Adventures On The High Teas

Stuart Maconie is back on the road, now venturing further from the safety of his northern birthplace (which he explored in Pies and Prejudice) to investigate the myths of Middle England, home of Jane Austen, Nick Drake, David Brent, Margaret Thatcher, Fred West, Midsomer Murders, Brief Encounter and Tubular Bells. It's an easy life being a celebrity travel book writer: you get on a train, spend a day wandering round Chipping Norton or Burton-On-Trent, sample the local wares, chat to a few disgruntled passers by, make a few notes, nick a few bits from other people's books or blogs, then cobble it all together with wry humour and a little seasoning - voilà, £11-99 in Waterstones. I might resent it if Maconie wasn't a writer first and celeb second, if he hadn't worked his way up through the NME trenches, if he wasn't so warm and avuncular, at times even bordering on fascinating.

Often here, the opinions become more important than the places. You're liable to come away from this book knowing more about what Maconie thinks about Top Gear, complaint culture, the British railway system and Jane Austen vs. George Eliot than you are the Cotswolds, Tunbridge Wells or Leamington Spa... on which he steals a quote from one blogger, Oliver's Poetry Garret, though sadly misses out on referencing the true champion of Leam, Steve at Bloggertropolis. Steve, your agent needs to work harder.

As with his previous books, Maconie becomes most enthused when talking about his first love, music, pottering round Nick Drake's graveyard or scouring the hillsides that inspired Mike Oldfield. For me, the most interesting chapter is the most northern, when he arrives in Buxton, Derbyshire - a town I know, and would question its "Middle" credentials - but that's because I rarely venture any further south at risk of being shot. Still, reading this book made me think it might be worth the risk... one day.

This Is The Last Birthday I Will Ever Celebrate...

...and sadly, I have to celebrate it with Bryan May... why couldn't it have been Freddie?



Still, on the plus side, life finally begins next year...

...and at least I'm not as old as Bruce Willis, who's 56 today.

Top Ten Rubbish Songs

Proof, if proof be needed, that it's possible to compile a Top Ten songs about any subject... even a load of old rubbish.

Special runners-up prizes go to Garbage and the Trash Can Sinatras...

10. Lonnie Donegan - My Old Man's A Dustman

Skiffle-king Donegan angered traditionalists with his turn to musical hall comedy in 1960 - but it proved one of his biggest hits, as well as his third and final Number One. In case you didn't know what a dustman was, the title also provided the following, slightly less poetic parenthesis... (Ballad Of A Refuse Disposal Officer).

Me, I always wanted to know what those "gor-blimey trousers" his old man wore were all about...

9. Blanche - Garbage Picker

Southern Gothic country madness helmed by husband and wife duo Dan John and Tracie Mae Miller...

My debonair style impressed you,
But you kept asking where I shop,
And that day you saw me picking by the roadside,
Was the day that our romance stopped.

8. Raveonettes - Love In A Trashcan

Those crazy Danes, they'll do it anywhere...

7. Johnny Cash - Country Trash

Listening to this song, I feel a strange kinship for Johnny Cash. I suppose I'm doing all right for country trash...

6. Blur - For Tomorrow

The song that gives the album Modern Life Is Rubbish its name, inspired in part by the fact that when they first moved to London, Damon Albarn's parents lived next door to John Lennon. Or so it says on Wikipedia. Which probably means it's bollocks.

5. The Faces - Debris

Rod Stewart used to be cool. Rubbish?

4. Michael Anderson - White Trash Shakespeare

I have no idea where I find these things. This is from a contemporary country album which also contains an excellent song called Raymond Chandler Said. I think someone might have pointed me towards that while compiling my Top Ten Detective Songs.

3. New York Dolls - Trash

While I don't share Morrissey's undying adoration of this band, this is probably the best thing I've heard from them: a raucous slab of pre-punk glam with a nice Mick Jagger impression from lead singer David Johansen.

2. Suede - Trash

25 years later, Suede recorded virtually the same song - yet made it sound completely different. There is a direct line from David Johansen through to Bret Anderson, but I'm not sure the Dolls were the inspiration behind Suede's biggest hit. Maybe it's just one of those glorious flukes pop throws up from time to time.

Maybe, maybe it's the clothes we wear,
The tasteless bracelets and the dye in our hair,
Maybe it's our kookiness,
Or maybe, maybe it's our nowhere towns,
Our nothing places and our cellophane sounds,
Maybe it's our looseness,


But we're trash, you and me,
We're the litter on the breeze,
We're the lovers on the streets...

1. Carter USM - Rubbish

The only problem with that Suede song, much as I love it and want to make it Number #1, is that it's not very British, is it, Bret? Where I come from, we don't have trashcans, we have rubbish bins.

"What do you think of the programme so far?" asks John Peel midway through this track. Wisely, Jim Bob and Fruitbat leave us to provide our own answers...

I wish I'd discovered Carter back in 1992... why did no one tell me?

From the black bag skip in the parking lot
It's a short bad trip to the candy shop
Where the shrimps sell smack to the jelly snakes
And the kids buy crack in their morning break


And the grass grows bluer on the other side
Where the old girls queue for their Mother's Pride
For a slice of life it's a bargain sale
The price is right but the bread is stale


From the high rise priest of the office blocks
To a five year lease on a cardboard box
From the old queens head to the Burger King
In my '57 Chevy made from baked bean tins


And when I drive that heap down the road
You can hear that cheap car stereo
Volume knob turned down low
Rubbish on the radio

Those were mine... what's your favourite rubbish song?

The Adjustment Bureau

I used to have a recurring dream wherein someone I trusted implicitly led me to a room I'd never been to before only to reveal that the world outside that room no longer existed, that my life until that point had been one huge cosmic joke, that everyone and everything I knew had been created to lull me into a false sense of security, and this was the punchline: nothing I believed was true.

I've always been fascinated by stories wherein characters discover that their life is not their own, that they're just pawns in some much bigger game, that - as Gloucester puts it to King Lear - "as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods... they kill us for their sport". Stories in which we're forced to confront the man behind the curtain. And though I've never read much Phillip K. Dick (something I intend to put right very soon), his short story The Adjustment Team appears to be a classic of the genre.

The concept has been adapted and updated by writer/director George Nolfi as the latest big screen outing for Matt Damon, The Adjustment Bureau. The film has received mixed reviews and unfair comparisons with Christopher Nolan's Inception, but I loved it. It's unusual these days to see a movie where you just don't know what will happen next.

Damon's flourishing politician David Norris accidentally stumbles across the fact that his life is not his own due to a slip up by his overworked "handler". The Adjustment Bureau, a supernatural organisation of benevolent "angels" are guiding Norris towards political success because they know he can have a positive impact on the world, and they won't let anything stand in his way - certainly not an unplanned romance with a kooky dancer played by Emily Blunt.

What makes the conceit effective is that the Adjustment Bureau themselves are neither all-powerful nor omnipotent. They have powers beyond ours, but they also have to follow rules and procedure like everybody else. They're just doing their job, and sometimes they don't even know why - their employer doesn't always let them in on the bigger picture. Anthony Mackie and Mad Men's John Slattery do an excellent job of portraying the day to day frustrations of these bureaucratic guardians, so we sympathise with them almost as much as we do their pawn, Norris.

The film is by no means perfect. Emily Blunt's character is one of those adorably / annoyingly eccentric Hollywood girlfriends who simply don't exist in real life. Terence Stamp hams it up like Zod as Adjustment Bureau hardman Thompson. The script stumbles into clunky exposition and the final dramatic set-piece seems contrived to give us an action-packed third act the story really doesn't require. But despite all that, I still preferred it to Inception - because this film has heart. It has a warmth that Nolan's film was lacking, for all its eye-bleeding special effects, and it spends time building characters we care about. I won't argue with anyone who tells me Inception is the better film, but I know which one I'd rather watch again.

Mixing Pop and Politics...

"Mixing pop and politics, they ask me what the use is
I offer them embarrassment and my usual excuses..."

Before the gig, in the Academy bar, we overhear two blokes discussing the forthcoming entertainment. "It should be a good gig," says one. "As long as he stays away from the politics," says the other.

Really, now. Isn't that a bit like going along to a Lady Gaga gig and hoping she stays away from the slutty dresses? The politics are such an important part of Billy Bragg's persona, he wouldn't be Billy Bragg without them. And while much has been made of the fact that the bard of Berking now lives in a lovely "mansion" on the cliffs of Dorset, it would be churlish to deny him the rewards of his success - particularly when he continues to fight the good fight as vocally as he ever did. Saturday's gig, it transpires, is actually a charity event organised to raise funds to help defeat the far-right BNP party in the North West. "Hope Not Hate" is the message, and given that this is exactly what brought Billy to Manchester on Saturday night, you can hardly expect him to stay quiet on the subject.

"As Brother Barry said
As he married Marion
The wife has three great attributes
Intelligence, a Swiss army knife and charm"

But even the man himself admits there are two kinds of Billy Bragg fan. There are those who are brought to him through the politics, who feel stirred and empowered by his performance of songs like Between The Wars, World Turned Upside Down, NPWA and There Is Power In A Union. And there are those who fall instead for his pithy, heartfelt, witty and truthful kitchen sink relationship dramas and "love songs". Valentine's Day Is Over, Saturday Boy, A Lover Sings and the forever devastating Levi Stubbs' Tears. I've always been in the latter camp, though I respect and agree with many of Billy's opinions in the former and have no problem showing my support for a cause like "Hope Not Hate". I've seen him live many times now, and though I always prefer the shows that are steered towards Billy the performer rather than Billy the revolutionary, I accept that they're two sides of the same man, and that sometimes one will take prominence over the other. Fortunately he maintains his sense of humour whichever badge he's wearing, and it's impossible not to be inspired by him either way.

"A cynic is just a busted optimist" he says at one point in the show, and he makes me think about how easily I let cynicism rule my own life at times. Reading this blog sometimes, you might think that the cynic has won. But I do strive to be optimistic - it's essential if I'm to continue striving to achieve my ambitions. Optimists keep trying, cynics give in. So maybe I'm not as cynical as I sometimes think... and maybe it takes a little Billy Bragg rabble-rousing to remind me of that every now and then. You've got to keep fighting for what you believe in, and you've got to keep believing in yourself. We're all of us Waiting For The Great Leap Forwards...

"If you're lonely, I will call -
If you're poorly, I will send poetry


I love you
I am the milkman of human kindness
I will leave an extra pint"

Dead Father's Club

I'd seen Dead Fathers Club compared to Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night Time - a young adult book that's crossed over and ended up appealing more to older, proper adults. This comparison was almost enough to prevent me from reading it as I found Haddon's novel patronising and annoying. However, when I heard the premise of Matt Haig's novel I had to give it a shot... and I'm so glad I did as it knocks The Curious...Dog out of the pound.

Philip Noble is an 11 year old whose father has recently died in a suspicious car crash. When the old man's ghost turns up and informs Philip that his death was actually murder... that Philip's uncle is responsible... and that unless Philip takes revenge, his father will be trapped as a ghost forever... well, fans of Shakespeare's greatest play might get an idea where this story is going.

When Uncle Alan starts putting his moves on Philip's mum... when Philip meets the friendly daughter of Uncle Alan's bumbling business partner (and her over-protective brother)... when two of Philip's schoolmates begin acting suspiciously like they're in Uncle Alan's employ... to be or not to be, anyone?

Given that Hamlet is my favourite play, I loved the parallels, but Haig is smart enough to know his story can't survive on those alone. And there comes a point where the path of Philip Noble's life has to take a different course from the great Dane's... the exciting thing for the reader is wondering when that will be. Philip is such a likable character, we hate to think he'll meet an end as tragic as Hamlet, though I was surprised at how far the author took him. It's fair to say Dead Fathers Club is an engrossing read for young adults and proper adults alike - even those who aren't familiar with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune - but for anyone who is, it's damned near essential reading. Smart, touching, and very funny too.



More recommended reading over at Comics On The Ration where today I'm reviewing Chew: Taster's Choice from Image Comics.

A Little Hope Is A Dangerous Thing...

No #fridayflash from me this week as I'm resting my short story muscles, but here's a true story, a cautionary tale that might strike a chord with my fellow writers and creative types. It's about taking risks to get your work noticed... and the danger of getting your hopes too high, too quickly...


(Names have been changed to protect the innocent. My name, therefore, remains unchanged.)


Recently in the evil Day Job, I've had reason to be in contact with the touring agent of a successful and well-known writer and TV personality. For the purposes of this story, we'll call the writer Alabaster Cuttlefish. Although our plans in regard to the Day Job failed to come to fruition, I found the agent I'd been dealing with to be a warm and personable type (a rarity in my job) so I decided to do something I'd never done before: use my contacts. People are always telling me it's not what you know but who, and that success in the arts is as much down to luck as talent... so why not?

Privately then, I dropped the touring agent - for the purposes of this story, we'll call him Tantalizing Margarine - a short email explaining that, outside the evil Day Job, I was a writer of far more interesting things, but that I'm terrible at self promotion, and find it hard to get my work seen by the right people. Having just completed my latest novel, I was faced with the daunting prospect of shopping it round potential agents, and wondered if he - being someone who worked with a number of successful writers such as Alabaster Cuttlefish - knew of any friendly literary agents who might be receptive to browsing a few chapters and giving me their feedback.

Tantalizing Marmalade replied quickly, telling me he was no expert on the literary field, but asking what my novel was about and who I saw as the target reader. I responded with a single paragraph synopsis and, after scratching my head for a little while, suggested the kind of reader I was aiming at... namedropping one of my favourite writers, Jubilee Bumblebee.

"Funnily enough," came the reply, "I happen to be best friends with Jubilee Bumblebee's editor at Trouserpig Press - and I also know his agent." (So much for not being an expert on the literary field!) "Tell you what, send me a chapter and I'll have a quick look..."

Never has so much been read into one idle ellipsis by one so foolish. Suddenly, my heart was in my mouth. This could be it! This could be the big break I've been looking for! "Take this Day Job and stick it!" My future starts here. I shot back an email with the first chapter and a more complete plot synopsis (plus a note to the effect that I would understand completely if he don't feel it was worth taking any further. After all these years writing, I was used to rejections). Then I sat by the computer, clicking Send & Receive on my inbox to speed up his reply. At last, I told myself, this was my moment...

I didn't have long to wait. Tantalizing Marmalade soon came back, responding that although he enjoyed the synopsis and structure, the style of the writing wasn't really for him - though he recognised he probably wasn't the target market. He went on to offer further constructive criticism... which I appreciated and took on board... while inside, inside I was dying.

If you could draw my hopes like a polygraph line they would shoot off the chart like Superman before the needle returned to the paper and tore through the bottom of the sheet like a serial killer's knife through a silk negligee. All in the space of one afternoon. Which may be why I'm not cut out for being a writer. It isn't that I lack the drive or (possibly) the ability... it's that I just wasn't built for rejection, and even after all these years, every time someone responds negatively - or without interest - to something I've written, I want to pack it all in and become a Yak farmer.

But I'll get over that. I've had plenty of practise. I know not every book is for every person, and the more successful a writer, the more the critics love to rip them apart. Just look at that infamous bestseller champion Teriyaki Concrete! I wonder if he cares that 50% of readers think he can't even string a successful sentence together? Or does he just concentrate on the 50% who'd buy his weekly shopping list in hardback? Perhaps such things don't matter once you're a success. The real trick to surviving the submissions process isn't about learning to deal with rejection... it's about learning not to get your hopes up. That's the killer. Because sometimes, hope is all that keeps you going...