth, earth on Oran’s eyes, lest he further blab”.
“Maybe everything that dies someday comes back,” Bruce Springsteen once sang, but then he also said “Go-kart Mozart was checkin’ out the weather chart” so you can’t take him entirely at his word. It’s possible however that he was referring to the wood frog, which withstands extreme winter conditions to return from death. By using glucose and urea as cryoprotectants, the amphibian can survive for months at a time with two thirds of its body frozen. You can argue whether a frog who isn’t breathing, whose kidneys are no longer functioning and whose heart has stopped beating is actually dead or not, but you cannot deny that whoever came up with the term “frogsicle” deserves every zoology prize going.
“I am the first in the East, the first in the West, and the greatest philosopher in the Western world”, read the inscription underneath Timothy Dexter’s statue. He was not a philosopher. The exceedingly eccentric Dexter, who stumbled into fortune after fortune, had commissioned 39 statues of great Americans on his estate and one of himself for good measure. His most infamous action – aside from his 1802 memoir A Pickle for the Knowing Ones (devoid of punctuation and entirely misspelled) – was faking his death to discover how his peers felt about him. 3,000 mourners attended the funeral as Dexter watched from below the floorboards, but he furiously dropped the ruse when his long-suffering wife appeared insufficiently upset.
Just who exactly do jellyfish think they are? What gives them the nerve? Virtually all organisms on this planet are subject to senescence, the deterioration of function over time. If you don’t get killed by a predator, succumb to a disease or tumble drunkenly into a wheat thresher then your body eventually ages and expires. It’s difficult, but those are the rules. They are firm but fair. Several species of the turritopsis genus, on the other hand, have somehow gotten the idea into their jellied heads that it’s acceptable to revert to the polyp stage using transdifferentiation, replenishing their cells and rendering themselves biologically immortal. What do they do with all that extra time? Nothing. Jellyfish can’t even read, the idiots.
“Jason, can you hear me?”, I said to the empty bedroom. “Are you there?”
Apparently I was not. I got up from my seat, plodded to the doorway. “Jason, I am giving you a sign. This is what the sign looks like.” I shook my arms around like I was trying to flag down an ice cream van, but the corridor remained stubbornly empty. “You’re remaining stubbornly empty”, I told it.
I’ve never had much of an aptitude for materialising on cue. Venturing to a new place inevitably results in me getting lost, so why did I think this occasion would be any different? If I struggle to find bus stops and unfamiliar pubs then what chance did I have locating a hallway years in the past? I’d probably overshot the landing. Right now I was somewhere in the late 90s, trying to warn people not to buy polyphonic ringtones.
I checked my bedroom again, just to be sure, and my subsequent sigh was heard by no-one. It all made sense. Of course I’d be an unpunctual time traveller.
When I was young I didn’t dream of becoming a teacher, veterinarian or engine driver. The first thing I ever wanted to be when I grew up was a time traveller. Having now traversed a few decades in slow motion, it’s clear that what I really wanted to be was Dr Sam Beckett, the compassionate, funny, unerringly decent protagonist of Quantum Leap. For a spell, however, my zeal masked my decidedly average scientific abilities. With the misplaced confidence of an enthusiastically encouraged child, I assumed that I’d eventually figure out some way to accomplish my goal.
In time, of course, my priorities shifted, as priorities tend to do, and I left behind my ambitions of moving at will through the fourth dimension. But I was still compelled, again and again, by stories about time travel. As a teenager I was truly haunted by The Time Machine by H.G. Wells; while the book’s sociological viewpoint is uncomfortably archaic, I will never fail to be devastated by Wells’ descriptions of the end of the Earth, millennia in the future. He evokes a world of abominable desolation where the only life remaining is a few monstrous crabs with gleaming eye stalks and ungainly claws, smeared with algal slime. If I could travel, this would be the place I’d go. Forget ancient Rome, the Renaissance or the Belle Époque. I want to see the very end of things.
Like the vogue for neon windbreakers, Quantum Leap stayed in 1992. Before I knew it I was 30, with no romantic partner but a respectable number of jumpers. And then I was cycling through torrential rain. As sodden corduroy clung to my legs and my glasses sundered responsibility for maintaining my eyesight, I cursed myself for not bringing waterproofs. If only I could go back, I thought, and then I did: back to the living room carpet of my youth, back to being splayed in front of the television on a Tuesday night, rapt and inspired. What was stopping me from returning to my dream and actually doing it?
I announced my plot to the rest of the oh comely team. When asked, quite reasonably, how I was intending to achieve the most consequential discovery in human history, I told my colleagues not to worry. I’d figure something out. How hard could time travel be, really? At this point it was a slight concern that my future self hadn’t returned to let me know that I’d sorted it all out, but perhaps he was biding his time. Surely he just needed a signal. I would head home and try to summon him there.
One of the great comforts in life is realising that the universe is essentially binary. Everything either is or it isn’t, and if the question can’t be answered in those terms then you just need to look closer until it can. Time travel, in the popular sense that we imagine it – as a journey from one place (now) to another (the future, the past) – either is or isn’t possible. The fact that I didn’t appear to myself, older, greyer, finally with a new duffle coat perhaps, did suggest that I was going to fail in my venture. It spoke to a broader problem: if time travel is possible, then why have we seen no time travellers? Occasionally a wag on the internet will dig out something that suggests time travel – a man wearing ostensibly anachronistic clothes in a 1930s crowd, another man in early film footage holding what appears to be a mobile phone – but this seems to provide evidence of wilful delusion rather than anything else.
There are competing rebuttals. If we’re able to develop time travel then it’s not a stretch to believe that we’d also develop ways of remaining undetected (hats?). Or maybe no-one has travelled to this specific time before. Or travel to our era isn’t permitted. Or we can only go forwards. The explanation I’ve always subscribed to, although it makes my head hurt, is that if time moves in one direction then we just haven’t looped back on ourselves: time travel in the present can only exist once there is time travel in the future, and we’re not there yet. Beyond the issue of time travellers in our own back garden (or hiding in the shed), the binary question leads to another concern: how long do humans have left? For this, it’s worth considering The Doomsday Argument, if you can look at its name without running away in terror.
The Doomsday Argument is a deliciously titled but contentious statistical theory that makes the case that if all humans are born in a random order then there’s a certain probability that any individual one will appear somewhere in the middle. The total number of future humans can therefore be estimated by how many have already been born. Disregarding the arguments around this argument, it suggests that there is only a finite period before there are no new people, either through extinction or some other event. This certainly pricks humankind’s fundamental belief in the exceptionalism of itself, but considering what we understand of life on Earth, the notion of eventual demise from natural or man-made events is plausible. If time travel technology is possible, then, can we invent it before our own extinction? 10,000 years ago we had only just figured out how to grow wheat. How far can we progress in another 10,000 years, or 10 million? Even if the pace of discovery eases from its current dizzying clip, it’s fair to assume that with a solid stretch of time our scientific understanding will increase substantially. But if we can develop time travel and have enough time to do so, would we even want to?
Unless you happen to be a six-year-old with a fondness for Scott Bakula, time travel probably isn’t high on your list of scientific priorities, and with good reason. Any benefits we might hope for are outweighed by the possibility of accidentally erasing giraffes from history, or worse. The potential for abuse is considerable, while even its most benign applications carry significant risk of unintended catastrophe. It is perilous enough that an entire subgenre of fiction is devoted to cataloguing all of the ways in which time travel is a Very Bad Idea.
The attraction of time travel for a writer is obvious, allowing characters to visit colourful historical periods with our present-day sensibility, winking at the audience while navigating head-scratching paradoxes. It is entirely possible, maybe even probable, that time travel is like a zombie apocalypse – an impossible idea that has struck something inside of writers and audiences because it’s so rich with narrative possibility. A science fiction concept like a colony on another planet is feasible, but perhaps a central facet of our perception of reality is that we’re unable to move through time at anything other than at our own regular, lumbering speed. We are on foot, and it’s not possible to invent a car. In a larger cosmic sense, maybe everything that has ever happened and ever will happen is happening at the same time, it’s just a question of perspective, and as humans who exist in our short, mortal, temporal lives, we are unable to deal with anything except what’s directly in front of us. The implausibility of time travel, and its deleterious effect even if we could wrangle it, may very well be the case, but my overly optimistic argument is that not everything that is possible has been thought of yet.
Time travel fiction is a warning to ourselves, but its enduring popularity also illuminates why we might just end up inventing it (if we can, which we probably can’t.) Scientific developments are often inconceivable until we start conceiving them. It wasn’t until we started writing about satellite dishes, palm-sized communicators and remotely-controlled mechanical hands that we started trying to figure out how to make them real. The modern world boasts thousands of small innovations that first appeared in a movie or a dog-eared paperback: even the way we count down to zero when launching rockets was taken from Fritz Lang’s 1929 film Woman in the Moon – he thought it would be more dramatic if the count went down instead of up. There aren’t always direct causal links, but the effect of fiction on our technological advancement is undeniable.
The debt that science owes to the imaginations of writers and artists isn’t sufficiently acknowledged, but art’s primary influence is more abstract. The first exposure most of us have to science is through science fiction, and the outlandish ideas that become reality are created by people who were once children captivated by those same outlandish ideas. A chance viewing of 2001: A Space Odyssey inspires tomorrow’s spacecraft engineer, or a youthful love of Jules Verne leads to a life as an oceanographer. If someone does invent time travel this century, it’s not far-fetched to imagine that they might have once been a child obsessed with Back to the Future, or Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure, or, indeed, Quantum Leap.
The inspiration I personally took from Quantum Leap wasn’t the one I’d anticipated. The programme didn’t drive me towards a career in theoretical physics; I couldn’t even make it through A Brief History of Time. I was more interested in the storytelling possibilities of someone putting right what once went wrong than I was with the science of the endeavour. The following year, I would decide that I wanted to be a chaos theorist because Jeff Goldblum was one in Jurassic Park. It would be years before I understood that it was the stories themselves I was affected by.
A few days after my declaration to invent time travel I sat in a pub with my friend James, telling him of my plan. “How hard can it be?” I said, my joke ossifying. He asked me what I had in mind, and I realised that I’d been picturing a shoebox covered in tin foil, decorated with a few knobs and wires sticking out. It was a device a child might make, playing pretend. Even the gentleman inventor of The Time Machine had a chair. I’ve got chairs at home, maybe I could use one of those? James asked me if I was just being silly. The thought festered because I was. How far had I come from the six-year-old version of myself?
The sobering, retrospectively obvious reality is that if time travel can be invented then it will not be invented by me. This is okay. Towards the end of Alan Bennett’s The History Boys, the English teacher Hector describes how the finest moments in reading are when you come across an idea that you thought was special and particular to you, and it feels like a hand has come out and taken yours. The best that a writer can hope for, perhaps, is that some of their words might make a journey through the years that they themselves cannot. There are different kinds of time travel. Maybe someone will be inspired by something I write one day, and will make incredible advances that I don’t have the intellectual temperament for. I’m going to tell myself that this is similar to how I’m really good at coming up with band names while having no musical ability.
This is a lovely, comforting idea to reflect upon, but perhaps it also has direct relevance for the problem at hand. We think of everything as being saved and permanent now, but all is ultimately lost to the indifference of time. Shakespeare and Austen and Joyce will vanish as surely as an article in a printed magazine. H.G. Wells himself wrote 12 million words of journalism and fiction and we only truly care about a couple of his science fiction novels. Everything will fall until all that’s left are the monstrous crabs. I’m undo no delusions that my work will be looked on by gleaming eye stalks one day, but perhaps this piece of writing might find a place to weather the storm for a while. It’s binary, after all. Either time travel by humans is possible or it isn’t. If it is possible, then we will either manage to invent it during our brief spell in the sun, or we won’t. If that moment comes, then either these words will have survived until then or they won’t.
My mistake before, yawping out to my bedroom, was the assumption that I would be able to hear my own call, that the theoretical time traveller would be me. Of course it won’t. I was speaking in the wrong place, to the wrong person. So here I try again:
Distant future, can you hear me? It’s Jason Ward. Good afternoon. I’m writing to you from West Norwood Library in London, England (turn left at France, if you find yourself in Wales you’ve gone too far) at 16:10 on 14th November, 2016. I’m in the computer room; you will be able to recognise me as the one who isn’t using a computer, but is instead busying himself in a notebook while wearing an excellent jumper. If you’d like to say hello I am here, waiting for you.
Not for the first Tuesday in your life, you are making circuits of the park in search of an acceptable bench. Your criteria is modest but complicated: the bench must be empty, it can’t have any rainwater on the slats, it mustn’t be too close to the road or a bin or the entrance or the playground or those noisy office workers, and it should provide a decent view of the sloping green that would have entertained your lunch break if only it hadn’t rained earlier. It is not too much to ask for, you think.
The sandwich in your bag provides a sense of purpose that has otherwise eluded you all day, and soon you find a decent bench. As you unwrap tinfoil with one hand you attempt to hold your book with the other. You haven’t read enough for the pages to be evenly distributed, however, and the unread mass pulls the book out from your fingers, whereupon it falls to the ground with a wet thump. Suppressing a sigh, you tuck your head between your knees and look beneath the bench.
Apparently your book has made a friend, as another book sits beside it. You retrieve both items and turn your attention to the interloper. There is little to go on: no dust jacket, no credited author, no blurb, no indication of when it was published or even by whom. You briefly wonder if it’s a prop or a fake book from a furniture store when you locate the title page. The book, it says, is called Life and How to Live it.
With your curiosity piqued and your sandwich liberated from its aluminium prison, you decide to read the first paragraph. To your astonishment, it describes the exact circumstances of your birth. The opening chapter, in fact, covers the period up until your first day of nursery school. The book shakes in your hands as you skim ahead. It reads like a biography but includes details held only by you – sharp, fleeting embarrassments that no-one else would remember and that you can’t forget.
The years sprint by, a blur of anxiety, laughter and inclement weather, until you reach a passage in which you enter a park at lunchtime and look for a bench. As a gasp gets no further than your throat, you slam the book shut like a demonic spirit is about to escape from it.
Maybe this is apt: you have no idea how the book came into existence but feel certain that you weren’t meant to read it. Even your vague awareness of how far through you are seems like life-warping information to possess. How many more chapters are there? How does it end? You push the thought away but others take its place. What if you were to read ahead? Not the whole thing, perhaps, but it might be comforting to see what’s just around the corner, or to find out whether you will get to where you want to go. You scrape a thumb across the breadth of your life, your sandwich forgotten and already starting to stale.
What is the title of the book’s current chapter, and what do you do next?
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Four. To read the original article click here.
It’s surely not a coincidence that our most ebullient rituals occur during the bleakest days of the year. As winter batters its fists upon the windows, tradition is a friendly face at the door, a comforting visitor to help us ignore the darkness outside. Without even noticing, Christmas rites accumulate naturally around us. We listen to the same songs every year as we put lights on the tree, make the same biscuits we always make, watch the same Christmas specials that we could recite by heart. For the satisfaction they bring, we observe these events as closely as if they had been ordained.
Here’s a ritual of mine, then: every December I listen to a different audiobook of A Christmas Carol. An unabridged reading takes around three hours, so I’m able to get through it over a couple of crisp, lonely walks. In keeping with the oral tradition that fomented literature, A Christmas Carol is not a story you’re meant to read, but rather one you’re meant to have read to you. Dickens himself did this for 127 audiences during his lifetime, including his final public reading.
Like a bicycle or the zip on a jacket, we take A Christmas Carol for granted because it works perfectly. Possessing the quality of a fable, the story unfolds with such pleasurable inevitability that it’s difficult to imagine someone actually sat down and toiled over its nouns and verbs, that Ebenezer Scrooge and his misery didn’t always exist somewhere. Not wasting a moment, its elegant narrative works like a machine: there’s a reason why two centuries later we’re still telling the story to ourselves, not just through adaptations but versions starring everyone from Bugs Bunny to Fred Flintstone.
Despite the Bob Cratchit in my head bearing a striking resemblance to Kermit the Frog, however, I am helplessly, joyfully drawn to the original text. I love how its opening line – “Marley was dead: to begin with” – manages to be spooky and witty at the same time. I love that it’s written with a noble purpose and yet Dickens can’t resist showing off how clever he is. Most of all, I love the meaning of the tradition in my life. Every year, wandering the same city as Scrooge once did, I’m provided with a reminder that change is achievable, and that it is always possible to be one’s best, most compassionate self.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Four
They don’t make them how they used to. There’s nothing good on the television. The music teenagers listen to now is terrible. The high street has changed beyond all recognition. We used to have intelligent public discourse in this country. It never snows at Christmas any more. Politicians are unreliable careerists. Where have all the proper movie stars gone. Public transport is a nightmare. Children no longer have any respect for adults. The novel is dead. It rains all the time. It doesn’t rain enough.
The past may or may not be a foreign country, but it is certainly a warmer one. It’s like one of those balmy tropical islands where it always seems to be tee-shirt weather. You never need a jacket in the past. You never have to turn on the central heating. You can always sit outside at a restaurant, day or night. Any struggles you had eventually got dealt with, one way or another, and it was never really all that boring, scary, or difficult. Not like now, of course.
Our faulty memory concerning everything behind us – the tendency to filter out the bad and prosaic and just recall the good – is an entirely natural response to our own ageing. We yearn for how alive we once felt, for how bright the world once seemed. The bus queues, twitter spats and disappointing breakfasts of today can’t possibly compare to some hazy, ill-remembered Arcadia. As we feel nostalgia for a lost midsummer, just out of reach, we project that displeasure onto our environment, but it’s crucial to understand that it isn’t the world that has dimmed, it’s us.
The problem with feeling this way is when those with nefarious ambitions attempt to marshal the sensation for their own aims. Nostalgia is inherently dishonest as an ideological platform, ignoring the reality of both the past and the present. We exist in a country where we’re healthier and live longer, where violent crime and infant mortality have been going down for decades. This doesn’t mean that there aren’t significant challenges facing us this century, but we flatter ourselves to believe that everything has been getting worse. When things are difficult, and they certainly have been lately, we should recognise that a sense of apocalyptic foreboding is not unique to our time.
There’s an obvious appeal to a political candidate who promises to bring back yesterday, but the inescapable truth is that yesterday isn’t coming back, and it wasn’t all that good to begin with, especially if you had the audacity to be born poor, or a woman, or into any sort of minority. When someone talks about taking back their nation, or regaining sovereignty, or making their country great again, they are exploiting a deep, untrustworthy ache, trying to sell us on the idea that if we just accept an oppressive, inhumane agenda then we can go back to a golden age.
Except the golden age never existed. Humanity lives with a permanent sense of decay: you can read the words of people in every stage in our collective history who complain that something has been lost, that life was better just a little while ago, and now it is worse. This is an emotional response instead of an intellectual one, ignoring societal progress in favour of self-indulgent fatalism. We venerate the past because we don’t have to live there, but in our adulation we do a disservice to the present. The past becomes like an ex whose negative qualities you have conveniently forgotten because you’re lonely. And it is never a good idea to get back together with your ex.
Do we want to try to go backwards, back to a place we remember as being better than it actually was, or do we want to forge a path ahead? In A Bright Room Called Day, Tony Kushner’s painfully relevant play on Berlin in the early 1930s, he wrote:
“Pick any era in history, Agnes.
What is really beautiful about that era?
The way the rich lived?
The way the poor lived?
The dreams of the Left
are always beautiful.
The imagining of a better world”
That better world is ahead of us, not behind, and it includes everyone, not just people who happen to share your exact background. We must head in the right direction, together.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Four. To read the original article click here.
I was sitting in a Pizza Hut in the past, waiting to be disappointed. The conversation turned – as conversation inevitably does when I’m around Ben – to Doctor Who. Over a dozen years the programme has become the central tenet of our friendship; I assume he will spend the eulogy at my funeral defending his wrong-headed views on the Eleventh Doctor’s final costume. As we discussed its showrunner Steven Moffat and contributor Mark Gatiss, something peculiar happened: the pair walked in the door and sat down at the next table. The next table in a Pizza Hut. It was as if we had summoned the two most successful writers in television with our hunger for unexceptional Italian food.
This is far from the only incredible thing to have happened to me. Recently I woke up thinking about my first girlfriend, whom I haven’t seen in thirteen years. I spotted her that afternoon as she entered a sandwich shop. Once I lost my wallet on a bus, and a few hours later got on a seemingly different one to find the wallet sitting next to the driver. Of the 8,000 buses in London, I’d gotten back on the same one. When I was a teenager and landlines were still a going concern, I’d frequently pick up the phone to dial a friend, only to hear their voice on the other end of the line. They had called me at the exact moment I had lifted the receiver.
I’m not alone in being predisposed to experiencing uncanny events. In 1973 Anthony Hopkins was due to star in an adaptation of The Girl from Petrovka and spent an unsuccessful afternoon looking for a copy. On his way home he found one discarded on a bench in Leicester Square station. A year later, he spoke to the author George Feifer on the film’s set, learning that Feifer had lent his only copy to a friend who had lost it. It was the same copy. Or there’s the 2007 story of the local Idaho newspaper that happened to print photographs in two articles on its front page: one of a suspected thief caught on CCTV, the other of a sign painter decorating a shop window for Christmas. They were the same man. Or the episode of another rediscovered book: in 1929 the American novelist Anne Parrish visited Paris on holiday, popping into a second-hand bookshop to buy a copy of Jack Frost and Other Stories, which as a child had inspired her to become a writer. To her surprise, she found that the purchase had her name and childhood address written inside. The original copy she’d owned as a girl had somehow made its way across the ocean to the very shop she was standing in.
There is something satisfyingly ordinary about extraordinary coincidences. Life is peppered with them: in a foreign country you meet someone and find out they went to the same first gig as you, or the tiebreaker in the pub quiz is the fact you learned that morning, or the song on the radio seems to apply to your situation perfectly. Such incidents encourage superstitious awe, followed by reasonable explanations. If Ben and I constant talk about Doctor Who in chain restaurants, and Doctor Who writers are as susceptible to settling as the rest of us, then it’s not impossible that we’d end up in the same place at the same time. Likewise, there are only so many buses on each route, and in the days before the internet my friends and I had little to do except ring each other all the time. Maybe I’ve been in the vicinity of my first girlfriend on other occasions, but that day I was primed to spy her in a crowd because I’d thought of her. Even though the odds are still slim, with almost 9,000 hours in every year,sooner or later something spooky is going to happen.
Anything can seem like a miracle if it’s sufficiently improbable, but the truth is that our brains are built to recognise patterns in a world which sporadically throws a bunch of sixes in a row and is complicated enough to appear random. This doesn’t mean however that the eerily aligned can’t be significant. If, say, a swan takes sudden and dramatic flight at the end of a loved one’s funeral and it feels meaningful, then it is meaningful. What’s special isn’t that the deceased is saying goodbye via a random bird, but rather that in a difficult moment you needed comfort and your mind created something to hold on to. It was a sign: you made it. Powered by grief and love, you found your own way through the dark. Surely that’s more precious than esoteric divine intervention?
It is head-spinning to learn that a new romantic partner lived on your street for a year and you never ran into each other, but the true coincidences are of such a great magnitude that we have no way to process them except to take them for granted. Even just for me to be writing these words and for you to be reading them is an event so remarkable that it takes the entire history of the universe to properly explain it. Imagine how many things had to happen for us to be here on this planet, at this time, to be alive, to be aware, to expect to live a long life, to have access to modern medicine and Beatles records and cake, to be able to love whoever we want, to have the freedom to endeavour to make our lives exuberant and worthwhile. These opportunities aren’t shared equally, of course, and there are many, many fights worth fighting. We have barely begun. Although by most measures this has been a terrible year, it is a terrible year in a spectacular world. For us to be here, together, now: it is a privilege.
In 1980, the astronomer Carl Sagan released Cosmos, a book which explored the relationship between science and the universe. While filled with wonder at the scale and complexity of the universe, its most stunning idea comes even before the contents page, in the dedication to his wife: “In the vastness of space and the immensity of time, it is my joy to share a planet and an epoch with Annie.” This notion has taken root inside my head. The thing that astounds, I’ve realised, wasn’t running into Steven Moffat as I was talking about him. It came a dozen years earlier when I met a skinny kid in a stairwell on the second day of university. Yesterday he got engaged and asked me to be his best man. What are the chances of that?
Our generation has been robbed. Technology trends towards the bland, as the curved electronic rectangles in our homes will attest. Before the height of aesthetic enjoyment was pebble-smooth minimalism, however, designers often had another goal: enchantment. Automatons were ancestors of the modern computer, but their creators also delighted in a magic trick: the illusion that they acted of their own will. Even in an age where all human progress is available in our pocket and is boring, automatons can spellbind us into believing, momentarily, that they are somehow alive.
Ctesibius’ water clock
We don’t know much about Ctesibius’ life, but it’s evident that career progression was easier in ancient Greece: his journey from barber to the father of pneumatics is surely the envy of anyone in a rum job. Among the inventor and mathematician’s many contributions were his improvements to the clepsydra, which measured time using the flow of water. As well as making a clock that was the most accurate in the world for 1,800 years (the earliest was found buried in Amenhotep’s ancient Egyptian tomb), he added singing mechanical swans, bells, puppets and best of all, an owl that moved.
It’s unsurprising that Japan is a robotics pioneer given the emergence of karakuri during the country’s Edo period, between 1603 and 1868. For two centuries these mechanised humans were a part of everyday life, performing in theatres and religious festivals and used for parlour tricks at home. Eschewing metal for native wood and coiled whalebone springs, craftsmen built karakuri that fired arrows, climbed stairs or acted out myths. The most popular dolls were chahakobi ningyo: forward-thinking marvels which could deliver a cup of tea to you. Teasmades are less impressive all of a sudden.
Singing bird boxes
The idea of a device that does just one thing is unfashionable today, but from the late 1700s until World War I the must-have item for Europe’s affluent was a tabatière that briefly produced birdsong. Its appeal was in its simplicity: a slider was pushed on an ornate box to reveal a mechanical bird, flapping its wings, moving its head and singing. Thanks to artisans like former clockmaker Blaise Bontems, such automata authentically recreated the songs of different birds from finches to blackbirds to nightingales. Bird boxes were the cousin of watches, but their only function was beauty.
The New Motive Power
In 1853, the Spiritualist John Murray Spear was seized by an idea. He would create heaven’s last, best gift: an electrically-powered messiah. The automaton, called ‘New Motive Power’, or the ‘Electric Infant’, or the ‘Wonderful Infant’, would exalt mankind. Spear was calm about his engineering inexperience: Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin and other spirit ‘Electrizers’ were working through him to build the machine, made of components including magnetic spheres, antennae, zinc batteries and a dining room table. After nine months, a ceremony: allegedly, the Electric Infant trembled, and then moved no more.
Animals are a mainstay of automata: in Jewish mythology, Solomon designed a throne where a menagerie of golden mechanical beasts would greet him and bring items, like if Wallace enjoyed trying to cut babies in half instead of eating Wensleydale. A grisly-yet beautiful 18th-century iteration is Tipu’s Tiger, which was the eponymous Mysore sultan’s prized possession until the British killed him and captured it. The semi-automaton/pipe organ re-enacts the mauling of a European man with accompanying tiger grunts and death wails, and is absolutely mad when you think about it.
The Jaquet-Droz automata
While they’re still made, automatons have been overtaken by the developments in robotics and computing that they anticipated. The form’s apogee was possibly the efforts of watchmaker Pierre Jaquet-Droz and his workshop. His trio of doll automata, finished in 1774, remain astonishing: a draughtsman who can draw four images (blowing his pencil every now and then), a musician who plays the organ, watches her fingers and appears to breathe, and a boy whose 6,000 parts, programmable memory and goose feather quill are capable of writing anything. As an expression of mechanical imagination, they are wondrous.
I always make a show of looking at the menu at my favourite Vietnamese restaurant, but it’s purely for the sake of social decorum. There’s no question about what I want. Number 16: stir-fried chicken with lemongrass, ginger and spring onion. A bottle of Huế lager. Maybe a few summer rolls and a green papaya salad if I have an obliging dinner companion. Essentially it’s less a favourite restaurant than it is a favourite dish; the other items on the menu could just be scraps of old newspaper and some pipe lagging and it would have no effect on my feelings about the place.
An ungenerous and accurate person could find much to judge here about my attitude to living. In the sensible part of my mind, where I keep instructions on erecting tents, my most egalitarian opinions and my online banking password, I’m aware that change is necessary and right and very often tremendous. But still: I hate it. If I was out and spotted change walking down the street, I would pretend like I hadn’t noticed. I would mute change on social media. I would get my book out as soon as change sat next to me on the bus. I would give change an excuse for why I couldn’t attend its birthday drinks. I need to find an completely different way to set text in order to demonstrate how much I hate change. It drives me to italicisation. I hate change.
Accordingly, many aspects of my life are merely variations on stir-fried chicken with lemongrass, ginger and spring onions. For the past nine years I’ve lived not just in London, or in east London, or in Hackney, but in the postcode E5. While I’ve regularly ventured beyond the sunny Victorian terraces of Upper and Lower Clapton, there remains whole chunks of the city that could fall away into the Thames without me noticing. For almost the whole of my twenties my home hasn’t been London, it’s been two and a half square miles, with little reason to try anything else. Why would I need to when I already live in finest patch of Britain’s second finest city? I walk the streets like I own every house, every public building, every Percy Ingle bakery.
This couldn’t last, of course. My desire to escape from my beloved E5 grew over several months, as my relationship with a housemate curdled and I became unable to leave home without running into my ex-girlfriend and her baby. As someone who owns eight identical pairs of shoes and hasn’t been seen out of corduroy since 2002, the thought of leaving was unimaginable until a splendid pal with excellent taste in cushions suggested I move in with her. Now I am south of the river, a place I wasn’t entirely convinced existed until I came here. It is lovely and I was wrong, but the most profound change was something I hadn’t even considered; what has discombobulated me isn’t that everything is different, but that I don’t know where anything is.
My brain, working of its own accord, has spent the past decade constructing an elaborate map of my stretch of the city. It’s like being in a kitchen and knowing the contents of every single drawer. If necessary I can wake up anywhere in east London, dishevelled and confused, and make my way home again. Or I can point you towards a shop to buy hemming tape in the middle of the night. I have strong opinions on the relative merits of local green spaces. I can tell you when’s the best time to visit the Lido. I know where all the good sandwiches are sold. I can provide a comprehensive rundown of all nearby Vietnamese restaurants, assuming you have taste that is decidedly similar to my own. I know the area because I feel connected to it, and I feel connected to it because it is home. Even as parts of E5 have changed beyond all recognition, they still belong to me.
This mundane superpower is lost now, and I’m surprised to discover that I don’t mind. It makes me feel vulnerable to live without a sense of geographical knowledge, but that’s enormously freeing too. For now, at least, every street is an adventure. Who knows who I might meet? Who knows what might be around the next corner? It can’t all be industrial estates. I have no memories here, good or bad. It’s just me, and whatever I can find.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Three.
As you spot your third grey hair in the bathroom mirror, you realise that soon the day will come when you stop counting them altogether. Your initial response to this information is a slightly larger helping of mashed potatoes, but the thought lingers, stowing itself away in a sunless alcove of your head. Even though a quarter-life crisis has always sounded ridiculous, there you are anyway, feeling like you’ve somehow fallen a lap behind.
That night, alone on the internet, you find yourself buying a return ticket to Egypt. You regard the foreignness of your actions as a good omen, lest they be the opposite. Two days and several plane-swelled cuticles later you arrive in Luxor. Unsure of what to do, you locate a bar and lean against a wall for a while. The foolish, broke sensation, you tell yourself, is jet lag. Exhausted and unable to sleep, listening to an indecisive bathroom fan, you hope to awaken in your own bed with familiar boredom to look forward to rather than this strange, new variety. It doesn’t happen.
With no plans for the next week except dodging calls from your parents, you join a bus tour run by your hotel. The driver is brusque and the air conditioner strictly ornamental, but it feels good to be heading somewhere. In the cool, crisp gloom of tomb KV5, you are very almost happy. Hanging back from the sharp-elbowed muddle, you stare at a carving of a crouching jackal and remember your first trip to the British Museum: the expressionless stone faces, the jasper scarabs, your grandparents’ hands holding yours, the slice of carrot cake they bought you in the café. That world is gone, too, you reflect, just limbless statues in your memory now. You don’t notice the tour group turn a corner.
Deep beneath the baking Nubian earth, dread kicks you in the throat. You have been inadvertently abandoned. A lope becomes a sprint, and within minutes you are yelling loudly enough to raise the dead. There is no reply except the echo of your own panic. One wrong turn begets another and you trip into a room not marked on your map. The chamber has been long ransacked, but you – once a child devoted to any sort of story with a secret passage in it – are quick to spot that an apparently sealed doorway is a folly. Sucking in your stomach and hoping for the best, you squeeze into the darkness.
It is difficult to hear what the man says over the sound of your ears rushing with blood, but you do learn that he is, among other things, the High Priest of Ra in Heliopolis, the sixteenth son of Ramesses II, and definitely not dead. Unfortunately you don’t pick up his name, and it passes the point where it’s socially appropriate to ask him to repeat himself. Perhaps it sounds like Merry. In exchange for helping him pass on from this world, Merry says, he will answer any three questions about the universe. His English is excellent for a 3,000-year-old Egyptian prince, you think, but decide not to mention.
Merry fingers an amulet in his left hand, while you wonder if this is some kind of ruse. If it is, then he has found the perfect bait; the unknown has always held an ambrosial fascination for you. When you were of carrot cake-eating age you used to carry around a book that documented famous unsolved mysteries: ghosts and man-eating trees and those two Mexican students who accidentally time travelled in their car. Although most of those stories seemed silly even back then, the promise of answers was endlessly tempting. Is Bigfoot real? Have extraterrestrials visited us? What did Lewis Carroll write in those missing diary pages? Did Spring-heeled Jack actually stalk Victorian London? Mystery was an ellipsis at the end of a sentence. It made the world feel more alive.
You are swamped by the enormity of the prince’s offer. It exceeds the eccentric and touches upon the divine. Is there a god? How do you cure cancer? How did life on this planet originate, and how will it end? Is there a way to be happy, or at least to start feeling like you’re living in the right direction? It is a trap. It has to be a trap. It can’t not be a trap. You are stepping, almost certainly, into disaster. Tremendous relief washes over you as you realise that you mind hardly at all.
What three questions do you ask Merry?
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Three. To read the original article click here.
A throwaway joke in the 2009 film Star Trek may be one of the most sublime questions ever posed in science fiction. Exiled to a remote Starfleet outpost, Scotty meets a version of Spock who has travelled decades back in time. On realising that his visitor is from the future, he asks: “Do they still have sandwiches there?”
What this illustrates so elegantly is the divide between what human life is like now and how we imagine the future to be. For much of the world, sandwiches are the base unit of lunch, so why would there come a time when people didn’t enjoy them? It’s reasonable to assume that technological advances will render parts of our daily lives unrecognisable, but we won’t suddenly stop being us.
Along with the sandwiches, the other item that tends to go missing in these future visions is a sense of humour. At a certain point, it appears that our species becomes awfully po-faced. The consistent repudiation of this notion by Iain Banks is ones of the things that makes his Culture novels so engaging. The books, written pseudonymously under the name Iain M. Banks, depict an anarchist utopian civilisation called the Culture – a post-human society in which its thirty trillion citizens are free to pursue their enlightened, hedonistic lives however they wish. As the post-scarcity Culture is wholly stable, the stories usually involve characters meeting other groups that don’t share the same outlook, leading to dazzling, thrilling, heady sci-fi. The real draw, however, is Banks’s dry Scottish wit: it’s difficult to resist a world in which spaceships have names like Passing By And Thought I’d Drop In, Frank Exchange Of Views and I Blame Your Mother.
For years I mostly stuck to the author’s M-less efforts, but I needn’t have been afraid. I became a convert after gulping down The Player of Games, which focuses on the Culture’s finest game player as he attempts to topple a brutal empire built around a complicated board game where one’s societal rank is determined by proficiency. Like the rest of Banks’s work, The Player of Games bristles with daring invention, but what I appreciated most was the idea that even a thousand years from now, as part of a pan-humanoid civilisation capable of changing genetic make-up on a whim, we would still enjoy board games and give ships names like Of Course I Still Love You.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Three
John Cleese is being harassed in a pub. The comedian – post-Fawlty Towers, pre-long descent into bitterness – has asked an age-old question: “What’s the BBC ever given us for 58 quid?” The answer comes from thirty of the corporation’s biggest stars, Bob Geldof and a golden retriever, as they list everything from drama to children’s television to natural history documentaries. The famous 1986 advert is a useful example of why the BBC is undervalued for its progressive programming. Its position as the world’s oldest and largest broadcaster can provide it with tremendous muscle, as their recent Olympics coverage attests, but this begets a reputation for being monolithic.
It would be unsurprising if one discovered that the word “institution” was invented in 1922 to describe the BBC. The corporation is a cornerstone of national life, with extensive divisions in television, radio and news, and a history that runs parallel with that of broadcasting, It’s telling that journalists have long employed the nickname ‘Auntie Beeb’: matronly and often infuriating, but a member of the family nonetheless. The dictum from its first general manager John Reith was that the BBC was to “inform, educate and entertain” but this utopian (and patrician) goal isn’t necessarily best achieved by venturing to the medium’s outer reaches. Before it was even called the Home Service, the original name of Radio 4 was the National Programme, and this gets to the root of the problem: it’s hard to create something bold when you’re trying to appeal to an entire county at the same time.
Innovation is often the preserve of outside voices, rather than an city-sized cruise ship of a broadcaster established under a royal charter. Its younger, scrappy rival Channel 4 is traditionally seen as the home for Britain’s daring television: on Christmas Day they broadcast the alternative to the Queen’s speech, rather than the fusty genuine article. Channel 4 was explicitly created to demonstrate experimentation and creativity (a remit they have fulfilled admirably, despite a long-standing tendency to confuse controversy with innovation), but it has never had a monopoly on challenging viewers through its content and form. By virtue of its gargantuan proportions and without the need to gain a certain audience size in order to attract advertisers, the BBC often possesses as a freer hand than its competitors to be audacious.
With this in mind, we’ve gathered five examples of the BBC’s most progressive output. This is a personal view rather a definitive ranking: it would be equally possible to populate this list with Cathy Come Home,Q5, Pennies from Heaven, Life on Earth and Pandora’s Box. Or withMagical Mystery Tour, The Year of the Sex Olympics, That Was the Week That Was, The Young Ones and Castaway 2000. Or with The Royle Family,Mathematics: introduction, Monty Python’s Flying Circus…
The War Game (1965)
The BBC doesn’t deserves all of the credit it might get for commissioningThe War Game, as it didn’t actually screen the drama on television for 20 years. Peter Watkins’ documentary-style depiction of a nuclear attack on Britain, produced for the pioneering television play anthology The Wednesday Play, was withdrawn by the corporation after they realised the potency of what they’d created. In a statement in 1965, they said: “When the television service undertook the making of a film on this subject, it recognised the risk that the film might turn out to be unsuitable for general showing. In the event, the effect of the film has been judged by the BBC to be too horrifying for the medium of broadcasting.” Allegedly fearing mass suicides, they suppressed the film from a wider audience. Despite winning an Oscar for Best Documentary Feature, it only received limited public screenings.
When The War Game did eventually make it onto television to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing, it had been superseded by the thematically-similar docudrama Threads, but two decades later the film was no less horrifying. The War Game is part of a rich tradition of British television horror that runs from Nigel Kneale plays such as The Quatermass Experiment and The Stone Tape to terrifying public information films about substations, tractors and broken glass, but its lingering power comes from its pressing message. If nuclear war had broken out in 1965, this is what it would have looked like. It’s what nuclear war would look like today, too.
The history of British television is the history of watching people use telephones. Entertainment programmes from Swap Shop to Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? to Richard & Judy have thrived on the inherent suspense in watching a TV presenter talk to a real person who is away from any producers or guiding influences. It is television at its least polished and most dangerous: usually the results are mundane, but things go wrong just enough that there’s always the possibility that everything might leap off the rails. This dramatic tension was employed to disconcerting effect in the mockumentary Ghostwatch, which uses the technique both as a source of scares and as an unconscious way to vouch for the truth of what it’s depicting.
If you happened to be flicking through channels on 31st October, 1990 and missed the start, there’s a chance that you might have been taken in byGhostwatch, at least for a little while. The one-off drama presents itself as a live programme about a haunted house in Northolt, cutting between the house itself and a BBC studio which becomes an unwitting target for the poltergeist. The programme’s uncanny reproduction of live broadcasting caused some viewers to believe they were watching the real thing. Due to the controversy caused, it has never been repeated on British television, which made it even more potent in the time before physical media and the internet. For years Ghostwatch festered in the minds of those who saw it, and it is still genuinely distressing decades later. Where Orson Welles’ infamous War of the Worlds radio play used fictional characters throughout, this is unsettling because it uses actual BBC presenters Michael Parkinson, Sarah Greene, Craig Charles and the late Mike Smith as themselves. The programme it pertains to be is close enough to the formulaic that if you squint it’s almost possible to believe.
Blue Jam (1997)
From the very first line, radio programme Blue Jam lets its audience know what they’re in for: “When you sick so sad you cry, and in crying, cry a whole leopard from your eye. Sad mammal.” Before the world lost him to the snail’s pace of film-making, Blue Jam was devised by Chris Morris after the draining experience of creating news parody Brass Eye, which had drawn the hysterical attentions of MPs, the ITC and crowing tabloids. By design, the programme was under the radar, broadcast on Radio 1 at one in the morning. Morris originally lobbied for it to be on at 3 a.m., explaining to a journalist afterwards: “I thought that was about the latest time of day that could be late without being early. It’s a sort of – really it’s an autumnal, middle of the night show. You need to be as far from light as possible.”
Blue Jam feels like a fever dream, as stretches of ambient downbeat music are alternated with some of the most disturbing, surreal things ever said on national radio; Morris himself described it the effect as “spooky-woozy.” That it also manages to be hilarious – and surprisingly moving in the case of its desolate monologues about a confused, deeply depressed man – is an achievement. After three series, it eventually transitioned to television for the Channel 4 programme Jam, but the latter couldn’t manage to be as experimental, thrilling and bleak as the show that spawned it. Something was lost: the false sense of security it lures you into, as you start enjoying the music and forget what exactly it is you’re listening to. That’s when Morris gets you.
Marion and Geoff (2000)
When he isn’t trying to sell us Crunchy Nut Cornflakes or Fairy Liquid, Rob Brydon is one of the most innovative comedians working on television today. Best known for his warm portrayal of Uncle Bryn in Gavin and Stacey, Brydon is unsung for his commitment to unusual comic forms: the dark anthology series Human Remains with Julia Davis, his Larry Sanders-like satire of comedy panel shows Annually Retentive (which was simultaneously an actual panel show), his vocal contribution as the eponymous film-maker in the stock footage-mining Directors Commentary, and alongside Steve Coogan as bickering versions of themselves in Michael Winterbottom’s improvised sitcom The Trip. Some of these worked better than others, but they all were linked by a shared vision of presenting comedy on television by less traditional means.
The high-water mark of Brydon’s career remains his breakout role inMarion and Geoff, which he also co-wrote. Brydon plays the only on-screen character: Keith Barret, a divorced taxi driver struggling to put his life back together after his wife Marion leaves him for her colleague. The programme is constructed from recordings of Barret filming himself in his car, something he does for reasons that are never quite explained. A good man in denial of his ghastly situation, living with unwavering optimism and offbeat good humour, Barret is a successor to the lonely monologists of Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads, but the use of his car-bound camera anticipates a later culture of relentless self-documentation. The simplicity of the format is what allows Marion and Geoff to be so casually devastating: it doesn’t need big scenes involving lots of characters because it can show a man hugging a pair of stuffed toys in a car and make you cry.
All Aboard! The Canal Trip (2015)
If you want to really learn something about a person you should describe the concept of All Aboard! The Canal Trip to them and see how they react. Filmed in real time, The Canal Trip is a two-hour documentary of a narrowboat inching its way from Bath Top Lock to the Dundas Aqueduct. The camera barely moves, there is no voiceover and no narrative to speak of, and occasionally visual information about the canal’s history will appear on screen. There is clearly little room for equivocation: either this is intriguing or the most tedious-sounding programme ever made. There has perhaps never been an exclamation mark as potentially mocking as the one that appears in the title.
The Canal Trip‘s concept isn’t native to the BBC – it is inspired by the work of the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation, who have drawn huge audiences by showing exhaustive footage of nine-hour train journeys, tidal currents, salmon fishing and a jumper being knitted over twelve hours – but in a culture that exists in fast forward it can only be daring. The programme appeared as the centrepiece of 2015’s BBC Four Goes Slowseries, and its popularity led to a Christmas Eve sequel depicting a sleigh ride and another showing a bus journey in the Yorkshire Dales. It is boring, but that’s also the point: once you adjust to its unusual rhythm, The Canal Trip has a hypnotic quality that can inspire a profound sort of beauty. It allows space for your mind to wander, casting you an active participant in the experience. If approached in the right mood, the programme can make you think more about canals than any sensible documentary possibly could.
Originally published on White Noise. To read the original article click here.
You’d always assumed that Desert Island Discs was purely theoretical. The unsmiling men that greet you upon your exit from the recording studio, however, appear to have other ideas. As you are sackclothed and bundled into a series of vehicles, each echoing more than the last, you conclude that accepting an invitation from that friendly radio producer was probably a mistake. You finally pass out in what you are pretty sure is a cargo hold, awakening an indeterminate amount of time later to the sound of waves crashing against your terrible Wednesday morning.
Tropical solitude. It had sounded like such bliss. Sand against your shoulders, a light orchestral serenade, herring gulls, your arm squinting out the sun. As ever, life in your dreams looks brighter than your life really is. The sweltering atmosphere waits for rain that won’t rain. There is little to see and even less to do. Worse still, it’s embarrassingly evident that your choices were ill-advised: the crate of Easter eggs you’d requested as a luxury are melting, while the book of short stories by the Edwardian satirist Saki contains scant useful information on desalinating seawater. At least there is the portable record player, you think, but six recordings and 22 minutes later you regret opting for quality over quantity. Tubular Bells Part One alone is 25 minutes long. You could have learned to love it. Or why not American Pie? It goes on for about half a day. You suspect that your future holds little except malnourishment and onanism. “I’ve made it through worse scrapes than this,” you remark to a crab that isn’t really paying attention, but no examples spring to mind.
As you daydream about Kirsty Young and how you will sue her, a throbbing in the distance announces the arrival of Trouble. Three black dots menace the horizon for the whole four minutes and 34 seconds of Disco 2000, before revealing themselves all at once to be a trio of skiffs. Their crews, shimmering in the afternoon, are armed no matter how much you pretend otherwise. “This isn’t going to end well,” you tell a pile of rocks. It’s unclear whether it agrees.
After the Trouble, before the endless wait to come, between handfuls of slurried chocolate goop, you reflect on how you’ve been abusing the word ‘unspeakable’. Nothing you have done in your life has been truly unspeakable until now. The bodies. The burnt lips. The things you just did. You wouldn’t even know where to begin. Wiping the blood off the player, you put on the final record, grimly satisfied that you brought the right song for the moment after all. The needle finds the groove while you stare at nothing in particular and wait for rain that won’t come.
What song do you listen to and what do you do next?
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Two. To read the original article click here.
Just because something is a pencil sharpener with I WENT APE AT BRISTOL ZOO printed on it doesn’t mean that it can’t also be a profound human gesture. A souvenir’s value is not the object itself but what it represents: a symbolic memento of an experience in your life, passed on to someone you care about. The British, naturally, embrace kitsch tat, but most cultures have their own version of the tradition. In the Philippines it is called pasulubong; the word translates, quite beautifully, as “something meant for you when you welcome me back”.
Sticks of rock
If someone invented rock today, they’d go sharply out of business. The appeal of the boiled sugar confection isn’t its mintiness, but the evocation of summers long faded; you’re not buying toffee, you’re buying candy-striped nostalgia for someone else’s past. As your teeth complain and before disappointment sets in, you’re transported briefly to an era described by Graham Greene in – fittingly – Brighton Rock: ‘With immense labour and immense patience they extricated from the long day the grain of pleasure: this sun, this music, the rattle of the miniature cars, the ghost train diving between the grinning skeletons under the Aquarium promenade, the sticks of Brighton rock, the paper sailors’ caps.’
The Last Supper (now in 3D!)
Devotional artefacts are among man’s earliest souvenirs, appearing as far back as ancient Mesopotamia, but more compelling than votive candles and ritual articles are the items of gaudy religious merchandise that share more in common with plaster-cast Eiffel Towers than with rosaries. There’s something endearing about an object that aspires towards the spiritual but lands upon gloriously cheap, be it a gold chalkware statue of the Last Supper, an unreliable clock in the shape of a temple or an anatomically confused nativity set. These souvenirs avoid offence by how silly they are – who wouldn’t be thrilled to have an aunt return from a holy site with a winking hologram Jesus?
If someone knocked over the internet and austerity wiped out the country’s remaining libraries it would be possible to entirely reconstruct the sum of human knowledge through souvenir tea towels. From breeds of terrier to the rules of field hockey to German wildflowers to the cafés of Anglesey, there is nothing we know as a species that we haven’t put on a linen rectangle. We are bewitched, drawn to kitchenware that brightly imparts information: at this exact moment in a RSPB gift shop in Dungeness a retired couple are buying a tea towel that explains Balkan proverbs, another that depicts the 31 sea areas of the Shipping Forecast and a third that lists every person you’ve ever kissed.
The main problem with gift-giving is that there’s just so much of it: over a lifetime you might have to come up with more than 150 presents for a parent, someone with their own income who can buy the things they want already. Laziness is always tempting when faced with a never-ending obligation, and even more so when a loved one makes the mistake of mentioning that they enjoy something. In essence, thimbles are interchangeable with keyrings or porcelain elephants or any other tchotchke: if you say you like one once you’ll receive it as a souvenir for the rest of your life, thimble after thimble until they bury you, handfuls of thimbles scattered into your lonely, embroidery-primed grave.
As the once reigning Spanish souvenir of choice you’d think that Britain’s streets would be teeming with these asinine knick-knacks, but today they’re rarely spotted. While donkey sanctuaries receive disproportionately large contributions compared with other charities, their shorter, sombrero-wearing cousins have fallen from fashion. This is a shame: Though they were always tacky, in the 1970 s they also stood for the working class’s newfound ability to engage in foreign travel. That this travel was mainly to Benidorm was beside the point. For a short time, to disembark from an aeroplane with sunburn and a straw donkey under your arm was to know freedom.
Like the text messages of an excited teenager, Oxford Street is riddled with emojis. In cushion form, they smile, cry, blow kisses and wink with tongues hanging out from seemingly every other shop window on the wretchedly busy thoroughfare. Unless emojis have gained pillowy sentience and are in the early stages of revolution, they are emblematic of the modern souvenir trade. As foretold by runes discovered in the basement of M&M’s World, souvenirs, like everything else, have failed to escape homogenising globalisation: instead of a cheaply-made teddy dressed like a Beefeater, you can now buy a cheaply-made cushion dressed like an ideogram from your phone.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Two. To read the original article click here.
I built a monster, and I can’t tell you why. Now it is eating me whole. I don’t know when, or even how it started. It’s like when you hear a noise and you realise it has been there for some time already without your brain registering the fact. I must have created it, this buzzing fridge in the background of my life, because it’s sitting in my draft folder right now, but I can’t remember any of the thought processes that led me here. I called it THE DOOMED MEN OF EDINBURGH, and I don’t understand the reasons for that either.
When the letters on my keyboard finally fade, Ctrl, C and V will be the first to go. My habit, unslakeable and undimming, is this: whenever I read something I like or find particularly interesting, I put it into this draft e-mail. It could be anything: an inspired word pairing in a novel, a paragraph from an online article, a line of dialogue, a comment on a Facebook invitation, some wisdom from a song lyric, a sentence I thought of on a bus, a pub name I misread, a made-up portmanteau I mumbled into a bath. In it all goes to a document that has no order, no way to distinguish where anything came from, no path to navigate through at all. It is like something a serial killer would create if he was fond of television criticism and the writing of Sarah Vowell. Currently the e-mail is 62,348 words long and getting larger every day; my abiding fear is that it’s going to turn out to be my life’s work.
I’ve been adding to this literary labyrinth in the same unthinking way that I brush my teeth, put the recycling out on Thursday nights and keep my cupboard stocked with excellent biscuits. The importance it has assumed is unconscious: it is a thing I do in order to exist in the world. It hasn’t been until recently that I’ve started to pull my behaviour apart. With any original intent long since forgotten, what am I getting from the endeavour? It’s a physical representation of what humans do – stuffing thoughts into their head, most doomed to entropy – but has no practical application. What is the value in obsessively saving sentiments that I probably won’t look at again? And why is it an e-mail, an article of communication, when its only true recipient is me? Maybe an explanation is buried deep within the text, if I could only somehow make my way in with a flashlight.
An overly generous comparison would perhaps be with the post-war painter/ ambulatory drinker Francis Bacon. His studio, posthumously shipped paintbrush by dried paintbrush to Dublin, was a living document of his artistic process, with molehills of ephemera and paint splattered up the doors and walls. As if ransacked by his own mind, the ground heaved with news clippings of boxing matches, empty champagne bottles, leaves torn from library books and medical textbooks, ripped up corduroy trousers, photographic stills of that nurse from Battleship Potemkin with her gaping mouth and her bloody, broken glasses. My own peculiar digital scrapbook, while not leading to the literary equivalent of haunted triptychs and screaming popes, works in the same manner: an unsifted depository of the things that fuel me creatively. Everyone has their own cluttered mess, most people’s just don’t happen to be literal.
One day I suspect that I might simply grow out of my incessant aggregating, much as a child will grow out of a toy that meant the world to them the day before, without warning or ceremony. When this happens, the e-mail will spend the rest of its days waiting patiently in my draft folder, all usefulness diffused, but that doesn’t negate the complicated, unquantifiable worth it has brought to my life as a writer and a reader. What matters isn’t what I ultimately do with it but the act of collecting in the first place. The e-mail I will never send, addressed to no one, exists to provide me with the opportunity to read something and think: “This is meaningful. This is worth saving from the oblivion of my own memory. So I am going to keep it. Yes.”
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Two. To read the original article click here.
Noah Ward owns a suspicious number of books for someone who can’t read. In his defence, he is seven months old and only recently got around to learning how to laugh. How can one be expected to read, Noah might argue (if he were capable of speech or standing without assistance), if one is unable to laugh at the words?
My dashing young nephew is unaware of the commitment I have made to his future, which is probably for the best as that commitment is to thoroughly indoctrinate him. The nefarious plan is simple: for every special occasion in Noah’s life I will give him a book. Birthdays, Christmases, rainy bank holidays, bouts of chickenpox. Maybe even Whitsun if he’s lucky. If all goes well he’ll eventually be able to swim in his collection like a miserly Scottish mallard. I’m aware that it’s likely he’ll love this at first and then hate it, but hopefully he’ll eventually come back to it again. If he doesn’t then at least Dumfries’ charity shops will remain well stocked.
I knew instinctively what the first book would be: Letters to Anyone and Everyone by Toon Tellegen. The Dutch writer and poet has written more than 300 animal stories across a quarter of a century, and it’s surely a crime that his work is virtually unknown here. Letters to Anyone and Everyone covers all manner of peculiar correspondence: an elephant writing to a snail (“May I invite you to dance with me on top of your house? Just a few steps?”), a sparrow writing to a crow (“I think you squawk beautifully. Sadly, but that’s what makes it so beautiful”), a squirrel writing to a letter (“It feels very strange to be writing to you, because you get bigger as I write”), a mole writing to himself (“Dear Mole, Yours sincerely, The Mole”). Funny, whimsical and surreal, Tellegen’s stories reveal themselves to be full of great longing and melancholy. They are striking in their simplicity: there is only one forest, one river, one ocean, one oak tree.
I chose the book not just because it contains the precise kind of magic common to the finest children’s literature, but because it depicts a world that venerates cakes and letters and dancing and kind gestures. A world where it’s okay to be sad, and okay to be happy, too. A world that Noah might seek for himself one day, when he is older and finally masters compound sentences and waving.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-Two
I was waiting for a train, desperately trying to think of something that wasn’t terrible. My phone – that usual bulwark against darkness and commuting – stayed in my pocket: by any measure we’re living through a tumultuous year, but at that moment the news seemed so unrelentingly grim that I couldn’t even check twitter without getting depressed and teary. I wanted to imagine something, anything, that had some delight in it, that wasn’t defined by hatred or uncertainty. Just one good thing.
As the train pulled up to the platform, it came to me: I started thinking about how much I enjoyed it when I poured water from the washing up bowl into the sink, and the bowl floated around like a boat. It was small and silly, but I felt better for the mental image. It reminded me that even when times were difficult, my days were still dotted with moments that brought me pleasure. Although their slightness made them easy to overlook, that was also the very thing that made them special. For a brief interlude, instead of fretting about what was happening in the world, I was overwhelmed by thoughts of green ink, independent bookshops, David Attenborough, kissing under streetlamps, and the way sunblock smells precisely like summer.
I knew that I didn’t want to let it go. I could either forget about these fragments or try to share them. By the time I arrived at my destination I’d decided to opt for the latter. There was only one meaningful home for this, of course: if Oh Comely stands for anything, it’s that there is joy in liking things. Since then I have tweeted every day at 13:00, and will continue to do so until someone changes the account password and confiscates my mouse and keyboard.
In writing these notes, the greatest pleasure – other than honing my own wonder-noticing skills – has been relinquishing the space to friends, family, readers, members of the Oh Comely team, or anyone else with a good suggestion. What’s encouraging about it is that the same seemingly idiosyncratic concepts keep coming up: I like the idea that there are all of these splendid things in our lives that feel incredibly specific, but are actually universal. In a country that has felt alarmingly divided of late, it’s cheering to know that at least we all enjoy remembering that we’ve made a cup of tea, and finding that it’s now at the perfect temperature.
I’m fairly certain that I’m the only person to have ever been excited by Deuce Bigalow 2: European Gigolo. A decade ago, in the provincial cinema of my provincial youth, I walked past a poster for the rightly maligned comedy and spotted something incredible. Lurking in the middle of the credits block was the name of its screenwriter: Jason Ward. It just so happened to be my name too. Through some glorious quirk of the universe I shared my appellation with the man behind a movie Roger Ebert called “aggressively bad, as if it wants to cause suffering to the audience”. It almost goes without saying that this was the highpoint of my young life.
I shamelessly dined out on the story of my Hollywood doppelgänger until I became a freelance writer. Besides myself and the wayward film-maker, I quickly discovered that there were many other Jason Wards who also made their living from writing. There was the Jason Ward who edits a popular Star Wars news site; the Jason Ward who writes speculative historical fiction; the Jason Ward who contributes to Thai travel magazines; the Jason Ward who self-publishes terrible sex advice books; the Jason Ward who writes spy thrillers mostly about how stressful airports are. The internet is lousy with us: by my best estimate there are about 15 Jason Wards currently working as writers, without even factoring in the prop comedian, wedding DJ or Canadian ice hockey player who also share the name.
It took me longer than it should have to realise this was going to be a problem. As a freelancer, your livelihood depends not just on the quality of your work but on people knowing who you are, or at least being able to find you. This is most important at the outset of a career, when your e-mail appearing in someone’s inbox is probably the first time they’ve heard of you. If a freelance writer with an unexceptional name hasn’t yet written for any significant publications, then an editor’s rudimentary internet search is unlikely to turn up much that will vouch for them.
This painful, retrospectively obvious fact – that success in a freelance writing career depends on factors beyond the actual writing – wasn’t evident until I won mentoring sessions as a reward for coming second in a critics’ competition (truly the journalistic equivalent of Monopoly’s ‘second prize in a beauty contest’ card). Moments after shaking my hand, my new mentor pulled out his laptop, opened his search engine and typed in my name. Nothing. He clicked the second page. And then the third. It wasn’t until the fourth page of results that he finally found me. “If you really want to make a go of this,” he said, as the white-hot embarrassment seared itself on my brain forever, “then you can’t be behind a racehorse trainer on Google. You have to take it seriously.”
Up until that point, taking it seriously had meant the effort I put into my work. For some foolish reason I believed that to promote oneself was gauche and inessential. If you build it, they will come, right? The truth, though, is that they won’t come if they don’t know you’re out there, and they especially won’t come if they’re liable to confuse you with the author of What He Really Desires: Finally a book where men can learn about women’s sexual desires (sic).
The mentoring session felt like a trip to a particularly righteous dentist, but only an outsider was able to see what I could not. The way I could respect his insight was by accepting the uncomfortable feedback rather than grasping for excuses. Even if I’d been the only Jason Ward in the world, I was still being lazy. My problem wasn’t having a relatively common name but the way I was presenting myself. The onus was on me to take initiative: I ditched the flimsy publishing platform I’d been using for free, bought a simple, searchable address, and spent time learning SEO and building a proper website of my own. Looking beyond my site, I made tweaks elsewhere: I streamlined my online presence, realising that business networking sites such as LinkedIn had brought me little but years of spam. It wasn’t about selling myself at every juncture, but giving thought to the experience a potential client might have after receiving a pitch from me, or reading something of mine that they liked. I needed to make things as easy as I could for them. My Twitter bio still contained a joke, but at least it was clear what I did and who I was.
These actions didn’t propel me to giddy freelancing stardom, of course. There are still many other writers, most of whom aren’t even called Jason Ward. There is even the film journalist called Jason Wood who regularly contributes to the same publications as me. (I wrote 54 entries for the book Movie Star Chronicles: three of them are mistakenly credited to him.) And I’m still only on the second page of Google results for ‘Jason Ward’. It’s a start, though: if you type in ‘Jason Ward writer’ sometime, the first thing you’ll see is my website. A small accomplishment, yes, but enough small accomplishments make a career. Take that, Jason Wards.
Published in IPSE Magazine Issue 56. To read the original article click here.
On a street that you’re never able to find again you enter a shop with no windows. Over the years to come you will often think of it in idle moments: half-asleep on a fading couch in your middle age, you will try to persuade yourself that you imagined the whole afternoon; some years earlier, staring at a pre-packaged sandwich, bored and lonely in a mini-supermarket, you will almost believe you might rediscover its location if you could only take the right turn. Neither conclusion quite convinces you.
The ostensible reason for your visit is a friend’s birthday, one close enough to give you an excuse to kill time in a shop, but not so close that you actually need to buy anything. You experience a dull, familiar ache as you fail to discover what you’re looking for, but as you start to leave you spot a brooch that could have been made for you. Even though the price is a little high, you buy it anyway.
At home you open its box to find a note. It says that the brooch has unusual properties, which are that it grants you the ability to re-experience (but not alter) any three-hour period from your life. The note also points out that although the brooch will never stop being a brooch, it can only facilitate such transport twice. Years of fake chumminess from smoothie bottles has made you rightfully wary of talkative packaging, but you decide to give it a go. “Take me back three hours into my past!” you announce with a flourish of your hands, and the brooch complies. You relive the aimless wandering along side streets, the time spent in the shop, the wait at the bus stop, the walk home, the kettle boiling, the tea that follows, and then there’s a jump and your hands are raised in the air in an act of half-hearted divination.
The amazement you feel is swiftly replaced by anger as you realise you’ve wasted 50 per cent of the only magical opportunity you’ve ever had reliving events which have literally just taken place. This anger is succeeded by nausea, which is then succeeded by excitement. You still have one more go. It’s a true privilege: you are able to experience absolutely any three hours again. You consider saving this second journey for a rainy day, but it’s raining now. You tell yourself that you can always return to the shop and buy another brooch tomorrow, after all.
What three hours do you choose?
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-One. To read the original article click here.
To have an adventure is to go somewhere you’ve never gone before. Historically, this was taken in a literal sense – foreign climes were where all the exciting stuff was kept – but the notion no longer applies. With travel as achievable as it has ever been, going abroad isn’t enough: by its very definition, a holiday isn’t an adventure. To really have an adventure, then, isn’t about exploring the new, but risking something of yourself to do so.
Deciding this, admittedly, was rather convenient, given that my passport has expired and it’s reasonable to assume I’d fare poorly against a gang of river snakes. I stand by my belief regardless. On being asked to conceive of an adventure I could undertake, I thought about what scares me. Aside from my undying terror of giant squid, my fears – like most people’s – are mundane: social awkwardness, romantic rejection, embarrassment, strangers with nametags. As I pondered what could possibly combine these perils, I understood with an immediate, sinking clarity what I needed to do.
“Oh Comely only wants me to go speed dating,” I’d tell anyone who’d listen. “Doesn’t that sound excruciating?” Not for the first time in my life, I was lying to the universe. Despite my protestations, I was quietly curious about organised singles events. While speed dating has always seemed like a very particular type of horrible, it had started to hold an allure beyond morbid fascination. At a certain point, without me even noticing, being single had become a defining part of me. It’s not that I didn’t meet lovely people, but I hadn’t found the thing that worked yet. In my lowest moments I felt like Ioan Gruffudd searching for survivors at the end of Titanic, yelling “Is there anyone alive out there?” into the black Atlantic. It’s a lot of pressure to put on an evening below a pub in east London.
Once I’d chosen to make the leap and book a speed dating ticket, it seemed fitting that I was overwhelmed by options. Should I go to the night where you each bring a favourite book? The one where you use 18th-century fans to flirt? The one where you play Lego? The one where you don’t speak and just spend two minutes looking in your date’s eyes? Each sounded more terrifying than the last. After concluding that the world doesn’t contain enough alcohol to equip me for intimate karaoke duets with strangers, I opted for Last Night a Speed Date Changed My Life, which promised, mercifully, to “not rewrite the speed date rule book.” I spent the following week beset with the low-level anxiety of a cat, convinced that death lurks in every unexpected rustle.
The thing they don’t tell you about speed dating is that most people don’t actually go alone. The clue, perhaps, is in the discounts that encourage dual bookings, but I was disheartened to enter a room already whirring with conversation. Unsure of whether it was appropriate to approach other attendees, I composed imaginary text messages, followed by real ones to my friend Hannah – “They all think you’re a cop!” she kindly suggested. The silt of nervousness had barely settled before I was commandeered by the host, who showed me around in a courteously intended gesture which certainly didn’t make me look conspicuous.
Once everyone had bought a drink and hurriedly gulped a percentage of it, we took seats and the rules were explained. Each date would last three and a half minutes, after which the 24 women would remain seated as the 24 men rotated. A soft trilling announced that we’d started, instantly followed by the cacophony of 24 simultaneous conversations.
This was the moment I’d been excitedly dreading. Two dozen strangers with slips of paper on which to write their thoughts about me, who had paid actual money to evaluate my potential as a possible romantic partner. It was really happening, and it was… absolutely fine. Of course it was. People are people: some are dull, some are cold, one or two are splendid, and everyone else is nice enough. My fear that speed dating would be fundamentally awkward was accurate, but it was also a reassuring collective endeavour. It was clear that if we didn’t throw ourselves into proceedings the experience would be harrowing, and so everyone made a tangible effort to act friendly and engaged. For three and a half minute sittings, we were trying to be our best selves. My best self, unfortunately, is much like my average self, in that he is incapable of retaining pens. Half a dozen dates in, I was already forgetting people, and my notepaper was unhelpfully blank. Which one was the nervous teacher? Who liked climbing? Who spent the date talking about how much she liked the previous date’s glasses? The presence of groups further complicated things, as I made my way through lawyers, film production friends, and the members of a triathlon club.
I was still questioning if this fogging memory signified something when I shook hands with Olga.
She did not say hello, or ask me how I was doing, or how my weekend had been. Instead:
“When do you remember first rebelling against your parents?”
Oh boy. She’d brought questions.
I obliged, and she reciprocated. Her story was funny, sweet, disarming, and two minutes long. We changed subjects. I was telling her about Welsh folklore when we heard a familiar trilling. She looked mortified. “I’ve wasted all our time!” she said, and asked if she could buy me a drink during the break. I attempted to appear like someone for whom this question is completely typical, and said yes. I do not remember the dates that followed.
Olga led me to the bar and we spent ten minutes making each other laugh. She was direct and confident. She was a pleasure to talk to. I wondered, momentarily, whether I should be circulating. It wasn’t an option. At some point a thought crept into my mind, one which said this is the thing that works, and I ignored it in the hope that it wouldn’t go away.
The most apt comparison to speed dating is the Eurovision Song Contest, where the Hi-NRG dance numbers all bleed together by the end. I still put in effort during the second half, but found myself repeating answers I’d given an hour or two before, as early witticisms ossified into rote material. Perhaps this would have happened anyway: how many new people do you usually talk to everyday? Eventually there was one more date – Muni, who planned to go on a race with her dog, and is surely my best friend in another universe – and the night was over.
As a social experiment it was fascinating to take part in something with an explicit romantic purpose. With just one acknowledged goal, our senses were quickly honed, and we soon became ruthless. While many attend gigs, clubs and historical walking tours with the idea of meeting someone at least partially on their mind, here the pretext of a separate activity was stripped away. This suggests the exact structure of such an event is ultimately trivial, a high-concept distraction to sell tickets. What speed dating offers is a concentrated version of life: a single person meets other single people, hoping one will stand out from the crowd. This rarely happens, but its rareness is what makes it meaningful.
I visited the clothes rack and retrieved my jacket. Some people were still sitting at their last tables, or had returned to earlier ones. There was a tap on my shoulder. Olga. She pursed her lips in a mock frown.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she asked, and we both knew what my answer would be.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-One. To read the original article click here.
When the grey, shining future arrives, production designers working on period films set in our present will need a steady supply of jam jars. As modish receptacles for cocktails, they are as ubiquitous in contemporary bars as mismatched vintage furniture, exposed brickwork and excessive facial hair. Cocktails are subject to the whims of fashion more than any other beverage. A glass of wine will ultimately always be just a glass of wine, but a cocktail is a living document of its era. One that gets you really drunk.
The names of cocktails can be as flashy as the beverages themselves, but attempting to discern their origins is as unwise as drinking a whole blue pitcher in Wetherspoons by yourself. Given that the original definition of a cocktail specifically described an Old Fashioned, it’d be understandable to assume that the name comes from its age, but this isn’t quite accurate. It refers instead to the drink’s important lineage: rather than being related to other cocktails, the Old Fashioned counts 16th-century English punch as its cousin. The Old Fashioned is so old-fashioned it almost isn’t a cocktail at all.
The Blue Blazer
Marketing fizz aside, the history of spirits is largely one of distillers rather than individuals. This separates them from cocktails, which by virtue of being concocted from existing items are usually the efforts of one individual who may be lost to time. In the case of the Blue Blazer, the first flaming cocktail, that individual was “Professor” Jerry Thomas, the 19th-century bartender who literally wrote the book on the subject with his seminal Bartender’s Guide. The American golden age of cocktails would later be curtailed by Prohibition, but for a time it was shepherded by brash showmen like Thomas, foolish or brilliant enough to try setting drinks on fire.
Cocktails – with their numerous ingredients and complicated preparation techniques – are seen as drinks for special occasions; perhaps if beer came with a little umbrella or a sparkler we might think of it the same way too. Novelty drinking places emphasis on presentation – at its most evocative, cheesy and wonderful in the Tiki Bars of the pre- and postwar period. Serving rum-based drinks like Zombies (also known, thrillingly, as “skull-punchers”) in coconuts and pineapples, these romanticised impressions of Polynesian culture understood that a good cocktail feels like the first day of a holiday.
The Martini stands as an example of how even specific drinks are subject to time. Traditionally made with gin and vermouth, the quantity of the latter fell through the 20th century, but its biggest change came when James Bond started to drink his with vodka. It’s telling that it’s almost impossible to say “Martini” without doing a bad Scottish accent: coupled with the spirit’s growth outside Russia, this variant has eclipsed its progenitor. The process was so successful that “tini” has become a suffix for all manner of random vodka drinks: an Appletini, shamefully, contains none of the cocktail’s original ingredients, just like when they replaced all of the Sugababes.
Sex on the Beach
The main ingredients of Sex on the Beach are peach schnapps, vodka, melted Rubik’s Cubes, a Wham! cassingle and orange juice. The drink is emblematic of the simple fruity cocktails that became popular in the 1980s, each containing about a gallon of vodka. True to the decade’s inadvisable form, these were saddled with risqué names like Screaming Orgasm, Slippery Nipple and Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall. Presumably they died out once it became apparent that no sane human being could ask for one out loud. Until irony reclaims it, Sex on the Beach serves as a lesson that what is provocative today can be tedious tomorrow
Hug a Wildcat
Unless you’ve had it served out of a Peruvian puzzle jug at London’s The Nightjar, it’s unlikely that you’ve heard of Hug a Wildcat. Concurrent with the rise of mixologists, cocktails have seen a comeback that falls somewhere between a gimmick and a revived artform. Cocktail bars now invent their own bewildering array of irreverently titled beverages, and change them constantly. While this is terribly exciting, it also means that it’s rare for new drinks to get a wider foothold. What is fashionable is not specific cocktails but the idea of choice. And drinks served in glass owls for some reason.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-One. To read the original article, click here.
I knew she was dead. It’s the first line of the book. The ninth, tenth and eleventh words. I’ve seen the stone slab in Edinburgh, run my fingers over its dates. We were born in different centuries. We’ve never even been alive at the same time. How, then, to explain my disappointment as I failed to run into Nan Shepherd in the Cairngorms?
Nan would appreciate the discombobulation, I suspect. Even upon its release, her non-fiction work The Living Mountain had stepped out of time. Written during World War II, Nan kept the manuscript in a drawer for three decades before publishing it. “Now, an old woman, I begin tidying out my possessions and reading it again” she wrote in 1977, “I realise that the tale of my traffic with a mountain is as valid today as it was then.”
This sentiment remains true. Although Nan was an influential early modernist writer and mountain poet, not to mention a lecturer of English for 41 years, it is The Living Mountain that I return to again and again. A lyrical meditation on hill walking in the Cairngorms, the book documents the full breadth of life on the mountain range: its plateaus and recesses, its water and snow, the light, the air, the plants and animals. It is dizzying, one of the most vivid books I have read about a physical landscape. The pages seem to thrum as you hold them.
Whether emotional or geographical, the greatest power of the written word is its capacity to make the reader experience a place where they have not stepped. When I was finally able to visit the Cairngorms properly on a long, lonesome cycle trip, it felt as if I had already been there. It was just as she had described it. This should have been unsurprising: as she observed when the book made its first leap in time, thirty years in the life of a mountain is nothing. The only thing missing was Nan herself, but that isn’t quite right. As I explored the hills that had once brought her such joy, all those years ago – “How crisp, how bright a world!” – I often thought of a passage where she describes the pleasure of walking in the winter snow, and seeing the tracks of different birds and animals that had gone before her: “One is companioned, though not in time.”
Published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty-One.
Alexandra Roach is conspicuously nice. This sounds like damning her with faint praise, but Alex’s defining characteristic is her easy, generous warmth, a quality which carries over into her work.
The Welsh actor’s professional life began in earnest when she played a young Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady, but she’s acted since joining the Welsh-language soap Pobyl y Cwm as an eleven-year-old. What’s heartening is that this niceness doesn’t come at the expense of ambition – in one of Alex’s many references to the strong women who have inspired her, she mentions how working with Meryl Streep reassured her that you can be personable and decent and still achieve great work. “If it’s good enough for Meryl, I’m going to stick with that,” she says.
Even with a career continuing to gain momentum, however, when we meet she admits she’s at a crossroads. A veteran of her industry at 28, Alex is impatient for her next challenge, and is taking control of her career to nudge it in new directions.
You recently moved to Bristol. Did you want to live away from the acting profession?
I was struggling in London somewhat. I wasn’t feeling creative and was often in a bad mood, which isn’t me. I thought: hang on, let’s do something about this, so I took myself away and have spent the past few months resetting. It’s important to question what you do, and I’ve been acting non-stop since eleven. I’ve been writing a lot since, so it was definitely the right move. My friends are still in London, that’s the only thing. It’s been a month though, so give me time! I’m just trying to make pals. Hanging around my yoga class for ten minutes more, putting on my socks really slowly.
Do you approach acting differently as an adult? Is it still fundamentally the same job?
If I approached everything as I did when I was eleven that’d be strange, but I’ve still got that strong instinct. I don’t overcomplicate things. When I start a role it’s almost like my atoms change and I become that person. Subconsciously they become a part of me, so I don’t think about it too much. At eleven I probably didn’t think about it at all.
Although you’d been acting for several years you decided to go to Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. What was that like?
I’m glad I went but it was difficult. It’s exactly how you’d imagine it. I remember one teacher said I should stay in London alone for Christmas and listen to Radio 4 to stop my accent getting any stronger. I didn’t do it. People told me I needed to lose my accent and I said: “No, I can do other accents fine, that’s my job. This is me. I’m not losing me.”
Coming from a former coal mining town, did you worry about the response when you were cast as Margaret Thatcher?
I’d love to sit here and say I mulled the part over but I got that phone call and it was one of the best calls I’ve ever had.
It’d be hard to turn down playing the young Meryl Streep.
“No, sorry Meryl, it’s not for me.” Imagine! My grandfather was a miner but passed away before I did the film, so that’s always something I wonder about. What would he have said? I was nervous about going back to Ammanford because there was such animosity towards Thatcher, but everybody was really interested and wanted to chat about it. It was a challenge because I was tasked with making her human. Politics aside, I saw a lot of myself in her, this ambitious young woman trying to take control of her life. At the time several people told me I couldn’t make it, and I felt a steeliness inside.
You mentioned you’ve been writing. How did that come about?
I’ve acted for so long, and it’s not that it’s unfulfilling, but I wanted more control. On some jobs they hire me, I turn up, someone else’s words are given to me, I’m told where to stand, where to look, sometimes even how to say the lines, and I feel like I need more. I look at Lena Dunham and other women doing it themselves and I think I want a bit of that.
What are you working on?
I’m writing three television one-hours with Ruth Jones, who co-created Gavin & Stacey. The project is actually based on my mother. When she was in her twenties she was working as a nurse in the Valleys and in an abusive, dead end relationship. One day she was flicking through a magazine after a massive row, and there was an advert saying an American family needed an au pair. She’d always dreamt of America, so she ripped it out, put it in her pocket and went home to another row. She decided to write to the family, telling them her story, and five weeks later a one-way ticket arrived. She couldn’t just pack her things and leave though because he was really controlling, so every day she’d take a pair of knickers in her bag and give it to her best friend, who slowly filled a suitcase for her. When the time came my gran drove her to the airport and she was gone. It was the late 60s so she hitch-hiked around America by herself and joined in the hippie movement and became a free spirit. I only found out about eighteen months ago when she told me over a drink. I knew she went to America but not why or how. It was definitely the wine. We’d had a couple of bottles.
At what point did you decide you want to write about it?
Oh, from the second it left her mouth, but I had to wait. I went to Ruth a year later. She knows the Valleys, she knows the humour. I didn’t consider anyone else. Now we meet every week at her house. She’s been so positive but it’s scary when you’re starting out. The other day she asked me to forward what I’d written, and I was hovering over the send button for ages. But it’s exciting. I’d be playing my mother and Ruth would be my grandmother. I’m really giving it a go.
Has writing about your mother changed your relationship?
Yes. You think your mother’s just your mother. I’m guilty of it. You forget she had a whole life before you. Last week she gave me her travelling diary and I’ve been delving in, getting to see her as a young woman going through all these terrible and great things. There’s a reason why her advice is so good: she’s been there before. I feel like I’m finally getting to know her.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty. Photograph by Liz Seabrook.
Growing up with a sibling is like winning a prize at a village fête tombola that you didn’t actually enter: hopefully you’ll get something decent, but there’s a fair chance you’ll end up with a tin of pineapple chunks instead. Through an essentially random process, you’re assigned someone who is supposed to be one of the closest people to you, with whom you’ll share not just genetic material but a household, a family, and your youth. Who knows whether or not you’ll actually like each other?
The stultifying proximity of childhoods and adolescences can accordingly make a sibling one of the most complicated relationships in one’s life. This can be a source of comfort and joy, but also mutual agony: there’s no-one like a sister or brother to transform you into the 14-year-old version of yourself. At its best, this means silliness, solidarity and a sense of playful competition. At its worst, you both revert to your worst incarnations, and misery blossoms. Making a sibling relationship work can be hard enough, therefore, without adding public scrutiny, duelling careers, Oscar ceremonies and Adolf Hitler into the mix, as shown by the contentious and compelling lives of two sets of famous sisters: Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine, and the Mitfords.
Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine
Given that the Golden Age movie star Olivia de Havilland is 99 years old and still alive, it could be argued that the publication of her last will and testament in her high school newspaper was somewhat premature. She was, at least, nothing if not generous: “I bequeath to my sister the ability to win boys’ hearts,” Olivia wrote, “which she does not have at present.”
Her sister Joan was accustomed to such barbs. Born fifteen months apart, the siblings fought viciously for their entire childhood: they would taunt each other, pull out one another’s hair, and whenever it came time for Olivia to pass down her old clothes, she would rip them to bits first. By the age of 9, Joan had already plotted out her sister’s murder, aiming to “plug Olivia between the eyes.” As adulthood approached the physical quarrels fell away but the enmity between the sisters remained, a situation which wasn’t helped by them both deciding to become actresses, or from their mother barring Joan from using the family name because Olivia was already doing so.
What was perhaps the apogee of their feud took place on 26th February 1942 at the 14th Academy Awards. Seated at the same table, Joan and Olivia were both nominated for best actress. The winner was Joan, who later recalled her sister’s response in her memoir: “ ‘Get up there!’ she whispered commandingly. Now what had I done? All the animus we’d felt towards each other as children, the savage wrestling matches, the time Olivia fractured my collarbone, all came rushing back in kaleidoscopic imagery. My paralysis was total. I felt Olivia would spring across the table and grab me by the hair. I felt age 4, being confronted by my older sister.” Olivia resisted one last hair pull, but when she finally won her own Oscar five years later, she refrained from shaking her sister’s hand. “Our relations have been strained for some time – I couldn’t change my attitude,” she told a reporter. “Maybe she didn’t see me,” Joan told another.
The exact history of Olivia and Joan’s fractious relationship is difficult to establish because their version of events often diverged wildly. Joan, easily aggrieved since youth, was more willing to discuss the matter publicly and keen to portray herself as the victim. The reality was probably a little more nuanced: they were two equally competitive, unsentimental and talented sisters whose early animosity carried over as they pursued the same career. Although they’d never be able to admit it, they were as bad, and as good, as one another. Their relationship sputtered on until 1975 when a row over their dying mother caused them to stop speaking for good, and they never managed to reconcile before Joan’s own death in 2013. The timing might have given her a certain grim pleasure, as in a 1978 interview she said: “I married first, won the Oscar before Olivia did, and if I die first, she’ll undoubtedly be livid because I beat her to it.”
“Please not the Nazi one, please not the Nazi one, please not the Nazi one,” I whispered to an internet quiz that probably wasn’t listening to me. Years after I’d exhausted the biographies and the memoirs and the published letters, bored curiosity had driven me to seek out a question that I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to: exactly which Mitford sister was I?
The question is fraught with peril: even though there were six Mitford sisters, you still have a 33% chance of picking a fascist. Half a century on from their famous and infamous heyday, Nancy, Pamela, Diana, Unity, Jessica (known as Decca) and Deborah continue to intrigue, charm and repel, precisely because of the yawning differences between them. While they all grew up in the same eccentric aristocratic family, their lives a tangle of nicknames and secret languages, they ultimately took disparate paths.
This can be best illustrated by the political abyss that divided Decca and Unity: in her youth, Unity carved swastikas into the windowpanes of their home, and for each one Decca countered with a hammer and sickle. Later, Decca eloped with a cousin and fled to fight the fascists in the Spanish Civil War, while Unity moved to Germany to become one of Hitler’s closest friends. Even later still, on the day World War II started Unity shot herself in the head with a pistol given to her by Hitler; although she survived to live for another nine years, the doctors couldn’t remove the bullet and the brain damage was debilitating. Decca, meanwhile, emigrated to America to become a crusading investigative journalist and civil rights activist. Living a principled but irreverent life that would have baffled her sister, she counted Maya Angelou among her closest friends and in her late seventies starting a cowbell-and-kazoo orchestra called Decca and the Dectones.
It wasn’t just Decca and Unity who stood out: at every turn, the Mitford sisters went their own way. In the “fascist branch” of the family, Diana married Oswald Mosley at Joseph Goebbels’ home, with Hitler serving as guest of honour (he gave them a picture of himself as a present, as he was a terrible wedding guest and person.) Nancy, an incisive comic writer best known for her semi-autobiographical classics The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate, spied on her sisters for MI5 during the war, and later left a feckless husband in England for a philandering lover in Paris. Deborah became the Duchess of Devonshire and was happy to spend most of her time writing about and restoring the stately home Chatsworth. Pamela was conspicuous by being inconspicuous: she is portrayed as the unassuming, quiet one by virtue of having lived a relatively normal life, give or take an atomic physicist husband and a forty-year relationship with a Swiss-Italian horsewoman.
There are many reasons why the “Mitford industry” (as Decca called it) has endured, outliving all six sisters, but fundamental to its appeal is the idea that these women were incredibly different yet still tied together. While their contrasting fortunes reflected the chaos of their disintegrating aristocratic class, they also demonstrated that a family can tolerate individualism, and is indeed more vibrant because of it. Even though there were massive schisms and their lives were frequently tragic, none of the Mitfords could be described as a black sheep. Instead, they were a family of black sheep, each fiercely determining what was right for them. They were undoubtedly aided in this by their privilege, and at least a good third of them were wrong and mad, but their fortitude inspires nonetheless. As I waited for the results of the online quiz – which I definitely didn’t cheat on to get Decca – I was reminded that regardless of which Mitford sister I turned out to be, we all have the freedom to be the people we want.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty. To read the original article click here.
He was mine, that frog. His name was Freddie, and somewhere within his squidgy interior was a bell that rang if you gave him a good enough shake. A frog isn’t the sort of tailless amphibian you bring to bed – no-one has ever taken a frog on holiday, or reached for a frog when they’ve struggled to make school friends – but he was a valued member of my menagerie all the same. He’d been there throughout my childhood, he hadn’t pealed up a fuss when exiled to a bin bag in the attic, and he’d somehow survived the great stuffed animal diaspora to be sitting here decades later in my parents’ house. Freddie was solidly B-list, but he was decent. He was my frog.
“That’s not your frog,” my sister said, giving him a shake. I suppose she would know. As a youngest sibling, a lot of the things that you think are yours turn out not to be: picture books, cardigans, a penchant for cake. Once my mother told me fondly about how, as a child, I’d requested we hold a hundredth birthday party for my teddy bear. I was feeling oddly proud of my young imagination when she corrected herself: no, it was my brother who did that, not me. Maybe it’s true that youngest children are indulged and given freer rein, but they still have to elbow their way into a world that was getting along fine without them. So of course Amanda was right. The frog had been new to me but it wasn’t new. It had lived nearly an entire childhood: hers, because she was here first.
My sister has always been older than me. That seems like a redundant point to make but it’s crucial to explaining our relationship. On the day I was born she was eleven years, two months and twenty-three days old. As we grew up that fixed gulf moved with us. When I was a toddler, Amanda was entering adolescence. When I was a child, she was in her late teens. When I was a teenager, she was in her twenties. I was forever a couple of laps behind, incapable of catching up.
As siblings we were defined by our age difference. There was a distance between us, eleven years long. It’s not that she disliked me – as a writer I’m benignly cursed by my undramatic, loving family – but I was always too young to connect with in any meaningful way. When it counted, we supported each other: at three, I cut my face misguidedly trying to shave and she held me all the way to the hospital. But we weren’t ourselves yet, we were our roles. Older sister, younger brother. Our personalities didn’t even get to clash, because what eighteen year old wants to socialise with someone who’s seven? Unless you wanted to discuss favourite Power Rangers (Billy, obviously), I had little to offer in terms of conversation.
To be a younger brother is to know what it means to be tolerated. Amanda’s unenviable task was being the first person in the world to find me actively annoying. I can’t blame her. I scrawled my name in her favourite books. I watched the same three videotapes over and over again. I was a fussy eater and an insomniac. I owned several albums recorded by the Smurfs. If I’d worn a backwards baseball cap I could have been an irritating kid brother from a soft drink advert.
I can’t imagine either of us considered the situation much, however. There were no ill feelings to resolve, no unhealthy dynamics to address. She was just my sister, and I was just her brother, and that was fine. Our attentions lay elsewhere. While the trajectories of romance and friendship often agonise, there’s a tendency to treat family members as immutable. What you don’t envision is that as you change, they do too, and consequently the relationship also evolves. When you’ve known someone your whole life it takes time to notice you’re no longer the people you used to be.
By the time I did realise, it had been a while already. Something had shifted. We’d spend whole evenings just talking and I wouldn’t be obscurely worried that she’d rather be elsewhere. We found we liked being around each other. We believed in the same fundamental values. I wasn’t the tiresome younger brother anymore, and she wasn’t the exasperated older sister. Our lives had moved on. She’d met someone wonderful. I was marginally less inept.
Although my sister will always be eleven years older, it’s not the gulf it once was. We’re still very different but that’s alright: I rarely feel as much like an adult as when we’re having a good conversation. We connect. I think she’s formidable. I hope she finds me funny. It wasn’t until something new emerged that I understood absence had been there before. Amanda was always my sister, but it took us a quarter of a century to become friends.
Originally published in Oh Comely Issue Thirty.
Without even noticing, you invest emotional energy in people who create things you like. Regardless of whether they are musicians, writers, film-makers or something else entirely, they assume a function in your life akin to a favourite sports team: you take pride in their accomplishments, defend their honour against the unconverted and become disheartened when they stumble. You root for them. You love to see them win.
This instinctual solidarity makes the arrival of that familiar sighing sensation in the chest especially disappointing, as you discover you’ve seen everything they has to offer. While there’s pleasure in watching them return yet again to the territory that was so exciting originally, it is also dispiriting to realise that they’ve run out of new things to say and new ways to say them.
Despite regularly inhabiting different characters, actors aren’t spared from this fate either. Being typecast is a lurking hazard of the job: when you demonstrate you’re good at one type of thing, people want you to keep doing it. Viewed in this light, Maxine Peake’s career is even more impressive. It would be easy to imagine how she might have got snagged on the success of her early comic roles in dinnerladies and Shameless, subsequently becoming doomed to play variations of “brassy and bombastic Northerner” until retirement age. Instead, Maxine’s vital, daring performances chart new ground as she has embraced the challenge of portraying everyone from Hamlet to Myra Hindley. You never quite know what she’s going to do next, but it’s always worth a look. That sighing sensation is thankfully absent.
As these thoughts bobbled around my head, I took Maxine to the most echoey corner of the Barbican for a chat.
Given this issue’s theme, I thought it might be nice to talk about the idea of change in relation to your work. Acting can change constantly, can’t it? Is that a part of the appeal?
Definitely. I find it difficult to stay in my seat. When I’ve done a few series of a programme it becomes really hard to come back to a character, to attack the same person again. Even though the audience might not notice, I’ll have slightly changed in the months since we last filmed, or I’ll have different ideas about the part. My attention span is quite short. I don’t want to get bored doing something and become complacent. I tell myself that I’ve done that thing now: successfully or not, I’ve ticked that box. It’s time to move on.
Was it difficult earlier in your career to establish that you didn’t just want different projects but different kind of projects?
Yes, and it might have been an easier career if I’d said okay, this is what I do now. After I played Twinkle in dinnerladies a lot of scripts came in that were substandard Twinkles, but I’d already been the proper one. I just had to tell them I wasn’t doing any more of those thank you very much, even if it meant I probably wasn’t going to work for a bit. You have to try to steer the boat yourself. I’m usually looking for a challenge. If I get sent something and don’t know why they think I can do the character, that’s usually why I have a go. “I don’t quite get this one yet. Great!”
Is that why you moved from London to Salford?
It gave me more artistic freedom really. I suppose it gave me more time. It took the pressure off. I just remember thinking if I bought a flat in London I’d feel trapped. I would have to do jobs to pay a mortgage. Of course, most people get up in the morning and go to work because they have to. It sounds arrogant but I didn’t want to get stuck doing that. It depends what you’re in it for, and for me it’s never been the money. I wanted to be able to pick and choose what I do. There’s little worse than being two weeks into a shoot, wishing you’d never said yes and you’ve got months to go. It’s got to be fulfilling for me to get something out of it.
In that case, what’s fulfilling about your role as an Associate Artist for the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester, where you also played Hamlet?
It’s the luxury of being able to have a creative partnership with Sarah Frankcom, the artistic director. To have that building where we can ask ourselves what do we want to do, and then do it. I don’t want to hog the theatre, or for people to think oh no, not Maxine again, so we try to keep it sporadic and do a piece together about once a year. I feel really blessed about it. Someone asked me recently how much of a feminist statement Hamlet was, but it didn’t start as one. Me and Sarah just said let’s do something where we really have to push the boat out and it’s going to frighten the life out of us. The scarier the better, you know? So Hamlet came out of us asking what is one of the most difficult and monumental pieces of theatre we could do. I’ve got this opportunity, so why not push myself? And it’s amazing what that play can absorb. I played Hamlet as trans: a character who was born a woman but felt more comfortable in a male body, and the play took it. It seems to be able to support whatever themes you throw at it or whatever route you decide to take.
As well as acting you’ve also started to write plays over the past few years. Is that a part of the same process?
Yes, it’s been about feeling able to have a go at what I want to do. I spent a lot of my early years being very self-conscious. It’s not that I was under-confident, but now I feel more secure people will actually take a bit of notice because of the body of work I’ve got behind me. I wanted to write when I was younger but I just thought, well, who’s going to take me seriously? It’s not that as you get older you get more confident, it’s just you care less. What’s the worst that can happen? Nobody’s going to die. It was like that with Hamlet. It could have been a disaster. People could have said it was the worst Hamlet they’d ever seen. So what? Obviously you want to do things that people like because they’ve paid their hard-earned cash to see you, but you’re allowed to try new things.
Does that shifting attitude apply to being a public figure too? In recent years you’ve spoken out powerfully against austerity: is that something you feel more comfortable doing?
I’ve sort of always been that way, but people pay more attention now. I remember when I would do interviews for Shameless: I’d talk about being in the Young Communist League when I was 18, and they’d ask me how I lost all the weight after dinnerladies. Nobody was particularly interested in a young northern female talking about politics. I suppose I’ve banged on long enough now that people ask me about it. For me it’s all tied in. When I read a script, I ask myself questions. Is that character is a female role model? What are we saying? What’s the message in this piece? It’s all linked, so I thought I might as well be open about it. I think television especially has an important part to play in changing perceptions. We need to get with the programme and show Britain as it is, this amazing multicultural melting pot with people from all walks of life. I find it so frustrating. You watch telly and so much of it doesn’t reflect us. There’s still gender stereotyping, class stereotyping, race stereotyping. We’re not putting a magnifying glass up to Britain and I don’t know why. How are we still so very behind?
Do you feel an obligation to take roles in socially progressive projects?
I do. It’s funny, what I find now is that scripts are getting much more female heavy, but I’m not sure if the parts are actually getting any better. You get some amazing female parts, but at the moment I get offered a lot of women in their late 30s, early 40s: last stab at childhood, last stab at a family. Me and my friends are in that age range and that’s not what we sit around and talk about. There’s more to women. Come. On. Female writers can be just as guilty of it. This is why doing things like Hamlet’s cross-gender casting is important. Women don’t have to sit and suffer in silence and say, well, I’m at that age where there are no good female parts. Grab yourself a good male one and go and do it!
What would you like to do next? Do you look ahead to where you might want to be in the future?
I would like to continue. More theatre, film, good television. Just to be able to carry on doing scripts that I want to do. It’s more difficult as you get older. I guess that’s where the writing comes in, and theatre as well. My dream when I was younger, and it seemed like a dream because I was a working-class oik from Bolton, was to be a classical theatre actress. I wanted that but I was never quite confident enough to vocalise it, so I went all around the houses. Now I’m starting to do the theatre that I really want to, and it’s taken me over twenty years to get here.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Nine. Photographs by Liz Seabrook.
“Half of the people who come here hate it,” says a barmaid that I can’t see. I think she’s shrugging. “The other half love it. We had some old ladies in the other night; they were having the time of their lives.” She takes away my empty beaker and leaves me to my futile attempt to clean my glasses. Like the rest of me they’re covered in a fine dew: my fingers stick and unstick at the ends of the transparent rain poncho I’m wearing. I return to the installation through two sets of strip curtains – the heavy plastic kind you’d probably get at an abattoir, if abattoirs happened to play David Bowie on their sound systems and served shots of whisky mixed with Buckfast.
At first the sensation is nearly overwhelming. It’s a little like entering a bedroom where a teenage boy has recently used too much deodorant. Every breath draws in a lungful of close, perfumed vapour. The visibility has plummeted, too: in the blue haze it’s difficult to make out anything except vague people shapes, chatting and laughing and occasionally trying to take pictures of themselves. The best way to describe it is not to say that it is pleasant or unpleasant, but rather that it is novel.
As I reflect on the experience between woozy gulps, I realise that it’s exactly what I would expect being inside a cloud of alcohol to feel like.
I’m standing in the middle of Alcoholic Architecture, the latest venture from experimental food designers Bompas & Parr. Situated in London’s Borough Market, the installation is a breathable cocktail: a room filled to 140% humidity with a gin and tonic vapour that’s absorbed through mucous membranes (the lungs and eyeballs.) Each visit, separated into 50-minute blocks, is calibrated to offer the rough equivalent of one large drink. While alcohol inhalation in different forms has become more popular in recent years, the basic principle isn’t new: excluding informal Nordic traditions of pouring vodka onto coals, the technology has existed since at least 1954, when it was employed as a way to treat the accumulation of fluid in the lungs known as a pulmonary edema.
Bompas & Parr’s excitable press release describes their cloud bar as “an alcoholic weather system for your tongue where meteorology and mixology collide against a canvas of monastic mayhem,” a statement both deeply silly and essentially accurate. From its fake stained glass windows to the drinks menu constructed entirely from monk-brewed beverages, the bar takes inspiration from its location opposite the country’s earliest Gothic cathedral; upon visiting the bathroom I’m even greeted by the vision of a monk, shimmering in the toilet bowl and reciting a bawdy poem. Beyond the cloud-of-booze bit, the impression given is that of a fancy dress party held by a particularly enthusiastic friend. The result is oddly endearing, although that might just be the alcohol I’m absorbing through my eyes.
As the 80s synthpop gives way to medieval chanting Sam Bompas emerges out of the miasma and we escape to the alcohol-free air of a nearby pub. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t seem to boast a leucistic albino python or pitcher-glass-made-out-of-an-actual-human-skull. Much like the cloud he has devised, Bompas is just like you’d imagine: a natural showman, energetic, passionate and given to floridity. It’s hard not to be at least somewhat charmed by a man who talks breezily about having “a skull guy”, claims to employ an in-house medium and is planning to found a major national food museum. If he’s a tiny bit ridiculous – and he is – it’s in the best way, borne from a genuine earnestness about creating memorable experiences.
“The most important thing for me is that people have stories to tell about themselves,” he says of the installation’s mission. “In a world where everyone’s increasingly online and dominated by devices the entire time, it’s nice to provide a visceral experience.” Even though Bompas extols the way that humidity enhances taste perception, using as an example the difference between eating fish and chips at the seaside against enduring a meal on an aeroplane, the actual physical sensation of inhaling a G&T seems to be almost beside the point. “It’s all about the interaction between people,” he states. “We’re not saying that this is how you’re going to ingest alcohol for the rest of your life, because it’s not, but for one evening it’s quite fun. It can lead to a lot of different unexpected interactions. Barriers break down in that room.”
This social objective seems to be the key difference between Bompas & Parr and other groups exploring the possibilities of alcohol inhalation, who instead place their emphasis on the consumption itself. For Vaportini, a company that produces a low-tech home inhalation kit – basically a tea light in a pint glass with a sphere on top, plus a straw to suck out the vapour – the benefit touted is that the alcohol bypasses the digestive tract and so the calorie intake is reduced, while they also allege that the possibility of a hangover is lessened. The downside of a device capable of rapid intoxication, of course, is that its misuse poses a higher potential risk of overdose. While skipping the digestive tract is a boon to the calorie conscious, it also precludes a horrible, tremendously important process: vomiting, the body’s primary defence against being poisoned. Unlike the controlled hypoallergenic environment of Alcoholic Architecture, where patrons are limited to a single daily visit, and which was created after five years of consultation with medics and toxicologists, deciding to inhale alcohol at home demands an extra level of caution and personal responsibility.
Facing the same issues but on the other end of the technological spectrum, Le Whaf positions itself as being at the forefront of modernist cuisine. Invented by the founder of respiratory biopharmaceutical company Pulmatrix, the futuristic carafe forgoes tea lights in favour of ultrasound waves that vibrate liquid and transform it into micro droplets. Earlier this year the device was adopted by Ardbeg, who have released their own version called the Haar after the cold sea fog familiar to the whisky-distilling residents of Islay. Rather than trying to circumnavigate the rocky shoals of alcohol consumption, the Haar sells itself as the opportunity to appreciate the subtleties of a complex drink. Despite their differences however, Le Whaf and the cheap-and-cheerful Vaportini still have more in common with each other than with the Southwark pop-up that boasts an ostentatious neon sign reading Breathe responsibly and bar staff uniforms that combine, according to the giddy-on-vapourised-gin press release, “the flair of the continental waiter with the ecclesiastical swagger of a dandified cleric.”
When I ask Sam Bompas for his opinion on home versions of alcoholic inhalation, he seems notably indifferent: “Vaportini is interesting for about two minutes. Maybe five. We’re trying to give people something that can be a seminal point in their night.” It’s evident that Alcoholic Architecture’s competition isn’t personal inhalation devices or even the local bars such as the one we’re standing in, but instead experiential, immersive entertainment like the productions of Secret Cinema and the theatre company Punchdrunk. The value it offers has less to do with ingesting alcohol than that of a curated experience that can be shared with others, both in person and, inevitably, online. “Without having to be on a yacht with magnums of champagne, it allows decadence in a tasteful and fun way,” Bompas claims. “I like the idea that you can have an exciting adventure as part of a night out, even though you’re actually just getting pissed.”
Unlike e-cigarettes, which have seen their global popularity explode, it seems improbable that inhaling alcohol will ever pose a serious threat to the regular, boring consumption method that involves a bottle, a glass and some liquid. The reason vaping has become increasingly commonplace is not that it’s healthier than smoking but that it’s healthier and it replicates the same fundamental pleasure: holding a small object in your hand and breathing in what it produces. This claim can’t be made for alcohol inhalation, regardless of whether you use a tea light and a glass straw or if you put on a poncho in a basement in South London. It just isn’t the same as a good drink.
Despite the cloud bar’s failure to measure up to the simple, glorious effectiveness of liquid alcohol, there’s still a distinct enjoyment to be found in experiencing something new. After finishing my conversation with Sam Bompas I go back to Alcoholic Architecture to wait out the rest of the session. He was right: for one evening at least, it’s quite fun. As stickiness returns to the exposed parts of my body, I breathe some gin and watch a group of shapes move around the room, trying to find enough light to take a selfie.
Published in Hot Rum Cow Issue 9.
from: Jason Ward | oh comely <email@example.com>
to: Liz | oh comely <firstname.lastname@example.org>
date: 13 August 2015 at 12:10
subject: FOR LB’S EYES ONLY
I’ve been thinking. If we’re going to create an issue about secrets then we’d surely be
remiss if we didn’t attempt to keep a secret from the Oh Comely team. I’ve come up
with a concept for a testing feature that I think has the potential to be rather excellent.
I’m happy to give you the details, but I like the idea that even you won’t know what I’m
up to until the piece is finished. This would require placing some trust in me, of course,
but what’s a secret without trust?
The only thing I’d ask is for the relevant scrap of paper on the planning board to read
ANONYMOUS TWO-SPREAD FEATURE ABOUT NOTHING IN PARTICULAR PLEASE
GO ON WITH YOUR LIVES THERE IS DEFINITELY NOTHING TO SEE HERE HEY YOU’RE
BEING SUSPICIOUS. If anyone questions this, the correct response is to produce
the most unconvincing laugh possible and change the subject immediately to the
weather, or to flat-out deny that there’s anything on the board at all. At that point it
might be useful to jump out of the nearest window, but I’ll leave that to your discretion.
What do you think? Is this a good idea?
She said yes, and I stumbled into the dark.
Summer almost over and too early to have lunch, I found myself travelling through an undiscovered country, located somewhere deep within the continent of freelance magazine journalism. I had pitched without a pitch, lobbied for free rein to craft a feature without the careful process of refinement that precedes the commissioning of any sensible piece of journalism. With a single hasty email I’d achieved the dream of every writer: I had requested carte blanche and actually been given it. I had asked for the moon and there it was, bobbing around in my back garden tied to some string. I was, without question, going to mess this one up.
For an ideal reading experience, try to imagine that you have commissioned this very article and are now trying not to quietly panic. If I was more diabolical, this would be the juncture where I’d inconspicuously transition into that short story meaning to write about a reverse werewolf (he’s a normal wolf, you see, but once a month he turns into a human). Alas, I am of average diabolism: if I’m late to a social engagement, I will tell the person I’m heading towards that I’m almost there when I’m definitely nowhere near, but will feel guilty about it afterwards.
The idea I had was this: I would attempt to destabilise Oh Comely by forming my own secret society within the magazine’s editorial team. This society would exist in the shadows as its numbers expanded, operating covertly until it reached the point when everyone in the team had become a member. At this point I would expand its reach nationwide and make my first strides towards inevitable world domination. Or I would
write up the feature and email it in.
As I typed, “How do I create a secret society?” and, “Oh, also: what is a secret society?” into my search engine, I started to suspect that I wasn’t the devious mastermind I’d always assumed myself to be. Tin foil hat-sporting sections of the internet disputed what the essential distinguishing a ributes of a secret society were, but they broadly seemed to agree that they involve two elements: how you get in, and what you do
when you are in.
It is the deliberate obscurity of the answers to these questions that explains the enduring appeal of secret societies. In the same way that people usually think something is valuable if it’s a secret, an organisation becomes more attractive if the passage of entry is difficult and the rewards of admission are unclear. A secret society intimates (but doesn’t promise) that it knows something everyone else doesn’t, that in figurative or literal terms it possesses the Forgotten Wisdom of the Ancients. They are first and foremost a triumph of marketing. What do they do in Yale University’s Skull and Bones? It doesn’t matter: they’re called Skull and Bones.
If I was to create a secret society that would become rapidly corrupt with power, I needed a strong name. The secret assassin cult who tormented India for 600 years were called Thuggee. The secret revolutionary groups from nineteenth-century Italy were called the Carbonari. The medieval German philosophical sect were called the Rosicrucians. An effective name for a secret society has to be mysterious, but with perverse menace creeping around its edges too: the Bavarian Illuminati’s name was potent enough to inspire conspiracy theories for centuries to come. On reflection, Skull and Bones somewhat over-eggs the secret pudding: it is malevolent enough to become ludicrous, the sort of name an enthusiastic child might give to a gang whose membership totals themselves and a younger sibling.
I found the middle ground I was searching for a short while later when I was copied in on a passive-aggressive email from a housemate. The message touted a “friendly reminder” about the cleaning rota. Are there any two words in the English language more ominous when put together than “friendly reminder”? It was perfect. With a name that good I didn’t even need my own remote island retreat to lure people in.
In spite of my excellent name, however, I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for potential followers to come to me. But what invitation would be fittingly enigmatic? I knew the home addresses of almost all of my Oh Comely colleagues: how difficult would it be to leave a scrawled handwritten note under their back door, or to move a few flower pots around in the shape of a puzzling, inexplicable symbol? As I pondered the logistics of rigging a paving slab to play a cryptic recording, I came to the realisation that the actions involved in setting up a secret society are not dissimilar to those of a well-prepared stalker. I was happy to become a tyrant, but I refused to end up as a creep.
To avoid becoming someone fated to cut eyeholes into newspapers, I briefly dropped any notion of secrecy whatsoever. At a small extracurricular get-together, I asked three members of the team if they’d like to join my new secret society. I don’t need to explain why I won’t provide their names here, but thankfully all three enthusiastically said yes. One of them—to protect her identity let’s call her “Siz Leabrook”—even came up
with a uniform. By a splendid coincidence, all four of us in the Friendly Reminders had recently obtained tie-dyed t-shirts following a workshop run by the magazine. While I figured we would need to invest in masks at some point, or at least some special capes for rituals, we had an essential sartorial item. We were ready to begin.
My imagination was starting to get the better of me. It usually does. I had visions of persuading my colleagues to meet under railway bridges at midnight, devising elaborate handshakes, maybe even coaxing them into joining an insurgent second secret society which would actually contain all of the same members as the first but no one would know because we’d all be wearing hoods. Oh, the hoods: there would be hoods upon hoods upon hoods. Where was I going to find the time to make all of these hoods? I needed to learn how to knit, to begin with.
Unfortunately for the sake of my yarn-wrangling proficiency, this is not the point in the story where the Friendly Reminders takes great and terrible flight. This is the point in the story when the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom is accused of having sex with a dead pig.
David Cameron’s act of porcine perversion, it was claimed, had been undertaken at Oxford University as part of an initiation rite to join the Piers Gaveston Society, a decadent men-only dining club that was inherently a secret society with better refreshments. It isn’t for me to comment on how likely this allegation is, but whether it actually happened or not is almost beside the point: the reason it has taken root in the public’s imagination is because on some deep, fundamental level it rings true. The sort of person who would be cold and ambitious enough to want to join a restricted, aristocratic secret society is also the sort of person who would be willing to receive fellatio from a fallen hog in order to do so. He just seems like the type, doesn’t he?
In other words, by forming my own secret society I was at risk of falling into bed with the past, present and future associates of the Piers Gaveston Society, the Bullingdon Club and any number of similar groups that wallow in privilege and keep their doors closed to all but the richest and most obnoxious of rich, obnoxious men. What if the Friendly Reminders succeeded beyond my wildest dreams? Sure, its initiation rites currently consisted of me asking, “I’m forming a secret society. Would you like to join?”, but how long before I was sourcing animal parts from black market butchers and forcing future political leaders to get intimate with them? Just how far could this thing go? It had been a fun, silly little idea that came to me one morning, cackling in the shower, and now I was going to usher in another Conservative prime minister. My
mother was going to have a fit.
A long shadow fell over me. Defeat lumbered in my direction. I sat in my room and thought about how the secret societies I’d explored had also been created by people sitting in rooms too. They were no different from me; they had just come to different conclusions in other places and times. Looking out at my back garden I watched the moon, bobbing away at the end of its string. It was a friendly reminder: I could make
anything I wanted. I had carte blanche, after all.
So, anyway, yes. Let’s try again. The idea I have is this: I’m forming a secret society. Would you like to join?
If you are interested in becoming a part of this secret society, which will be mentioned only here, now, in this one article, and never again, you have my solemn vow that you will never be forced to do anything horrible against your will, such as have sex with a dead animal or join the Conservative party. If you’d like, you can make yourself a tie-dyed t-shirt at some point, but that’s more like a secular version of the Haj: as long as you get around to it eventually you’ll be fine. We have no aims at all. We’re not going to do a thing. But you’re allowed to join us anyway. All you have to do is speak a couple of words aloud, right now. I’ll do it too. It’s easy, just say: “I AM READY TO BE SWEPT OFF MY FEET.”
Did you say it? Alright then. Welcome to the Friendly Reminders. I’ll start knitting some hoods.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Eight.
If, say, you’re researching the Lancashire folk singer and historian Jennifer Reid for an upcoming interview, the first thing you’ll read on her website is that she self-identifies as the “pre-eminent broadside balladress of the Manchester region.” This august position, she will later gladly admit, is partially due to a lack of competition: Jennifer is the only broadside balladress in the Manchester region. In fact, she’s the only broadside balladress in the country. And she made up the word balladress, so there’s that, too.
In spite of being the only iteration of a thing she invented, Jennifer wasn’t how I expected someone who devotes themselves to the study and performance of Industrial Revolution-era ballads to be. “I’ll never not be crazy, so it’s always good to have The Booglies,” was one of the first things she said to me, enthusing about her punk 1950s rock-and-roll band in which she “rasps and screams and prances about.” It wasn’t the omnipresent tattoos that caught me by surprise but her attitude of irreverent, puckish vim: it takes a certain
kind of freethinking apostasy to create a profession that no one else does and then become pre-eminent at it.
As Jennifer started to tell me the history of her chosen field, however, I realised that everything about her made absolute sense. She is exactly the sort of person who would voraciously devour broadside ballads and try to make others equally excited about the topic. She is, in short, a radical.
I used to have a really good definition for it. Hold on. Yes. A broadside ballad was a poem intended to be sung, printed on a piece of cheap paper. Ephemera. They weren’t supposed to last. The paper was so thin that you’d get it, learn it, paste it up on the pub wall, forget about it and paste over it with a new one in a couple of days. But they’ve survived. There’s 5,000 in Manchester alone. People just didn’t want to let them go.
How long were they popular for?
Oh God, ages. They were around from the 1500s all the way up to the 1900s. They had black Gothic print and evolved into garlands, which evolved into chapbooks of poetry. Broadsheets were easier because you could have them in a roll on a stick, like toilet paper—pull it down, cut it off , sell it, pull it down, cut it off , sell it—so it was easy to just shove them out. When newspapers started becoming popular they were seen as gossip. Newspapers were rooted in fact whereas broadsheets became a guy shouting, “Murder! Betrayal! Torture!” It was all a bit medieval by then.
How did you first become interested in broadsides?
I was in Barcelona and we were squatting and after a year I ran out of money, so I started e-mailing all the cultural places in Manchester like Chetham’s Library and the Working Class Movement Library, saying I was interested in Lancashire folk music. Chetham’s got back to me and said they had this collection of ballads, seven big volumes of them. I looked through them and realised that I recognised some of the tunes but not where from. I started to sing them, and catalogued and digitised them all. And then the artist Jeremy Deller got in touch and asked me to sing on Newsnight and from there it went on.
Were you raised with folk music?
No, no, my parents don’t like folk music. Dad likes Leonard Cohen, Mum likes Bryan Ferry and that’s where it stops. Both police people. We’d go on holidays to Turkey because they liked getting tanned. It wasn’t my background at all; I’d never been to a folk festival in my life. But, I don’t know, things chime from it. Working class struggles. I can’t not be interested. I can’t not tell people about it. These songs, all these trade union songs, early anti-Corn Law and Peterloo Massacre stuff and the big mill disasters, it’s all really important and it’s exactly the same as now. I think people should focus more and learn from the past so we can move forward.
The ballads were created for working class people. Were they made by them too?
Some were. There were people like Tommy Armstrong, the Pitman Poet. He’d work in the pit, write poems, sing them, be at the front of strikes and represent the people. But then you had places like the Seven Dials that used to be a big London printing powerhouse. There was a famous printer there called Jeremy Catnach. He was a bit of a git. He used to hire people to write ballads, mimicking what working class people were thinking, but only to flog to them. He had a really capitalist mindset, trying to appeal to working class people in an exploitative way.
Do you have an idea of how many were written?
Loads loads loads. If you were a traveller and walked past a printer’s house they’d say, “Right, I can tell you’re new in town, come in here. You can earn twenty shillings a week to churn out ballads.” The circulation was insane. Some of them would say “a woman in ‘blank’ street” and the printer would just fill in the name of a street in his area. These ballads were reproduced everywhere and people would think they were specific to their neighbourhood when they absolutely weren’t. There’s a story about a guy who was being hanged, and the hack went to the hanging, wrote down the details, ran to the printing house, printed off a few hundred ballads, came back and had them to sell by the time the man was dead.
Your background isn’t in traditional academia. Is that a benefit in some ways?
Yes, especially with the Lancashire dialect stuff, which I find the richest part. I can’t come at it from an
academic perspective because I’m too invested. I just have to sing it, I have to be the vessel through which more people can hear it. There are academics that I talk to, but they’ve only dabbled, used bits and pieces. I’m fully ballad girl, the end.
How does performance factor into your work? Have you done research on how they were sung?
The vocals are the glitzy, charismatic part. If I was just going to give a talk about ballads and not sing any, then I really don’t see the point at all. I like to sing a cappella because it’s got heart that way. If you were a miner or a weaver, you weren’t going to have an instrument lying around. Maybe an English concertina if you’re lucky. It’s like when you get drunk and you sing at the pub and don’t have an instrument to hand. I like the spontaneity, you can just burst into it. Anyone can sing these songs, so it’s only right for me to sing them in a very simple way where you can fully listen to the words. The tune isn’t important: they weren’t printed with them. You can put any tune you want to these songs. Often when I read a ballad I get the tune in my head by the fourth verse and then by the fifth I can sing it fine. It’s really strange how it comes at you, like it was there already.
Do audiences outside Lancashire react differently to your work?
I think they’re moved in a strange way. It freaked me out at first because I was just singing a song in my accent and doing a clog dance. I didn’t know what the big deal was. It stands for something that is almost dead in most people’s minds, and then you’re reviving it straight in their face.
As you weren’t raised with traditional folk music, has your work changed your relationship to the area you grew up in?
Yes, I’ve totally romanticised Rochdale, and if you ever go to Rochdale it’s horrible. Reading about the history of an area makes you more mature. It’s way bigger than you and it’ll continue to go on after you’ve left, so all you can really do is try to understand it and give it a platform. I’m just an interpreter, maybe helping people find something again.
When they can’t think of anything else to say, adults tend to ask children what they’d like to do when they grow up. Children will then duly respond to this—perhaps the most important question of their lives—as if they’d been asked to name their favourite type of biscuit. Although valuable as a thought-encouraging exercise, you’d surely get as much prognostic accuracy by cross-examining a bit of wood.
Even discounting that children only know about fifteen occupations, in truth most careers are determined by chance as much as premeditation. After years of false starts and sidesteps, many discover that they’re not really following a career path at all; instead, the path becomes evident only when they look back at the way they came. Among this meandering congregation, which includes me and probably you too, is Rachel Parris.
A comedian, actor, musician and improviser, Rachel’s work blends together so many different disciplines that the only way to properly describe what she does is to throw syllables together until you get some unwieldy portmanteau. “I wish there was a word that included everything I do but there isn’t,” she says. “I had the same problem when I wrote my Twitter profile. What do you put? I’m not famous enough for a cryptic comedy answer. I need people to be able to know who I am!”
This sort of confusion started early. After studying music at Oxford and taking a postgraduate course in acting, Rachel was unsure what exactly it was she wanted to pursue seriously. What do you do when you’re interested in several different fields at the same time, and you’re good at them too? She learned that playing piano at improvisational comedy gigs was more fun than attending insufferably sincere singer-songwriter nights, and that writing and performing funny songs was better still. “Comedy was the fi rst thing that said yes to me,” she reflects. “It was the first thing that just worked straight away.”
In the years since, Rachel has built an unsurprisingly diverse career. In her solo work she performs sharp, perceptive comedy songs buoyed by her likeable stand-up. She’s also a member of several popular improv groups including Austentatious, the exceptional Regency-era troupe that improvises imaginary Jane Austen novels. This variety reflects her disparate talents but also her pragmatism and hard work. “For me the only way forward was to try new things. You add enough of them together and that makes a career,” she says.
“Comedians are fond of this idea of being pro. They ask, ‘Are you pro? Are you pro?’ which means, ‘Do you have a day job or are you full-time?’ as if it’s a really clear distinction. But sometimes you have to piece six different jobs together.”
Out of those many different jobs, the one on Rachel’s mind as she sits with me at her dining table is her solo musical comedy show. If there is an added pressure to this feat, it seems to come from her passion for the form rather than the absence of collaborators. “I want to write actual songs with interesting chord structures and melodies that will stick in your head,” she states. “It has to be a song for a reason. It can’t just be something you could say. Otherwise why not just say it?” In her effort to avoid being a modern Flanders and Swann (“I’m willing to get paralysed if I have to, though, don’t get me wrong”), she pushes herself to experiment with different musical forms: “As a pianist, piano-led ballads are a gift, but I once made myself write a sexy R&B number too. It was about ankles.”
Rachel is zealous on the subject of songwriting. “I love music and am a musician, and I realised that for a while I was ignoring that. I was doing funny little joke songs, with two chords,” she says. “That was fine and people would laugh, but now I don’t see why not try to make it a good song too. Having a less well-written song musically doesn’t makes the joke any funnier, it’s just that you can get away with it. And I don’t want to get away with it.”
Even when deployed ambitiously, craft can only take you so far. When you can make anything about anything, you usually end up not making very much at all. If Rachel has picked up any lessons from the unexpected cult success of Austentatious, she believes it’s that self-imposed restrictions can be creatively rewarding.
“I’m putting together my next show at the moment,” she explains. “It’s about entering your thirties. When I was little, if I’d drawn a picture about being this age there would have been a husband and a kid and a house and a car, so I’m writing songs about what it is to be this age and not have any of those things. It’s nice to have some parameters to be controlled by, otherwise you’re just sitting there, looking around the room for something funny. I quite enjoy the challenge of saying, ‘No, I’m writing a song from the point of view of my ovaries, and that’s what it’s going to be.’”
It’s 10.30 pm on 11th February 1963 and John Lennon is stripped naked to the waist. After ten frenzied hours recording their debut album, The Beatles are completely out of studio time, but they need one more song. After Lennon has had a cup of warm milk to soothe his throat, they go for broke.
Deciding to record their cover of Twist and Shout, “an out-and-out screamer,” they only have a single shot before Lennon’s voice gives way and they’re made to leave the building. The result is seismic. “Nothing of this intensity had ever been recorded in a British pop studio,” notes Ian McDonald in his book Revolution in the Head. As the song fades out after 155 blistering seconds, Paul McCartney yells “Hey!” in delight. It is the only reasonable reaction to hearing Twist and Shout.
The account relayed above is one of countless stories that make Revolution in the Head an outstanding biography of The Beatles, but the book is also an insightful social history of post-war Britain and a peerless work of pop criticism and musical scholarship. MacDonald studies each Beatles recording in chronological order, prising apart every element of their production. The reading experience was genuinely one of the most extraordinary of my life, as I read each entry while listening to the relevant song again and again, hearing the music in a way I never had before. Somehow Revolution in the Head made me love The Beatles more than I already did, and what’s more, now I know that the band once had a major argument because Yoko Ono took one of George Harrison’s chocolate digestives without asking.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Seven. To read the original article click here.
With apologies to Ben Matthew, my bicycle is probably my best friend. It’s rare for me to arrive at any engagement without a pannier awkwardly wedged under an arm, yet I prefer to use it for pleasure over purpose, regularly spending weekends cycling up and down my local canal like I’m conducting a haphazard topographical survey.
Last year, I arranged to undertake a solo bike ride from Glasgow to Inverness. The journey, my route map promised, would carry me through ancient pine forests, open heather moorland and two national parks. I would traverse a mountain range, cross divine Victorian bridges, visit Rob Roy’s grave and see the millennia-old Fortingall Yew. In the weeks leading up to my departure I was barely present in my daily life. It was as if I was already in the Highlands; I’d get to sleep by imagining I was in my sleeping bag, under a sky ablush with stars.
An afternoon, an evening, a can of Irn-Bru and a fistful of sweets into my adventure, I realised something was awry. I was being eaten alive. Despite the relatively low top speed of the Highland midge, outrunning them had ceased to be an option. A cloud of winged creatures hung around me like a cartoon bad mood, my flesh a siren song for their plodding, fevered hunger. The holiday wasn’t going well. With the last of the day sinking beneath Loch Venachar, I had scant minutes to arrange canvas, poles, pegs and guy ropes in the vague configuration of a tent. When I finally made it inside my refuge, arrhythmic insectile drumming announcing my success on the flysheet, I looked through the mesh triangle and wondered what had brought me there. A sensible person might have told me that camping next to a loch at the height of summer was a mistake. But there was no one to say anything.
As my body released a torturous rush of histamine in a misguided attempt to be helpful, I realised that I was telling myself that I was having a good time rather than actually having one. The truth is there’s no such thing as travelling alone: you always end up taking yourself along too. Even as I pedalled through some of the most dazzling landscapes I’d ever seen, my thoughts, unbridled from the demands of work, daily activities and other people, were free to tumble into fathomless depths. Strenuous physical exertion and solitude conspired to exhume everything I’d wrapped in bin liners and buried under the patio of my mind. As an enthusiastic amateur, I had trained my body to cycle from morning until night. Spending a week stuck inside my own head was another matter.
When you experience solitude alongside ordinary interactions you’re able to appreciate both states more keenly: getting away for ten minutes to buy milk can be like a cooling breeze on a sweltering afternoon. This only works, however, when isolation exists in isolation. As the spectacular trudge of my first day had neared its conclusion, I felt overwhelmed by the likelihood of a whole week without talking to anyone outside the hospitality industry. Between travel companions the difficult parts of a journey become something you share: an in-joke, an elaborate story you tell later, a secret. What joy could I find in flat tyres, midge onslaughts or disappointing pies? When faced alone, they were just hassles. That night I lay in my besieged tent in the dark, listening to the insects hum. I felt guilty. Why did I need another person in my life to be happy? Why didn’t things feel the same by myself? I’ve been fiercely independent since my mid-teens, and yet the idea of cycling hundreds of miles across mountains daunted me less than the prospect of doing it without anyone to make terrible puns with.
There wasn’t a triumphant breakthrough coming. Loneliness is like a heavy coat that you’re unable to take off ; the sight of Ben Macdui or a do tterel or the Glen Ogle viaduct could only be so helpful. I struggled on. The good and the bad rode along with me, bulging panniers on either side of my emotional bike rack. I learned to live on small comforts: a wave from a man on a tractor, a barmaid in Pitlochry who told me about her brother, the cerulean signposts of the National Cycle Network informing me someone had been there before me. I realised—and there was plenty of time to reflect upon this—that all I could do was give myself over to the experience wholeheartedly, regardless of how I felt inside.
So that’s what I did. I swam in every loch I saw, cycled in torrential rain, flew down mountains; ditched my bike to bound up hillocks, yelled from summits, sang to the birds, recited mountain poetry to nonplussed sheep, awoke to see a deer idling outside my tent, ordered four side dishes in an incongruous Australian theme restaurant, camped in a field of heather, camped on the side of a hill, camped anywhere the midges wouldn’t get me, drank Glenfiddich as the sun went down, stood waist deep in Loch Moy and read Nan Shepherd, stumbled across a Bronze Age cairn and walked among the passage graves and thought about the still living and the long dead. And then it was over. On my final night I wriggled out of my tent to sleep under the stars, even though it was overcast and I couldn’t see them.
Rather than being a break from my regular life, the trip became that life in microcosm: trying to make the good things outweigh the bad ones, offsetting struggles with wonders, yearning to connect. I love spending time alone, but I understood as clearly as I ever had that I don’t want to be alone, because life is best when shared with other people: family, friends, maybe even someone who’d be willing to occasionally spend a week swimming in lochs and enduring the bombardments of the Highland midge. I haven’t met them yet.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Six. To read the original article click here.
It’s odd when you think about it. Once a year, like something from a nature documentary, nearly every comedy performer in Britain moves to Edinburgh. Subsisting on a diet of square sausage and anxiety, thousands of stand-ups, improvisers and character comedians spend close to a month in the city, performing their shows or trying to persuade evanescent strangers to attend those shows. Even among the other performing arts that comprise the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, such industry-wide temporary migration is unique. For a handful of weeks, an entire art form exists in one place, just down the road from the Forth Bridge and its infinite paint job.
One of the many such performers who will decamp to the Royal Mile this year is Alison Thea-Skot, an energetic, admirably game comedian who has been playing the Fringe on and off since 2007. In her upcoming show, Some Like It Thea-Skot, she showcases a range of charmingly unhinged characters, from coal-jawed diva Bibi Babalicious to the newly single head of ‘The Heartbreak Club’ who propositions audience members while crying and attempting to mount them.
Shortly after she had completed her first full preview, I sat down with Alison to talk about the process of developing an Edinburgh show.
How do you get ready for the Fringe?
I gig different characters for ten-or twenty-minute sets all year round and start collating them into an hour. A month and a half before Edinburgh I don’t trust anything that I’ve got. There are bits that are brand new that don’t work and bits that I’ve replaced entirely.
In your show you involve a single audience member repeatedly. How do you decide who to go for?
It’s like casting. You’re choosing someone to come into your show with you. I think that’s what draws me to it as a construct. I love having a script, but I want every performance to be slightly different, and the person you choose determines the tone. Fairly quickly you decipher who you think will be open, who looks like they’re having fun already, but isn’t going to come up on stage and fight you. It’s not about picking on someone, but embracing them into the show and helping turn the whole room.
In the quick changes between different characters, how do you manage to wrangle costumes and props?
Oh, God, I’ve got too many props! I love that step in developing my show, though. How do I make it flow so there isn’t an awkward pause while I try to find some Doritos? I’m torn between finishing with a prop and putting it neatly away in a box so you can put the lid on and walk straight out at the end, and having everything everywhere. I did a set the other night and left the stage covered in grapes and it was terrific.
Other than the grapes, there’s a lot of food in your show. Are all of your profits going to fund crisps? Surely the crisp budget is untenable!
Every show I’ve done has always had some kind of food in it. The finale of my last one was me singing the Edith Piaf song Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien while gargling jelly that had a wig on it. For every show I had to make an entire jelly. I’d be up really late at night making endless jelly, cursing, “Why! Why!” This year I thought maybe I’d try to not write food into the show, and yet nearly every character has some.
What does food add, other than being inherently funny because it gets everywhere?
I’ve always been attracted to food and mess. I’m not sure why. Why would I be attracted to that? It makes me laugh. Being messy from the very start is a great way to get the audience to a certain level quickly. It’s like rounding up all your audience members and saying: “Right, I’m going over here and you’re coming with me.” They’re instantly in a silly, strange place, and the whole room can lift. I love that feeling because the audience is suddenly up for anything. The show can live or die on that, of course, but that kind of excites me. There’s something wonderful about a bit of chaos, the sense that everything might spiral out of control at any moment.
I think certain comedy works best when it feels like the final week of a panto.
Yes, I’ve never thought of it that way. I’ve done a lot of panto, actually. I’ve been Jack in Jack and the Beanstalk, Dick in Dick Whittington. That was interesting, having 500 children shouting “Dick!” at you every night for six weeks. I have real respect for the art of panto. There’s such a tradition to it. I loved being principal boy as well, because it’s something you don’t really see out of pantomime.
Was there lots of thigh slapping?
Loads! You can’t perform that kind of stuff without completely committing. It’s a mad world with people in wigs and a guy in a chicken suit but your character’s journey still has to be real. We had a massive snake appear on stage at the end and we all had to be terrified of it. I want little kids to be worried that I might fall off a beanstalk and die. I want that to be real for them. There’s really something to be said for giving work everything you can. Otherwise why are you doing it?
Statistically speaking, you probably don’t have a penis. I’ve seen our market research and can say this with some degree of confidence. Therefore I’m asking you, kind-hearted, penis-less reader, to attempt a show of empathy when I disclose the following information: four years ago I lay on an operating table while a bored-looking woman stuck a six-inch needle directly into my penis. She did this three times and then she got out a knife. Still with me?
Much like a sore throat, this story is going to get worse before it gets better. About a year before I caught a bus towards Homerton University Hospital, my penis had developed the annoying tendency to gush blood during sex. The source of this carnal haemorrhaging was my frenulum, the elastic band of connective tissue known colloquially as the banjo string. The frenulum would tear mid-coitus and due to the volume of liquid busying itself in that area at the time, unsexy arcs of blood would spurt out in a fashion both painful and visually nightmarish.
At first the situation was relatively simple to ignore. Although I was in a loving, long-term relationship with a person I adored, it had ground down to a near-platonic state in which we had sex less often than we paid rent. Following a period of waiting for the frenulum to heal, I could usually persuade my brain that the problem had somehow resolved itself and thus I wouldn’t need to take any action.
It was the bodily equivalent of a cupboard that is difficult to close properly, or an overcrowded drawer that needs sorting out: a faulty bit of furniture, easily dismissed when not in use. Denial teems in any relationship that doesn’t quite work any more, so what was one more thing? My grisly condition at least provided an excuse for why we weren’t really sleeping together any more.
It wasn’t until the frequency of the trouble progressed from occasionally to always that I sought proper medical help. Fearing something irreversible, I visited a GP for the first time since childhood. After taking a brief look at my swimsuit-bereft swimsuit area, he swivelled around in his chair to consult the internet.
My concern over this action was only exacerbated when he proceeded to sketch a crude illustration of a penis to demonstrate his preliminary diagnosis. As we both looked down at the scribbled phallus, drawn by a fully-qualified doctor and not a schoolboy in a toilet cubicle, he explained that the malady was probably something called frenulum breve. He, and the internet, felt that my penis had developed at a disproportionate rate to my frenulum, and so it would tear under sexy pressure. The GP referred me to a specialist for confirmation, ripped the penis drawing out of his leather-sheathed notebook, threw it in the bin and sent me on my way.
A few weeks later I visited the specialist. What infinitesimal convulsions of the universe had taken place, I wondered as she cradled my penis in her hand and stifled a yawn, to bring us both to this dimly-lit room? Agreeing with the GP’s internet connection, she explained that the ailment could be solved quite simply and without any aesthetic effect through a frenuloplasty, a procedure that would involve cutting a fibre within the frenulum. She compared this to snipping the waistband inside a pair of pyjama bottoms. As a person who appreciates a good analogy, I felt reassured that she knew what she was talking about.
The operation took place on a Tuesday. First was the pre-operative assessment, where the surgeon asked me if I wanted a local or general anaesthetic. I’d been told that I’d be under a general one and had made plans accordingly, arranging for my girlfriend to pick me up after I’d regained both consciousness and a less gory sex life. Suddenly I had a choice. In a vulnerable moment during which she became the third medical professional to hold my penis in a scattering of weeks, I told the surgeon that I wouldn’t need general anaesthetic. Just for a simple penis operation? What would be the point? As soon as I saw the needle, which looked like the type of instrument a nefarious doctor might use in a Saturday morning cartoon, I realised that I had not thought my decision through.
I’m not sure how I expected the anaesthetic to be administered, but three injections directly into my penis was not it. I certainly hadn’t foreseen the radio either, playing Aerosmith’s power ballad I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing as it had apparently become self-aware and decided to start making fun of me. The procedure was like being punched in the crotch repeatedly for fifteen minutes, but before I knew it an assistant was washing off the orange surgery gunk and I could leave. Hours earlier than expected, I took the bus home by myself with a penis that felt like it had been to the dentist.
An itchy, sexually-frustrated month passed waiting for the stitches to dissolve, a feat they accomplished the day before my birthday. Earlier I had told my girlfriend—in a tone that had the cadence of a joke but was in fact the opposite—that I didn’t want anything and was just happy that we’d be able to sleep together again. She got me a roasting pan. It was an excellent, thoughtful present and I was delighted. I still think of her when I use it.
We lay in her bed on my birthday night, curled up in our long and loving relationship. My penis was healed for good. It wouldn’t bleed ever again. We could have sex all day and night if we wanted. There was nothing holding us back. We stared up at her ceiling while outside the traffic slowed to a murmur.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Seven.
What do we talk about when we talk about alcohol? Discussion on the subject tends to focus on a few distinct areas: the ways alcohol has developed, where and how it is made (and by whom), and what it is like to consume. Alcohol as history, alcohol as an industry, alcohol as a drink. There is notably less attention paid to another factor, one that can be just as illuminating as its creation or composition. Between the cask and the glass, a part of the journey is missing from the conversation. The answer isn’t at the bottom of a bottle: it is the bottle.
By thinking about alcohol in terms of a discrete unit – something that is sold, bought and owned – we can reflect upon our relationship with it. As drinking habits evolve, so too does the way we interact with the vessels that contain the substance. What’s crucial is that aside from periodic cosmetic updates, the bottles themselves never really change, even as everything else does around them. This applies in particular to spirits: wine has long been a volumetric jumble, where bottle sizes lurch from the 187.5ml Piccolo to the 30l Melchizedek – four-foot-tall behemoths that have an unfortunate tendency to explode from the pressure of all the inordinately expensive champagne they hold.
In contrast, spirits have existed in a two-tier system for as long as the industry has been established internationally, a steadfastness unsurprising in a drink that can take decades to produce. This set-up currently comprises the global standards – 35cl, 50cl and the regular 70 or 75cl, depending on whether you live in the EU after 1990 or not – and 5cl miniatures. While the ubiquitous 70cl is considered the regular, ‘true’ bottle size, its weird and diminutive cousin is the more compelling. Like the Post Office Railway that ran alongside the regular London Underground for 76 years without anyone really noticing, miniatures have had a quiet parallel existence to full bottles since they were devised, noticeable only to those who were paying attention.
The invention of the alcoholic miniature pre-dates not only the hotel minibar that is now one of its natural habitats, but glass bottles as well. Miniatures were a necessity of early 18th-century sea trade. Spirits, often combined with bitters, sugar and water, had become the American drink of choice, as the raw materials weren’t available to produce wine or beer and neither drink travelled well.
With customers understandably wary of purchasing an entire barrel of liquor, modest ceramic vessels would be used by salesmen as testers. Such containers were standard at the time: bottles that did exist were large, made from stoneware and only used for storage. This practice continued until 1846, when John Dewar Sr. opened a wine and spirits shop in Perth and sold bottles of his ‘White Label’ whisky blend. The concept of glass bottles for spirits was subsequently popularised over the following half a century as the blend became the market leader globally.
Even with their own conversion to glass, it wasn’t until the 1930s that miniatures became desirable objects in their own right. Despite the timely demise of American Prohibition in 1933, high import duties and the Great Depression rendered spirits like whisky and brandy unaffordable to virtually every stratum of society. It was in this troubled environment that miniatures prospered: they avoided tax because they were classed as samples, while their reduced volume made them a more attainable option over full bottles. Accordingly, ingenious European spirit producers shipped miniatures to the US in huge quantities, ensuring that bottles were packaged identically down to the labels.
Sharing the fate of Shirley Temple, big band music and tommy guns hidden in violin cases, the 1930s would prove to be the high watermark for the miniature. Diminished but persevering, in later decades it trudged on with a role that had much in common with its original mission. Even after the worldwide economic downturn abated, a full bottle of spirits remained an expensive investment without knowing what you were tasting. Devoid of the inquisitive, increasingly well-informed drinking culture we enjoy today, this was also an era before pub shelves creaked under the weight of dozens of half-empty spirit bottles. With interesting single malts considered elusive or near mythical, pub choices were woefully limited: a gin, a rum, a blended Scotch, a creeping sense of malaise. The solution was, and remains, a good miniature: a satisfying single drink in itself, or a reasonably priced taster for a possible future purchase. While miniatures were living out their functional, unsexy purpose as tiny, alcohol-filled trial balloons, however, another trend had begun.
Watching an episode of ‘Antiques Roadshow’ bored and depressed on a Sunday evening will verify that absolutely anything can be considered collectable, but certain objects lend themselves to the hobby better than others. It is therefore not a surprise to learn that affordable, space-efficient versions of spirit bottles, differentiated in all sorts of highly specific ways, became items that would be fervently stockpiled for personal collections.
Miniature collecting has been a popular, if idiosyncratic, pursuit ever since the bottles themselves were designed to directly imitate their towering brethren, and for collectors it’s this distinction that is key: a true miniature is defined as any bottle for which an accompanying full-sized version exists. While gimmick bottles of the kind popular in Scotland’s tourist shops have their own kitsch allure, what rules them out of consideration is their unspecified, unreliable contents. “Who knows what the whisky is inside?” muses Laurie Drake, Vice Chairman of the UK Mini Bottle Club. “It’s probably just a grotty old Bell’s. I need to have a name on my label so I know what I’m collecting.” In addition, the miniature must also have a sealed cap and contain at least some of the original liquid, although losing a portion to evaporation (surely the angels’ second share) is a known potential hazard. Originally this would be battled by coating the top of the neck with nail varnish, but now the miniature collector’s best friend is a clear paraffin tape used in laboratories and called Parafilm.
While Drake is particularly invested in miniature collecting – his wife literally wrote the book on the subject – his experience is representative of the community he helps run. A collector of such bottles for over 20 years, he boasts a dedicated whisky room in his house, and it’s the effect the room has upon visitors that for him is part of the appeal. He notes that the vast majority of the Mini Bottle Club collects whiskies, and many specialise further still – Drake amassed more than 2,500 different distillery malts before whittling his collection down to just Famous Grouse. Rather than hoarding good leads, the members of the club help each other out, letting their peers know when new bottlings are available: “The idea isn’t that I want to have more whiskies than you,” says Drake. “It’s not a competition, or trying to outdo anyone, it’s just collecting for your own personal gratification. It’s a satisfying process, and to us they look nice on the wall. To other people they probably don’t.”
This spirit of cooperation among collectors isn’t just goodwill but an awareness that they’re part of an endangered species. The Mini Bottle Club persists in its cause, holding regular auctions and annual meetings, but the existing members are ageing and new ones are rare: from a peak in the 1990s of around 400 members, roughly a quarter remain. The news is brighter abroad, where collecting has grown unexpectedly popular. Beyond American collectors, who are more accepting of figural miniatures, there is a thriving scene in Asia, particularly in areas long exposed to Western alcohol such as Hong Kong. This is of little consolation to British collectors, where a free fall in popularity is symptomatic of an overall decline in collecting as a pastime. Like many of his fellow members, Drake started off in his youth by collecting matchboxes, cigarette cards and football programmes, quaint diversions that are almost unimaginable for a teenager today. “Young people are more interested in their computers and tablets. They’re not into collecting anymore. Most of our members are overseas now, and in the UK it seems to be dying out. It’s a shame. The best days, I think, are over.”
It isn’t just in the realm of collecting that miniatures are beleaguered. The cost of producing a miniature isn’t far off the cost of making a full-sized version, yet the final product is sold for a significantly lower price, which means they struggle to remain a sustainable revenue option for distributors. Additionally, the growing reluctance of alcohol makers to produce new miniatures is exacerbated by waning consumer demand: miniatures are ultimately an expensive way to buy an already expensive product.
Miniatures continue to have a place within drinking culture, as gifts for Christmas or Burns Night, or trusty accomplices for interminable train or plane journeys, but otherwise their presence is dimming. In a certain sense, they have become a victim of alcohol’s success: their traditional use as a sampling method is under threat as pub choice is increasingly varied, not to mention cocktail bars, dedicated whisky shops and other venues where one can try interesting spirits without having to sell a kidney on the black market. Why buy a selection of miniatures when for the same price you can get a full bottle of a drink that you’ve read about, or attend a tasting run by someone knowledgeable and passionate? Even South Carolina, the unlikely centre of the miniature alcohol world, is no longer safe; until the state’s constitution was amended in 2005, it remained the only place in America where it was legally required for all restaurants, hotels and bars to serve spirits from miniature bottles. Inevitably, the law change resulted in confused bartenders racing to learn how to free pour measures, and customers disappointed that their regular drinks were suddenly much weaker.
If the miniature’s long history demonstrates anything, it’s that the bottles have an odd tendency to find a purpose. One such use now is to be a historical experience. Whisky is organic, so even though it doesn’t age once it’s been bottled, different bottlings of single malts will inevitably vary over time. “With miniatures, people who are dedicated can follow the whole progress of a specific drink,” suggests Dominic Roskrow, former editor of Whisky Magazine and author of several books on the subject. “I’m a forward-thinking person so I’m not very interested in history lessons, but I can understand the appeal of that. It’s like driving an old Triumph Herald from the 1960s: a step back into an experience.”
While miniatures have been supplanted by tastings, the general increase in interest has also created attendant opportunities for the enterprising. Roskrow cites the marketing strategy of The Last Drop, the incredibly exclusive 50-year-old scotch blend that can cost thousands of pounds and comes with its own miniature: “The idea is that you taste the whisky using the miniature and decide if you want to open the big bottle or keep it as an investment.” This canny move from the blend’s distillers has been met by an equally canny response from buyers, many of whom have sold their miniatures online. “They’ll make a considerable amount of money doing that because it’s the only way some people will ever get to taste the drink,” he explains. In the more sane area of the price spectrum, miniatures are also being used as an extension of tastings. Roskrow himself co-runs an online whisky-tasting club – an opt-in service where members buy bespoke sets of different miniatures decanted from full-size bottles, like a cereal variety pack with tasting notes.
Even as miniatures are buffeted by inexorable change within the alcohol industry, it seems unlikely that they will ever entirely disappear, if only for the simple reason that sometimes circumstances dictate the need for a small amount of liquor in a discreet receptacle.
As Apollo 8 returned from the first ever orbit of the Moon in 1968, for example, its three-man crew were told of a surprise Christmas present from NASA: three Coronet VSQ California Grape Brandy miniatures. In a prudent yet spoilsport move, mission commander Frank Borman told his fellow astronauts they would have to wait until they got home (40 years later his crewmate Jim Lovell sold his still unopened bottle for $17,925). This was a sensible decision, and almost certainly the wrong one: if there was ever an appropriate time to drink a miniature, it would surely be travelling home from the Moon on Christmas Day, with such a long way still to go.
Published in Hot Rum Cow Issue 8. To read the original article click here.
We’ve just met. Hello. Hi. We share first names and tentative smiles, a handshake or a nod or the offer of a sausage roll. Like most first encounters there is awkwardness and goodwill in equal measure. A spirit of friendly endeavour. And then something happens.
There’s a question you’d like to ask. I can feel it forming in your mind. There was a word I pronounced oddly, or you noticed a sing-song quality to my voice. Maybe you wait until it’s socially appropriate. Maybe you dive right in. Either way, inevitably: “Where do you come from?”
I’ve heard this roughly once a fortnight for the past dozen years, but it’s an innocent query, and it’d be rude to not oblige. Here’s the answer I’d give to a geography teacher: I was born in Scotland, lived in a Forthside naval base until I was five, moved to Pontypridd, remained there for a decade, then lived in England, then Scotland, moved to London for university and forgot to leave. A decade vanished and here I am, eyeing the finger food and smiling politely. Hi. Hello.
So much early movement untethered my voice from its natural sense of place. All five-year-olds are basically incomprehensible, but I was particularly so, my Scottish accent so thick that teachers and classmates could barely understand me. When my preschool burr finally slipped away, it was replaced not with a Welsh accent but some confused amalgam that persists to this day. There’s something in me that’s essentially unsettled, and this uncertainty has spilled out into the way I speak.
An accent is something you carry around in your throat, an unwitting passenger in life. It can be scrubbed away with effort, but is the clearest biological indication of upbringing. You can only have an accent if you’re from somewhere. So what does that make me? Where do I come from?
Despite living in Pontypridd for my most formative years, I didn’t belong. I defined myself in opposition to Wales: its homogeneity, its questionable approach to vowels, its misplaced pride in Tom Jones, its marrow-deep rugby obsession. For an indoor kid with spaghetti wrists rugby was a weekly ordeal, and seemingly the only sport in existence. If the trite observation about it being the national religion was true, then I was an atheist, dragged to church in ill-fitting clothes.
My real home, I asserted, was Scotland, a country I had little ongoing connection with beyond a quenchless thirst for Irn-Bru and Glaswegian indiepop. There’s a term that articulates this feeling: hiraeth. It doesn’t have a direct English translation, but means “a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.” An etymologist would relish pointing out at this juncture that hiraeth is a Welsh word.
Since skipping Glamorgan at sixteen for a bedsit and bad poetry, my teenage friendships left to atrophy, I’ve told people that I’m barred from the country. There are pictures of me, I used to allege, stuck in the windows of the tollbooths that parenthesise the Severn Bridge. I started believing my own ruse, ignoring the hiraeth mutating inside me. I made London home and joined a community, but something was missing. Almost every new friend had also fled a small town of some description, but they didn’t recite elaborate analogies about being in exile.
Wary of nationalism, I’d also spurned any notion of tradition, culture or heritage that I might call my own. As I got on with the glacial business of forging a meaningful, happy life, some abstract part of me ached and I didn’t know how to stop it.
Until, that is, I read about a man jumping off a ferry.
. . .
On 9th October 2011, the rugby player Manu Tuilagi—possibly inebriated, definitely stupid—decided it would be a good idea to fling himself from a passenger ferry into the busy Waitemata Harbour and swim to a nearby pier. The ill-advised leap came as the denouement to England’s disastrous Rugby World Cup campaign, where dismay over their early exit had been compounded by reports of ill-discipline, drunken nights out and casual bouts of dwarf-tossing.
This baffling conduct passed me by until I skimmed a news story on Tuilagi and his overly symbolic tumble. As my long-held suspicions about rugby’s inherent boorishness were being confirmed, I caught an offhand mention of the contrast Wales provided to England’s indignities. My interest piqued, I delved deeper. Wales weren’t tossing dwarves; they were too busy having weekly choir practice instead. Article after article spoke reverently of their work ethic, commitment to training and support of one another. The men I read about seemed a world away from the swaggering clods of the frigid rugby pitches of my youth, those athletically unfearful boys who made life difficult because I spoke funny.
I’d certainly changed since leaving the country—I could now poach an egg—and I wondered if rugby had too. With the careful optimism of the frequently disappointed, I sat down a few days later to watch Wales’ semi-final, my bare feet padding across rock. And then it happened. I got it.
Rugby, I realised, is about the collective struggle to accomplish a shared goal. It’s a metaphor for socialism. No wonder the Welsh adore it. Co-operation is built into its genetic code: to take part in a scrum eight players bind together, sharing the weight of their difficult task. There are players who never even touch the ball: their job is solely to hold up or protect their teammates. Most pleasingly for someone who spent juvenile P. E. lessons dreading the changing rooms, it’s specifically designed so all shapes and sizes can play: if you’re tall you can be a lock, if you’re short you can be a scrum-half, if you’re heavier you can be a prop. No matter who you are, if you want to play there’s a role for you, like a choir that induces cauliflower ears. Within eighty minutes I’d converted to the national religion; I didn’t just enjoy rugby, I believed in it, struck sentimental by its egalitarian beauty.
. . .
It’s hardly worth mentioning that Wales lost. It didn’t matter. They were ferocious, indefatigable, large-hearted. They played as if rugby was all that mattered. It was only polite to reciprocate. I’ve followed them ardently ever since. Watching now inspires an unfamiliar sensation in my chest, huddling between the lungs: unembarrassed pride. Instead of viewing national identity as a tool used to exclude others and promote insularity, I appreciate it’s also a way to acknowledge history, both collective and individual, good and bad. It doesn’t negate the factors that made me yearn to leave in the first place, but I finally understand Pontypridd’s role in my life.
On the whims of circumstance I grew up in Wales—that underdog of a country, weird and funny and soulful—and it shaped me more than I knew. I’d been wrong for almost my entire life. The values it cherishes are my values. Its struggles are my struggles. When the television cameras cut to an excitable crowd dressed like daffodils and sheep, I don’t recognise myself, but that doesn’t make the feeling of affinity any less valid.
Wales belongs to me as well. Its history is mine. Its culture is mine. The coalfields and the valleys are mine. The Mabinogion is mine. Aneurin Bevan is mine. The Labour movement is mine. The miners’ strike is mine. The post-industrial hardships are mine. Even Tom Jones is mine, for whatever that’s worth.
Most importantly, rugby is mine. It always has been. My grandfather passed away a few years ago, and I can’t watch a game without thinking of how he’d run up and down the length of his sofa, shouting at the television in exultation or despair. I catch myself doing it now too, and in those moments I feel connected to him, to that lost place of my past. When Wales play rugby—and, heavens, when they play they’re magnificent—I remember every bit of him. I don’t have an accent, but I have that.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Five.
How would we fare without modern weather forecasting? If we lived before the electric telegraph, by what method would we plot our sea and air transit, choose what to do on our farms, or decide whether to bring along a scarf? Could we cope unaided by radiosondes, weather stations, reconnaissance aircraft, buoys, satellites and computer models? What would we do without boxes and balloons and barometers, without lonely men and women in excellent jumpers, without the somniferous shipping forecast telling us of German Bight, Humber, and Cromarty?
What if our only tools for predicting weather were dubious lore, our immediate surroundings and the behaviour of an eccentric cat? In an effort to tally our meteorological debt to the modern age, we decided to test early methods of weather prediction. The task was to determine whether it would rain outside the office every weekday at half ten and half four during the notoriously capricious first week of spring.
Each member of the team was assigned a different technique, from monitoring hair frizz to sniffing the air. Without the assistance of a single hygrometer, disdrometer or ceilometer, the results of our rigorous and deeply scientific research follow. It’s worth mentioning at this point that it didn’t rain once all week, and winter accoutrements were conspicuous by their absence from the office coat stand.
forecast one: “red sky at night, shepherd’s delight; red sky at morning, shepherd take warning.”
While this adage’s familiarity may seem due to the playground simplicity of the rhyme, versions of it exist in several languages. Shakespeare referenced the idea in a poem and Jesus used it in the Bible in place of showing a sign from heaven. The concept endures because it’s broadly accurate, based upon sunlight passing through the Belt of Venus. Despite my obsessive checking all week, though, I saw no red skies either in the morning or evening. The closest I came—and I’m counting this as a shepherd-delighting win—was on the Wednesday evening when the sky looked like mustard rubbed into sand.
If the predictive properties of that evening’s sky were limited, at least it provided a splendid view as I headed home. As the lesser-known saying goes: citron sky at night, cyclist’s delight.
forecast two: dogs eating grass
According to old wives and their 21st-century equivalent, the internet, dogs eat grass before it rains. Of all the techniques we flirted with, this is the only one considered to be completely false lore, so in effect it operated as an anti-control to the experiment.
Rosanna Durham’s intimidatinglyrefined poodles Della and Tally—if born in an early time they probably would have owned property—were carefully monitored on their daily walks. Rosanna reports, “The ladies ate no grass that we observed. I have it on good information that they did eat a little horse poo in Hyde Park, however. It’s their favourite snack.”
It’s difficult to know what to conclude from these findings, other than that dogs are pretty disgusting when you think about it.
forecast three: “aches and pains, coming rains.”
Foiled by the capriciousness of canines, old wives had more success observing their own bodies. Hippocrates noted a relationship between pain and weather as far back as 400 BC, while medical studies over the past century have shown that arthritis sufferers are affected by barometric pressure changes caused by approaching weather fronts. The possibility of becoming human weather houses was too appealing to let our office-wide lack of arthritis get in the way, so Linnea Enstrom stepped up.
Aside from a headache, slight shoulder twitch and self-inflicted stomach ache, her records note no maladies for the week. The only outlier was on Wednesday afternoon, when she wrote, “Sudden sharp pain in my neck, going down towards my shoulder. Rain is coming!” Given that it didn’t rain all week, the cause of her mystery pain remains tantalisingly unknowable, like the identity of Jack the Ripper, what really happened to the Mary Celeste, or why cocktails are now served out of jam jars.
forecast four: cat behaviour
In 1883, the U. S. War Department commissioned Lieutenant H. H. C. Dunwoody to investigate the correlation between folk wisdom and accurate weather prediction. Dunwoody accordingly produced Signal Service Notes, Issue 9, in which he expounds at length on the “weather wise” reputation of felines. The book claims that snoring cats indicate foul weather, cats lying on their heads with their mouths turned up indicate a storm, cats washing their faces with backs to a fire indicate a winter thaw, and cats sneezing, scratching themselves or washing their heads behind their ears indicate rain.
Tamara Vos volunteered her cat Misha to be an unwitting test subject and produced the following diary:
Sunday PM: Misha ate his dinner and commenced to wash himself entirely, washing behind his ears with his paw several times. To all intents and purposes it should rain tomorrow. I must remember my umbrella. Around midnight he bounces onto my bed, sneezes loudly, then burrows under the covers and immediately begins to snore. He’s never got in the bed before so I don’t know what that means. A storm?
Monday AM: Nothing out of the ordinary. While I brushed my teeth Misha sat in the bathtub and then licked the tap. PM: He fell asleep under the covers again. Can he breathe? It seems he thinks he’s human.
Tuesday AM: He rolled around on his back a lot and gave himself a thorough washing for about twenty minutes. PM: Slept all evening, obliviously. I hoovered and he didn’t care. Later: The best thing ever happened. Misha likes to sit at the edge of the bath while you’re in it, which in itself is quite wonderful. Tonight my boyfriend was in the bath, and Misha was teetering on the edge, but suddenly fell in. He splashed around, was pushed out, then raced in panic around the entire bathroom. He looked like a drowned rat. Might this mean some awful, weatherrelated catastrophe tomorrow?
Wednesday AM: He behaved like a regular cat. PM: Nope, still behaving like a commonor-garden cat. He has picked up the endearing habit of ‘catching’ sponges out of the kitchen sink, walking around the house with them in his jaws and bringing them to us proudly. This is annoying when you want to do the dishes and find the sponge in your bed upstairs. They’re often drenched sponges, so maybe he wants to be close to water?
Thursday AM: This morning Misha ate a bee and his mouth swelled dramatically. PM: His mouth is back to its normal size. We lit a fire. He didn’t react but did sit on top of the curtain rail all evening, and went on to snore quite heavily into the night.
Friday AM: He rolled around on his back in the sunshine this morning, but I think this has more to do with joie de vivre than portending bad weather. PM: Nothing. No sneezing, no snoring, no washing. I worry about his personal hygiene.
forecast five: guessing from america
The philosopher and social reformer Jeremy Bentham made extensive plans for his body to be preserved after his death. His skeleton, now the property of University College London, is wheeled out on special occasions to college council meetings, where it is listed in minutes as “present but not voting.” Since departing for New York late last year, features editor Maggie Crow has become the Jeremy Bentham of Oh Comely: not present, but here in spirit. Out of sheer curiosity we asked her to take a stab at what the weather would be like in London. Here is her best impression of Mystic Meg:
Monday morning Grey and rainy. You dodge puddles en route to Tesco to pick up your egg mayonnaise sandwich. Monday evening No rain. Tonight is one of those nights where you can feel spring coming. The sky is clear and, though it isn’t warm, the chill has left the air. You decide to leave your jacket open.
Tuesday morning My instructions explicitly say that I can’t solicit weather information from my friends in London, but what can I do when I wake up to an email that says, “It’s been perfect weather for making kimchi”? There’s only one way to interpret that—it’s raining. Tuesday evening It’s still raining.
Wednesday Partly cloudy skies. Your umbrella is close at hand but you don’t use it.
Thursday morning Sunny and cool and clear. You drink your morning tea by an open window, and revel in the dissonant feeling of the warm light contrasting with the cool breeze on your skin. You decide to wear a dress. Thursday evening I bet it isn’t raining. Here, on the other hand, it’s snowing. Sigh.
Saturday What do you call a weather prediction that happens after the event? I forgot to make my prediction yesterday so I’m going to guess that it was another beautiful day in London. Partly cloudy with sunny breaks. You lucky ducks.
forecast six: frizzy hair and scent of the air
In a low pressure environment, such as before rain or when playing Scrabble against a seven-year-old nephew, decomposing plant matter releases molecules that often smell like compost. Similarly, hair might become frizzy in the humid period before a heavy rain. For a week Emily Knowles selflessly donated her nose and hair to the higher calling of scientific discovery:
Monday AM: The air smells like the countryside and my hair is wind-whipped, but without frizz. PM: The air smells like gooseberries. Tuesday AM: No compost smell detected and my hair is decidedly unfrizzy. PM: Bus fumes have taken over and my hair is weighed down with city pollution. Wednesday AM: The air just smells like air, really. My hair is too greasy to get frizzy. Nice. PM: Diesel, that’s what I can smell. I’ve tied my hair up. It’s not frizzy, but it’s never frizzy. Thursday AM: What does rain smell like anyway? I can smell when it’s raining: it smells like rain. PM: I’m really trying to put a finger on what the air smells like. I can’t. Melon? Dusty cars. Friday AM: Fresh spring air, fresh spring hair. PM: I can smell grass in the air, but that’s because I’m in a park. It’s a little like compost, but it’s not, it’s grass. It’s breezy and my hair is blowing in it.
a choose-your-own-adventure conclusion
Given the muddled nature of our results, there are three possible explanations for what occurred:
One. All of these methods work, and our practices were unsound.
Two. None of these methods work, and our practices were sound.
Three. Some of these methods work and some of them don’t. It’s hard to tell and their success is dependent upon a host of highly specific and fickle criteria, which is why cutting-edge weather forecasting technology is undoubtedly superior to spending a week trying to discern whether you can smell compost or not, and our practices were definitely, definitely unsound.
In any case, most of us are now planning to quit journalism and join the Met Office, so this is the final ever Oh Comely. It’s been fun!
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Five. Photography by Toby Coulson. To read the original article click here.
A poster follows me from room to room. Silent and confederate in an unornamented frame, for ten years it’s trudged across postcodes from new home to new home, from failed relationship to failed relationship. All the while Miranda July’s face has stared out from it hopefully—the writer, director and star of the film Me and You and Everyone We Know. In the middle of the poster is a quote from the late Roger Ebert that perfectly encapsulates not just that film but July’s entire dizzying, diverse output: her short stories, spoken word recordings, performance pieces, participatory artworks, even her messaging app. In trying to describe her moving and singular debut novel The First Bad Man I’ve concluded that I cannot possibly best it, and so I offer Ebert’s words here: “Delicate, tender, poetic, and yet so daring. It is about the mysteries of sex and the enchantments of the heart.”
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Five. To read the original article click here.
Are you a bit of a know-it-all? Do you dream of a room full of people hanging on your every word? Does your spine tingle at the prospect of wielding a red biro in one hand, a pint of bitter in the other? Yes? Then running a pub quiz could be for you. Jason Ward reveals what it takes to set up this greatest of British boozer institutions…
Discover a niche
Given their ingenious union of passionate interests with drinking, the growing popularity of specialised pub quizzes is unsurprising. While a quiz can be a great way to fundraise, the best ones can also be creative projects in their own right.
The first step is deciding the topic. Standing out from the crowd helps: when Simon Williams and Lee-Jay Bannister set up their You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat quiz ten years ago, film quizzes were a rarity. “It’s weird to think that in 2005 no one else was doing this,” Simon recalls. “Nowadays there are quite a few others, mostly run by cinemas.”
Paul Guided Missile, who runs the Rough Trade Shops Pop Quiz, chose pop music after his friend bought the Lexington pub and corralled him into action. “She set up a deal with Rough Trade Shops whereby shop vouchers would make up the main part of the prize. It was a great endorsement but confusing at first as people thought the quiz was going to be all about Sun Ra and Azalia Snail.”
Find a good pub
It’s difficult to walk down a street in Britain without eventually finding yourself outside a pub, but choosing the right quiz venue is crucial. Patience is advised once you do strike gold: “The Old Queen’s Head receives hundreds of requests,” says Stephen D’Arcy, Head of Promotion at the Columbo Group, which owns the pub. “We do get back to enquiries, but there can be a delay due to the number of submissions.”
To give yourself the best chance, then, it’s important to be prepared. Stephen outlines what a venue looks for: “We ask promoters to give us a proposal in as much detail as possible, including an ideal date and time, the amount of people they’re expecting and history of past events. We then review it, decide if it’s a good fit and where it could go in our schedule. There are no rules per se: if we like the sound of the event and have faith in it we’re happy to try it out.”
Write your own questions
“What mighty contests rise from trivial things,” Alexander Pope once said on the side of a box of Trivial Pursuit. Just because a quiz is meant to be fun doesn’t mean that it won’t get incredibly competitive. “Many of the people who come to our quiz are serious film geeks, they know their stuff”, says Simon. To avoid potential embarrassment, it’s best to have devised the question yourself.
“You need to be able to defend your answer if someone has an issue with it. There’s nothing worse than someone pointing out a quizmaster’s error and them saying they didn’t write it.” For a specialised quiz, it’s useful to be knowledgeable about your particular area: “For a film quiz host, knowing a lot about movies helps. If someone thinks you’ve made a mistake, it’s good to be able to explain to them the film they’re actually thinking about.”
Be friendly with the bar staff
Pubs increasingly rely on outside entertainment to attract custom, which means their staff can be faced with a different event every evening. Like staying over at a friend’s house as a child, you have to remember your manners. “It’s important to have a good relationship with anyone you’re relying on to help you do your job,” Paul says.
Aside from being cordial, staff also need the detail of what’s going to happen. Stephen explains what information they need to be provided with: “They must be aware of the event schedule, tech specs as well as more logistical information like ticket prices, sales, door list and number of attendees.” Paul adds one further item: “The pub staff get a copy of the photo round from me, to have a look at if they ever get a spare minute behind the bar.”
Vary the difficulty
Simon believes the key to a good quiz is making sure that everyone can enjoy it: “We’re not there to make people feel that they don’t know anything. Above all it should be entertaining – this isn’t an exam. Even if people score very low we want them to have fun, and we have plenty of regular teams who might not score so well but keep coming back.”
This means creating the right mix of questions, including everything from what Paul calls “giveaways” (“The Beatles were from which UK city?”) to those which will be hard for some teams and easy for others depending on their age and tastes. “Sometimes I’ll throw in a really obscure indie or prog rock question, which people can barely believe is in the quiz and only one person will know the answer to. You can’t get away with many of those, but it’s nice to have one here and there.” Simon suggests one way to level the playing field is having something like an observation round: “Everyone has a fair shot at getting full marks for that one.”
It’s always going to be a challenge to run a quiz in a time when attendees have the entirety of collected human knowledge potentially sitting in their pocket. Along with generally keeping order, Paul thinks one sign of a good quizmaster is having the authority to enforce a no phones rule.
Clarity about what constitutes a correct answer is important too: “You have to know how to deal with the inevitable enquiries, such as if someone’s put down ‘Alex Franz Ferdinand’ instead of ‘Alex Kapranos.’” One way to avoid this, says Simon, is for the host to mark the answer sheets instead of the teams themselves: “It needs to be consistent otherwise it’s not fair.”
Make it fun
“Our quiz is like a little show but I’ve been to some that are essentially just admin,” Paul says. He stresses that he avoids gimmicks, but endeavours to create an enjoyable atmosphere. “I use soundbeds, jingles, catchphrases and have a live music round at the end where I play pop hits on a Casio keyboard. One quiz I played ‘For Those About to Rock’ by AC/DC and used party poppers as the cannons. A couple of years ago, when the Chilean miners were rescued, I played ‘You Raise Me Up’ and hoisted up a model of a miner in a rescue capsule, hand-painted by my missus. It’s important to be entertaining, to make it a spectacle.”
Simon agrees: “I’m confident we’re the slickest-looking quiz out there. We push ourselves to create more and more fancy ways to present questions and clips. We also show the answers up on the screen which is sometimes as much fun as the questions. A big screen is the only way a quiz dedicated to movies should be shown.”
To read the original article at IdeasMag, click here.
Published in The Simple Things Issue 35.
Austentatious perform improvised comedy plays in the style of Jane Austen novels. Cast member Cariad Lloyd talks to Jason Ward about keeping fresh after 200 shows, critiquing work, touring and time management…
The idea behind Austentatious is that it’s an improvised Jane Austen novel with an audience-provided title. What elements of her work is it important for you to stick to?
When we started we were often playing Jane Austen-like plots, but we’ve done over 200 shows now. What we do is try to keep true to her world, so everything is seen through the eyes of the Regency era.
For example, when we got the title Breaking Cad: Meth Comes to Pemberley we did a Breaking Bad parody but it was about somebody dealing in buns: they couldn’t tell their wife that they were a bun dealer, and they had TB so they couldn’t afford to go to the apothecary.
Is it difficult to keep things fresh after 200 performances?
It’s definitely hard. We don’t repeat material but the danger is falling into patterns, so maybe Rachel [Parris] has been the love interest and I’ve been her mad mother for three shows. Everyone has default character tropes they’re comfortable with. We have rehearsals where we practice, and we’ll ban stuff.
For ages we had loads of French villains so we said no more for a while – even though in 1814 we’re at war with France at this point and we hate French people, let’s do something else. Or if someone’s been a maid for a few shows, let’s have them play a lady. We do our best to make it interesting for ourselves, which I feel makes it interesting for the audience.
In what way does the format aid improvisation?
Jane Austen gives such a strict set of barriers. There’s a certain way to behave, a certain way to speak. Women can only do certain things; men can only do other things. It’s a lot of restrictions to put on an improvisational group, but that’s why it’s successful. We’re quite an anarchic group so the more restrictions you put on us the funnier we are, because we’re trying to push them. If you told us we could do anything, it wouldn’t be as good.
How important are the working relationships within the group?
I think the show works because we like each other. We drive each other crazy but at the end of the day we all make each other laugh and that really helps. You could get the best improvisers in the world and put them in a group and they might not gel if they don’t trust one another and get on. Improvisation is a conversation. You have to trust that someone’s going to back you up and support you, and that they’re going to find you funny.
How do you critique your performances?
We do it ourselves. Some improv groups have coaches, which is popular in America. We’re actually just about to get one because it’s becoming hard to not annoy each other. It’s like a family – we’ve been through so much.
Austentatious is run as a complete democracy, which means our meetings are several hours long but everybody gets a say and nothing is agreed until everyone’s happy. With seven people that’s difficult, but it’s better than if just one of us was in charge. That’s how people get resentful.
Also, everyone is so emotionally invested. It’s our company. We own it, we feed it, it’s our baby. During critiques you just have to take it and trust that they’re saying something for the benefit of the show.
You’ve all got hectic careers outside of Austentatious. What do you do to manage your schedules?
It’s a nightmare. There’s a Google calendar and we’ve exchanged over 4,000 emails. When we started we were all just doing bits and pieces, but since then everyone’s gotten busier. It’s tricky but that’s why there’s seven of us – if one of us gets a TV job then there’s still six to do the show. Everyone’s really supportive of each other, so if somebody can’t do something then we work around it. We love doing this and want to do it, so that makes it easier.
Austentatious has two monthly residencies in London but you’ve also gone on nationwide tours. How is touring different?
Last year our tour was 20 dates. We learned the hard way that it was too many – we all nearly killed each other and didn’t have a social life for months. This year we just did 10. The nice thing about it is people come along who like Jane Austen but haven’t seen improv before. We get to open it up to them.
When I started doing improv 10 years ago lots of people would assume it was rubbish and unprofessional, so to do a show that looks good and is good makes me feel a little proud. It’s so joyful to spread improv in a positive way.
To read the original article at IdeasMag, click here. Photograph by Idil Sukan.
Movie junkets are tough. You wait around in a hotel, before being given minutes in front of a famous director or actor who’s been answering the same questions for hours. Jason Ward asks filmmaker Carol Morley, Artificial Eye PR Jake Garriock and Little White Lies journo Adam Woodward how to make the best of them…
Arrive early and don’t overrun
Unless an interviewee lives in the city where the press activities are happening, a PR usually only has a small window with them. “Typically we get one day to do everything,” explains Jake Garriock, Publicity Executive at Artificial Eye. “If we have a big star that can mean something like 40 interviews or more, plus a premiere or TV appearance.” As much as you’re emotionally invested in your own interview, bear in mind that you’re also just one part of a crucial promotional day. This means being punctual and not taking up more time than agreed.
Get used to waiting around
That said, of the thousands of press junket interviews that take place every year, roughly three actually start on time. Everything from photoshoots to overlong lunches conspire against optimistic scheduling, so remain patient, friendly and pragmatic in the face of inevitable delay. “I’ve made a habit of taking a book,” says Adam Woodward, Deputy Editor of Little White Lies.
Be prepared to have less time than expected
The consequence of delays is that PRs sometimes slash interview lengths to fit everyone in, so your prearranged 20 minutes can suddenly become 15. Adam recommends buckling down and getting on with it: “Work with the time you’ve been given, and try not to interrupt the interviewee for the sake of squeezing in all your prepared questions.” Carol Morley, director of Dreams of a Life and upcoming film The Falling, suggests making your time count by focusing on what “ interests [you] the most.”
You’ve researched your interviewee to death: watched their early shorts, read articles they wrote years ago, listened to podcasts they’ve popped up on. You’d win a themed pub quiz single-handedly. But as you walk into their hotel suite you’re a stranger.
Interviewees can benefit from a gentle reminder of who they’re talking to, says Carol. “Even though I have it on a sheet, I can get mixed up and I like to know.” That way they can tailor their answers depending on whether you’re writing for a highbrow journal, a website for professional filmmakers or a teen magazine, say.
Engage with your interviewee
Along with enthusiasm, Carol believes what’s most conducive to a good interview is someone who really listens. “If you feel that the interviewer is just thinking of their next question, it’s not so great. It’s more stimulating if you feel you’re having a lively conversation and there’s a flow. You’re more likely to give interesting answers.”
It’s inevitable that interviewees have been asked the same things before, but Carol says this shouldn’t be a concern. “I find there are always a few questions that are the same, but on the whole the questions become an extension of the interviewer’s preoccupations and interests – which is a good thing!”
One of the biggest pleasures of arts journalism is getting to have conversations with people whose work you admire, but don’t go overboard in your praise. “Don’t suck up,” Adam says. “Directors and actors are used to getting their egos massaged. They don’t need you to add to that.” He elaborates: “I always try to strike a balance between being informal and professional – friendly, but not overly pally.”
Never forget that interviews are work for both parties and you’re a journalist doing a job, regardless of whether that star you’re interviewing was an adolescent crush or not. I’m writing this as a person who once somehow managed to interview Audrey Tautou without melting into a puddle.
Be respectful of your interviewee’s work
“Consider the fact that they might have spent years working on a project”, says Jake. For film, this means being diplomatic. “Don’t tell the interviewee if you saw the film on a screener DVD or online link,” he warns. “Unless the distributor wants to pay for loads of screenings it’s not possible for everyone attending the junket to have seen the film on the big screen.
“Directors and actors know this but it’s bad manners to discuss it during the interview. It’s going to affect their mood if you tell them you watched their film on a pixellated and watermarked online link on your bus journey into town.”
Avoid poor interview etiquette
The cardinal sin of interviewing is to request an autograph or selfie, but there are many other ways to misbehave. For a start, don’t make your interviewee physically uncomfortable. “I had two people come along once, from the same place,” Carol remembers. “I had one either side and they were both leaning in quite close and I felt pinned down and trapped. It felt more like an interrogation.”
Don’t try to rile your interviewee
A storm is brewing around someone newsworthy for professional or personal reasons, and suddenly you’ve been granted 20 minutes alone in a room with them. The understandable temptation is to poke the bear and see what happens. Jake says he’s never asked an interviewer to not ask specific questions, but has occasionally advised if a person isn’t keen to talk about something.
He points out the futility in a confrontational approach: “It’s worth remembering that the ‘hot topic’ around someone is going to be raised by every single person attending the junket, and they’re going to have a stock answer for that controversial question. The interesting material comes when the interviewee is relaxed and engaged, not provoked.” This doesn’t mean avoiding hard questions, but avoiding deliberately hostile ones.
Be wary of roundtable interviews
For those who haven’t had the displeasure: a roundtable is essentially competitive interviewing, where up to a dozen journalists sit with an interviewee, firing off questions whenever they can. Roundtables are a weird, stressful balancing act that no-one enjoys – “Never! Don’t make me!” is Carol’s response when I ask if she’s done one – but there’s an art to succeeding at them.
It’s helpful to make some rough calculations beforehand: if there are six of you and you’ve got 15 minutes, you might reasonably expect to ask three questions, depending on how long the interviewee’s answers are. Don’t be afraid of asking follow-up questions but try not to hog the conversation either. As Adam says, “Be courteous towards the other journalists, but assertive.”
To read the original article at IdeasMag, click here.
Establishing yourself in your chosen creative field can be difficult, dispiriting work: years of toil measured by the number of emails and letters that are met with rejection if they get any response at all.
After all that, once you’ve finally made it inside the tent you come to realise why you struggled: it wasn’t that big to begin with. Despite intense fluctuations there are only a finite number of literary publications, theatres, television production companies, orchestras or children’s book publishers out there, and accordingly a finite number of people working at them. This brings the unexpected side effect that the more specialised what you do is, the more likely that you’ll run into the same people over and over again.
Here are some strategies for dealing with the pitfalls you’ll face.
A semipermeable membrane exists between people who write about things and the people who make the things they write about. As an arts journalist I often have to review work that someone I know has been a part of. It’s one thing to excuse yourself from writing about a film directed by your best friend, but what about a TV programme script-edited by a person who once worked for the same publication as you, or a stage play lit by someone you’ve been chatting to on Twitter?
Such conflicts of interest are found in any creative profession, only increasing as your career progresses and you get to know more people in your industry. The best response is to acknowledge that bias is actually a discourtesy: everyone wants to make the best work possible, and honest, meaningful engagement with the efforts of others is the most constructive way to aid in that. Free rides don’t help good art.
Burning your bridges
Sooner or later you’re going to end up in a job you hate down to your marrow. The sort of job that makes you wake up at some godless hour wishing you still worked in that fish factory pulling the pin bones out of salmon. Sadly, there will always be toxic people and toxic work environments, and after escaping from such a horrid situation it can be tempting to express your feelings publicly. What’s a couple of ill-tempered tweets after what they put you through?
The problem is that all of those ghastly people are still going to exist the day after your splenetic blog post, and maybe they’re going to end up working for a company you’d like to work for too. Even if that nightmare scenario doesn’t happen, everyone in your industry could fit into a reasonably small village in Anglesey, and inevitably they’re going to pop up again. Take the high road, and just hope that they leave the profession to focus on an unsatisfying career in fish deboning.
A bestselling author’s work is so poor that it’s entirely rewritten by her editor. The newly filled job of running a major arts organisation was offered to someone else first. A famously strait-laced actor keeps a big bowl of cocaine on his coffee table. Industry gossip is irresistible because it uses lurid details to recast the successful as foolish and fallible.
But while avoiding the temptation to disclose that an Oscar-winning producer is sleeping with most of the British film industry might be impossible, there’s a difference between open secrets and genuinely sensitive information: a peer struggling with addiction or a difficult family life.
If a piece of gossip would feel at home on the Mail Online’s Sidebar of Shame then it’s probably best to not share, for the sake of your mortal soul if nothing else.
Going to war
Given the relentless promotion of the idea of individual accomplishment, it’s wonderful to discover how collaborative a career in the arts can be. I’ve worked at Oh Comely magazine with the same group of people for four years and many of my most rewarding professional experiences have come as a result.
Working with like-minded peers towards a common goal can be immensely satisfying – you’re not just co-workers but a team, battling against the odds. These challenges go beyond the usual deadlines and disasters: with cuts to arts funding, diminishing newsstand sales, online piracy and any number of other encroaching threats, to work in a creative industry is to experience near-constant implosion.
The danger is that this creates a siege mentality. The enemy becomes another lifestyle magazine, dance company or boutique festival rather than the difficult marketplace you’re all operating within. Not only does this attitude preclude the possibility of fruitful, unexpected collaboration, but is self-sabotaging: just because someone else loses doesn’t mean that you win. It’s important to remember that in the ways that truly matter you’re all on the same side.
Getting a bad reputation
About 15 years ago a notable radio DJ – who shall remain nameless – was nearly fired after he was caught stealing CDs from the office. If you worked for the station at the time, it’s almost certain you know exactly who I mean. Gossip works in both directions: once a piece of unsavoury information attaches itself to you, it becomes difficult to dislodge it.
Even if you’re not prone to petty larceny, there are a host of improper behaviours that could trail behind you for a good stretch of your career. Thankfully, avoiding many of them just requires common sense: don’t plagiarise, don’t take advantage of expense accounts, do the work you’re paid for, industry events aren’t good locations for binge-drinking, and never break the magicians’ code.
Ultimately the key to coping in a small industry is much like anything else in life: try to behave like a decent human being and things will generally work out for the best.
To read the original article at IdeasMag, click here.
“There‘s a puffin in the back garden!” I announced to my housemates, my Pocket Guide to British Birds held triumphantly aloft. The puffin turned out to be a blue tit, but before my feint was uncovered, I felt the book had bestowed me with an unmistakeable air of avian authority. I first purchased a copy to contribute to Oh Comely‘s staff Secret Santa, getting my own after realising it was actually rather lovely—accessible, informative, and with simple-yet-beautiful illustrations. My hand was forced after reading Jonathan Franzen‘s memoir The Discomfort Zone, which contained a moving chapter on what birdwatching had brought to his life. Surely, I reasoned, the only thing keeping me from writing The Corrections was the ability to tell the difference between a willow warbler and a chiffchaff. Almost inevitably, the guide then sat unread on my shame shelf for most of the year until an especially crisp morning inspired me to take it out into the garden. I‘m hoping that a daily skim will help me imbibe some of its information, much in the same way that I hope a fondness for pain au chocolat will one day make me fluent in French.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Four. To read the original article click here.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Three. To read the original article click here.
It was clear that we weren’t all going to make it. Something had gone wrong on our way to settle a new land, and now the aircraft was plummeting towards the ocean and our near-certain deaths. We were carrying too much weight: unless someone was abandoned to the frigid waters below we would all surely perish. There was the scientist, the farmer, the doctor, the teacher, the builder, and me: the comedian. We each had to make the case, Mrs Thomas said, for why we would should be allowed to live. What useful skills did we have? What could we oﬀer humanity? What made us more valuable than our fellow passengers?
In turn each of us addressed the rest of the class. I cajoled and persuaded. I told jokes. I was warm and optimistic. I ran down my opponents while appearing magnanimous. I didn’t believe a word I said, and I was brilliant. An eleven-year-old farmer was tossed into an unforgiving sea. Surviving that hypothetical disaster—when I clearly should have been thrown to an icy death—remains my proudest achievement. I’m acutely aware, however, that adults would be harder to convince.
If society crumbles, what help can I provide? I bake a mean clafoutis and saw Never Been Kissed twice in the cinema. That’s about it. I can’t even fix my bicycle. To be honest, I don’t really know how the internet works. If it stopped functioning tomorrow I’d have no idea how to rebuild it, let alone an oven, dentist’s chair or steamship. I’m standing on the shoulders of giants, trying to think of a good tweet.
In an eﬀort to develop some usefulness for the cruel future that hopefully doesn’t await, I decided to learn how to make fire without conventional aids. A turning point in the history of mankind, fire is seen by many early civilisations as being akin to magic, a miracle to be stolen from gods. It seemed like a good place to start.
Out of the many possible fire-starting methods, from friction to neglecting a chip pan in a public information film, harnessing the sun’s rays appealed most. It provides the hardy mien of outdoorsmanship without having to endlessly rub sticks together. The principle is both simple and proven: using a lens, sunlight can be focused onto a patch of tinder to start a fire. As I considered a magnifying glass cheating, I turned to a survival guide for inspiration. I was immediately drawn to the idea of ice, which seemed to repudiate nature itself. Surely no one was going to use me as sacrificial human ballast if I could make fire with just water and my own marvellousness.
The guide recommended using ice from a nearby creek, which seemed ambitious given that it was August and I live within Zone 2 of the London Underground network. I froze a bowl of water instead, occasionally shaking it to avoid air bubbles, and ended up with something that looked like an oversized melting contact lens. With the assistance of an oven glove, I held my bespoke loupe proudly above the kindling, excited for the coming inferno. And then I dropped it. My dreams skidded across the patio in discrete, liquescent shards.
Commonly known as The Walkie-Talkie—as all London buildings above a certain height are now required by law to be named after random objects—20 Fenchurch Street recently became famous when it melted parts of a car. Like a 37-storey block of ice being held by an equally large oven glove, its concave shape and bank of flat windows concentrated sunlight onto a parcel of street below, creating a temperature high enough to melt black plastic and cook the eggs of waggish reporters.
Taking this as encouragement rather than a dire portent about ill-conceived city planning, I placed a large mirror on the side of my house, angling it towards the garden. By this point, unfortunately, the sun had given up on waiting for me: instead of a sunbeam the mirror just reflected an overcast sky that mocked my audacity and threatened rain. I needed a new approach, or a very old one: it was time to rub sticks together.
I enjoy my garden. Between its three fences I’ve planted flowers that haven’t grown and vegetables that have, hosted barbecues where I’ve drunk too much, read books, written things, kissed people. For much of the year it is a reliable source of mint and thyme, and there’s a tree at the back that I’m convinced is the largest oak in my electoral ward. Of the many hours I’ve lost there, the least enjoyable is almost certainly the one I spent rubbing a stick against a bit of wood with an aching hand and a dimming sense of hope.
The hand drill method doesn’t in fact involve a hand drill. Instead, you roll a spindle against a fire board until the friction creates an ember. It is both the earliest and most challenging of all fire-starting techniques. Scholars of mythology have diﬀerent theories for why the theft of fire was such a pervasive global myth, but after my long, futile struggle I completely understood why fire would be seen as celestial. My frustration was compounded by a guilty feeling that I was failing a key tenet of self-suﬃciency. In my inability to measure up to my ancestors, I was less of an adult, less of a man, less of a human being.
I told myself I wouldn’t stop until I’d started a fire, and believed this right until the moment I gave up.
a nine-volt battery and steel wool
There is a person whose job is to dredge Twitter for any mention of batteries. I know this because I once made a joke about their growing obsolescence and within minutes had a response from a battery company pointing out that size Ds are useful in flashlights. I felt strangely contrite, as if I had in some way besmirched the good reputation of batteries.
I feel even worse now. Holding the battery terminals near the steel wool created immediate dots of flame that danced up and down the filament. The sparks disappeared in moments, but with enough patience I knew I would be able to get a fire going. Sure enough, ten minutes of careful guidance led to a small but persistent fire.
After a day marinating in failure it was almost too easy. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Given my trials I’d been hoping for some exultant moment of triumph, but in the end it was about as diﬃcult as if I’d used a box of matches. Did it count? Was it cheating? Had I learned anything? What had I been trying to accomplish, anyway?
I sat by the fire, ignoring the warmth of the afternoon. The fire crackled on, oblivious to me. Perhaps I’d been missing the lesson that was to hand. I was never going to be a person who could create flames with just my bare hands, but maybe that was okay. I hadn’t been a scientist, farmer, doctor, teacher, or builder either and I’d still talked my way out of the death that surely belonged to me. If the apocalypse comes, I’ll muddle through that as well. And my clafoutis really is excellent. I just need to figure out how to make it on an open fire instead of in an oven and I’ll be set.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Three. To read the original article click here.
The tyranny of popcorn is largely due to good timing. Evidence of its consumption dates back to 4,700 BC Peru, but the snack’s most significant development came in 1893 with Charles Cretors’ invention of the mobile popcorn popper, three years before the first permanent cinemas. As popcorn was already popular at the fairs and carnivals that showed the earliest films, its subsequent availability outside the first movie theatres meant that popcorn and cinema-going would become inextricably linked. Thanks to serendipity and the eff orts of one innovative confectioner, a fad in snack food became forever associated with the major art form of the twentieth century. It’s as if we associated sculpture with Cheestrings, or literature with Push Pops.
Given that I’ve spent much of my professional life writing about film, the information that I don’t like popcorn tends to surprise people, which is further testament to the hold that exploded maize has upon our cinema-going psyche. Popcorn has the field largely to itself, its chief alternatives being sallow, lugubrious hot dogs and financially ruinous bags of pick ’n’ mix. In the hope of discovering an acceptable replacement, I headed to my local cinema with an array of potential usurpers concealed within my rucksack’s Tupperware-filled innards.
I decided to forsake the usual candidates and contemplate the previously unthinkable. If chocolate-covered raisins haven’t dislodged popcorn in a century they’re not going to start now.
half a roast chicken
Even when it has arrived pre-heated in a foil bag from a supermarket, there’s something about holding a roast fowl in your hands that makes you feel like you should be wearing ermine and initiating the Reformation. There’s a ghastly splendour in such a primal display of eating, and the first full bite of chicken breast was divine. Unfortunately the pleasure waned as the thrill of Tudor gluttony was replaced with greasy fingers, bones that needed disposing of and a smell that I felt certain was seeping out of the theatre and into the waiting nostrils of the underpaid workers in the lobby. Disappointed and paranoid, I hid the chicken in the bottom of my bag where its scent lingered accusingly for the rest of the feature.
pide with hummus
In the dark of a cinema, a loaf of bread can seem limitless. I spent a whole act or more of the film tearing off strips of pide and baptising them with hummus, almost forgetting that I had several other foods still to try. When I finally looked down at my lap during a particularly dull section of the particularly dull movie, I realised I’d eaten nearly half of the loaf by myself. The lesson is that pide is delicious but dangerous, much like a cake that tries to mug you.
a bowl of cereal
I don’t have any proof for this beyond my own unreliable ears, but I believe that the act of eating popcorn is louder than the act of eating cereal. Nevertheless, once you emancipate yourself from the bonds of conventional movie snacking you become aware of every rustle, crunch and squelch you produce, which makes cereal consumption a distinct trial. Did you know, for instance, that milk makes a sound when poured into a bowl of cereal, and that this sound will seem deafening when occurring during a scene of dialogue? I was already feeling bad enough about the tenacious poultry smell without the bane of noisy milk. For all of cereal’s difficulties, however, eating it in a cinema is actually a treat. It briefly made me feel like I was a youthful, pyjama-clad version of myself sitting in front of Saturday morning cartoons, rather than the one sitting in a nearly-empty cinema on a weekday afternoon watching something tedious and ultraviolent. If only a bowl of cereal didn’t require quite so much assembling.
It’s difficult to understand that eating jelly in the dark is an acquired skill until you discover your own inability to acquire that skill. I had underestimated how tough the substance is to eat when it isn’t sitting captive in a bowl next to melting ice cream. At my first attempt, a sizeable rhombus of jelly slid from my plate and bounced off my foot. Later, after the film had mercifully ended, I tried to locate the gelatinous lump using the glow of my mobile phone screen, but to no avail. It may be there still. The surviving jelly was excellent, but I’m not sure if it’s worth the danger of getting barred from my local cinema. Without films in my life, I’d probably have to take up swing dancing or join a street gang.
Multitudinous, tiny, comprised mostly of sugar and carried in plastic tubes with apertures ideal for pouring into your hand, cake decorations would seem perfectly designed for movie snacking. A pick ‘n’ mix to be found in almost any kitchen. Sadly, though, eating cake decorations is much like exposing yourself to radiation: you can only do it in small doses, after which you begin to feel sick. The only actual variety the decorations offered was the different ways in which they disappointed: the silver dragée were too hard, the confetti dots too flavourless, the writing icing gel too sugary. With the film almost over and hundreds and thousands of hundreds-and-thousands left uneaten, I placed another unsatisfying sugar butterfly into my mouth and thought wistfully about Tangfastics.
Like talking to myself in public or having day-long baths, eating jam on its own is something I’ve always assumed I would do if it were socially acceptable. In the chintzy casino in my head, I’d placed all of my imaginary money on it being the superior cinema snack. Jam is possibly the best thing you can put in a jar, and certainly the second best thing you can spread on toast. Just after I had my first spoonful, however, something happened: I didn’t really want to eat jam any more. Possibly it was because I was consuming the foodstuff by itself. Possibly it was because I’d already eaten half of a loaf of pide, a bowl of cereal, masses of cake decorations, a plate of jelly and half of a roast chicken. It’s hard to say. My stomach was filled with what I could only assume was disenchantment. In a pained effort to recover some dignity on jam’s behalf, I tore off a chunk of pide and dipped it into the jar. The transformation was instant. With its fruity sweetness balanced by the bread’s elegantly obliging accompaniment, the jam tasted exactly as it was meant to: like a summer morning where the world seems alive with possibility. Society was right. It didn’t matter that the film was terrible or that I felt unwell. I had a jar of jam, and everything was going to be okay.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-Two. To read the original article click here.
“Thus was I at once basking in an intense sun, regaling myself with luxurious fruit, reading my favourite Disraeli,” Lady Charlotte Bertie wrote in her journal, sixteen years of age. “Or immersing myself in a thousand wayward fancies and meditations (for I was away from the noisy din and bustle of life and merriment, in solitude, which I love) listening to distant melancholy bells.” Journals, the precocious teen then observed, are “a future clue to past events.” She was right: while Lady Charlotte would write in her journal every day over 69 years and 10,000 pages, stopping only when her eyesight failed, that early entry is an adumbration to the extraordinary life that would follow. Her circumstances would transform as her surname changed from Bertie to Guest to Schreiber, but she would continue to be happiest with the world kept at a remove, lost in her own thoughts, with nothing for company except her own quicksilver mind.
Unless you’re particularly well-versed in medieval Welsh literature or 18th-century English ceramics, it’s likely that the preceding paragraph is the first time you’ve heard of Lady Charlotte. Despite being one of the most brilliant individuals of her age, her reputation languishes in relative obscurity, in part because of her gender, in part because of the specificity of her pursuits. Within the scope afforded to her as a woman living in Victorian Wales, Lady Charlotte made significant contributions to a range of fields, but as none of her interests are remotely glamorous to us today, her legacy has unfairly dimmed.
Born to the aristocracy in 1812, Lady Charlotte had the opportunity to become educated to a degree then unavailable to women whose fathers weren’t the ninth Earl of Lindsey. To credit her undoubted privilege entirely for her accomplishments, however, is to dismiss her preternatural intelligence and curiosity. A lonely, unhappy, restless child, the young Lady Charlotte indulged her “mania” for the arts by penning reams of theatrical criticism, while learning Italian, French, Latin, Greek, Persian, Arabic and Hebrew (teaching herself the latter three). “I have been brought up alone, and never have associated with children or young persons of my own age, nor had I anyone to share my early joys and griefs,” the sixteen-year-old also wrote in her journal. “When anything annoys or delights me I am accustomed to brood over it in the inmost escapes of my own bosom.”
Desperate to get away from her hated step-father—a drunkard Reverend prone to violence and ecclesiastical sabotage—but dismayed by the prospect of marrying the 67-year-old politician her family had arranged for her, Lady Charlotte first made the acquaintance of Benjamin Disraeli, whose writing she’d long been enamoured with. Callously, he would write to his sister to ask, “By the bye, would you like Lady for a sister-in-law, very clever, £25000 and domestic?” before stating, “While I may commit many follies in life, I never intend to marry for ‘love’.” Dodging a bullet shaped like a future prime minister, she put aside her initial ambivalence and married Welsh industrialist John Guest, a wealthy middle-aged ironmonger eyeing a career in politics.
It was while raising their ten children, born over thirteen years, and working as the Dowlais Iron Company’s translator and accountant that Lady Charlotte completed what would become the defining achievement of her life: the first translation of The Mabinogion into English and modern Welsh. A collection of eleven prose stories written in the 14th century, some dating in oral tradition as far back as the Iron Age, The Mabinogion is one of the true masterpieces of medieval literature. It is a mythological, subversive version of pre-Christian history, filled with rousing tales of misfortune, love, transmogrification, magic and betrayal; kings are turned into boars and women turned into owls; chatty severed heads make for good travelling companions and enchanted cauldrons revive the dead at terrible cost. Created without the assistance of spellbound objects, Lady Charlotte’s translation was a more prosaic act of resurrection. As an Englishwoman madly in love with Wales, her painstaking eight-year endeavour was undertaken with the desire to see the country properly recognised as the cradle of European Romance. Then largely unknown outside of antiquarians, the work’s publication at the height of the Romantic revival established the significance of Welsh mythology within European literature.
Beyond popularising the Mabinogion for an international audience, Lady Charlotte’s translation also affected Welsh notions about identity, coinciding with a period of self-reflection within the country. In her introduction, she elucidates how the legends recorded in the stories influenced the early settlement of Wales, pointing out the number of mountains, lakes, fords, crags and other topographical features named in commemoration of its events and characters.
She notes with regret how the connections between topography and myth were often lost as the relevant words dropped from colloquial language: “Proceeding backwards in time, we find these romances, their ornaments falling away at each step.” In bringing ancient ties back to public attention, Lady Charlotte contributed to a national sense of shared cultural heritage that still endures.
Almost as striking as the Mabinogion itself—with its warring dragons, golden bowls that rob people of speech and mice sentenced to death, not to mention the plague of men who can’t be killed due to their superhuman hearing—is how many other activities Lady Charlotte pursued while producing the multi-volume work. In one journal entry, she writes, “Today I worked hard at the translation of Peredur. I had the pleasure of giving birth to my fifth child and third boy today.” Beyond the raising of her ten children, she founded schools in Dowlais to educate working-class boys and girls, created a range of programmes for the company’s workforce, promoted the sale of embroidery on behalf of Turkish refugees, helped her husband become Merthyr Tydfil’s first MP, and saw her responsibilities at the ironworks increase as his health declined. When John Guest finally died, she took over the running of the business entirely—then the largest ironworks or manufacturing company in the world.
Lady Charlotte, for all her advantages of birth and ability, was still a woman in Victorian Britain: unable to vote, usually pregnant, her life defined in relation to her husband and children. After completing her translation of the Mabinogion, she renounced scholarship entirely. “And now that my dear seven babies are growing up and require so much of my time and attention, it is quite right that I should have done with authorship… I am sure, if a woman is to do her duty as a wife and mother, that the less she meddles with pen and ink the better.” While she also noted in her journal her desire to become eminent at anything she turned her hand to (“I cannot endure anything in a second grade”), her sense of social obligation and devotion to her family restricted what those things could be.
Lady Charlotte sought ways to be productive within the limits of her circumstances. When she married for a second time to an academic called Charles Schreiber, she gave up her successful stewardship of the ironworks and spent most of her remaining years travelling Europe with him, collecting china, board games, playing cards and fans. Inevitably, she excelled at this too: her collection of 18th-century English china was considered one of the world’s best.
Lady Charlotte’s self-definition as a wife, mother and member of the nobility makes it possible to undervalue her contributions to the arts and the people of South Wales. While it could be argued that her breadth of pursuits reflects the aimlessness of privilege, her struggle to reconcile her exceptional intelligence with her aristocratic 19th-century outlook lends her both complexity and a certain melancholy. In some respects, her aristocratic upbringing has denied her due credit, the apparent ease of her endeavours belying her voracious mind and industrious attitude; nearly blind, approaching death, she spent her remaining days knitting woollen comforters for cabmen just so she could have something useful to do.
Consequently, Lady Charlotte’s memory has diminished. Her translation of the Mabinogion was eventually superseded, while her journals, edited by family members and published under their names, were bowdlerised and are little read today. Even the 1,800 pieces of china she gave to the V&A Museum were donated under her husband’s name rather than her own. From our contemporary vantage point we can see how she was inhibited by her status, but it is worth reflecting upon the ways she shone within it, wholeheartedly embracing whatever turns her life took. Writing in her journal shortly after taking charge of the Dowlais ironworks, she declared: “I am iron now.”
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty-One. To read the original article click here.
She called it the Whimsy Horn. If, at any point during Nadia Kamil’s debut stand-up show Wide Open Beavers! the proceedings were in danger of getting too political, the horn would go off and a jingle would announce that it was “whimsy time.” To redress the tonal balance, Nadia would then pretend to be a sexually adventurous unicorn, called Unicorn, from “the Meadow of Sparkles.” The joke, of course, was that Unicorn’s material was just as dialectical as everything else in the show, but she had put a shiny cone on her head, fashioned from an old gift bag. “You don’t undermine the seriousness of the stuff you’re discussing by being silly about it,” Nadia says. If she had a business card—comedians tend not to—then this sentiment would probably be printed on it.
Nadia’s impassioned embrace of both the political and the whimsical is evident throughout her comedy. Recently, she has been repurposing traditionally problematic art forms, writing and lming a rap song promoting smear tests, as well as performing a feminist burlesque—a sublime routine where she removes items of clothing to reveal statements like, “100% of rapes are caused by the rapist,” and, “Pubes are normal,” while staying fully dressed. The act culminates in the triumphant unveiling of her degree certi cate, festooned with nipple tassels.
If Nadia’s work is serious and silly, fervent and fanciful, it’s because she’s all of these things herself. “Lots of comedians have a persona when they perform, but I guess mine is really me,” she says. “It’s not even especially exaggerated: it’s just me. It’s almost embarrassing. But I think if your comedy is about what matters to you then people feel more connected to the material.”
After years as part of absurdist double-act The Behemoth, as well as acting in sitcoms, writing for radio and working with sketch groups and esoteric comedy collectives, Wide Open Beavers! was Nadia’s first show as a solo performer. With its mix of traditional stand-up, dancing, songs and audience participation, the show reflects her magpie creativity: outside of comedy, Nadia is part of a four-person close-singing group, produces bespoke postcard short stories, and makes and sells her own jewellery, socks and other crafts (“I sell everything too cheaply, really, but it’s difficult to be a socialist and a businessperson.”). When we speak, she’s even mid-way through reading a hundred books to co-judge a Welsh literary prize.
Wide Open Beavers! was one of the most political shows performed at last year’s Edinburgh Festival, with an emphasis on structural inequality and feminist issues, and yet one of its most personal, too. “It wasn’t a conscious decision to make it about feminism, it was more that I wanted to talk about the things that occupy my mind, and what I deal with a lot of the time is misogyny. My response when I’m faced with adversity is: how can I make something funny about this?” Talking with someone whose interests are as diverse as Nadia’s means that conversation wends around everything from Japanese hosiery to grunting in tennis, but what she returns to again and again is the question of what comedy can do and mean.
“Context really matters,” she asserts. “When you go and see a famous, be-suited, rich, middle-class stand-up doing misogynistic jokes and bits about disabled people, the context is that it’s coming from privilege, from a rich, white man mocking those ‘beneath him’ for profit. It would be different if you saw the same material from somebody else, like Jerry Sadowitz. He’s playing an unlikeable character, so his horrible material makes sense in context because there’s nothing aspirational about him. Nobody goes, ‘Oh, I want to be that guy.’ You’re laughing at his character; he’s not laughing at you.”
The side-effect of presenting material that’s personally and ideologically expressive is an internal pressure to get it right. Given her on-stage confidence, it’s surprising to hear Nadia talk about trepidation. “Doing a show by myself for the first time was a really huge deal for me,” she confesses. “I used to have this big block in my head, saying, ‘Why are you doing this job?’” She came to realise that part of the problem was being a female comedian in a world where the idea of women in comedy is repeatedly challenged by hack journalists. “As a woman, I was always questioning my right to be doing comedy. I felt that if I wasn’t brilliant it was going to ruin it for other women, which is a ridiculous thing to put on yourself. It makes things so hard. I had to let go of that and just do what I wanted to do.”
Nadia fiercely defends the notion that comedy is more than just a vehicle for jokes. “Comedy can be so intricate and detailed and structured, and an audience that pays attention and listens makes that material exist. I hate the idea of stand-up as a background to a Friday night. You want to be a comedian who engages people, and similarly you want to have an audience who engages with you, who aren’t going to be there yelling, ‘Tell us a dick joke!’ I mean, not that I haven’t got plenty of dick jokes.”
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twenty. Photograph by Toby Coulson. To read the original article click here.
I suppose I’m a criminal now. After years of cautious adherence to this country’s judicial system, I have stepped outside the law and committed a theft. A few weeks ago, at work, I visited the stationery cupboard and left with a dozen pads of post-it notes. I’d only needed one, but they came as a pack and I didn’t have the time to separate them. As I walked away, the pads stowed confidently under my arm, no one seemed to care, or even notice. It was the perfect crime.
My office-supply misdemeanour sprung from the desire to structure my life through to-do lists. As I’ve lost every notebook I’ve ever owned, a pad of disposable paper was ideal, but left me with the issue of eleven superfluous pads. Traditionally, post-its aren’t used for much beyond memos and passive-aggressive messages left in fridges, which meant I had to get creative to dispose of my purloined stationery loot.
I’ve started leaving a pad in my food cupboard, updating it through the week. Then, I’ll wander my local supermarket with the top post-it stuck to my basket for easy reference. I was insufferably pleased with myself for developing this technique until I asked around and discovered it was common practice. Crestfallen, I felt like Captain Scott, reaching the South Pole to find that Roald Amundsen had beaten him to it, a Norwegian flag where he’d expected virgin snow.
Using post-it notes to clean computer keyboards is an old trick now categorised as a ’life hack’ by websites obsessed with that sort of thing. The idea is to swish the sticky strip under the keys to collect lurking crumbs and lint. When I tried this, it became clear that whoever came up with the concept had never met my keyboard, which stores several bagels’ worth of crumbs. After minutes of fruitless cleaning, I abandoned the post-its and jimmied up each key individually, using cotton buds as tiny, inefficient mops. Somewhere on the internet this is probably called a life hack too, but it could be more accurately described as a bit of a pain.
I’ve always been suspicious of people who use proper bookmarks. This is because I mostly read either in long, slothful stretches, or in fevered gasps at bus stops and whilst friends use pub toilets—situations that don’t call for cumbersome reading aids. Quite unreasonably, I believe that the marking of one’s place in a book should be the province of old train tickets, receipts, and other flotsam recovered from coat pockets. The post-it note improves upon such detritus: intrinsically impermanent, its low-tack adhesive makes it as unlikely to fall from your book as it is to last longer than a week.
It began when, in a moment of uncertainty, I wrote down Pete Holmes’ quote DO THINGS AND FEEL HAPPINESS as a message to myself. Since then I’ve filled an entire pad with my favourite sentences. I’m loath to call them ’inspirational,’ but that’s mostly what they are. Essentially I’ve created a Page-A-Day calendar but with my own scrawled handwriting instead of frolicsome cats or Dilbert. Stationed next to my computer, where I inevitably need it most, I unveil one whenever I feel low. From the encouraging (”YOU CAN MAKE ANYTHING BY WRITING”) to the sage (”SCAN NOT A FRIEND WITH A MICROSCOPIC GLASS”) to the obtusely aphoristic (”YOU CAN’T UN-RING A BELL”), they feel as personal and meaningful to me as the clichés on fridge magnets feel the opposite.
”Hey guys,” said the toaster, ”I’ve become sentient!” It followed this with a smiley face, because it liked emoticons. Despite its lack of opposable thumbs, or any digits for that matter, it had somehow managed to write on a post-it note. My housemates were nonplussed by the astonishing development. A day passed and a second message appeared: ”Ask me about life as a toaster!” It had thoughtfully provided a pen and some post-its for the task. My housemate Ben acquiesced: ”Please get better at toasting both sides of a piece of bread. What’s your favourite colour?” The answer was orange. Their correspondence continued cheerfully until Ben went on holiday. He eventually returned, as housemates do, but the moment had passed. The toaster’s brief experiment with sentience was over.
makeshift facial hair
As the surfaces of my house became accustomed to the sticky embrace of pressure-sensitive adhesive, there was one frontier remaining: my own visage. One night, with midnight disappearing behind me, I made a beard using the final pad. Whilst it was pleasingly fulsome, something wasn’t right. Staring at my face in a mirror, I became acutely aware that there was a void in my life, one that I was attempting to fill with post-it notes. I’d already tried cycling, gardening, single malt whisky, Twitter and elaborate sandwiches, and now I had half a pad of post-its stuck to my chin. What was wrong with me? The bearded face in the mirror just stared back. Seeking comfort, I picked up another pad, peeling off the top note to reveal the one underneath. ”CORDUROY IS, IN ESSENCE, A RIDGED FORM OF VELVET,” the note said, and it was right.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Nineteen. To read the original article click here.
It begins—as my fantasies so often do—on an island in the South Pacific. For reasons best left to the imagination, I’ve been gifted a substantial amount of money, the sort of fortune that only comes from being the heir of a despot or besting a dragon. Bestowed with ludicrous wealth, I procure an uninhabited isle where the only possible visitors will arrive via shipwreck. It’s at this point that I start calling pet shops. I have a dream, and it’s this: to fill an island with every variety of black-and-white animal in existence, like a non-allegorical Noah’s ark but better, because I don’t have to learn carpentry or grow a beard.
In this monochrome paradise I picture skunks, pandas, lemurs, blackneck goats, magpies and springer spaniels living side by side, somewhat puzzled but relatively content. There are tapirs and zebras frolicking merrily by a lagoon, separated from their natural predators by an ocean and the colour yellow, while a group of penguins look out past the palm fronds, wondering if they’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. A badger, rescued from the cruelties of a Conservative government, gnaws happily on a cottonwood borer beetle in his hastily-dug sett. In a nearby field cows graze in the sunshine, oblivious to what’s going on. A few guinea pigs run here and there, absolutely freaking out.
There are undoubtedly better ways to spend a vast sum of money than my magnificent, deranged plan, but I can think of little that would give me greater delight than waking up, meandering around my own private islet, before having a spot of lunch and getting mauled by a white tiger in the afternoon.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Nineteen. To read the original article click here.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Eighteen. To read the original article click here.
We’re so accustomed to hyperbole that it can be difficult to recognise the truth in grand statements. When Neil Armstrong stepped out onto the surface of the moon in the July of 1969, he described it as being a giant leap for mankind. He wasn’t exaggerating: of all of the things that took place during the terrible, wondrous, noisy twentieth century, humanity’s audacious first stride into the universe is the one most likely to be remembered a thousand years from now. Yet as significant as the first moon landing was, its importance can be equally illuminated by remembering an event that was happening at the exact same moment.
During the 21 hours that Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin spent on the Sea of Tranquillity, Apollo 11’s third crew member Michael Collins remained in the Command Module, Columbia, as it orbited the moon awaiting their return. Left behind whilst his colleagues made history, Collins checked his instruments, spoke to NASA every now and then, and stared out at a place where he himself would never set foot. Every 47 minutes his orbit would take him around the moon’s dark side, a quarter of a million miles from his home, and completely out of contact with anyone at all. Upon Columbia’s first return from radio silence, Mission Control observed, “Not since Adam has any human known such solitude.”
In interviews, Collins is ambivalent on his feelings while in isolation, but during one of those stretches on the dark side of the moon he wrote in his diary: “I am alone, now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life. I am it.”
The idea of Collins’ long, long wait resonates because it reinforces our feelings about exploration, and explains a little about why we romanticise it. Man has always venerated explorers, not only because they take risks to further human knowledge, but also because we live vicariously through them.
For the explorers, the prize for their boldness isn’t just in the objects or knowledge that they bring back, nor any rewards or celebration for their trials, but rather the opportunity to see something that no one has ever seen before. The notion is an enchanting one, and is amongst the reasons why people have climbed mountains, crossed oceans and boarded rocket ships.
Exploration is a collective triumph, of course. While Armstrong and Aldrin were bouncing around on the moon and Collins was pensively orbiting it, hundreds of scientists and engineers were assisting them back home. But the crew of Apollo 11 were the ones who put themselves in danger. Like anything diffcult or traumatic, the further we get away from it, the harder the risks are to appreciate: Apollo 1 didn’t even leave the ground, its crewmen burning alive in their spacesuits, and it was rumoured for years that cosmonauts had been sent to space and died in the period before Yuri Gagarin’s first space flight.
Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins left Earth in the knowledge that there was a speech already drafted for the President to read in the event of their deaths, and yet they went anyway. Even if they were merely part of the machine of scientific discovery, they were still the frail humans who took that step into the unknown.
Armstrong differentiated between his small step as a man and mankind’s giant leap, but it’s through the former that we experience the latter. Discovery is a shared human endeavour, yes, but individuals become the focal point because that’s how we understand the world. The explorers themselves exist as a symbol in which we invest our hope and pride, which is why the thought of Collins’ lonesome 21 hours speaks to us.
Like Armstrong and Aldrin, Collins travelled to somewhere never before reached by man, but wasn’t able to experience it; he climbed a mountain and was unable to look out at the summit. More so than his crewmates, he embodies the loneliness of discovery. Without a tangible moment of achievement, he allows us to appreciate the personal sacrifices that exploration demands of its pursuers. Reaching a new shore or ascending a new peak is just one moment: what comes before is frequently hardship, boredom and life-threatening danger. To reach somewhere new is to be alone, and there’s something both inspiring and heart-rending about that. While it’s true that no human had known such solitude as Michael Collins, his solitude is in itself its own kind of discovery.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Seventeen. To read the original article click here.
I wasn’t in the office when they found the voicemail, but they played it to me afterward. The identity of the caller was unmistakable—that famous voice, buffered by nine decades of social change, but still essentially the same as it had always been.
We were surprised that she hadn’t asked her private secretary to call, but it’s probably the sort of thing she wanted to do herself. She announced herself as the Queen, presumably because saying, “Hi, it’s Liz here,” would be unbecoming, and “This is Your Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God,” would be a bit much. There was something else too; beneath the clipped, formal tone, she seemed nervous, but maybe I’m just reading too much into it considering everything that happened afterwards.
On the voicemail, the Queen explained that she’d been drawn to oh comely while waiting to be received at a girls’ school in Frome. The magazine was in the common room, and when the headteacher returned to escort her to the lunch she was midway through reading a piece on making your own coracle. On her return to Windsor Castle she asked a lady-in-waiting to get a copy of the magazine.
The Queen never got around to making the coracle, but she did make a pinhole camera a month later, she said, using it to take pictures of Phillip and the grounds of Balmoral. She got a subscription shortly after that, using her middle names Alexandra Mary as a wry pseudonym.
Perhaps realising that she was getting distracted, the Queen explained the purpose behind her call: she wanted someone from oh comely to interview her. She didn’t elaborate on what had informed her decision, only that she’d give us an hour of her time and that someone should come to the Goring Hotel the following Thursday, at 20:00. The Queen then bade us a good day, and hung up. It was to be the first interview she’d ever granted to anyone.
The task of conducting the interview, inevitably, had already been taken by the time I’d even arrived at the office. Brushing off the disappointment, I reminded myself what a terrifying assignment it would be. The call to tell me that the terrifying assignment was now mine came early on the Thursday morning, after the original interviewer pulled out for reasons never fully explained to me. I spent the rest of the day frantically reading up on the Queen and searching the internet for information on the appropriate etiquette for being in her presence. I arrived in Belgravia a full hour early, making circuits of the hotel until it was time to go in.
– – – – –
Some people in the office think the whole thing was a prank, but I find that hard to believe. When I arrived at the hotel the concierge knew exactly who I was and why I was there. Approaching me later, as I was cradling my cup of tea and trying to remember all the questions I’d jotted down, the look of disappointment on his face appeared genuine. The Queen was feeling unwell, he told me, and wouldn’t be able to make it.
Even after the news reports came out and she started cancelling public appearances, I never really believed she was ill. I have no proof that the Queen was faking her gastroenteritis, and it seems like an awfully elaborate ruse to get out of a 45-minute interview, but my opinion is that she got cold feet at the last minute and backed out, maybe even as she was being driven the short distance from Buckingham Palace to the hotel.
I don’t know why she cancelled, or why she’d suggested the interview in the first place. I’d like to think that after a lifetime of solemnly, dutifully guarding her opinions, she got tired of it, and just wanted to talk about what it was like to live a life where the extraordinary is ordinary. We never heard from her again, and all calls to the Royal Household were met with a studied politeness that seemed to mask disdain. The Queen remains the most famous person in the country and the least knowable.
When I came to writing this up, I reread the notes I’d made during that fretful afternoon of research and terror. It seems a shame to let them go to waste, so I will present some of them here. “Alexandra Mary” still has a subscription to the magazine, so I presume she’ll be reading this. Even though she denied herself the chance to answer these questions, I hope she can do so now, if only to herself, in a drawing room perhaps, or on a slow journey to visit strangers in Dunfermline, Abercynon, Dudley, or some other far-flung corner of her realm.
What sort of attachment do you feel to Britain and its people? Do you feel genuine compassion for the country, or is it more like a duty? Do you lie awake at night worrying about the economy and wars the way other people lie awake worrying about bills and whether they’ll find love?
When were you happiest in your life? Are you ever lonely?
Do you ever step outside of yourself and think, “Wow, I’m the Queen”? What sort of event provokes this reaction?
When you were young, was there anything you wanted to grow up to be? If you hadn’t been born into royalty, what would you have liked to have done with your life? Do you ever wish you could be someone else?
Do you ever feel sorry for Charles having to grow up groomed for a job he can only get on the event of your death?
Do you genuinely believe that God intends for you to rule the country? Do you ever wish you had the absolute power that your distant predecessors possessed?
Do you actively dislike any parts of Britain?
Do you think the British Empire is something to be ashamed of, or something to take a reserved pride in, whilst acknowledging many failings? Do you miss it? Do you wish you could have also been the Empress of India?
What’s your favourite joke?
If, for whatever complicated reason, you had to abdicate and give me the throne, what advice would you give me for being Britain’s ruling monarch? What are the most important things I’d need to know?
Published in Oh Comely Issue Sixteen. To read the original article click here.
There’s a curious plethora of chicken shops in London named after US cities and states, as if the right name will make their customers forget that they’re sitting in a takeaway in Croydon, desolate. Too poor to buy a plane ticket, I decided to tour America exclusively through the medium of London’s fried chicken restaurants, cycling from one to another. A slightly remorseful but avowed enthusiast of fast food, the prospect of sampling the capital’s nest fried chicken excited me, despite the 45 miles I had to cycle and sheer volume of poultry that lay in my path. After all, how often do you get to visit an entire country in an afternoon?
Tennessee Fried Chicken, 502 Kingsland Road, Dalston
As I ride towards Dalston I’m struck by how hungry I am; in the queue of lunchtime diners I briefly consider the ferociously-cheap meal deal, but remind myself that marathon runners don’t start off sprinting.
I read once that taste tests are usually rigged, as most people prefer the first version of something they try. Sure enough, my food is delicious. I understand why my fellow customers have chosen to dine at Tennessee Fried Chicken out of the many anonymous chicken shops that dot Kingsland Road. The chicken is tender, the breadcrumbs spicy and floury. The grease soaks through the wrapping onto my notebook. I sit in the yard of a nearby church and wish I’d bought the meal deal after all.
Chicago Fried Chicken, 138 Fortess Road, Tufnell Park
Approaching Chicago Fried Chicken, my stomach affects a sensation halfway between a yowl and a lurch. I ignore the feeling.
Inside, the server fiddles with his phone, pretending I don’t exist. Stubbornly refusing to draw attention to myself, I act as if I’m perusing my options. Eventually he asks me what I want, not looking up.
The chicken here is smaller and comes in a burger box. A few doors down is an establishment that describes itself as a literary café, bustling with young, earnest, bearded people who are reading, chatting and typing on laptops. As I lean against my bike and eat my unsatisfying chicken, I start to wonder if I’ve gone wrong somewhere in my life.
3. texas (first attempt)
Dollar Fried Chicken, 320 Kennington Lane, Vauxhall
After a long journey that takes me south of the river to Vauxhall, a place half suburb, half industrial estate, I find that Dallas Fried Chicken has become a Dollar Fried Chicken. It’s difficult to properly articulate the effect this revelation has on my fraying state of mind: the cruel pain of cycling through an entire city only to discover that the ‘Texan’ chicken shop I’d been heading towards had decided to change its name.
The adjustment is baffling: the word ‘dollar’ is still suggestively American, but hardly connotes fried chicken. Are the owners trying to imply that their chicken is good value (only a dollar) or that it tastes expensive (worth lots of dollars)? The man behind the counter just shrugs when I try to engage him in conversation. Despondent, I order a chicken burger. I eat it in view of the animals of Vauxhall City Farm. The horses whinny, indifferent to my plight.
Hollywood Fried Chicken, 10 Lillie Road, Fulham
Hollywood Fried Chicken sits on a strange little street near Earl’s Court that seems incongruous in its proximity to Chelsea.
On the way to the shop I think I see the actor Tim Robbins, but it’s just a random person. (Here in my grease-fingerprinted notebook I’ve written: “Are chicken hallucinations a thing? Google when home.”) I wonder if any movie stars own property in Chelsea, and whether they’ve ever passed Hollywood Fried Chicken and been tempted to check it out. The chicken is mostly bone and gristle; I try to think of a devastating metaphor about the Hollywood experience but my brain is too clogged with grease.
Kansas Chicken and Ribs, 102 High Street, Hornsey
The journey from Earl’s Court to Hornsey takes in most of the city. It’s roughly the same distance as my earlier north-to-south transit but feels longer due to fatigue, over-eating and the onslaught of rush hour traffic. I console myself by thinking of the great explorers who first charted North America. Am I really so different from Lewis and Clarke?
I go inside and ask the man for the smallest piece of chicken he has. He looks at me apprehensively but accedes to my request. I’ve lost all ability to analyse the food I’m eating and can’t distinguish what makes Kansas’ fried chicken any better or worse than anywhere else’s. My hunger may never return again, I fear: I’m more chicken now than man.
6. texas (second attempt)
Texas Fried Chicken, 405 Fore Street, Edmonton
Dismayed by my earlier failure to visit Dallas, I add a final destination to my journey: Texas Fried Chicken. My final quarry sits at the edge of a shopping park opposite over-sized outlets of ASDA and Argos.
When I enter Texas Fried Chicken the man at the counter looks at me like I’m a normal person, like I’m not the sort of person who would spend a day cycling around London eating endless chicken. Glassy-eyed and with fingers that won’t stop feeling greasy, I order a meal deal. I sit by the window and watch the customers trickle in and out.
It’s the evening and my body is filled with chicken and regret. I’m not sure if I’ve discovered anything new in the name of science, except that it’s impossible to visit six fried chicken restaurants in one day and not feel unwell, and you probably knew that already. I finish my meal, wipe my hands with another insufficiently-cleansing napkin, and head home for a bowl of Weetabix and a good cry.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Sixteen. To read the original article click here.
Andrew is seven years old and looks suspiciously like a grown woman. An aspiring stand-up comedian, he is eager to talk about history—if somewhat confused by the subject—ambivalent about his stepfather Colin and obsessed with Doctor Who.
An awkward, highly-endearing figure, Andrew also happens to be the first character ever devised by comedian Cariad Lloyd. “I was pushed into comedy, really,” she explains. She was at the start of an acting career when a friend suggested that Cariad try writing a comic monologue. “It took a long time to convince me. My friends were all doing comedy shows at Edinburgh and I went up with a very serious play about burning, this thing on people who died in fires. It was an amazing play but we had six people in the audience.”
Then, Cariad borrowed a late 80s Doctor Who jumper and her mother’s knee-high socks to perform Andrew at a few gigs. He was soon followed by other characters, creating a loose revue of monologues. “That’s how I tricked my brain: ‘It’s still acting, guys!’”
Cariad grew into her new career path slowly. “You meet some people who are obsessed,” she says, “and I never thought I was that person until I admitted to myself that all I do is watch comedy, talk about comedy, write comedy. I realised, oh, I guess I am in that gang now.”
She gigged solidly until her debut Edinburgh Fringe show found her nominated for best newcomer. Cariad has barely stopped since, filling her schedule with a second Edinburgh show, an upcoming BBC sketch show based on her characters, and frequent appearances as a member of Regency-parody comedy troupe Austentatious, who perform improvised, imaginary Jane Austen novels. (A surprise hit with Austen fan clubs: “We ended up on the cover of Jane Austen magazine. We didn’t even know there was a Jane Austen magazine.”)
Andrew is emblematic of Cariad’s characters: joyfully silly and random yet performed with obvious affection. “They’re like real people to me, which sounds mental, but it’s how they are in my head,” Cariad says. “So when people criticise them or say things about them it’s like someone talking about a friend. You want to say, ‘Well, you don’t really know them, you just saw them on a bad day.’”
From ASDA worker and femme fatale Kitty Romford to cult member Judith (who just does the admin), her characters work so well because even though they’re still clearly Cariad in a French jumper or a ball gown or dressed like a Moomin, they share her zestful sensibility. “You turn a bit of yourself up really loud and put a costume on it and call it something else. Each character I perform is a version of me, but I do a voice and go, ‘It’s not me! It’s not me!’”
Cariad also teaches improvisation to comedians and newcomers alike, and she is zealous about its benefits. “You see people whose ideas in their daily life are blocked, and then there’s this world where everything they say I’m going to say yes. That’s a really addictive thing—a place where you’re accepted.”
Disappointingly, improvisation still doesn’t have the reputation that it does in America. “I think it scares some people. They don’t know what to expect,” she says. “Also, there’s a lot of bad improv out there, but it’d be like if you’ve only seen one film and it was terrible so you think you don’t like films.”
Watching Austentatious perform their improvised show, you realise the gulf between bad improv and the work of professionals: as funny as anything written and rehearsed, their shows are emboldened not only by their playfulness but the sense that the performers are all in it together. Cariad agrees: “Bad improv is about people trying to outdo each other and being the funniest, and it should be about supporting each other. My job is to make you look amazing.”
Things are more complicated, of course, when the demands of collaboration and Cariad’s vividly personal characters collide. In filming the pilot of her BBC sketch show, she discovered it wasn’t always possible to walk a middle ground. On Andrew, for instance, she says, “At one point the producers said they were thinking about having him wear a hoodie. I told them I wouldn’t perform the sketch unless he wore the Doctor Who jumper. I’ve been really amazed by the things I’ll compromise on and the things I won’t. I wasn’t compromising the jumper. It’s who Andrew is. It’s the key to him.’”
Published in Oh Comely Issue Sixteen. Photograph by Trent McMinn. To read the original article click here.
For the daytime drunks of East London, a visit to St Leonard’s Church’s drop-in centre in early 2012 was an opportunity to court bewilderment. Rather than styrofoam tea and practical advice, many took the wrong door and found instead Serafina Steer playing the harp as she recorded her new album, The Moths Are Real, with producer Jarvis Cocker bunched up on one of the pews. Serafina braved the inebriated interlopers and biting cold for the sense of performance the church provided, only stymied by retakes provoked by the endless traffic outside. On one song, you can still make out a bus brake just before the first chorus.
A harp has been Serafina’s muse for over twenty years. “I don’t know if that’s because I like the harp,” she says, “or it likes me.” Her music is as gorgeous as it is adventurous, the delicate beauty of her harp finding itself perfectly at home amongst elements of electronica and her complex lyrical content.
One of the best-kept secrets in music, Serafina’s work is finally starting to receive the appreciation it deserves: the album she recorded in the cold, noisy church—the wonderful, searching The Moths Are Real—promises a real breakthrough. A long-time admirer of her work, Cocker agreed to try out recording together. “We worked solidly for two days. When I came back my housemates said I looked like I was on drugs. It was intense.”
It helps to have the attention garnered by having a producer who’s famous to the point of becoming a national treasure, but there’s more to Serafina’s ascent than that. While her songwriting is as strong as ever, it’s as if her self-assurance as an artist has quietly ripened into a mature confidence of her own voice. “You have to take a leap of faith,” Serafina agrees. “If you don’t feel like a very presentable performer, and you’ve been slogging away for years, at some point you have to hold your head up high and say, well, either people like it or they don’t. I had this mantra of being like a mighty river.”
Even her album cover has featured a photograph of her for the first time, however reluctantly. Serafina breathes deeply at the mention of it, as if reminded of old battles. “That wasn’t my idea. But I thought that if I’m trying not to hide away, then I don’t really have an excuse. Things hinge on me as well as the music. I had to say, ‘I might not be a cover girl, but I’m here anyway.’”
Several photo shoots followed, trailed by disagreements questioning everything from the photographs themselves to the way she should present herself. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s the end of my confident phase then!’ The thing that I liked about the cover in the end is that I knew that we’d taken the photograph in about half an hour and there was no make up or faffing or lights. That is how I look.”
At the heart of Serafina’s songwriting is emotional openness, articulate and finely-detailed, which many have misread as autobiography. She complains: “Not to be boring about it, but if you’re a female singersongwriter you find yourself open to a slightly patronising interpretation of your lyrics, as if it’s just splurged out of your diary and you have no idea how to construct a concept. You think, ‘Did fucking Pink Floyd get this? Do you think I’m an idiot?’” Instead, The Moths Are Real is proof of her broad influences, inspired by the work of Jorge Luis Borges and about topics as varied as alien abduction and the pleasures of getting lost in music—not to mention its title track, a response piece to sexist sea ballads.
The possessor of a warm, generous laugh, the mixture of directness and intelligence that colours Serafina’s music is present in conversation with her. It requires a certain kind of courage to proffer yourself artistically and emotionally, but the result is the sense that she is coming into her own. This isn’t simply Serafina’s moment commercially, but also in terms of artistic authority.
“I remember when I was given the mastered CD, just some demo copy with my name on,” Serafina says. “I was walking back home along the river and I felt really emotional. There are so many times when you think something amazing is going to happen and it doesn’t. I suddenly realised that I’d been terrified for six months, but I had this thing with just my name on it, not anyone else.”
In issue 14, we featured the designs of four trashy genre paperbacks that never existed. Their inventor, Jason Ward, describes his winding journey through the throwaway fiction of the Twentieth Century.
The idea for An Imaginary Library grew out of a conversation about the covers of old books. There are scores of long-forgotten genre novels that feature incredible art on their covers, often of a much higher level than the writing within.
Books that once cost 3’6 have artwork that you’d gladly have on your wall: the spare, chilling design of 70s “airport” horror novels, the alien landscapes and abstract imagery of 1950s science fiction, and the lurid sexiness of hardboiled detective novels. Dismissed at the time as populist and disposable, their existence provided an opportunity for talented artists to sell their work, and for some truly awful ones to prosper as well.
But instead of highlighting books that already existed, we decided to invent some of our own.
I wanted all of the text to be completely original and yet seem authentic; my intention was for the books to feel as if you might actually find them in a second-hand bookshop.
The internet was useful, but it was rare to find examples of back covers, which are as fascinating in their own way as the front covers, loaded with hyperbolic quotes from long-defunct publications. My favourite was from The Green Odyssey by Philip Jose Farmer, described as a “Wonderful, lusty and roistering adventure…!”
Wanting to see the books properly, I spent several long afternoons joyfully searching real secondhand bookshops, the kind where the owners have non-ironic beards and the books are kept in bins.
What I found most striking during my research was how many conventions there were for each genre, like the endless blurbs of detective novels and their tendency to be re-released again and again under completely unrelated titles. As if to compound the sense of disposability, hardboiled covers were pretty much interchangeable, usually with a scantily-clad woman either seducing or being threatened.
Even though the books themselves were churned out, they were created in a very specific way and with very specific language: it’s a given that a science fiction publisher would be called something different to a horror publisher, for example, but even the types of names of the authors (often pseudonymous) were different. Everything about them was designed solely to sell more copies, and yet from that naked pursuit of commerce some great art was made, wonderful, lusty and roistering.
Originally published on Oh Comely’s website. To read An Imaginary Library click here.
My lust for power began on a Monday morning, just before maths. The reading options at my primary school were limited: there wasn’t a library, and our class had a single bookcase stocked seemingly at random. It was somehow fitting for a place that used to be a Victorian hospital and looked like a workhouse. Every morning we’d have a short reading session. Once we’d finished a book we had to go to the bookcase and select another, so inevitably everyone would end up reading the same things. It was quite wonderful, like a proto-book club: a friend would fall for a book and you’d excitedly wait for them to finish it so you could have it next.
This was how the trouble began, in the form of a frizzy-haired boy called Harmick. Sardonic, musical and intelligent, Harmick seemed impossibly exotic: he could speak Armenian and introduced me to pizza. I was in awe of him. In spite of myself, we became best friends.
Harmick was the first in our class to read a book called Young Reporters. He loved it, which was rare. I didn’t even let him put it back on the shelf. Devouring it in a single sitting over the weekend, I too loved its tale of young reporters doing young reportage.
At some point on the trudge to school, an idea came to mind, one that would gift me an empire and bring me ruin. I would start my own newspaper. It would be so simple. I’d be the Editor, Harmick my trusted Deputy, and together we’d enlist the rest of the class to write about their areas of expertise. I even had a brilliant, wholly original name for our publication: Young Reporters.
Our first issue – illustrated with images cut from magazines and the occasional handwritten article – was half zine, half ransom note. Many of the commissioned pieces had failed to materialise, but we didn’t mind too much because we still had the soap recipe, a review of a board game, and a pretty good quiz.
I got permission to sell copies in the schoolyard at lunch and Harmick sourced some sweets to sell. It wasn’t long before we realised that our peers were only interested in buying sweets. Shrewd capitalists that we were, we amended our sales policy so that sweets could only be bought along with a copy of the newspaper. By the end of the hour we’d completely sold out, heading back to class with a few pounds and a newfound taste for publishing.
Like all 10-year-olds, my messy exterior masked the ice-cold heart of a dictator. Wary of what had happened with the first issue, I ensured that everyone kept to deadline and actually submitted their work. Young Reporters became more professional, or at least as professional as a newspaper created by children and founded on the profits of cutprice sweets can be. The team complained from time to time, but there was little they could do: I was the editor, and Young Reporters was mine.
Harmick’s authority grew as the collage-based aesthetic of the first issue was supplanted by his superior design skills. I would still head over to his house to work with him, but there wasn’t as much for me to do any more. Perhaps sensing the shift in power, the other contributors started approaching him for editorial input. I wasn’t that perturbed; I was naturally suited to being Harmick’s sidekick. We published five issues, culminating in a fashion special, and Harmick’s influence grew in correlation with the amount of clip art we employed. The coup came shortly after that.
Led by Harmick, the team asked if we could have an editorial meeting. We met in the classroom at lunch. The broad consensus was that it was unfair for one person to be in charge of what was a group effort. I’d somehow made myself into a symbol of tyranny. I felt more disappointed than betrayed, believing that I probably had it coming. It was agreed that I would step down as the editor, and that the newspaper would be run collectively. My reign of terror was over.
The fashion special was the last issue of Young Reporters ever produced. I didn’t mind too much; my heart had gone from the endeavour. A little while later Harmick formed a band called Elements – he’d got the name from his shampoo. Having a tragic deficit of musical ability, I couldn’t join, but Harmick asked me to be the manager. I accepted. It was that sort of time.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Fourteen. To read the original article click here.
Created by X-Files writer Frank Spotnitz, Hunted falls somewhere between a Bourne-like action movie and a paranoid thriller. While its plot—an espionage operative called Sam (Melissa George) is betrayed by a member of her team—is familiar, the show is bolstered by strong performances and a level of stylistic confidence unusual for a British television series.
Ahead of its debut on BBC One this evening, we spoke to actor Adam Rayner about his role as Aidan, Sam’s former love interest, handler and possible traitor.
The show is framed entirely from the perspective of Sam she doesn’t know who has deceived her and mistrusts everyone, including you. How do you play an ambiguous role like that and not show your hand?
Acting is telling the story to the audience but in a show like this you’ve got to watch you don’t overdo it, given there’s meant to be uncertainty there, a mystery about what this character’s motivations are. You have to play every scene truthfully but you also have to not give too much away. In a way that’s something I had to learn. I think it’s less interesting if you answer all the questions too early.
As the series progresses your role gets quite physically demanding, with lots of intimately-shot fights. Did you have to do much training for that?
I didn’t get a huge amount of warning between being cast and starting work. I think I got better as we went along. It was pretty much training on the job, really, working with the stunt team and trying to copy them. You have to do so many of fights, and a lot of them were outside in the middle of winter in London so it was very tough. You get knocked about a bit. It’s difficult, and to begin with you’re not physically confident as you need to be to inhabit these characters physically. But they were great teachers as well as performers and got me and Melissa on the right track.
Hunted is a co-production between the UK production company Kudos and the American network Cinemax. Are you happy working here or would you like to do more work in America?
Well it’s lovely to be a part of both industries. I’m very fortunate in that I have an American mother so I can work in either country. The whole industry is changing, though, so there’s a lot more crossover than there used to be. You can audition for roles on tape and e-mail it across. It’s not like you have to live in Los Angeles, although because of my dual nationality I did spend a couple of years working there and I’m glad I did – I feel comfortable there. I certainly don’t want to choose one over the other.
Does it feel different to work on an American series?
Actually I was on a show over there on the day it was cancelled. I was struck by the experience, because it happens every day over there. People weren’t saying , “Oh my God, I can’t believe it, I’m out of a job”, they were saying, “Oh well, this one failed, on to the next one”. Even the lead actors. “This show didn’t work so it’s back to the drawing board for the pilot season next year.” Frank Spotnitz said recently that the American TV industry is like an incredibly efficient factory. There are very skilled operatives producing a very slick product, but there’s so much product, the sheer volume is such that it has to be a production line. You only have to go to their buildings, these huge edifices, to realise that it’s the number one business. Whereas here we’re a bit more of a cottage industry. It isn’t quite such a machine. It’s all more ad hoc.
You were in an episode of Doctor Who a few years ago where your character is killed by a giant wasp. What was that like?
It haunts me, that one. It’s amazing how often people mention it. I still get Doctor Who fan mail. I think I get killed in the first five minutes, but it was a lot of fun. It’s a rites of passage these days, really. If you want to be any kind of actor in this country you’ve got to do a bit of Doctor Who. It was great.
Originally published on Oh Comely’s website.
The relationship had become like a favourite jumper; it was wearing thin at the elbows and didn’t really fit any more, but neither of us had the heart to throw it out. Four years of Saturday nights and Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings had built up a level of comfortableness which was wonderful until we realised we’d somehow become friends who shared a bed. “Look how superior we are to other couples,” we’d think. “We don’t fight anymore!”
When we finally did gather the courage to give up, it was the bike I turned to for comfort. I’d spend evenings and weekends going up and down the river, as far and as fast as I could. I knew that I was trying to escape from things that I was carrying along with me, but that didn’t matter, just as it didn’t matter that I knew we were doing the right thing by breaking up. I had no plans and no one to see, so I’d ride until I ended up in a different county or until the river started to turn back on itself. I was trying to not think or feel, attempting to replace emotion with the thrum in my legs and a breathless void in my chest.
My bike—brand new, thanks to a government scheme—was better at being a bike than I was at being a person. It had a suspension fork and disc brakes and didn’t lie awake at night wondering if it had made a mistake. Despite the bike’s comfort and technological superiority to my old one, the main reason I bought it was because of a single phrase on its online blurb which said it was “most at home on the canal towpath.” It was marketing patter, of course, but that was alright. I’d found my soulmate, and it had 21 gears and quick release wheels.
There wasn’t anything special about the day I crashed. Maybe if we’d still been together we would have met up with friends, or gone for a walk, but instead it was just me and the bike and as much distance as I could put behind me. I saw the torn-up concrete as it came towards the front wheel, and in the instant between the realisation and the crash I understood that it was inevitable, that every furious pedal had brought me to that moment.
The bike went to the left and I went to the right. Neither myself nor the bicycle broke, but my right leg and arm were nastily grazed—skin replaced by blood, grit and a small island of plasma just above my elbow. The feelings which I’d been racing from came flooding back, and joining them was fear that someone would come by and see me, maybe even try to help.
The idea that someone would see me so thoroughly felled was embarrassing, but a little comforting in its horribleness. I was consciously aware that the moment was a low. It was difficult to imagine that I could feel any worse, which at least meant things might get easier: a long trudge uphill to somewhere better.
After I’d wallowed for a sufficient amount of time I got back up, righted the bicycle and headed towards home. I was only able to use one arm effectively, and was about an hour away, but I was moving again. I stopped off at a supermarket to buy medical supplies and gin, both of which seemed necessary. For the first time in a few years the cashier asked me for proof of age. I offered my right arm, and she seemed satisfied by the response. Once I was home my flatmates cleaned up the wound, and the three of us drank until everything seemed better.
The injuries were painful for a while, and faded one by one. The body can be overly symbolic sometimes. All that’s left of that day is a patch of disturbed skin near my elbow that looks like a dark pink thumbprint. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and when I look at it now it’s hard to remember a time when it did. But it’s still there, regardless: a part of me.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Twelve . To read the original article click here.
The Dorset village of Tyneham was one of the many British communities devastated by World War Two. Unlike Coventry or East London, however, its damage came not from Axis bombing but from the British Government. Requisitioned by the army for training manoeuvres, the village’s inhabitants were all evacuated in 1943, and after the war none were allowed to return. Tyneham still exists today as a ruinous ghost village, a home for wildlife and spent shells, stranded in a military firing range.
Illustrator Frances Castle became interested in the story of Tyneham after hearing a collection of songs about the village, created by a group of anonymous musicians from independent label Second Language. That music, along with a booklet illustrated by Frances, has now been given a limited-edition release as a joint venture between Second Language and Frances’ own label Clay Pipe Music. We spoke to Frances about Tyneham House and the pleasures of micro-releasing.
How did your involvement with the project start?
I initially heard the music and thought it would be a great project to work on graphically. As Second Language always have so much on, the idea of me designing the artwork and the booklet was good for them, and us each taking on half the work meant we could get the thing out.
Were you influenced by the music as you did the illustrations?
As soon as I heard it I instantly had an idea of the kind of illustrations that would go with it. I researched a lot of post-war and pre-war illustrations and drawings; I was inspired by Eric Ravilious and very English prints and drawings from that period. The illustrations are almost like a children’s book or school poster from that era.
It was definitely influenced by that sort of thing, and I think that’s what the music inspired me to create. The music is so English, and I wanted to reflect that.
Clay Pipe Music’s releases are as much about the physical aspect of music-listening as about the music itself. Was that a conscious decision when you started the label?
It was. I make music myself but I hadn’t done so in a while. I’d put things out on other labels and then I stopped for a long time. When I started again everything had changed: the internet had really taken off as far as distribution was concerned. A lot of labels were deliberately selling less and as such were more willing to take risks.
I had actually seen Second Language and thought they were great. They’re very similar in that they put things out that are very tactile and well-designed with low runs and I guess that was an inspiration. But being an illustrator I wanted to use that as well. People seem to like the handmade side of it.
It’s such a contrast to the way we usually consume music these days.
Exactly. That’s the purpose of these releases. In the old days you’d sit down with a record; you’d gone out to buy it, or chosen it in a record shop, and you’d look at the cover while listening to the music. Now you can trawl through the internet and download lots of music straight away, but you end up not listening to it because the music was so easy to get and there was no effort involved in it. You can forget about a download, but an actual record occupies a physical space in your house.
On your side of things, what’s the appeal of running your own label?
I’m an illustrator and that’s my job, so a lot of time I’m doing work for clients and I don’t get a lot of space to try new things. One of the ideas that made me start the label was not having to work for a client who’s commissioning me to replicate something they’ve seen in my portfolio. It’s a place to push my work and experiment.
Are you hoping to get to a point where you can just focus on Clay Pipe Music, or do you want to continue balancing your commercial work with running your own label?
No, I completely enjoy doing both. I wouldn’t just want to do one or the other. When I’m not busy doing commercial work I have more time to put into the label. The thing with illustration is you’re either really really busy or you’re not, so it’s a good thing to do when you’re quiet. I do a range of things: I create children’s books, I’ve even just finished something for a building company. Nothing gets too boring.
Originally published on Oh Comely’s website.
Death is pretty inconceivable. An eternal, yawning nothingness is something that we are incapable of comprehending. And yet, when death comes—and it will—we can at least be relieved that it won’t feel as bad as a hangover, because nothing feels as bad as a hangover. Fatal illnesses and limbs dropping off and getting elbowed in the swimsuit area are preferable to that distinct misery where your brain has swelled in the night and is now rubbing against your own skull.
This is why people clutch at any random solution that hangover-accruing old wives claim will help. Once you’ve been sick through your nose, the idea of having a raw egg yolk for breakfast doesn’t seem quite so insane.
The cost of testing these hangover cures has been substantial, not just to my liver, bank balance, and flatmate’s liquor collection, but to my personal life. What follows isn’t just a collection of unscientifically-tested cures, but a document of what made them necessary: the ill-advised texts, the arguments over nothing, the hasty apologies.
Research on possible cures to test didn’t go much further than asking everyone I knew what their preferred elixir was. The answer I received most was some kind of sugary drink, with each person asserting their own drink’s superiority, as if the very idea of drinking Coca-Cola over Lucozade was ludicrous.
As I’m allegedly Scottish, I had my own drink to champion: Irn-Bru. While its sugar content and fizziness probably differs little from its competitors, there’s something comforting about its girder-originated orange, something that says everything will be okay. Drinking it makes you feel like you’ve just come from swimming with your dad, rather than the reality of being slumped over the living room table holding the can to your forehead because maybe that will somehow help.
8/10. Good. If nothing else, the opportunity to feel like a tramp is not to be missed.
a greasy spoon fry-up
My foolish heart keeps telling me there must be some specific combination of fried foods that will stave off cerebrum horribilis, but I’ve yet to find it. I dragged myself to the nearest café and ordered the largest breakfast on the menu, hoping to block out the pain. Alas, the toast was cold, the bacon tasted like licking a dinner lady, and a reservoir of grease slowly coagulated near my woeful fried egg. Not great. Also not great: the mocking, omnipresent televisions, showing endless images of footballers running around fields like they weren’t close to death.
Even if the food had been edible the breakfast would have remained unloved and uneaten: my appetite had been less-than-truthful. There’s little more disappointing than realising that the thing you think you want isn’t actually what you want at all.
5/10. Keep reminding yourself: opening that extra bottle of wine seemed like a good idea at the time, too.
The more paranoid parts of my being are convinced that the concept of the prairie oyster is secretly an international, decades-long ruse created with the sole purpose of one day making me eat a raw egg yolk. If that is the case, then all I can say is that you’ve been successful, and I hope you’re all feeling ashamed of yourselves.
If egg is delicious when fried, scrambled, poached and boiled, or even when eaten raw in cake mix, logic suggests that it might also be delicious when consumed with Worcestershire sauce and pepper, even if one is hungover. That logic is wrong. The egg yolk slid down the glass into my mouth, where it sat for a second before sliding back down again. This happened three times in a row, and then I was sick. If that was the intention, then it worked.
2/10. Eating an egg yolk to cure a hangover is like stabbing yourself in the thigh to cure a cold.
sleeping it off
Some fights aren’t fair. This hangover cure has the significant advantage that you don’t need to get out of bed to do it. Not only that, but it requires little more than going back to sleep, which is all you want to do when hungover anyway. But what initially seems like an easy win doesn’t quite work out that way.
The problem with sleeping off a hangover is that the sleeping bit is scuppered by the hangover bit. While curling up into a ball like a sorrowful hedgehog is a natural inclination, actually drifting off again is troublesome. When sleep does come, fleetingly, it is thin and dreamless. For much of the time you’re just lying there, experiencing your hangover in decreasing segments. This is marginally better than staring at a wall, but it’s hard to shake the conviction that you’re stewing in your own misery, waiting for it to end.
6/10: Hangovers end, but sleeping in doesn’t hasten or ease the problem. Maybe it’s better to just face the day.
hair of the dog
The traditional hair of the dog is a Bloody Mary. I’ll happily try to swallow an egg yolk, but everyone has their limits, and mine lie with tomato juice. I’d rather have the hangover, thank you. Lacking a traditional hair of the dog, I conceived of an alternative: get in a jacuzzi with my flatmates and drink prosecco until everything was good again. Essentially the plan was to enact a hip-hop video. (It helped that my landlord had inexplicably installed a jacuzzi in our pokey shared flat.)
Self-conscious and craving bed, we blearily pulled on our swimsuits and slipped into the water. Shyness was soon replaced with glee and it didn’t even matter that our bodies were distended husks. We felt wonderful. Perhaps it was due to the abundance of bubbles. A hangover is a terrible weight—it makes sense that the solution is to make oneself as light as possible.
9/10: It’s impossible to stress this enough: a truly effective salve for a hangover is to get into a jacuzzi and drink prosecco with people you adore.
Anyone suggesting that the best hangover cure is exercise should be forced to exercise whilst hungover. As I pedalled along the canal, just before the hatred subsided, a thought occurred to me: how many murders had been committed by those who’d just exercised whilst hungover? It wouldn’t be surprising if the answer had been all of them. They could hardly be blamed.
For the first half an hour of the ride my defining emotion was obsidianblack misanthropy. I hated my bike. I hated the canal. I hated the smiling families. I hated the other cyclists. I hated the cormorants. My legs didn’t work properly and the world was bright and unpleasant. Change came not with an epiphany but with steady, undramatic progress. With no greater task than ensuring the bike didn’t careen into the water, I was free to enjoy myself. Bit by bit, colour returned to the world. It felt good to be moving. It almost felt good to be alive.
1/10 until it became 7/10. Let’s split the difference and say 4/10.
curling up on a sofa with a dvd box-set and someone warm
Here’s an idea: perhaps hangovers can’t be cured. People have overindulged in alcohol since people became people, and still no one has come up with a satisfactory answer. Maybe it’s time to put away the egg yolks. The human race has endured thousands of years of greatturned-horrible nights and horrible-turned-great nights; thousands of years of inappropriate advances and advances that should have come sooner; thousands of years of waking up next to someone ghastly and waking up next to someone who makes the thrum in your head not matter; all a prelude to thousands of years of awful, raging, loathsome hangovers, and there’s still no respite. Maybe it isn’t coming.
If we can’t stop hangovers, then the least we can do is try to make them bearable. The best way to do this is to do the thing that also makes the non-hungover parts of our lives bearable: spending them with the loveliest people we can find. Preferably this should be under a blanket in a dim room, three discs of the box-set still to go, another pizza in the oven, and an unlikely bliss stumbled upon. 10/10.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Nine. To read the original article click here.
Laura Veirs has butterfly wings and a guitar in her hands. Half-way through a song, she’s interrupted by an excited child, killing the sound with a careless knock of the amp. “Watch out,” she warns gently as a technician fixes the situation, “our equipment is made of lava.”
At her gig in the crowded basement of the Museum of Childhood, parents politely jostle to catch a glimpse of her, forgetting themselves and singing along madly. Their children are more concerned with the mass of bubbles unfurling above their heads, giddily raising their sticky hands trying to catch one. From the youngest baby to the oldest grandparent, everyone is happy, and everyone is wearing the most excellent jumpers. It is like heaven.
Laura Veirs is eight albums into a prolific career that began when she abandoned a life as a Mandarin-speaking geologist in favour of forming a punk band, which she then forsook for the literary, wistful folk for which she is now known. Her songs have a tendency to cuckoo their way into the listener’s brain: beautiful with hints of darkness. Unashamedly adult, her music is marked by its ornate lyricism. But even considering the left turns made earlier in her career, it is still a small surprise that one of the brightest, most grown-up of modern songwriters has released an album of folk songs for children, Tumble Bee.
The idea came from the birth of her own child, Tennessee, and from the many sleepless nights that she shared with her husband and long-time producer, Tucker Martine. “We were so tired,” she says. “It was really exhausting. I wanted to do something creative that didn’t involve writing songs. I knew I didn’t have enough in my well to create a great album of new material.”
Instead, the pair combed through the history of folk music to find the right songs. “It was like a history project. We found some old folk songs that we hadn’t heard before.” Wary of the cloying nature of most children’s songs, they had strict criteria for what they wanted to include. “There’s a fine line. You can easily make something that’s dumbed down. We wanted something that would have heart, and hold the attention of the parents, and also be historical. We were going for things that were up-tempo and melodic and also lyrically appropriate enough for kids.”
Considering the love children have for repetition, Laura wanted to make an album that had enough depth to stand up to endless replaying. Some songs have more meaning than is immediately apparent. “We did one song called All the Pretty Little Horses and it’s a lullaby. From my research I saw that it was written by a slave woman who was singing it to her master’s children because she couldn’t take care of her own. It’s such a heartbreaking story and when you hear the lyrics and the melody in that context it puts it in a completely different light. But a child doesn’t know any better. They’re just hearing a song about horses with a beautiful melody that’s soothing.
“There are a few songs that aren’t quite meant for children, but those are the ones with the darker lyrics. We were freaked out, wondering if I could really sing about lambs being dead in the field with bees and butterflies pecking out their eyes. But that’s one of our oldest folk songs. These songs teach about life and death through the medium of art. I think that’s important, to not let everything be completely watered down.”
Like all of Laura’s music, Tumble Bee was written and recorded in the converted garage at the back of her house. “It’s kind of like a little cabin,” she says. “It’s very secluded. I don’t have the internet back there and it’s a saving grace to not be checking facebook all the time.” If anything, she’s found the experience of motherhood useful to her productivity. “My window for song writing is half as long, but I feel like it has just made me more focused: this is my time to write, this is my time to be with my son, and I have to be as present and in the moment with both tasks as I can. It’s hard for me to quit sometimes. I’ll be writing and then I realise the babysitter is leaving in five minutes, and I have to switch out of that mode and go into the mothering mode. It’s a struggle to find enough time to do my art. But it’s my own choice. I’m choosing my hours and I want to spend time with him while he’s small.”
While the reality must surely have its share of stresses, Laura’s life can’t help but sound idyllic, splitting her time between recording music and her toddling child, two halves of her life that occasionally overlap: “He asks me to improvise songs all the time. He’ll shout out names of people he loves and I have to make up a song on the spot.” Living in the achingly creative northwestern city of Portland, Oregon, Laura’s a friend and neighbour with everyone from the Decemberists to Jim James of My Morning Jacket, and gets to collaborate frequently. “It’s really nice to be able to call someone up and say, ‘Come around and record something, and let’s get tacos afterward!’”
After an understandably long period without playing live, Laura is starting to tour again. Considering Tumble Bee has a primary audience for whom a standard gig would be far past their bedtime, this raises some issues. The solution she found was to do matinees for the children and regular gigs in the evenings. She says, “It’s a challenge to figure out how to pull it off in a way that’s fun for the kids and for us and for the parents too.”
Hence the bubbles and butterfly wings: “Funny outfits are the key! Things to keep their attention visually. They really go crazy for the bubbles. It’s like crack for them. We have to turn it off after a while or they just obsess over it. We try to balance letting them have a release and some fun and also trying to get them to pick up something from the music.” Laura appreciates the unpredictability of it all, though, “There’s just more chaos, you know. My shows with adults are organised and seated, a little bit formal and not too loose.” She smiles to herself. “In a way it feels more like my old days at punk shows.”
Published in Oh Comely Issue Nine. Photographs by Fiona Essex. To read the original article, click here.
It can be a daunting prospect, getting to know someone. Cousins and birthmarks and old relationships and the songs they like and the movies they hate and the places they like to go to think. It’s exhausting. Then all of a sudden the relationship ends and it’s like you’ve learnt a language to a country you’re never going to visit again. What use do I have from knowing that one person’s favourite colour, or what their childhood fears were, or how they like their tea?
All that said, my favourite thing about you is how little I know you. I have no idea how you like your tea, and it’s glorious. As long as I don’t think about it too closely, the idea of learning about you is exhilarating. You make the idea of travelling down that familiar road seem somehow new. There’s so much to discover, but it feels like an adventure rather than a chore. You’re all potential and promise: every new detail is exotic and striking, every piece of family history an unearthed relic, every anecdote some glamorous story.
There are things about you that I do know. I was scared of you at first. You seemed so self-possessed. I’d find myself withering under your gaze, like you could see straight through me. To be honest, you seemed cold. It was as if you’d already decided that I had nothing of interest to offer. My fear became a self-fulfilling prophecy: everything I said would collapse out of my mouth and die.
I’m not sure how things changed, but somewhere along the way they did. It was like a sea-change. I discovered I could make you laugh. Your eyes crease up and you forget yourself for a second. It’s really rather lovely. I like that you’re pretty awkward. You’re probably more awkward than me, actually. I’ve realised that what I was scared of was actually bluster. It’s exciting-like knowing a secret. I feel I’ve seen something in you that most people would miss, something tender and thoughtful.
Of course, I’m aware that getting to know you properly will turn you into a regular person, filled with all the contradictions and complexities that will bring understanding but take away enchantment. It’s not a bad thing. Really knowing a person either replaces the giddiness with something deeper, or replaces it with nothing at all. If it turns out to be the latter, well, I’m okay with it.
It’s worth the risk. For now, I just enjoy you being in my life. I get excited when I see your name in my inbox, or when you enter a room. There’s a sense of possibility that courses through our every conversation like an electric current. Who’s to say what will happen next? Maybe we’ll get talking one random evening, the hours passing unrecognised as we finish a bottle of wine together and end up wandering the streets like teenagers, feeling ten feet tall. Anything seems possible. It’s not that I’m expecting anything to happen between us, but what’s quietly thrilling is knowing that it might.
Another thing I know about you is that you’re reading this right now. Of that I’m pretty certain. I hope the idea of that gives you pause and makes you wonder if I’m writing about you. And then, gosh, just for a second, just for a moment or two, I hope that you find yourself hoping that this is about you. Because let me tell you, oh splendid, maddening person, it is. Hi.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Eight. To read the original article click here.
There was once a time when the bicycle’s success didn’t seem inevitable, and it looked as if we could end up with something wholly different. In the 1800s, human-powered vehicles—velocipedes—came in a bewildering array of shapes and sizes. There was the Penny Farthing with its massive front wheel and a tendency to kill the rider in ‘headers’. There were Boneshakers, constructed from wrought-iron and about as comfortable as they sound. There were steam velocipedes, because they were Victorians and they had to get steam involved somehow. There were velocipedes with three wheels, or with six, or with space to carry your goodly wife. For sixty years, fad after fad took the vehicles in hugely popular new directions, becoming the must-have items for the early adopter.
Then it all stopped. The safety bicycle was created in 1885, and its sensibly-sized-and-numbered wheels prevailed. It had achieved perfection, and bicycles have been largely the same for a century. The demise of the Penny Farthing and the Boneshaker seems inevitable in retrospect. Of course the wheels should be the same size. Of course the tyres shouldn’t be made out of iron. Of course the rider’s feet shouldn’t be several feet off the ground.
But who knows what velocipedes would look like now if people had continued to develop them? The history of transport is littered with vehicles that came close to being dominant but faded away, supplanted by something faster, safer, or cheaper. You can see it with the steam car, or the electric car, or even the Amphicar, the part-car, part-boat vehicle that became a fad in 1960s America despite being created by an ex-Nazi war criminal inspired by the SS’s Schwimmwagen.
To look at them now is to look at an alternate history. They were vehicles that people saved up to buy, hoping to be part of something new. The life’s work of talented designers and engineers, they were created in the spirit of invention. Now they sit in museums, robbed of the noble purpose of their creation: to take people to where they want to go. What’s sad isn’t that the vehicles didn’t survive, but that what led to their creation was so quickly forgotten: the inspiration, the hard work, the hope. They are failures, undoubtedly, but they are beautiful failures.
The Victorians believed that science could accomplish anything, and their hubris was coupled with a rigid sense of duty. It was this public-spiritedness, along with cholera outbreaks and increasing space issues, that led Sir Richard Broun in 1849 towards one grand objective: a place to store all of London’s dead, forever. On Broun’s insisting, Parliament set up the London Necropolis and National Mausoleum Company. They built the largest cemetery in the world in Brookwood, Surrey, and a special line, the London Necropolis Railway, to carry funeral trains there from Waterloo.
The Necropolis train held up to 48 coffins and their funeral parties, and was split into two sections, one for Anglicans and another for non-conformists. The train was divided into first, second and third class travel, with conditions extending from the mourners to the storage of the coffins. The groups each had their own platform and part of the cemetery (the Anglicans got the sunny bit). The occasional carriage filled with drunk mourners aside, there was a dignity to the Necropolis train. A final train journey has the sombreness and pomp that a good funeral needs, and it’s quite beautiful, in its way.
In the end, the Necropolis train was a victim of the very progress that had once made it necessary. The invention of the automobile made a funeral train unwieldy and inefficient in comparison, while the 32 cemeteries that opened in London during the line’s first twenty years removed the need for a sprawling necropolis away in the country.
The number of trains run fell and fell over the ensuing century until, one night during the Blitz, the London station and the train itself were destroyed in a bombing raid, forcing the closure of the line. After the war ended no one saw the value in rebuilding it: the Victorian idealism of the London Necropolis and National Mausoleum Company was dead, unmourned.
Buckminster Fuller has a resumé full of things that would be the life’s work of someone else. He invented the geodesic dome. He developed a cheap, energy-efficient house that could be constructed from kits. He created a new type of world map that was less distorted. He experimented with a sleep cycle where he would sleep for two hours a day. Bucky, as he called himself, was not just ahead of his time, he seemed to operate on another plane entirely.
The downside of being on your own plane of thinking is that often your work will be too different to be accepted. One of Fuller’s more notable failures in this regard was his Dymaxion Car.
Designed in 1933, the Dymaxion was a fast, efficient three-wheeled car that held eleven passengers and was twenty feet long. With its teardrop shape, two front wheels and a single rear one working like a rudder, the car was meant to mimic the movements of fish. Fuller had anticipated that one day the car would also be able to fly, once the appropriate alloys and engines had been invented.
Deeply concerned about the earth’s finite resources, Bucky was one of the first environmentalists, dedicated to inexpensive, efficient housing and transport. What Fuller most wanted was for the world to be sustainable and to do more with less. He called it emphemeralisation, and was a model of it. He had hoped the car design and other inventions under the Dymaxion umbrella would be the first phase of a social revolution.
It wasn’t to be. Like so many of his conceptions, the Dymaxion Car never reached fruition: the prototype crashed on its way to the Chicago World’s Fair, killing the driver and two passengers. The press blamed the car’s steering, Fuller blamed another vehicle, and the investors fled. Eventually Bucky moved on too: there would be other ideas.
The life of the dirigible has been eclipsed by its death. While there were worse disasters before it, and most countries had already given up on airships as a viable method of transportation, the crashing of the Hindenburg has become one of the key images of the twentieth century. To watch the newsreel footage along with the sound of radio announcer Herbert Morrison breaking down in tears is still a surprisingly emotional experience, with a power that surpasses the whimsy and adventure with which the dirigible was first conceived.
The hot air balloon became a craze in the summer of 1783, and the skies of European cities were dotted with craft. Its development was dominated by the French and British: the French were engineers and scientists, while the British were lone adventurers seeking fame and fortune. More comfortable and less turbulent than contemporary aeroplanes, by the 1930s dirigibles looked like they might become the primary form of air travel. The British planned for a vast air network throughout the empire, Count Von Zeppelin’s eponymous craft was popular and widespread, and the Empire State Building was built with a dirigible mast optimistically attached. It couldn’t last. The reason that the dirigible failed is simple: for all its glamour and advantages, the aeroplane was more efficient, economical and safe.
It’s sad that the dirigible has been overshadowed by its demise, because it was the most romantic of vehicles. Henri Giffard invented the steam-powered version, and wrote in his journal during his first trip, “How marvellous to be free of all that which makes you cling to the ground!” He and his peers believed flying would allow them to have thoughts that no-one had thought. They hoped it would make them better people. Long before the infamous crashes, its use in wars or the rise of the Nazi-sponsored Zeppelins, there was the concept that you could step onto some rickety craft and be carried up into the clouds, floating.
It was May 27th, 1930, and the former British naval ship, the Ready, sat off Nonsuch Island, Bermuda, awaiting the maiden voyage of the Bathysphere. Its two-man crew were also its creators: the naturalist William Beebe and the engineer Otis Barton. They climbed into the cold, dark sphere, and a 400-pound door was bolted behind them.
A curator at the Bronx Zoo, acclaimed ecological author and friend of Theodore Roosevelt, Beebe was a household name, his stormy relationships with ichthyologists gaining similar attention as his theories on pheasant evolution. Frustrated by the inadequacy of dredging, he hoped to explore the ocean in an advanced diving bell. He was accosted by Otis Barton, a wealthy young engineer with dreams of deep-sea exploration and plans for a spherical craft. Beebe let Barton pay for the bathysphere’s construction, and a few years later they were sitting in their invention, from which they could not escape, as it was lowered into the black Atlantic.
Four summers and around thirty journeys passed. The pair fought seasickness and a leaking craft to dive half a mile down, further than anyone had before. They saw strange new species, and the natural habitats of fish that had only ever been found dead in nets. Beebe would boast that only dead men had sunk deeper. It was deep enough that they were the first people to observe the disappearing frequencies of sunlight, in an ocean that turned violet before their eyes.
After four years and with the Great Depression rendering further use difficult, Beebe moved back to the safer and cheaper helmet diving and the Bathysphere went into storage. Other people used the technology they pioneered, but none quite captured the imagination in the same way. Something was lost: the idea of being alone, deep beneath the sea, risking death in the name of discovery. It would be almost forty years before another group of explorers made people feel the same way. They would have crew cuts, and one of them was called Neil.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Seven. To read the original article click here.
When do you become an adult? Legally it’s 18, of course, but it used to be 21, so that takes some of the fun out of it. If it’s already changed once, then what’s to stop it changing again in the future? I remember turning 18 and not feeling any different at all. It’s hard not to see how arbitrary it is.
Instead, we turn to milestones in our lives. The first time you vote, or have sex, or get drunk, or get drunk and then have sex. I remember all of these moments in my life, how they happened and how they felt. I remember what they meant to me then and know what they mean to me now. And on reflection I’m not sure if any of them made me feel the way I did when I bought my first toaster.
I was 16 and living alone in a bedsit in Carlisle. I knew no one else in the city and my nearest parent was miles away. The reasons for this are as hazy and complicated now as they were then, but it meant one thing: I was free.
Living by yourself when you’re 16 is a glorious and bizarre experience. You’re young enough to appreciate the transgressive joy of parental absence, while being old enough to actually do something with it. Mostly I just sat around and read, or worked on my abysmal writing. I tried to go for a walk every time it rained, and would venture outside just after the sun rose and before people started heading to work. The world was lonely and mine.
Retrospectively, it was all pretty grim. I was on a minuscule allowance and was resolutely unemployable, so I had no money and lots of time on my hands. There was no internet connection so I would have to copy internet pages onto a floppy disk at college and read them later at home. I once spent four days eating only nutella, unable to afford anything else. I became afraid of people. My bedsit was above the communal kitchen, and I would lie on my floor trying to listen for signs of life, only going down when I could be sure that I wouldn’t see a neighbour, even if it meant burning the dinner I’d left cooking in the oven.
It’s difficult to describe those days without them sounding depressing, but at the time it felt anything but. There was a feeling I could do anything I wanted to. I learnt how to be alone, and how to enjoy it. One evening I went by myself to the cinema, then came out and sauntered to a different one to see a second film. It was one of my favourite ever nights. I discovered how to live independently, even though it meant combing my hair with a fork. Everything I did that year I did terribly, but I was free to do it.
All of this leads to that wonderful day in my life, the one where I woke up and fancied some toast. Because the bedsit didn’t have its own toaster, I decided to go and get my own. I chose the one I wanted from the catalogue, headed down to the shopping centre, paid for it and headed back home. I had learnt that I was in control of my own life, and that I was responsible with finding the things that would make me happy. In time that would be a satisfying job, creative fulfilment, friendship and love, but for then it was just a nicely-buttered bit of toast. I ate about ten slices that day, and each one was divine. I was an adult.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Seven. To read the original article click here.
Someone is heckling Isy Suttie from inside her head. She’s found herself imagining the worst ahead of performing her new stand-up show at the Edinburgh Festival. Politely but firmly, she responds, “I’m talking as Isy now: stop it please. Stop eating chips in my show.” This isn’t to say that a lot of chip-eating happens in Isy’s shows. “No,” she admits, “It doesn’t. But for some reason this morning I was imagining being heckled. I don’t know why I have to think it through in my head with every show.”
It seems unlikely that anyone would want to heckle Isy Suttie, unless that heckle was to ask her out on a date. Isy melted hearts with her goofy smile and unapologetic quirk when she joined Peep Show as Dobby, IT geek and only chance for happiness for sad sack Mark, played by David Mitchell. Unlike a lot of comics, who feel overwhelmed by their best-known on-screen persona, Dobby is a comfortable fit with Isy’s stand-up. “She isn’t that far from what I’m like in real life, so hopefully people who like the show would like what I do live.” Isy radiates a warmth that carries through to her stand-up shows, and their disarming mix of musical numbers and bittersweet character comedy.
When she is finished rebutting the hecklers, Isy’s new show will see her playing Pearl and Dave, a couple who connect online and then discover that real life is far more awkward. Isy plays both parts, singing songs to dramatise their emails and webcam conversations, while narrating the story as herself. Her portrayals of the ill-fated pair are silly yet sad, touching on the regret that comes from a lifetime of diminished expectations. The show sounds typical of Isy’s comedy, which is defined by a clear-eyed but humane positivity. The characters she creates on stage are often wilfully deluded but the portrayals are fundamentally sensitive and without malice.
There’s a difference this time, though. Isy’s mother isn’t making so much of an appearance. “I feel like maybe I ought to start writing my own material rather than using my mother,” she says. That, one can’t help thinking, would be a shame. Along with swathes of her own diaries, a mainstay of Isy’s comedy is the portrayal of her hometown of Matlock. Her mother’s letters bring to life the town’s dodgy dealing, nosy neighbours and the heroin addicts who come round to borrow rolls of tin foil. She has always been a compulsive letter-writer, but Isy looks forward to her letters with more than just a daughterly interest. “I’m definitely always looking for comedy in her letters. I read them thinking, ‘I don’t care about Aunty Barbara, give me the funny!’” To Isy’s relief, her mother doesn’t mind, “She does it too. She’ll tell me a story about the vicar or something and then she’ll say ‘Do you think you can use that?’ It’s quite sweet. It’s like I’ve got a free writer.”
Isy’s comedy is all about the little things that make people happy or unhappy. She wants to move the audience, she says, not make them laugh at knob gags. “There’s a lot of comedy in people’s complexity and flaws. If you can tap into something that everyone identifies with, like you’re feeling unconfident on your first day of work or you’re hurt because a neighbour has said something about your rockery, you can make the whole audience feel that too.” She’s aware that big television stand-up isn’t always prepared for her softer, more subtle comedy. “If it’s Saturday night and people are in eating their eggs and chips, they don’t necessarily want to be thinking ‘The neighbour said something about the rockery, oh yeah, I’m really moved!’“
While other comedians are ambitiously chasing exposure on television, she seems in no hurry. “I feel like if I did more stand-up on telly or a big tour, I could do bigger venues and then it might move to something else, but I don’t mind really. I’ve never been someone who rings my agent and says, ‘Why am I not on that?’ I’d rather get my head down and work and wait, and if stuff comes to me I’ll feel more ready to do it.”
Her more relaxed approach comes with its own rewards. The freedom from single-minded ambition has given her the chance to explore different things. She played a serial killer in the musical Gutted and she’s now learning Welsh—“I could hold a conversation with a 7-year old, especially a 7-year-old farmer, because I know a lot of animals and numbers.” Isy is content to do what she loves. “I feel really happy. I was working at Oddbins until the beginning of 2008, and when I left it felt like a real leap of faith. I got Peep Show straight away, so I still can’t believe I’m not dealing with people’s wine that hasn’t got there.”
Published in Oh Comely Issue Seven. Photograph by Christoph Ferstad. To read the original article click here.
It’s a long walk to Folly for a Flyover, at least if you’re using the canal. The route is a bit of a jumble; on the one hand it’s one of the quieter, more gorgeous parts of East London, on the other there are those sections when it becomes a building site, with bits of the Olympics showing up here and there.
As you travel it’s difficult not to think about the way in which the area is growing and changing, mostly for the better, as it undergoes the extensive urban regeneration that will prove the 2012 Games’ true legacy.
But then, as you’re walking along looking out for cormorants and feeling vaguely hopefully about the future, you reach the A12 flyover, and another building site.
This one is different to the others. Not only because it’s populated with serious-looking twentysomethings, but because of what they’re building: a cinema, made of wooden bricks and a great deal of ingenuity. Folly for a Flyover is a hand-built cinema that will sit under the A12 flyover for the next six weeks.
The project is the creation of Assemble, who last year wowed audiences in Clerkenwell with the Cineroleum, a cinema built in an abandoned petrol station. This time they have become even more ambitious.
During the day the Folly will hold workshops, performances, boat trips and dance parties, while in the evening it will screen a programme of films featuring everything from Bicycle Thieves to 2001: A Space Odyssey, with the occasional light show or silent film set to a live score. Looking over the programme the question isn’t so much what you want to see as what you don’t want to see. Which isn’t much.
We spoke to Amica Dall, one of the leaders behind the project, about its conception, construction and the challenges of building a cinema under a motorway.
What made you decide that you wanted to create a cinema under a flyover?
After the Cineroleum finished we were thinking a lot about redundant space, and we just found here and thought it was amazing. And we wanted something quieter. The Cineroleum was so unpredictable; there were police cars going by, drunk people were coming out of the pubs, now and again an articulated lorry would rumble by. We were mixing the levels live to try and steady it but it was a problem. But here the noise is actually quite incidental when you’re underneath the flyover.
Does the weather affect the experience?
Oh, the rain looks incredible. I actually think it’s better when it rains because you’re completely dry but there are these narrow stripes of rain across the canal.
How did you develop the design?
We wanted it to be something quite beautiful in and of itself, but that was also functional. A lot of the structure was dictated around the different demands of being a café space, a bar space, and an auditorium too. We wanted it to have a sympathy with the local topography and also for it to take advantage of the motorway by poking up between it.
The idea was for it to feel like the motorway had been built over the cinema, and it had been forgotten about. We work really slowly and collaborated, so it evolved over quite a long time. I think the biggest breakthrough is when Lewis − he works for an architecture firm near here − went in a timber yard and saw some pieces of wood that we cut up quite small, and we started thinking about making wooden bricks. Rather than using them decoratively, to hide things, you could actually build out of them.
Did you find there was anything you didn’t know how to do?
Basically when we can’t do something we just ask people until we find out how to do it. With the bricks we were trying to work out how to make them load-bearing, so we asked a structural engineer friend who worked on James May’s Lego House and she helped us figure it out. It’s a question of finding ways to do things rather than just outsourcing them, because then you learn as you go along.
How did you decide on which films you wanted to show − did you think about them in relation to the space, or did you just choose films you loved?
We’ve been working with the Barbican. They approached us and said they’d like to work with us next year and we said “Oh we don’t know what we’re doing next year, how about now?” They have this exhibition of animation that’s all about trickery and illusion and fairytales. As an idea that excited us because this space looks bleak but it’s also quite magical. So we thought we could do a tie-in, satellite project. They’ve put their exhibition into different categories, so we just picked them up and started playing with them and built a programme of features based around it. So our first weekend is all about fairytales.
Our first film will be Snow White and on the Sunday we’re showing Baron Munchausen. It seems quite appropriate − a teller of tall tales who lives in his own fiction, as the Folly has its own fake history. We just proceeded like that really, choosing films that we thought were approachable but interesting, that people would enjoy.
What will happen to the building once you’ve finished?
Everything will be used somewhere else. The entire structure is a dry fit − there’s no mortar anywhere, so all the struts and things can just be lifted out at the end. The actual fixings remain useful, unlike mortar where you’d have to chip it off and you’d be starting from scratch. You’ve already still got the holes there so you can build new things out of them really easily. We’re giving some materials to the business over the canal, and others are scattering around. Some of the bricks are going to an adventure playground, some are going to make an outdoor waiting room − all sorts of stuff. People keep e-mailing us, asking if they can have one of our curtains, or some of our seats. It’s really great: the building will be absorbed into the community.
Folly for a Flyover opens this weekend and continues until 31st July. During our talk Amica mentioned how tickets for the Cineroleum had sold out within hours. While being elated at its success, they were disappointed that members of the local community would miss out. Learning from that, this time around the ticket releases have been staggered and will be released throughout the season. It’s well worth checking the website to see what’s on, and when you’ll be able to get them.
Originally published on Oh Comely’s website.
It was a new millennium and my mother was covered in blood. As usual, it was entirely my fault. I should explain:
My best Christmas—aside from the year I was given a puppet of Ernie from Sesame Street—was undoubtedly the one when my parents got me a video camera, somewhere in the middle of my long teenage malaise. I dropped hints for months until finally, wonderfully, they conceded. It was a family camcorder that made everything look like the nightmares of an alcoholic VCR but I was in raptures anyway. Oh, the Cinema I would create! That first night I made an emotional drama starring a bottle of deodorant who comes home to find his wife in bed with a school portrait of my friend Stephen. To this day it remains inarguably the finest on-screen depiction of the relationship travails of deodorant. Orson Welles’ first film was Citizen Kane, by the way.
Finding actual human beings to act was tricky, but I was resourceful. I started making films where I played all the roles, one featuring the strangest fight scene you’ll ever see. Better still was when I persuaded a friend to lend me a bag of attic-perfumed Action Men. As a teenager without access to actors, scripts or any intellectual nuance whatsoever, I fell back on the quality that had sustained me through boyhood: violence, and lashings of it. So Action Man chased Dr X around my kitchen until finally he managed to kill him in our deep fat fryer, and an earnest adaptation of A View From the Bridge (starring Dr X as Eddie Carbone and a kitchen counter as Red Hook, Brooklyn) concluded abruptly when I got bored after the second scene and ended the whole thing in a gory shoot-out. These were dangerous times to be around me and inanimate. My films were improving, marginally, but they lacked something human. For that I would need blood.
Blood was the ultimate prop. Anyone could get a newspaper or some food for a character to handle, but blood wasn’t so easy to come by, unless your actors were very Method. It was a sign you’d come prepared, that you were making a proper movie. It made you unpredictable. If the characters can bleed, then anything can happen to them. My only problem was that I knew nothing about making fake blood. I’d used tomato ketchup in my wayward Arthur Miller adaptation, but ketchup could only ever look like itself. I looked online and found a wealth of recipes, but they all disagreed with each other. Overwhelmed with possibility, I turned to the person who had taken me to see Jurassic Park when I was five and thus started this whole mess: my mother.
Being a person that has the co-ordination of a crayon, I had never taken to cooking, and had barely stepped foot in the kitchen except to pillage the fridge or create bizarre Action Man snuff films. It was a relief to have my mother there leading proceedings, and she was unexpectedly game. I think it surprised her as much as it did me. She has a problem-solving brain, which must have been some of the appeal. We would create batch after batch, having long debates about the correct viscosity, and how an arterial wound differed from a graze. For surely the only time in history, the Internet had provided unreliable information, and we were required to improvise, discovering that adding dashes of green and blue dye to red would create a deeper, more realistic hue. Golden syrup made a solid base, but flour had to be added to thicken the blood. I was grateful years later for this discovery of flour’s thickening properties, which has helped me immeasurably in my non-blood cooking. In a sense it was my first cinematic collaboration.
Our quest for the perfect batch overtook us somewhat, and for a long time it was rare to enter the kitchen without a vat of blood on standby. We filled a season’s worth of jam jars with our middling attempts, having to borrow more from my grandmother when we ran out. They stacked up against the kitchen window, and it was endlessly sweet to look through them at our blood-tinted garden. It took a long time to learn that there is no Holy Grail, no one way to create good fake blood. You need different recipes for different uses: a syrup-blend looks great on a corpse, but there’s no way it’ll spurt out realistically. You’re better off dying washing-up liquid and hoping for the best.
The problem with having vats of blood around, of course, is that you feel impelled to use them, and so my films would inevitably feature people cutting themselves randomly on things and bleeding profusely. It was almost a relief when we ran out and the final jars went back to my grandmother. Creating good-looking blood is one of the many skills I possess that I’ll never really need but I’m glad it’s there, lolling uselessly somewhere between quadratic equations and the ability to remove the pin bones of salmon.
To this day my mother looks back at that period with a mixture of pride and bemusement, but they remain some of my fondest memories with her. She knew it was ridiculous but helped me anyway. I think she liked that her own skills could actively help me do the thing I was most passionate about. It was a rare opportunity, one that wouldn’t quite come again. Film-making was my joyous, blossoming world, but for a few weeks we could share it together. She supported me emotionally and practically, and that’s given me strength as I’ve made my way through the uncertain path of a creative life. Occasionally I’ll see a pool of blood in a movie and think of her, and that’s a very lovely thing.
A slightly different version of this story was published in Oh Comely Issue Six. To read the original article click here.
I don’t get along with fish. As long as they’re in the ocean and I’m not, that’s fine. It’s not that I hate them. I have no objection to their continued existence: I believe in the conservation of different species through sustainable and selective fishing, I’ve cried at oil spills, and I’m always mildly annoyed when someone claims to be a vegetarian but thinks fish don’t count. After all, I’m not inhuman. If I was, then I’d be a fish.
My distaste isn’t unjustified. I spent the summer of 2004 working for Pinneys of Scotland, the Queen’s official provider of smoked salmon. Based in the Wet Fish department of their processing plant, my job was to remove the pin bones of salmon. It was a time of few friends and cheap fish. This is what would happen: a side of salmon would idle its way along a conveyor belt. I, clad in a long white coat, Wellington boots, pinny, mop cap and snood, would pick it up. I would then pull out its pin bones with a pair of pliers. The pin bones would drop into a little gutter, while the deboned side of salmon would go back onto the belt. I would then pick up another side and begin again. This would continue until about three or four in the morning, when it was time to go home. That was it. On a good day perhaps I’d be allowed to spend an hour further down the line, pulling strips of fat from the salmon, but other than that it was just me and my pliers. Here’s a conservative estimate: during that summer, I deboned about 115,200 salmon. I would dream about conveyor belts delivering endless fish. You can understand why one might become weary. Why someone would prefer that fish just stay out of his face.
In his book, Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell says that the key to success in a chosen field is to practice it for 10,000 hours. Bill Gates spent 10,000 hours programming computers at high school before starting Microsoft. The Beatles spent 10,000 amphetamine-fuelled hours in Hamburg honing their craft. I roughly spent about 640 hours removing the pin bones of salmon. So, okay, I’m not the Beatles of salmon deboning. Still, a hundred thousand fish has to count for something. I’m at least the Badfinger of salmon deboning. I’m good. I’m very, very good. If you were to pass me half a salmon I could remove its pin bones before you could count to ten. But that’s the problem: no one ever does.
It’s like speaking a dead language, or having a superpower no-one has a need for. For all my years of education, hobbies and work, the thing that I can do better than anyone else is something that is absolutely useless to me. In the seven years that have passed since that strange, lonely summer, not a single person has asked me to remove the pin bones of a salmon, or of any fish at all, for that matter. And why would they? You buy them with the pin bones already removed (quite badly, at times: I take a peculiar pleasure in looking at shop-bought salmon and judging it on how poorly someone’s removed the pin bones). I may as well not have the skill at all. I remember vividly my disappointment last year when I visited a friend in the country who had bought a whole salmon, only to find when I arrived that another guest had already filleted it. Without me. Did they not understand that I am the Badfinger of pin bone removal?
Maybe I’m focusing on the wrong thing. I didn’t hate the job. It took enough concentration to occupy my body, but not enough to be actually challenging. The machinery was so loud that you couldn’t have conversations, which meant you were left with your own thoughts. It was the most Zen thing I’ve ever done: essentially I spent four months standing in a cold white room, thinking. I would write in my head, racing home afterwards to type it all up. All of my protagonists worked in fish factories, but still. It nudged my other 10,000 hours that bit closer to completion. I’m grateful for that, even if part of me does yearn for the day that I will be reunited with some pliers, half a dead fish, and the opportunity for greatness.
Published in Oh Comely Issue Six . To read the original article click here.