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Around 25 years ago a lad I was at school with was killed when the motorbike he was riding crashed into a tree. A 50cc something or other. L-plates and everything.
It was all Band Aid and Toy Dolls. Howard Jones and Nik Kershaw. Way back when.
I think of him sometimes. He was a good kid. Successfully managed to cruise the difficult border between the ordinary kids and the hard kids. Did a lot of laughing. Had a little brother we called Little Dosser.
Then he died. No more visits to the chippy by the Tam O’ Shanter. No more zipping around Coton Green. Across the railway line. Past the Fox.
So much has changed since then.
He wouldn’t even recognise most of the roads.
Where are you now, Dosser?
20 years ago he came to me in New Street station when I was using a public phone. Remember the circle of aluminium booths that were in the station back then? Before the advent of mobiles? One of those.
He wasn’t very old. 20-something? He asked if I could spare some money. I said no, sorry. Firm but polite. “Oh, please, mate, I’m starvin’“.
Yeah, right, I probably thought. You’ll just use it on fags or booze. Such was my upbringing. But there was something in his eyes. A genuine desperation. I could see that.
Yet I turned away and dialled the number. When I looked back he had gone.
I sometimes wonder about him. More often than I’d like. I can see his face. That look in his eyes. I’ll always wish I’d bought him some food. Anything.
What became of you, homeless man? Where are you now?
The Guardian recently published an article in which the majority of respondents to a “survey” claimed they would leave the midlands if widespread broadband Internet access enabled them to work from home. Here is the letter I sent in reponse. A link to the original article can be found beneath.
Dear Sir or Madam,
I write in relation to your front-page article of 26/08/09 headed – Home is where the heart is – unless it’s in the Midlands
A few years ago my wife and I considered moving our family to the South West of England as my internet-based job would allow this. We subscribed to a local newspaper in our preferred area. Looked at houses. Jobs for my wife. Schools for the kids. However, after much deliberation we decided against the move.
Property prices made an idyllic country cottage or house overlooking the harbour impossible. Transport infrastructure, journey times and the pressures of everyday life would likely make evening strolls on the beach the exception rather than the rule.
In Birmingham we have front-door to city centre in 20 minutes by local rail service. The city has a considerable cultural heritage, with art galleries, libraries, theatres, and a thriving local music scene, and there are a huge range of activities and attractions elseshwere in the region.
While it may not initially seem the most desirable of locations, as our children grow up Birmingham – and the midlands in general – offers a wealth of opportunities, and in truth no less exposure to drugs and crime than their counterparts in the South West.
The dream of a better life enabled by the internet is undoubtedly an appealing one, but the reality is unlikely to result in a genuine change of lifestyle for all but the most affluent.
Dream – 9 March, 09 – c04:00hrs
Being chased by Russian agents. Organised crime types. Real nasty.
There’s a pub with red walls and black oak beams. The floor’s uneven.
Guns.
Trees outside.
The Russians keep their prisoners in a dirty swimming pool.
They bring one out while I watch, tilting the pool to 90 degrees although all the water stays in it.
The prisoner’s pale and flabby.
Has red eyes.
I can only see his head.
He’s laden with oxygen tanks to keep him alive in the water. They must weigh a ton.
He looks like he’s been under there years.
Reading…
The Border Trilogy – Cormac McCarthy
Listening to…
The Delgados
Tindersticks
The Veils
Pony Chair Black
Watching…
Mad Men
Working on…
As-yet-untitled novel
“Conflict” short story commission
Numerous business reports
Pony Chair Black songs
Nick Cave in MOJO
I read the Nick Cave feature in the current edition of MOJO with great interest. The guy is a great creative talent, has produced a huge and diverse body of work – oodles of songs, film scores, novels – and has the coolest backing band in history. I can’t help but wonder, though, if he regrets the years spent slave to heroin and alcohol. What amount of work would he have produced without the impact of these substances on his life? And of what quality? Would there have been more? Would it have been better? Or were they part of getting to the point Cave’s at now? Grist for the writing mill.
I’d like to think not.
Personally, alcohol and drugs scare the hell out of me, which is why I’ve never tried the former to any kind of excess or the latter at all. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette. Snigger if you want. For one thing, I like to be in control. The bane of my life from my teenage years into my early to mid-20s was being the one who didn’t get particularly drunk. I tended to watch people go somewhere else as the alcohol took hold. Left out. Left behind. But mostly, it wasn’t a place I wanted to go. I’ve only ever met one person who is nice to be with when drunk. And, notably enough, two of the three times I’ve met him, he has been drunk. (Are you there Dressing Gown Guy?)
As for drugs… depressive and addictive traits seem to go hand-in-hand with creativity. The large number of artists of all kinds who have dabbled seeking some kind of release or escape or creative aid only to find themselves either screwed up or dead is testament to that. It’s a vicious circle, as drugs usually enhance depressive tendencies. So not for me, thanks. There’s no getting away from the hard work.
Besides, I’m not convinced drugs unlock any kind of creative doors. Alcohol certainly shuts them, and severely impairs judgement. What both do do is mean that the user doesn’t care, about either the results of their actions, or their impact on others. Hugely influential writers such as Philip K Dick are claimed to have drugs as a contributor to their work, although this is said by some to be exaggerated.
Cave’s been clean since 1999, and he and the Bad Seeds are now at their most creative and successful. PKD’s long dead.
Click “Nick Cave” in the tag cloud for other cavernous posts.
Jade Goody
When she was in Big Brother the UK hated her, scorned her, derided her as thick white trash. An embarrassment. Now the UK feels sorry for her. Even Gordon Brown has an opinion. (It’s worth about as much as all his other opinions.) Why? Because she has terminal cancer and is dying before our eyes.
Well, feel sorry for yourself, UK, for you also have terminal cancer. 13-year-old kids are having kids. There’s no discipline in schools because half the teachers are scared or don’t care or just have too much to do. Many kids have unsupervised access to the internet and modern media such as youtube, which is home to human existence in its depraved glory. You can have porn and violence piped directly into your home via cable. (But that’s OK because your kids don’t know the PIN number, right?). 18-rated films are a rarity these days. Finishing a level on a video game is considered some kind of achievement. A nine-year-old kid who came to our house recently talked of playing an 18-rated game in which he had to “break a policeman’s legs” and “keep stabbing this guy to kill him”. I can only assume his mother doesn’t know.
Achievement.
And people are publishing their lives on Facebook without really thinking through the consequences of who can see what. An Austrian friend of mine visited at Christmas. He said: “Whenever anyone applies for a job with us the first thing we do is look them up on Facebook. And there you see pictures of them smashed out of their face somewhere, and getting up to all kinds of shit. People post photos and tag them and you can see it all. They don’t have a clue.”
But it’s all so quick and easy.
SNAP. UPLOAD. TAG. NEXT.
No thought required. Instant gratification.
Even LEGO comes with instructions.
The Financial Crisis
Everybody’s up in arms and angry at the bonuses and so on. It’s understandable. The loss of investments, pensions, interest on savings. All that. I mean, we tried to tell them, didn’t we? We didn’t want a 100% endowment mortgage on our nice house for £250 a month, did we. We didn’t want three credit cards. Or a nice new car for £100 a month. “No,” we told them, “because one day it will all collapse and then where will we be?”
But they didn’t listen, did they? They made us have these things, and now we’re suffering, because we wanted it all there and then, with no strings attached, and never having to pay anyone back. Ever.
We wanted it all and we wanted it there and then. Instant gratification.
UPDATE 20/02/09: it’s working! Hurrah!
Dear Virgin Media,
I haven’t got time to waste writing you a letter telling you how sick I am of your service, because I’ve just wasted half an hour trying to get a film on demand for my daughter who’s off school sick, and is now sitting on the settee disappointed because YET AGAIN on demand is “temporarily” unavailable.
Your service is unreliable and overpriced (unless you’re a new customer – oh yes, then it’s cheap as chips, but there’s no reward for people who’ve put up with this shite for years because it’s too much hassle to change).
Congratulations Virgin Media, your service up to the standards set in today’s modern Britain – ie, worthless.
I know, why don’t you send someone round with a clipboard asking if I’d recommend you to a friend? Go on. I dare you.
For my 40th birthday last December my wife bought me a voucher for a weekend’s use of a Jensen Interceptor from Great Escape. We redeemed the voucher this weekend, and spent 48 hours with a beautiful 1973 Interceptor Mk3.
Our Interceptor
Back in the day, the Interceptor was bought by the rich and famous, and generally considered a step above contemporary vehicles from manufacturers such as Aston Martin. Even Eric Morcambe had one. I’ve always loved this rare car, and have seen only a few in my life. I love the body shape, the understated styling. It’s like a combination of the best of British and Italian, with an immense 7.2-litre Chrysler V8 to haul it along.
In this eco-conscious world, and an environment of soaring fuel prices, the engine in this car is simultaneously fantastic and ludicrous. It’s often said that V8 engines “burble” – a sound that appeals to most red-blooded males and a few red-blooded females. The Chrysler in the Interceptor doesn’t burble; it doesn’t even gurgle – when pulling away at a junction it delivers a positively open-throated gargle that turns heads and frightens dogs at sixty yards. It’s supposed to do 12-14 miles to the gallon, but I guess that means around ten. I spent £70 on fuel over the weekend, which was actually less than I was expecting.
Occasionally, at low speeds the vehicle can sound almost agricultural, chugging along like a tractor as the eight pistons thump around in the lump at the front, as if barely awake. The Interceptor seems happiest at 30-40 miles an hour. With a 3-speed automatic gearbox, above around 50mph the car feels as though it needs another gear to drop into, which seems odd given the size of the engine. It’s great to tootle along at 20-25 then give it a slight burst: “garrrrggggllllle”. Overall, the Interceptor’s a very positive drive and easy to steer – it just goes where you point it, with no surprises.
The interior features wonderful vintage switchgear and instrumentation by Jaeger. Each switch has a single function: horn, wipers, de-mist, and so on. There’s just one delicate stalk off the steering column, and it’s for the indicators alone – no multiple, multi-function columns here.
The seats were soft and luxurious, and even though those in the rear look small, they were (I’m told by my kids and an adult friend who sat in the back) very comfortable.
We picked the car up on Friday, which was quite nerve-wracking to begin with as I was scared of damaging the car somehow, or being the victim of someone else’s carelessness. By Sunday, however, I was very comfortable with the car and thoroughly enjoying it.
We went to Ragley Hall, and saw the room in which the ball scenes from Dr Who’s The Girl in the Fireplace were shot. We got caught in the rain only once, and had a fantastic weekend, enjoying admiring stares, frightening dogs and turning heads.
Great Escape has several classic cars available for hire, so if you fancy a weekend as enjoyable as the one we had, forget about the price of petrol, give Graham a call, and hire the kind of car you’re never likely to own for 48 hours.
Images from our weekend can be seen here.
EDIT: oops, sorry! Broken link to BBC typewriters article FIXED!
Think I might be on to something with the new book. Allowing myself to get slightly excited!
