Sunday, December 29, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
A useful purpose for this blog -- now seven years old, and only just hanging on to life by its fingernails -- would be to act as a repository for Ian Jack's weekly Guardian column.
|The Canadian Pacific liner Empress of Britain at John Brown's shipyard in the Clyde after her launch in 1930. Photograph: J Gaiger/Getty Images|
Jack's column this week -- about Britain's failure to provide ferries and oil rig support vessels for itself -- was, even by the man's high standards, unusually absorbing, nourishing and informative...
"...consider a few facts. Germany's coastline measures 2,389km along the North Sea and the Baltic. Poland's is just 500km, or double that if you add two lagoons. The coast of mainland Scotland, on the other hand, runs to 9,911km, or 16,490km if the islands are included. As well as this complex and ship-dependent geography stretching from Arran in the south to the furthest Shetland in the north, there are hundreds of oil platforms in the North Sea to serve and supply from ports such as Aberdeen. These were surely ideal conditions to sustain at least a kernel of what was once the world's most celebrated shipbuilding industry. General cargo ships and Atlantic liners no longer exist; bulk carriers and tankers are the monopoly of China, Japan and Korea; cruise ships have become the specialism of Finland, Italy and Germany; black-funneled freighters no longer sail into Glasgow and Tilbury with imperial tea. But Britain still needs the humble stuff of ferries, coasters, tugs and oil-rig support vessels. Over the past 20 years we have built very few of them, and in some categories none. Warships have become the last ships that Britain really does. For a country that easily within living memory owned the world's largest merchant fleet, this looks like a savage form of self-harm."
He also linked to a fascinating Oscar-winning documentary, made in 1961 and called Seawards the Great Ships, about the industry on the Clyde. The notably melodramatic opening is of its time, certainly, but after about 7 minutes it becomes a perfectly judged, shot, scripted and directed lesson. There are some fine lines in there...
"...measuring, marking, centre-punching -- you might call this a kind of superhuman tailoring."
"...flanging machines exert forces on a plate which are at once brutal and loving .. and uncompromising."
Also look out for the wonderful continuous shot (just after 16m30s) which tracks up the scaffold at the side of the ship, up over its edge then on still further, dizzyingly high up above the deck (if you're sharp-eyed you'll notice the shadow of the cinematographer at the beginning of the shot, projected onto the side of the ship).
Jack's piece ends elegiacally...
And so the only two decent-sized shipyards left in Britain build warships. How cheering it would be if other enterprises learned, or re-learned, to build peaceful craft that could rebalance the economy. Pollyannaish, I said this a year or two ago to a marine engineer from Port Glasgow. "But where would you find the men?" he replied. "You would need to look in the cemetery."
...to this one may ask (even more optimistically than Pollyanna): where did the men come from the first time round?
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Wonderful stuff, by Edward Mendelson in the New York Review of Books.
(Let the record show that this was posted on my £200 Samsung Chromebook.)
"...as everyone knows, the world-religion of the educated and prosperous in the twenty-first century is Apple, with its Vatican in Cupertino and its cathedrals in the light-filled Apple Stores that draw pilgrims gripping iPhones and iPads like rosaries. Apple’s flock is secured against heresy by censors who rule the online App Store; only applications with Apple’s imprimatur are allowed on an iPhone. Programmers risk excommunication—with all their works condemned to being listed in an Index of Prohibited Software—if they violate canon law by bypassing Apple’s banking system or ignoring its infallible doctrine. Rebellious heretics can “jailbreak” an iPhone and induce it to accept software anathematized by Apple, but a heretic’s phone is refused communion when presented for repair at the Apple Store."
Monday, June 10, 2013
Greenville is a beautiful little tune, which shows to good effect Paul Curreri's nimble, flowing fingerstyle guitar playing .. and this is a fine little live version of it, well shot in south London too...
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
What a fine way to pass a Tuesday evening, after being very kindly invited by Ian and Simon -- with Ben and Aska -- to visit The Scotch Malt Whisky Society in Farringdon.
What you're here to do is make merry while drinking whisky from single cask bottlings...
Single malt whisky can vary significantly from cask to cask (even casks from the same distillery that have lain side by side for the same number of years). It is this variation that the Society celebrates, as the casks selected by the Society's Tasting Panel often do not conform to usual regional whisky identities.
A nice touch is the entertaining, impressionistic yet detailed tasting notes accompanying the whiskies, which appear to have been written by a dandyish synaesthete -- one recent bottling is named Pea and ham soup in a steam train.
See if you can get a member to take you on a visit; and then, who knows? Perhaps you could join, and this view could become a regular one...
Sunday, January 27, 2013
"And finally I suppose that, all the time, now, 1972, for as long as we've got left, we must just go on building cathedrals." Ian Nairn
I first heard of Ian Nairn (1930-1983), the writer on architecture and topography, in this fine piece by Jonathan Glancey in The Guardian in 2010. He made his name in the 1950s with his book Outrage, in which he coined the term subtopia...
"The Outrage is that the whole land surface is becoming covered by the creeping mildew that already circumscribes all of our towns ... Subtopia is the annihilation of the site, the steamrollering of all individuality of place to one uniform and mediocre pattern."
Then, a few days ago, via Owen Hatherley on Twitter, I came across Nairn's BBC film about his journey on the Orient Express in the very early 1970s. You can watch Part 1 here.
This film was the first time I had seen Nairn: here he was, time-travelling to YouTube on my laptop screen in 2013 from a washed-out telly in 1972, and I must admit to being instantly and completely fascinated by him. Why? For the same reasons that he has fascinated so many others: the depth and originality of his insights and opinions, the fine language he used to express them and, of course, the palpable sense that here was a man who wouldn't stand the remotest chance of appearing on post-millennial British television. And that's to pay him a high compliment, rather than to bemoan his lack of telegenic slickness -- he expressed a sincere depth of feeling in his pieces to camera which would be hard to imagine these days.
His voice, Jonathan Meades says, was...
"...full of quiet despair. The repetitively falling cadence suggests an acute awareness of human impermanence and death's proximity. It knows, however, that even though everything's going to the dogs Canute's example must be followed."
Glancey put it well...
"On film, you catch something of his abiding melancholy, along with his habitual scruffiness and a haunting sense that here was a man as much in search of himself as he was of the inspired new architecture that eluded him. And in search, too, of a romantic, everyday Britain that, from Millwall to Manchester, was vanishing under a tide of crude public and private development. Those falling cadences, the way his sentences drop quietly into ideas left hanging, things unsaid, are as haunting as they are disturbing. There was an ineffable sadness at work. Nairn truly detested the way we were selling (as we continue to) our landscape, our townscapes, for a mess of nothing worth looking at, much less living in or handing down to our children."
I insist that your final duty is to watch the 30-minute film covering his journey from Leeds to Edinburgh, via Carlisle. He was a fascinating man. I must now set about trying to get my hands on his writing...
Saturday, December 01, 2012
Douglass is best known for the speech he gave (on 5 July 1852) in Rochester, New York, commemorating the signing of the Declaration of Independence; and what a speech it was...
What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer; a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sound of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants brass fronted impudence; your shout of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanks-givings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy -- a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States, at this very hour.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Mum texted me yesterday with the news of Michael Marra's death. I was sad. When I lived in Glasgow I saw him perform a good few times: at the Royal Concert Hall, the Tron Theatre and the wonderful Cottiers Theatre. I think the Tron gig might even have been a full Semple family trip.
His songs are stories: rich, eccentric and funny stories. And, in a live setting, every song was prefaced with a languid introduction which used that brilliant 50-a-day voice, as well as much Scots dialect. Music inspired by Americana combined with Dundonian lingo was always going to be a compelling mix for me.
He was a brilliant writer and I'm sad I won't get to see him play again.
Try If I was an Englishman and If Dundee was Africa if you're unfamiliar with his work.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
It worked, and rapidly too, for a late-1990s computer monitor on the Uxbridge Road in Shepherd's Bush in 2008. And, here in Herne Hill, it works with a speed and consistency which is amusing.
Last night I stuck five wonky old bike wheels out (a couple of backs and three fronts), alongside two rather disreputable, non-matching folding garden chairs -- all of it went within the hour. There's still 6-ft of standard black downpipe out there -- but it'll go soon enough too. Other objects previously placed out on the wall of plenty include a tired looking -- but quite large -- Ikea bookcase, a plasticky CD rack, a brown tie, a martini glass, a long-defunct dishwasher, a pair of paint-spattered shorts and various DVDs of films which came free with The Observer or The Guardian ... a litany of largely useless crap. But still they come for it -- whoever they are...
Friday, August 10, 2012
Still. Other trains do roll by: there's the what-the-fuck incongruity of the Orient Express, on Saturdays and Sundays I think; and there are the daily, or twice daily, freight trains, apt to rattle the crockery as they pass, heavily, unhurriedly.
I wouldn't hop a freight in Herne Hill but, like Geoff Dyer, it's something I wish I had done, or could have done way out west in the USA, not on a railway, but on a railroad. This passage by Dyer is from Yoga for People Who Can't Be Bothered to Do It (which you should definitely read) and I love it, and its evocative sense of longing, very much...
"As I sat by the Mississippi one afternoon, a freight rumbled past on the railroad track behind me, moving very slowly. I’d always wanted to hop a freight, and I sprang up, trying to muster up the courage to leap aboard. The length of the train and its slow speed meant that I had a long time — too long — to contemplate hauling myself aboard, but I was frightened of getting into trouble or injuring myself, and I stood there for five minutes, watching the boxcars clank past, until finally there were no more carriages and the train had passed. Watching it curve out of sight, I was filled with magnolia-tinted regret, the kind of feeling you get when you see a woman in the street, when your eyes meet for a moment but you make no effort to speak to her and then she is gone and you spend the rest of the day thinking that, had you spoken, she would have been pleased, not offended, and you would, perhaps, have fallen in love with each other. You wonder what her name might have been. Angela perhaps. Instead of hopping the freight, I went back to my apartment on Esplanade and had the character in the novel I was working on do so."
Saturday, August 04, 2012
How about this -- a funnel web, and its eponymous occupant, living inside an exterior brick wall. Where, though? I'm afraid, arachnaphobes of Herne Hill, that he's a local. Climate change, innit. Watch the video here, or below.
Monday, April 23, 2012
"...it's so crazy and vigorous in its execution, so breathtaking in its vision, so brilliantly eccentric..."
I can't actually remember if I saw this short film when it was originally broadcast on BBC2 in 1995 -- I may only have seen it advertised. But either way, after 17 years, I still remembered that John Malkovich once made a wistful and reflective short film about the Chrysler Building, which I've loved for a very long time. How satisfying -- and easy, of course -- it was to find it online.
Malkovich describes well his attraction to the stylish charms of the building, and the later architectural shift towards the sort of faceless, monolithic, corporate look of buildings like the World Trade Centre.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Michael Lewis, Liar's Poker
What makes "hard work" hard? It may impinge on the spirit (the chip shop operative in Glasgow on a Saturday night, or the checkout assistant), the intellect (the QC or the academic) or the body (the bricklayer or the gravedigger). Working as a salesman, especially if you're temperamentally unsuited to it, is hard on the spirit because your job is bound, by cold mathematical certainty, to contain more failure than success: you will only ever convince a minority of your prospects to subject themselves to meeting you; and, in turn, only a minority of those you meet will "sign on the line which is dotted" (to quote Blake, played by Alec Baldwin, in Glengarry Glen Ross).
Of course, underpinning the popular identity of the salesman is this: he is necessary. (To the business in question, if not humanity in its widest sense.) Without the pitch, nothing happens. Some things are sold, some are bought. This distinction was clarified by Seth Godin in January 2012...
Some things are bought -- like bottled water, airplane tickets and chewing gum. The vendor sets up shop and then waits, patiently, for someone to come along and decide to buy. Other things are sold -- like cars, placement of advertising in magazines and life insurance. If no salesperson is present, if no pitch is made, nothing happens. Both are important. Both require a budget and a schedule and a commitment. Confusion sets in when you're not sure if your product or service is bought or sold, or worse, if you are a salesperson just waiting for people to buy.
So, yes, given the nature of the services I was selling, it could be said fairly that were I not present, nothing would have been shipped; my stuff would never have been merely bought. Was I any good? No, not really. Yes, I can string a solidly cliché-free sentence together, and I suppose this ability, and my sharp eye for grammatical detail in writing those enthralling proposals of mine, helped me hold my own. But I was never part of the 20 who made the 80, because I was poor at unrelentingly producing the level of activity required to excel; and, frankly, I was too aware of the faint whiff of shame which had attached itself to me. That I was mildly ashamed of what I had to do to succeed at my job -- pester people to agree to meet me, then make them listen to a bit of friendly, low-pressure turd-polishing -- meant that I generally approached my clients in a bloodless, studiedly non-salesy and jargon-free manner: "Man, I allowed myself to be talked into meeting this bloody salesman at eleven o'clock this morning," they probably thought to themselves, "but at least the fucker doesn't seem to be a total spiv."
Selling, for me, was largely about confounding the client's tendency to believe that I, personally, was stereotypically pushy and disreputable, much more than it was about my having some sort of carnivorous lust for smashing the month's targets. And there's vanity in that. Pity my poor managers -- they really would have been much happier with Blake, from Glengarry Glen Ross, or his ilk, running my desk. (As utterly monstrous (yet compelling) a creation as Blake is, there are many truths in his anti-motivational rant, particularly regarding that oh-so-comfortable place where middling or second-rate salesmen love to wallow, where they'll bitch about anything other than their own laziness or timidity as a reason for their poor performance.)
The short version: I used to be a salesman and I largely didn't like it; I do something different now, and I like it. This said, I believe that my present contentment is governed as much by the how (self-employment), as it is by the what (practical work).
Yes, I concede to my former managers that I was occasionally a bit sour about being deskbound. Since being released into the wild, I have become much happier. I hope that they, too, soon cut their ties with salaried life and, as suggested by Matthew Crawford, "reason together to solve some practical problems among themselves." I agree with Crawford that starting a small business, "remains valid, especially if the enterprise provides a good or service with objective standards, as those may serve as the basis for social relations within the enterprise that are nonmanipulative in character ...Such work ties us to the local communities in which we live, and instills the pride that comes from doing work that is genuinely useful."
- - -
I apologise to all for using the non-gender neutral term "salesman" throughout; I simply felt the need to stick to it... I think it's that I was physically unable to use the term (of myself) when I was one, but I now can, now that I'm not one.
Sunday, March 04, 2012
On 2 March 2012, as part of a long-running series on stupid product labelling, Simon Hoggart wrote about Dairystix...
And on a BA flight, Alan Randall was given a Dairystix tube containing milk-style fluid for his tea. "Follow Dairystix on Facebook" it urges. "My dull life has just got interesting," he says.
Now, of course, Dairystix is not the only company producing a dull commodity which has come over all Dad-dancing-at-the-disco in its whizzy, moderne use of the social media internets. But, for proof of the wrongness of the practice, one need only consult the Facebook page which Alan Randall was exhorted to follow, which has a pitiful 58 "likes". A typical comment left there...
On several occasions I've tried to rip the sachet open, but it's only taken the corner off, leaving a hole about the size of a pin prick, and then when I squeezed it, the milk ejaculated out onto myself/the seat in front, or worse, the person sat next to me. I think Dairystix do this on purpose to make you look like a massive bellend.
My office smells of sour milk since we switched to Dairystix. And it looks like the set of a porno.
Company Facebook pages: just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
Sunday, February 05, 2012
Here is a very fine song from a talented young American musician named Peter Broderick (b.1987).
The writing's strong, as his is performance; I think one of the most affecting elements of it is that you're introduced early on to that beautiful, melancholic, fragile chorus -- then, finally, you get to hear it on top of the piano.
I'm not going to write any more. But have a listen -- I'm sure it will grab you.