Gone Shopping

Everybody loves shopping and your humble narrator is no exception. Today I donned my special shopping clothes, did my special pre-shopping stretching exercises and entered into the world of acquisition bliss.

I have bought 100 sick bags.

They really are a steal at just 12p. You don’t get much for 12p in today’s economic climate. The best things in life really are [almost] free.

Clicking ‘confirm’ at FirstAidWarehouse.co.uk brought about one of those rare existential moments of total self awareness. “What am I doing?” I laughed. “I’m buying 100 sick bags is what”.

The Plain People of Cyberspace: But why? Please tell us why. We’re dying to know.

Of course, I don’t plan to be sick one-hundred times (unless I find myself accidentally watching The Catherine Tate Show again). To explain: I’m going to print logos onto them and give them away as free gifts with the first one hundred copies of The New Escapologist, the rough-and-ready underground magazine of which I am the editor.

I’m hoping the complementary sick bag will sway those ‘maybe someday’ customers. I think I’m on to something.

Swim East

The main problem with being an autodidact is that you never know how to pronounce anything properly. Books are all well and good but it’s difficult to detect from them the silent “t” in “Paolozzi” or where the emphasis lies in “Dalí” (which I only recently discovered last week while in Barcelona).

I hope this flaw didn’t betray my informal education too crudely in the job interview I attended today.

Many twentieth century artists were discussed.

The job? Librarian of Edinburgh’s Dean Gallery. I am not holding my breath over this. I think things went well in the the interview itself (though I may have jabbered a little too excitedly when we got around to discussion of modern art) but the competition is assuredly rather steep and I am frankly very proud to have even been invited to interview.

If I get the job I will be as happy as a bag of pickled pigs. I do not exaggerate when I say that it has everything I could want from a job: seclusion, nutritious surroundings, copious quantities of seriously great twentieth century art, green space, the perfect subject matter, seemingly lovely colleagues, great espresso at the in-house cafe. There is even a giant robot to keep me company, for goodness sake.

It would be entirely my element. Needless to say I wore my waistcoat today.

Walking around the grounds prior to the main event, I pause while a man takes photographs of some impressive statuary. “Come along!” he sings, as camp as Hi-de-hi, “you’d only enhance the photograph anyway!”

This is the sort of punter I would serve every single day.

The more I think I’ve probably not got it. It was a style-over-substance interview – a crime for any champion of the postmodern – and personality in such contexts only goes so far. But no counting robot chickens before they’re hatched.

My question to the panel: “Does it ever get boring, working in paradise?”

More photos taken today here.

Crop Circles

Seated opposite a large-headed man on an Edinburgh-bound train this morning, I remarked internally at how corn-like his hair was.

It was cropped short and blunt. Well, I mused, it is harvest time.

For the duration of the journey, I idly fantazised as to what it would be like to fashion crop circles upon his massive head.

It would be a quite singular experience I think and would undoubtedly involve a tiny scythe and a spirograph.

As I left the train (how did I not see this before?) I noticed that his noggin was leaping with field mice.

Holiday Snaps

Returned this week from Barcelona where I witnessed first-hand the super-odd Antoni Gaudi architecture. A few snaps can be viewed here.

I’ve noticed that most people’s holiday snaps of Barcelona (especially those of the Casa Milà and the Sagrada Família) look exactly the same. An explanation: it’s very difficult to get photographs of the large and up-close Gaudi buildings and so everyone either finds the one perfect position to take it from or plumps for a huge lens-filling shot of wobbly windows. I think my rooftop shots might save my set from total conformity though.

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While staying in the fabulous Hotel de Catalunya, I noticed that a complementary foil-wrapped chocolate had been placed on my bedside table, the poop of a candy rat, after the first night.

After the second night, two chocolates had been left.

I wonder how far the hotel staff take this cumulative chocolate delivery system? If one has been there for three nights, is one rewarded with the appropriate number of chocolates or is there an upper limit to their praline generosity? If not, and the number of complementary chocolates is always proportionate to the number of nights stayed by the guest, the long term residents would have serious problems with door-opening.

I can imagine trying to go to bed after three weeks in the same room and having to sweep the chocolates off the bed covers and hearing them rumble across the wooden floor.

If you didn’t like chocolate for whatever reason or if you were perhaps lactose intolerant, you might find this whole thing rather invasive, even frightening. Since you weren’t eating the chocolates to begin with, you would accumulate them even faster than the long term guests. Slowly and surely they would come to your room, like zombies to a boarded-up farm house, until every last cubic centimeter of space is taken up with walnut whirl. And yet they will still come. The robotic maids understand no limits. Death by chocolate etc.

Back in reality, I don’t know what the idea behind this cumulative complementary confectionery (CCC) arrangement might be. It’s no incentive really. To the guest, it would be a highly expensive and indirect way of acquiring chocolate.

As I was only staying for two nights we shall never ever know the nuts and bolts of this reward system. I’ve failed once again on the investigative journalism front haven’t I?

The Tail

The voice was both monstrous and fey.

It asked: “Do you want anything from the trolley?”

Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do. You. Want. Anything. From the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Doyouwantanythingfromthetrolley? Do you want anything from the trolley. Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley?! Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley, do you want anything from the trolley do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley?

The voice was asking us if we wanted anything from the trolley. It and the trolley were attached to a fat middle-aged man.

Not a single passenger in Coach F of the 16:42 from Aberdeen to Glasgow wanted anything from the trolley.

There was only about twenty-five minutes of the journey left. Humans can survive without sustenance for that long. Food was not required by anyone. He may as well have been selling scuba gear: there was no market here for egg sandwiches.

There was something disconcerting about seeing a middle-aged Ricky-Tomlinson-looking fat man selling sandwiches for ScotRail. Why was he in this situation? Like many of my father’s post-war dad-generation, he resembled one of those instant disguises you can buy in joke shops: a pair of lensless spectacles with a strawberry nose and a plastic moustache attached.

Rotund, gasping, largely extinguished; how had he got to be fifty-something without figuring out how to avoid jobs like this one? He should have been at home with a pipe and a dachshund or at the very worst, shuffling paperwork for an air conditioning company.

How did he even get this job?

Train Company guy: I don’t know, Mister Creosote. We normally only hire healthy young women for this role.
Fat Guy: Please. I’m at the end of my tether. A lifetime career in the yogurt industry has come tumbling around my ears. Everyone wants that actimel stuff now. We can’t manufacture probiotics!
Train Company guy: Hmm. Maybe we can come to some arrangement. [Produces an oversized baby romper and bonnet]. Put these on for me and dance.

I expect the interview went something like that.

He was too fat to comfortably move down the gangway. He looked like he might get stuck. The father of a kid sitting opposite me had stowed a skateboard in the overhead luggage rack. In an emergency, could we use it as a shoe horn?

As he trudged along, hips unavoidably rubbing against our shoulders (“Do you want anything from the trolley? Do you want anything from the trolley?”), I noticed something hanging by a string from his arse.

Looking closely, I saw that it was the plastic packaging rings from a six-pack of canned lager. It dangled pointlessly, a limp tail, from his pinafore strings.

It was the finishing touch on a spectre of shame. It was the jaunty hat grudgingly worn by teenage workers in a fast food kitchen. It was the insulting tip left to a Starbucks server. It was the wise-ass alligator puppet with whom the Shakespearian actor is forced to work after his stumble into television presenting.

I’d like to make it clear that I’m not taking the piss out of this unfortunate character. I filled with love for him and wanted more than anything to invite him to work in the easy-going and well-paid capacity as my personal assistant for life. But I don’t have the money. A year ago I was pouring coffee myself.

For the rest of the journey, he stood in the vestibule with a drunk woman, sharing her bottle of Budweiser. Complaining he said, “I’ve been doing this job since Birth”.

Or maybe he said “Perth”.

***

On our arrival into Central, the boy sitting opposite me began exploring the undersides of the seats. “Dad, where’s my skateboard?”

The boy’s dad, a handsome young Samuel Beckett who had been reading a lengthy article about Captain Beefheart in a music magazine for the duration of the journey, began looking around similarly low locations.

“I think I saw you put it up top,” I said helpfully to Beckett.

Beckett looked at me with dagger-eyes. “Oh, did you?” he said.

His tone trod a border between suspicion and irritation. I think he had tried to lose the skateboard and I’d ruined his plan. I sure hope it wasn’t the bane of his existence or anything.

Scaramouche, Scaramouche

Loath as I am to be the boring git at the cocktail party, allow me report upon the dream I had last night.

I should point out first of all that this event is notable in that Robert Wringham DOES NOT DREAM. Or if he does dream, he seldom remembers doing so. I assume it’s something to do with being a fictional person. If real people dream up bizarre fictions between the sheets, a pixie such as myself would probably dream factual events. We can’t have any more bridges connecting the realms of the real and the not real. I already have several paranoid theories about how my actions are to blame for causing 9/11.*

The dream begins on Edinburgh’s High Street: a place I know very well having spent large portions of my life there. I walk down one of the sloped alleyways to where (in reality) there is a popular pub called the Jolly Judge but now (in the dream) is a strange medieval tavern.

As I open the door, smoke fills out into the alley. I note the strangeness of this. There is supposed to be a smoking ban. (Not even my dreams are safe from the legislation of the superego).

To my horror, a Queen tribute band is coming to the end of their set on a slightly raised platform of a stage. I don’t know much about Queen but they are doing that dreadful number which starts “one dream, one love, one tired decision” or something.

A bouncer tells me that it is their second encore and that they will be leaving shortly.

“A Queen Tribute band?” I spit angrily, “what were you thinking, dick head?”

Apparently my dream self knows the bouncer to be the organiser of the event. It seems we have a history. He does not appear perturbed at being called a dick head.

The reason for my anger? I am here to perform my own one-man Queen tribute band. I can’t believe how inappropriate this scheduling is.

Equipped only with a snare drum and a stick-on Freddy Mercury mustache, I don’t know how I am supposed to succeed in this task but my dream self doesn’t seem to mind. It’s comedy apparently.

The four-piece band don’t seem to have made any effort with their costumes either. There’s not a Brian May wig in sight and the denim-clad lead singer looks more like Tommy Saxondale than Freddy Mercury. I don’t think a single one of them is gay either. But their music is good. They sound exactly like Queen and the audience love it.

The sense of trepidation sets in. I could feel dream butterflies in my dream stomach. Oh, for a dream lepidopterist with a dream endoscope. How can I follow these talented musicians with my Early-Learning-Centre drum and my joke shop tache?

The Plain people of Cyberspace: Maybe it will work. Maybe it will be so embarrassing and you will look so wretched that it will be brilliant. You could be the next Tommy Cooper or Ted Chippington.

Me: That’s what I hoped for too. But the crowd had come for music and they were drunk on whatever medieval drinks the bar staff were serving in those tankards and animal skulls and I really wasn’t sure I would cope with this.

It seems there is to be a five-minute intermission between acts. An MC in a lime green suit and a string of French onions about his neck boards the stage and tells them that “if you liked that, you’ll love our next act”.

The drummer of the Queen band comes over to talk to me. He asks me what he thinks I’m doing, doing a Queen tribute. He looks like a young Bill Oddey with a sweaty fringe combed down over half of his face. He is annoyed.

“We’re the only Queen tribute band at the festival this year,”. I can tell he is irritated. The last thing I want is to get involved with an 80s tribute band mafia.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “This is just a one-man comedy thing. I’m covering for Mitch Benn. It’s nothing like yours and he’s been doing this for years.”

I love how my sleeping mind dropped in this piece of rationale to help explain why I had embarked upon this odd project. I was friends with musical comedian Mitch Benn in this dream and the Queen gig was a favour for him.

In reality, I once met Mitch Benn at a gig above the Wolverhampton Varsity. He sold me one of his ‘Radioface’ CDs for half the sales price. Perhaps stepping in for him at the Queen gig (in reality he doesn’t do this, I don’t think) was recompense for this. Still, this seems like a high payment for a £5 CD discount from five years ago.

Back in the waking world, I’m still annoyed at Mitch Benn for putting me in this position. If anyone sees him, kick his ass for me. And then pretend that you thought he was Bill Baily. He’ll hate that.

I wish I could conclude this description with an explanation of how the dream ended, but alas, my mind wondered before I could perform my one-man tribute to AIDs and I swam into a far more disturbing scenario with some dancing bears. My mind is a disgusting place to be.

The meaning behind this dream? In March 2008 I will have my very own one-man comedy show at the Glasgow Panopticon. Among other things I will be reading entries from this blog and improvising a diary entry live on stage. There will be a snare drum involved (but no mustache that I can think of). I guess the dream is a symptom of feeling slightly unprepared for this and of relying on other people (theatre managers, technicians, musicians, promoters) for the first time in a long while. I know it will all be fine and that I’ve got an entire six months to sort things out but when I think about it too carefully I do a runny poo.

* “… theories about how I am to blame for 9/11”. Yes indeed. The main one concerns how I failed to flick the bathroom light switches 27 times on the evening of 9/10. Another involves a punishment for touching myself during Her Majesty’s Christmas speech in 1997.

English Bastard

Originally published at Meat magazine

Being an Englishman in Scotland and being perversely fond of the fact is probably the UK’s answer to America’s ‘wiggas’. Whenever I accidentally utter a Scottish colloquialism (“Och, Aye”) in my Brummie accent I can’t help but think of decrepit, benign Hans Moleman on The Simpsons wheezing, “Cowabunga, dudes”. It’s tragic. It’s sad. It’s Neil Kinnock dancing to ‘Things Can Only Get Better’. It’s Richard Madeley dressing up as Ali G. “Is it ‘cos I is black?”

Despite the fact that I left England because its climate, people, diet, politics, history and scenery make me want to be sick into a big bag, the only way to avoid becoming the aforementioned monstrosity is to become more English. Sincerity is everything. So against all expectation, I have moved my accent half a degree south of its natural tendency and have taken up drinking copious amounts of tea. I have even started following Midlands football for the first time in my life: Up, may I venture, the baggies.

At the recent parliamentary elections, I voted for the Scottish National Party. It felt like a peculiar betrayal – peculiar in that I quite frequently masturbate, laughing, to the idea of England being hit by a massive asteroid and everything in it being reduced to dust and ash.

Back in Birmingham, I never identified with England. I was, like my hero Kurt Vonnegut, a man without a country. Perhaps I was too close to England and unable to see it without warts and all (by warts I refer mainly to ASBOs, skinheads, rotweillers, tabloid witch hunts and Johnny Vaughn). From here in Scotland it looks like a silly little BBC wonderland. I’m quite fond of it now. Through my binoculars, it’s is about David Attenburgh and Dressing Gowns and Doctor Who.

It’s a truism to say that you have to remain an outsider in order to properly understand a given place or society. I recently interviewed Judith Levine, author of the acclaimed book Not Buying It. I had asked her about the anthropological approach she adopts in order to study her own America; she said that she often felt divorced from her culture because of this approach but that it was necessary in order to act as critic.

I can’t help but feel something of a fish [and chips] out of water myself but at least it allows me to put some thought into my own never-before-bothered-about nationality. Whenever Stephen Fry and Rowan Atkinson appear in American movies, they are sold as being quintessentially English; while on British screens they assuredly come across as cultured, witty gentlemen but not necessarily grounded to any particular nation.

You can’t help but be an ambassador for your country when you visit another one, hence the recent media reaction to the yobbish behaviour of some English tourists in Spain. I didn’t even know I was English until I stepped off the plane at Glasgow Prestwick and got called an ‘English Bastard’ by a passing drunk.

When going abroad, you can’t help but take a bit of your atmosphere with you in a bucket. People are fascinated with diversity even in this modern globalized world of ours: they want to know about where you’re from, whether the stereotypes are true, what the difference is. When Scottish friends ask me how different England is to here; I tell them that it’s about the same as Scotland except that you can’t get proper haggis or decent medical facilities.

England, of course, is a complete myth. The only red telephone box I think I’ve ever seen is actually in the grounds of Glasgow University. In American movies, you can usually see Big Ben from the window of any British house, yet I only walked past it two or three times even when I lived for a spell in London. Tea, by the way, comes from China. Fish and Chips, if anything, are Scottish since the cheap fish required by the working-class dish comes from the North Sea where shoals of cod were abundant in the nineteenth century. Even the Queen is German. The only actual English thing I can think of is the humble faggot – a foodstuff which mysteriously never did well in America. Perhaps I’m being a tad glib – England gave us the World Wide Web. And Tarmac.

In spite of my ‘become more English’ strategy, I’ve actually taken up Scotts Gaelic lessons: surely a skill so Scottish that it would impress even the most hardened Scottish nationalist. In my first lesson, I was to be taught to say, “Hello. My name is Robert. I am from England”. But instead, I persuaded my teacher to change this to “Hello. My name is Robert. I am from Nowhere”. Since the concept of ‘zero’ didn’t hit the Scottish islands until the twentieth century, the Gaelic lingo has difficulty with negative words such ‘nothing’ or ‘nowhere’. So the best we can do is “Tha à Sasainn, ach chan eil ‘n àite sam bith“, which roughly means, “I am from England but not that England”.

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Bored with a Capital ‘I’

Originally published in New Escapologist

I don’t know about you, but I sometimes become so utterly sick of being myself that I would do anything to escape if only for a moment the curse of being ‘Me’. I imagine this is why some people watch soap operas: they enable you to vicariously experience other people’s domestic crises and spicy liaisons and to take you away, for twenty-eight minutes a day, from your own.

I don’t just mean to talk about being tired of one’s life – the trappings and commitments, discomforts and barriers involved in being yourself – but rather the idea that it’s possible, even easy, to tire of having the same sorts of ideas all the time or of hearing the same inner voice echoing around the walls of the same old skull.

I’ve occupied this particular skull for twenty-five years now. It’s nice. I think I’ve finally got the décor right but it can sometimes get a bit claustrophobic in here. Oh, to sneak out and visit the mind of a neighbour – perhaps for tea and toast.

Jean-Paul Sartre in his play, Huis Clos famously suggests that “hell is other people” but can you imagine how uncomfortable it must be to be locked away for all eternity with only yourself for company? Maddening to say the least. Sure, it would be fun comparing identical birthmarks and blemishes to begin with but you’d be at each other’s sanctimonious throats in less time than it takes to read an emergency exit sign.

It might be interesting to be able to change who you are occasionally; to somehow undergo the experience of being someone else for a little while. Alas, until scientists develop a magic portal akin to the one from Being John Malkovich, there is very little you can do about this. You’re stuck with your own personality and completely unable to leave that head of yours from now until the day you die. Doesn’t that freak you out just a little bit? No wonder some people go nuts, wake up one morning and decide that they’re Jesus.

The idea of ‘the self’ didn’t even exist properly until Sigmund Freud invented it in the 1920s. I don’t mean to be deliberately facetious in the same way that dull people quip that Isaac Newton invented gravity: gravity is clearly a universal force which existed prior to its being written about by Newton but the self is a comparatively new manmade concept akin to romantic love, sexual taboos or belief in an afterlife. It’s almost impossible to imagine life without some of these things now but the three aforementioned examples have clearly been challenged respectively by swingers, bohemians and atheists. Today the new escapologist can take on the idea of abandoning the self in pursuit of true psychological freedom.

Perhaps the best thing to do first in order to escape your boring old self is to identify exactly what this boring old self consists of. You might want to spend some time in dark cupboard to do this or in a sensory deprivation tank so that you can enjoy a good long period of summing yourself up akin to the guy in Haruki Maurakami’s The Windup Bird Chronicle who spends days on end sitting at the bottom of a dry well formulating ideas about himself.

Subverting the norm

Alternatively, you might want to take a personality-orientated psychometric test such as the ‘Myers Briggs [Personality] Type Indicator’ (MBTI). Check it out on the Internet. As a left-winger armed with a psychology degree, I must disclaim that I have never been a fan of this sort of thing. I dislike the idea of the existence of any standardised test which is capable of tagging people and making their inner secrets a matter of quantified communicative interest. I find it extremely tacky. But bear with me: while I’m recommending giving MBTI (or other similar system) a shot, I’m about to tell you how to grossly pervert it in the name of psychological freedom. Oh yes.

In order to explain further the borderline rightwing ‘ickiness’ of psychometric tests, I’d like to alert you to the case of Arthur Jenson whose controversial use of the IQ system ‘proved’ that black Americans were subservient to white Americans. Nice, huh? This kind of analysis is just a way of using science to label, dissect and ultimately govern, control and placate the masses. I feel for Freud: like how Nietzsche’s writings about ‘supermen’ were interpreted by Hitler as “kill all the Jews”, I doubt Freud anticipated how his ideas would be used.

Once we’re all analysed to the full extent of psychometrics and our details recorded, we become what Michel Foucault called ‘The Calculable Man’: the human being who can be represented by a few lines of text or shorthand code and governed with the corresponding measures invented to control ‘that sort of person’. It’s a great way of splitting society into chunks and dealing with them accordingly. It’s how Derren Brown figures out what people are thinking but where he uses it to entertain, governments can use it to render powerless their peoples. Rather than the conventional, more common-sense idea of government being able to unite society into one national easily-governed force, Freud’s ideas and those of Myers-Briggs or IQ-style psychometric tests show us that individuality should be encouraged by governments and companies (“Because you’re worth it” / “Just Do It”) in order to divide society into a number of groups because individuality only goes so far.

Freud’s nephew, Edward Bernays (left), is often seen as being the father of modern Public Relations (PR). He employed his uncle’s ideas to come up with a new concept of PR and person-focussed marketing: to sell products that appeal to individuals and can help foster in them an off-the-shelf construction of individuality. An iPod, for example, will appeal to Type A while record players will appeal to Type B: each shall be marketed accordingly. He arranged for 1929’s ‘torches of liberty contingent’ (as documented in John Stauber and Sheldon Rampton’s brilliant expose of PR history Toxic Sludge is good for you and in Adam Curtis’ eye-opening documentary, The Century of the Self): a women’s liberation movement in which hundreds of women would march down New York’s streets brandishing cigarettes. Until then, there was a perception in America that women shouldn’t smoke and so this was a hugely equalising movement.

Equalising? Sure. Women became liberated. As a result, cigarette sales doubled, a lot of tobacco companies got rich and from then on every family soon had two cars and every house doubled in price. With women in the game, companies had doubled their markets for almost every expensive product. Eventually men would undergo a modernisation process too so that sales of cosmetics might go up and homosexual couples would be able to buy a product called ‘marriage’ and become as miserable and taxable as everybody else.

Go get your MBTI letters. Do a quick test on the Internet or track down a qualified MBTI tester. You will find your ‘self’ represented by four letters. You’ll be represented by something along the lines of “INFJ” with each letter referring to a particular element of your ‘personality’ – in this example you’re an introverted person who uses intuition rather than facts, feels rather than thinks and plans carefully rather than acts spontaneously. They’ve got your number now, or rather, your letters. You’ll now be able to read a pre-packaged profile of yourself (one of twenty-eight types of person) and it will be so eerily similar to the sort of person you believe yourself to be that you’ll want to run screaming for the hills.

Yeah, it is spooky. But on the plus side, you have now identified precisely the ‘self’ you must seek to escape if you’re going to enjoy a holiday away from your own head.

Next, have a look at the complete matrix of MBTI personality types and seek to think and behave in ways utterly the opposite of the way you’re supposed to. If you find that you normally behave in an introverted, gentle way, join a fight club or something. If you find that you normally behave in an extroverted, aggressive way, join a chess club. Of course joining a chess club might not be ‘you’ but that’s the whole point. Experience how the other half lives.

I’d like to see some sort of Wife Swap-style reality TV show produced for Channel 4 which forces people to do things that go against their personal nature. It would be scary but hugely invigorating for the people involved and we’d all learn a lesson from watching it.

Role some bones

Why not try a ‘Dice Man’ approach to intellectual freedom?

In 1971, Luke Rhinehart wrote a kick-ass novel about a man who casts dice to make decisions. Sometimes they might be fairly trivial decisions such as what he should have for breakfast (but usually containing one or two undesirable options, introducing an element of Russian roulette into the game) or completely life-changing decisions such as whether he should leave his job or cheat on his wife that day.

The intellectual element is largely removed from the decision-making process so he gives himself over to chance and ceases to be ‘himself’. Instead he invents an all-new fractured, random self. You may not want to go this far but I recommend reading the book and its sequels any day of the week: again, it’s a hugely liberating model of living.

In The Dice Man, Rhinehart’s character (unsurprisingly a Freudian psychoanalyst) experiments with ‘dice therapy’: encouraging his troubled patients to live by the dice. If you’re looking for a flight from your own pedantic, predicable self it’s worth a shot.

Whichever approach you take to finding psychological sovereignty, the is one important thing to remember. The dandy/artist Sebastian Horsley probably put it most succinctly:

“Freedom is an internal achievement rather than an external adjustment.”

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Fuck the mall: Judith Levine

Originally published at New Escapologist

The polar ice caps are melting, war is rife, natural resources are running out by the clappers and poverty is most definitely not history. Humanity’s ecological footprint is 23% larger than the planet can handle in terms of regeneration: as a species, we’re consuming far too much. While New Escapologist wouldn’t want to point its beautifully manicured but nonetheless accusatory finger in any particular direction, your personal shopping habits probably aren’t helping things.

In 2005, journalist and author, Judith Levine decided to stop shopping. After a particularly stressful period of Christmas shopping and coming to the realization that over-consumption is precisely the thing that is destroying the planet and making everyone hate America, she decided that enough was enough.

New Escapologist: Most people know the answer to this these days, but in a nutshell, what is wrong with our current consumptive habits?

Judith Levine: We consume too much. Our consumer products use too many resources to produce, ship, and run. They obsolesce quickly, so we’re forced to throw them away — or we tire of them quickly and throw them away before they’re used up. And they aren’t biodegradable or we cannot or do not recycle them.

NE: I can’t stand shopping. I find it a real stress: the hard lighting, the crowds, the fact that the items you lusted after in the store seem cheap and pointless when you get them home. Yet other people seem to love it. There’s that term, “retail therapy”, which to me seems really odd. “Depressed? Buy a CD!” I don’t understand that relationship. What do you think the attraction to leisure shopping is?

JL: You’re shopping in the wrong places. There are many lovely things to have, which look and feel just as lovely, or even lovelier when you get them home. Plus, shopping distracts us from other troubles — and who doesn’t want to be distracted from time to time? This week, I’m in the midst of a terribly anxiety-producing medical test. I keep saying to myself, thank god for shopping.

NE: It’s been a few years now since your ‘Not Buying It’ experiment. Do you think you’ve escaped (or minimised) your desire for ‘stuff’?

JL: I never have had a big desire for ‘stuff’ — and since ‘Not Buying It’, even that desire has diminished. I just know I’m as happy without it. My weakness, however, is experiences: movies, theatre, food. While I’ve learned what I can live without, I also learned what I can’t live without. Ice cream is one of them. And each time I go to a movie or the theatre, I realize how much I enjoy it. Cutting down on consumption has all the obvious environmental advantages. But a less-remarked result is that buying less intensifies the pleasure you have in the things/experiences you do buy.

NE: ‘Not Buying It’ had something of an anthropological flavour to it, which I feel adds to the book’s integrity. Was it strange to examine your own culture in such a way? Did you feel at all ‘divorced’ from your culture when examining it so closely?

JL: Yes, and this was both an interesting and at times a troubling experience. I am often writing from the position of critic — always, in fact — so I am always, in that sense, an outsider. But the consumer culture is so pervasive. Once you’re outside it, you feel you are outside everything! Advertising becomes a kind of heiroglypic you find yourself decoding. You (or I) feel judgmental of others (and, in my case, fight against that personal judging). You feel superior, but also lonely. Not seeing the latest movies or reading the latest books puts you on the margin of conversations with friends and neighbors, indeed, outside of virtually the only shared social experience we Americans have.

NE: There have been a number of other ‘challenge-orientated’ studies since the turn of the millennium. Morgan Spurlock’s ‘Supersize Me’ and Dan Kiernan’s ‘I faught the law’ spring to mind. What do you think has been the effect of these?

JL: There are a number of copycats of my book too, including “No Impact Man” (see the website). I think there’s a way that people misinterpret them. To me, these are a kind of ordeal art, an experiment in extremism in order to understand the ordinary. People often think you’re advising them to do the same: go cold turkey. That would be like telling someone who wants to lose weight that she should stop eating altogether. There can be another paradoxical effect of this ordeal art. No Impact Man, who doesn’t take the elevator and is foregoing toilet paper for the year, gives people the impression that you have to be crazy to try to do anything about global warming. If you focus only on personal behavior, and the personal behavior is bizarre and masochistic, most people will throw up their hands in despair. Without talking about politics, you leave out the most important “something” that people can do: behave as activist citizens — agitate to change policy.

NE: Some readers may be familiar with your earlier works. I personally found ‘Harmful to Minors’ to be real tour-de-force stuff but there is also ‘My Enemy, My Love’, a book about contemporary masculinities. So you’ve covered the big two: sex and shopping. What do you think you’ll turn your journalistic interests to next?

JL: I have a fourth book too: Do You Remember Me? A Father, a Daughter, and a Search for the Self, which is a memoir of my father’s dementia and our family’s dealing with it, as well as a critique of the medicalization of aging — that is, the idea that aging is not a stage of life, but a disease. To me, all these things are connected: I’m interested in the ways that the big forces of culture, history, and politics are expressed in intimate life. Consumer culture has an increasing effect on how we feel about ourselves and how we relate to each other, socially, politically, sexually, familially. Now I’m casting around for ways to talk about the intersections between consumption, sexuality, and aging.

NE: What’s the future of the human race? An optimistic world of green energy and intellectual freedom or the total rape of Earth’s resources followed by a Starbucks-funded escape to Mars?

JL: As the daughter of communist (idealist) Jews (pessimists), the message I got was, “We’re going to make a perfect world, Gott villing, vee should live so long.” My motto is Gramsci’s: “Pessimism of the intellect, optimism of the will.” I’m skeptical, critical, dissatisfied, and sometimes so depressed and terrified I have a hard time getting out of bed. But my way of dealing with it is to be an activist. More and more people are figuring out that we have no choice but to take drastic action to save our poor Earth. Like every other environmentalist, I just hope enough people wake up fast enough. But the policymakers won’t wake up without our shouting fulltime in their ears.

Judith’s book Not Buying It is available from bookshops and public libraries. Her website with blog can be found at www.judithlevine.com

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On escapism, conservation and amusing typos: Dave Till

Originally published in New Escapologist

Welcome to Findhorn, a seemingly unremarkable little town in the highlands of Scotland. But slightly north of the main town lies the Findhorn ecovillage, which (like Glastonbury’s Festival and Roswell’s ‘incident’) has surely become more famous than the original namesake. To save the bother of a very long drive, New Escapologist caught up with long term Findhorn resident, Dave Till. While you’re stuck in that horrible office all day, Dave is looking after Findhorn’s publicity campaign and writing and performing poetry. Take that, society.

New Escapologist: What do you think is the main thing to bring people to Findhorn and other egovillage-type (sic) settlements? Do you think it is because of a positive quality unique to them or because of a negative quality possessed by regular city life?

Dave Till: Egovillage? I love that idea! Perhaps that should be the next project – forget co-operation and go for the purity of a self-centred approach. Anyway to answer your actual question I think people come to ecovillages because of positive qualities held by them and also to escape negative experiences in the city. i.e. a bit of both.

NE: When an individual becomes a resident of Findhorn, how do they contribute to the community? Does one take out a mortgage or pay a rent or do things work more like a commune where everyone works on community to make their contribution?

DT: Some people have mortgages (though God knows they don’t get them based on the low income up here), some people pay rent, some people get their accommodation as part of their work. Things are very varied now – much more like a real village. In the early days, everybody came and was resident and got their board and lodgings in exchange for work. There was much more of a communal feel then I think. However most people who work here also contribute to community rotas like washing up and cleaning the guest accommodation. Even the managers of the Foundation. For those people who live here but don’t work for the Findhorn Foundation there is the community association – the NFA (New Findhorn Association) – by which they can plug into the community in a more formal way.

NE: What do you think the general naive perception of Findhorn might be? Do people tend to find the notion romantic/appealing or is there a fear of otherness or eccentricity to contend with?

DT: People who hug trees, talk to flowers and have resident Nature Spirits. Some people find that notion romantic but I find it rather twee and annoying – like being stuck inside a permanent re-run of Finian’s Rainbow with only Tommy Steele for company. However life here is thankfully not like that. There is certainly a fear of otherness and eccentricity found in the region and the community has trouble in being taken seriously by the neighbours. But again things change. The community has been here almost 45 years and no matter how wacky you are, familiarity creeps in. Our local (Moray) Council has invested money and time in the UN-sponsored Ecovillage training so we get more and more acceptable as time goes on. The local SNP MP pops in every now and then too. Someone recently tested out our carbon footprint and found it to be the smallest in the whole of the UK (though God knows how they work that out) so that gives us a fashionable claim to eco-worthiness. Also the community is an NGO (non-governmental organization) with the UN and has been for a while, so we do have international recognition too.

NE: Tell us about the whiskey barrel homes [pictured left]. They strike me as excellent innovations!

DT: Yes – houses of spirit. An enterprising American , Roger Doudna, long-term resident here, went to the local distillery and found out they were selling off the huge oak vats that they use to store the whisky. He was zany enough to see their potential as the building blocks for circular homes so now one corner of the community is made up of these special dwellings and very nice they are too. All the walls are curved so there is no way you can buy your fitted units from IKEA.

NE: Findhorn ‘products’ such as your books and onsite courses are very interesting but there is something I’ve always wondered about them: are they a necessary evil in order to generate revenue or is this sort of activism genuinely pleasurable and a part of your credo?

DT: Personally I manage to do without the books completely without any reduction in my quality of life. After a hard day of community toil I seldom sit down with one of Eileen Caddy’s books, I’m much more likely to read the Film and Music section of the Guardian. The courses generate the largest source of revenue for the place and they do seem vital and an essential introduction to community life – especially Experience Week but it has been a while since I’ve done one. However they pay my wages so I’m not knocking them.

NE: I’m very interested at the moment by the concept of ‘voluntary similcity’ (sic). Would you describe life at Findhorn as voluntary simplicity?

DT: I love these typos. A similcity sounds like an online community or something. Life at Findhorn is seldom simple. It is complicated and challenging as a village emerges from a more basic community. The ethos is simple I guess but the challenges are varied. We all live in challenging times and Findhorn is no exception.

NE: What can New Escapologist readers do to embrace the Findhorn spirit without leaving the city?

DT: Buggered if I know. Get up here you lazy bunch of stay-at-homes. You can even fly to Inverness though of course we don’t encourage it because of the carbon issue. It’s funny that these days, no-one here likes to be seen either at the airport or at the local Tesco but of course both are frequented. I use a false beard.

NE: What do you think the modern western lifestyle lacks most?

DT: A viable alternative to both capitalism and communism. A non-religious set of spiritual practices. New community models. An escape from both advertising and spam.

NE: Got room for another gentle anarchist out there?

DT: We are not very anarchic but gentle people do pretty well. Out there?? It’s not somewhere in space – we’re not far from the A9, close to Baxters Soups – civilisation is nearby!!

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Categorised as Interviews

The Commentator

The word “remarkable” is probably meaningless if you’re the sort of person who remarks upon everything. Maybe you would reserve the word for truly remarkable things – extraterrestrial visitations, for example, or a faulty KitKat with no wafer in it – but I doubt you can distinguish between levels of remarkability if you’re the type of person who finds polystyrene exciting.

I think this as I sit on a Glasgow-bound train from Dundee and the man behind me, in a constant monologue to a silent friend, relates the most mundane things imaginable with the verve of a seasoned Jackanory presenter.

Everything is remarkable to him: every last non-event is a piece of hilarious and endlessly reportable news. His life is a story in which every last sentence ends with an exclamation mark. He knows nothing of the world of the fullstop.

His voice is that of a Shakespearian performer and so everyone in the carriage must share his cardboard news. He makes the private public. He is a living weblog. Possessing the unusual combination of being both loud and dull, if he worked for the Samaritans switchboard, every last one of his callers would wind up as deaf suicides.

I know a few people with unusually quiet voices akin to that of William Wilson’s evil twin or the ‘before guy’ on a Strepsils advert. The universe must somehow balance out this unruly segment, hence, the Brian Blesseds of this world.

Much to the mortification of an old woman to my left, old Big Gob also swore a lot. Everything was “fucking” to him. Laughing, he said “At half time I ate a fucking orange!”

Bah.

Irritated, I turn around in the fashion of a ten-year-old in a school assembly when the head teacher has singled out “you at the back” for chewing gum or looking a bit gay. I simply cannot help myself. With the vested interest of a freakshow spectator, I want to see what sort of idiot has a voice like this, swears so frequently and thinks that his one-day-late free gift from PC World is worth talking about so fervently or at all.

The voice belongs to a giant, well moisturised, amateur Nazi. He is young, Aryan, and despite a down-to-the-floorboards shaven head and fists like pigs’ heads is oddly handsome. He looks a bit like a Mitchell Brother but without the sphincter for lips.

The fact that he transpired to be this gentleman thug is the only reason I refrained from smacking him about the chops, pulling back his waistband and pouring my ScotRail coffee into the expanse of his trousers.

That and the fact that I am not Bugs Bunny.

If I had assaulted the noisy man, I would have been outed as being a librarian and the Metro newspaper would report the incident with a comedy skew.

It soon becomes transparent to those of us in Coach F (the designated quiet coach, by the way) that Big Gob and his friend work for the Navy. He has a few stories about being on Manoeuvres in the “Bristol Fucking Channel”.

You might imagine that this would make for at least semi-interesting eavesdropping but even his Navy stories were dull. Highlights included discussion of a “fucking spanner” which proved particularly effective on some tight nuts and memories of a former commanding officer who would address the men each morning with the phrase “Good morning, men”.

He found the latter story particularly funny. “Fucking funny” in fact. I suppose we could give old Big Gob the benefit of the doubt and assume that “Good morning, men” is unusually camp or cheerful for a commanding officer – akin to a vampire saying “hello, chaps” as he comes to suck your blood or a mass nuclear bombing being preceded with informative leaflets apologising for the inconvenience. But I doubt it. He was just a boring man. A boring, Mitchell Brother-faced DVD commentary-speaking Chubby Brown-tongued wally.

The thought occurs that some poor bugger might one day have to share a U Boat with him.

Rolling Roy

Walking through the park this evening on the way back from work, a most unusual sight struck my roving peepers.

A guy in a shop-mobility scooter was ambling along the uneven grass and suddenly became stranded upon a raised manhole cover.

Naturally your humble narrator resolved to help him out of the tricky situation.

Right hemisphere: Ignore him. Look at those seventies trousers. He’ll be a total nutter.

Left hemisphere: Shame on you, my conjoined friend. “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing”. Edmund Burke.

Always come armed with a quote when wrestling with yourself internally.

I went over to help the guy.

Having learned from an incident with a guide dog earlier in the year, I knew that some tact must be employed before getting tactile.

“Do you need some help?” I asked.

“Aye,” he rumbled gutturally, rear wheels spinning pointlessly. He was a beetle on its back, mandibles flailing.

I gave him a push and he bumped soundly over the protruding piece of metal. A good day’s work. I would probably get to meet Esther Ranson now.

He extended his hand for shaking purposes. Trite, I shook it.

“My name’s Roy,” he growled, “What’s yours?”

He said this drunkenly through yellowed teeth. Just great. He was one of those lonely nutjobs to whom you show one iota of affection and you become their spunky valentine for life.

Right hemisphere: Now look what you’ve done. You’ve engaged with a handicapped drunk. You’re in deep trouble now. You’ll have to write a terrible blog entry about being a “nutter magnet”.

Left hemisphere: What was I supposed to do? Ignore him? He was capsized.

Right hemisphere: You should have left him. He was clearly a drunk. He’s probably come all the way on that thing from the East end.

Left hemisphere: You leave the East end out of this. You’re always having a bash at the East end. It’s not that bad there. They have a cathedral. The Irn Bru factory is out there.

Right hemisphere: They have a plague pit as well. The streets are paved vomit and dog poo. And they like it like that. Vomit and dog poo is sweet ambrosia to an Eastender.

Left hemisphere: This is all academic. What are we supposed to do now? He’s still shaking my hand and asking for my name. Shall I tell him it’s Graham?

Right hemisphere: Just smile and pretend you hadn’t heard.

I smiled and pretended I hadn’t heard. If only I had listened to my inner Daily Mail in the first place and I wouldn’t be in this mess. “Nice to meet you, pal.” Jovial. “Have a lovely day.”

I began to walk in a westerly direction. Walk/Sprint, whatever.

“Come back,” I heard Roy say in desperation. I wonder now if I imagined this but I don’t think I did.

Left hemisphere: God, did you hear that? He’s desperate for friendship.

Right hemisphere: Of course he is! He probably ran over than manhole deliberately. Don’t you see? It’s a trap!

Left hemisphere: Christ, you’re probably right. Better not look back.

On this, I hear the sound of urgent tires approaching.

Right hemisphere: Shit, he’s coming after you. Act like Doctor Who and find some stairs.

Left hemisphere: I’m scared.

Right hemisphere: Humourize him. Give him an hilarious nickname.

Left hemisphere: Okay. Um. Rolling Roy.

Right hemisphere: That’s the stuff. Nothing to be scared of. He’s not one of the Wheelers from Return to Oz. He’s just a harmless old man.

Left hemisphere: You’re right. I could have taken him in a fight.

Right hemisphere: You da man. You could take anyone in a fight.

Left hemisphere: I could have punched him in the face and taken his wallet.

Right hemisphere: Whoa, too far.

The sound of wheels transpires to be that of a bicycle courier. I afford a look back and see that Roy is still where I left him. He is talking to a tree. I am safe.

Chat Line

Allow me to recall the time your humble narrator phoned a supposedly sexy chat line.

The plain people of cyberspace: “I’ve never called a chat line, sexy or otherwise and you are worse than Hitler for having done so.”

Me: “It was for research, okay?”

Lonely, horny research.

For those of you too decent to ever try calling a sexy chat line, this entry may be of especial interest to you. For instance, let me explain who these things normally run:

You are invariably presented with two main options: you can engage in live chat with a floozy of your choozy; or you can listen to a pre-recorded story about what Tart A got up to with the window cleaner or what Tart B did with the greengrocer.

Tart B’s story is markedly distracting. One is left wondering about the poor old lady who ended up purchasing that cucumber.

On this occasion, I decided to listen to a story. I imagined that talking live would leave me in an awkward position of saying things like “Yes, I would like to see your dirty pillows” or “Yes, my sausage is twenty-two inches long” and feeling like a bit of a wazzok. Also, I remember hearing something on the radio about call centre girls feeling offended when the callers abruptly hang up at the end of the conversation. But I imagine it must be difficult to sign off non-chalant when you’re scrabbling around in desperate need of a tissue and the queue for the phone box is getting longer and longer.

So I dialled ‘2’ for stories.

I was presented with a plethora of options for what sort of monkey business I should like to hear about:

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes Bristols as big as yer noggin, dial ‘1’ now,”

Well, who doesn’t like Bristols as big as yer noggin? I’m sure I could plump for something more adventurous though so I waited for further options.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes men’s bottoms, dial ‘2’ now,”

Now, I like men’s bottoms as much as the next man but a chat line story about them might denigrate into depths I have little interest in. Poopy depths. So I held the line.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes to be spanked on the gulliver with a wet haddock, dial ‘3’ now,”

Everything is sexy for someone. I have no interest in being spanked in the gulliver or anywhere else with a wet haddock. Only a nice petit sardine would hold my attentions. I’m not a pervert.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes to hide in the credenza and watch John and Caitlin kissing by the rubber plant, press ‘4’ now,”

Strangely specific, this one wasn’t really for me. I didn’t know who John and Caitlin were and I don’t have a credenza. It also struck me though that the sort of person who would normally phone a sexy chat line would be precisely the sort of person who likes to hide in a credenza and watch other people kissing. They would have done well to make this Option 1. A woeful lack of respect for the caller’s time.

But of course they keep you on the line for as long as possible, don’t they? They want your money. I’d been on the line for two minutes already at a cost of five euros a minute and I’d still not been taken through to the good stuff. I was still in the reception area. Whatever the next option, I would have to go for it.

“If you’re the sort of gentleman who likes kissing ladies’ front bottoms, dial ‘5’ now,”

Yes! Who doesn’t enjoy kissing ladies’ front bottoms?

I dialled ‘5’.

What followed was a strange narrative from a girl who apparently got the horn from talking to “intelligent brainboxes” like me.

This was all well and good but I’d phoned up to hear rude words, not to be complemented on having two science degrees.

It continued in this vain for quite a time. She kept going on about how nothing floats her boat like brainy, clever boys like me and that nothing put dew on her daisy like boys who liked hanging out in libraries and had read a lot of books.

A childhood friend once told me that he’d phoned an utterly vanilla chat line once and had been put through to a woman who wanted to do a wee on him.

I began to suspect that a similar mistake had been made today. I’d wanted to hear about kissing ladies’ front bottoms: not to be plunged into a fit of hubris.

On the other hand, perhaps the psychological profile of the man who likes to “venture south” is one of an intelligent, affected person who cares about other people’s pleasure as much as he does his own. Perhaps this wasn’t a confusion but rather a highly responsive means of giving the caller precisely what he wanted to hear without his even knowing it.

Only the deep sea diver would want to forgo complements on his superior trouser snake in favour of complements on his superior intelligence.

Ooh, the telephone sirens. This was going to cost me a fortune.

Perhaps a more honest service could be set up where people respond to advertisements placed in ‘Psychology Today’ or ‘Genius Gazette’ or ‘Reader’s Reader’ or some other egghead magazine in order to be given ego puff points.

“You are so clever, I just know you could calculate Pi to at least thirty places!”

“Talk Latin to me, big boy!”

“110001000111101100111001110!”

“Memor impetro bill payer’s permission pro vos planto is dico.”

Librarium Part Three

This is the third edition of my Idler column about interesting libraries.

*

Librarium #3:

Scotland’s oldest public library

By Robert Wringham

The modern provincial library is a useful thing if you want to check your hotmail account or read a biography of Sharon Osborne. Due to the pressure put upon librarians by councils to increase the number of books issued, public libraries often fall victim to fad and fashion: constantly acquiring books connected to popular TV shows, pop bands or literary trends. Titles relating to Pokemon, Furbies, The X Files or The Spice Girls strangely don’t get checked out anymore and so it must all be discarded by way of a book sale or a cermonial burrial to make way for the new stuff: Harry Potter, Celebrity Love Island and Arctic Monkeys.

And so the library becomes a transient entity: in a permanent state of flux, constantly mutating in order to keep up with what’s in vogue. In the event of a viral apocalypse, alien historians will be able to look at our abandoned libraries in order to see precisely how the silly Earthlings occupied themselves circa the time of their downfall. “Audiotape biographies of Big Brother contestants?” they’ll exclaim, “No wonder it ended so agonisingly”.

It is precisely the transient nature of libraries that comes to mind when visiting the marvellously static library at Innerpeffray: an institute proud to advertise that it was the first public lending library in Scotland.

The library no longer circulates its books or even updates its collections. It exists as a relic of days gone by; as a walk-in time capsule from the nineteenth century. Believe me when I say that this is no criticism. It’s not uncommon for romantic idlers to pine for a less-strenuous past: a time in which trash culture did not flood into our every orifice through iPods and billboards and reality television shows; a time in which work did not involve sterile open-plan offices and pikeys in pinstripe dishing out meaningless task after meaningless task. Of course, such an idea is childishly idealistic: the societal cankers of the nineteenth century (disease, slavery, heavy industry, music halls) were far worse than the mild nonsense we tolerate today. Nonetheless, one can be excused for believing in an ideal and idle past if using Innerpeffray Library as evidence.

The library itself is a fairly small enclave of book-filled cabinets. “Dickensian” is probably the word most people would search for to describe it. Large, old-fashioned desks occupy most of the floor space, which in turn are covered with open and antiquarian books resting delicately on cradles. A view from a window reveals yet more history: an old chapel, a graveyard and a closed-down school. Innerpeffry is Victorian Scotland’s version of Pompeii.

The couple who look after the library are the charming Colin and Anne Edgar. They seem surprised at receiving visitors and instantly set about making cups of tea. When I mention that I too am a librarian, they get out the biscuits.

Innerpeffray Library is certainly worth a visit if you live in Scotland or are visiting the nearby cities of Perth or Stirling. Admission is £2.50 (50p for kids).

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Categorised as Columns

John Hegley : Letters to an earwig

Originally published at The Groggy Squirrel.

A slight melancholy hangs over the Royal Mile this morning: the last day of the Edinburgh festival. There are lots of hangovers from those whose last performance is done and dusted but a few eager drama students still hand you their flyers in a final act of financial desperation. Posters are being taken down. The Underbelly is closed. The various free stages have been packed away. The city is partied out.

Time to take in one last show though. Something gentle. Something that will definitely be funny. Something that will be a high note to end on but won’t make my delicate head hurt anymore than it does already. The answer is simple: John Hegley at the Pleasance.

Hegley’s style is probably best described in the titles to his various poetry books: ‘These were your father’s’; ‘My dog is a carrot’; ‘Can I come down now, Dad?’; and ‘Five Sugars Please’.

A guy has brought his dog into the venue. Hegley isn’t fazed by this at all. In fact he tries to engage with the man and his dog as much as possible. ‘Sit! Good dog’. Hegley’s engaging with the audience is second to none: always spontaneous yet always in character. Whether he has an onstage persona or whether this is his natural self is difficult to ascertain. As soon as he enters the room, singing with the accompaniment of his mandolin, he invites two children onto the stage for a drawing contest. “Draw me a flower” he sings, and later “Oh, that’s not very good”.

Each of the flowers are added to a mural, covered already with flowers from previous performances. He asks a man on the fifth row to draw him some grass. “What colour would you like?”

And so it goes: drawing, poetry, singing, banter, audience involvement. Nobody seems scared to be ‘picked on’. An hour of this sort of japery is quite lovely – a perfect, gentle way to spend the lunching hour.

Hegley’s style is to channel perfectly domestic incidents and childhood memories into his anecdotes and plinky-plunky poetry. “It was a highly upsetting incident,” he remarks about an occasion on which he was lambasted by a dance teacher for getting carried away, “but it’s nice to make a bit of money out of it later in life”.

The poetry is usually very short – often just between one and four lines – with an abrupt but hilarious end. The result is a highly talented joke-telling machine gun. In one verse he provides the context, his thoughts and a punchline. He also likes a challenge: today he orates a rhyming poem about an octopus “who gets a nasty shocktopus”. Some of his stuff could easily be sold to kids, but it’s impossible as a grown-up not to get caught up in his charmingly eccentric style.

At the end of the performance, there is a five-minute Q&A. Someone asks him what he’ll do with the mural now that the show has ended its run. This results in an impromptu charity auction: twenty-five quid is raised for Amnesty International.

At the end you’re left thinking, “Please come back next year, John. Pleeeease!” He will be though. He’s a total veteran.

The Book Club – All New Fighting Years

Originally published at The Groggy Squirrel

British comedy is often at the centre of a merciless tug o’war between the jocks and the nerds. It rope is tugged in each direction: owned by the ‘blue’ comedians in the early 1970s only to be taken by the satirists; divided oddly by alternative comedy in the 80s; taken by the lads again as ‘the new rock and roll’ in the 90s; reclaimed by geek power of Lee and Herring snatched away by Skinner and Baddiel’s Fantasy Football laddishess; back to the quiet boys in the corner by The League of Gentlemen and again to the popular kids again by Little Britain, Bo’ Selecta! and Catherine Tate.

Don’t worry though. Nerds and losers are back in vogue thanks to Daniel Kitson, Josie Long, The Mighty Boosh, Toby Hadoki and The Book Club. Josie Long’s “Drawing Moustaches in Magazines Monthly Magazine (Bi-Monthy)” is apparenty aimed at “Losers, Misfits and the Anxious”.

The Book Club has a short but interesting history. A group of comedians, most notably Robin Ince and the aforementioned Josie Long (now the proud holder of an if.comedy award), got together to launch a new showcase of friendly, non-confrontational comedy. It has been a refreshing alternative to the reign of laddish stuff in the eternal tug o’ war.

What is The Book Club? In a nutshell, our bookish comedians read passages from books aquired recently from local charity shops: all of them strange and rubbish. Popular lines of investigation include Mills and Boon pulpy romances; self help guides; astonishingly bad horror or sci-fi paperbacks; and memoirs of washed-up TV personalities. An ever-present tome during tonight’s show is “Yoga for Men”: a large hardback depicting a woman in a yogic squat, bearing a massive pair of hooters.

Tonight’s show was good. Robin Ince is a lovely puppydog-faced Alan Bennett-a-like whose orations from Catherine Cookson’s poetry and selection of “Medical Romances” is accompanied by an interpretive dancer and an opera singer. You never got that with Skinner and Baddiel.

Perhaps the jewel in the crown of tonight’s performance is camp Australian, Asher Treleaven. Announced as a reader of ‘self help books’, Asher reads from a selection of bad romances and a dangerous-looking thriller simply titled “WEAPON” in which our narrator tells us how to guess the nationality of a woman by gawping at her breasts through a pair of binoculars. Creepy. Apparently for want of a proper exit strategy, Asher treats/subjects us to a painfully geeky dance to a piece of classic Meatloaf.

There is slightly too much pantomime and childish CBBC-style interaction between the comics for comfort and Robin Ince’s frequent meandering between a stationary microphone and his book table is a bit hard on the ears. One can’t help thinking that the fostering of a more intimate atmosphere would be better for this sort of comedy. This aside though, The Book Club makes for a successful cabaret of amusing found-pieces and inexplicable humour which, like the acts and the audience, has trouble fitting in.

Staying In

I think I’d have an excellent career as an agoraphobic. I’ve been thinking about going into it for some time but as with any horizontal career move, I’m waiting for the appropriate moment. I don’t have any formal qualifications but with a history of general obsession/compulsion and of various complex fetishes and phobias, I’m sure I’d make an excellent candidate.

The fact of the matter is that agoraphobia is a growth industry. It’s in the interests of the government and the pharmaceutical giants to keep you off the streets and popping the ho-ho pills. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could get some sort of subsidiary for it. Yes. “Benefits,” I think they’re called.

It’s the way forward. Whenever I imagine ‘happiness’ I see myself idly playing the trumpet in the bath, with a fruity-looking cocktail on the side. You couldn’t do that in the outside world, no matter how laizez-fair your office environment.

I bring up this subject because I enjoyed a few days away from work last week. The thought of waiting workload is unappealing but far more unappealing is the idea of ‘going outside’ to get there. Outside is for wasps and weather. Inside is for towels and tobacco.

It’s always amused me when people have said, “Well, at least it gets you out of the house”.

What on Earth are they talking about? They’ll usually say it in response to the declaration that you’ve been at work that day; or at the hairdressers/fishmonger/bottle bank/public library/brothel/hardware store; or some other uninspiring everyday place.

Me: “I’ve just been standing in the street, shaking my lad at the pretty lay-dees”.

The plain people of cyberspace*: “Well, at least it gets you out of the house”.

What’s wrong with these people’s houses?

Why is labouring in an office or a factory better than being at home with your books and your microwave pizzas? Why is shopping at Tesco a higher state of activity than watching television in the warmth of your pajamas?

Those people are weird.

I imagine that being an agoraphobic “in this day and age” is far easier and potentially lucrative than being an agoraphobic in the nineteenth century or even the modern world as it were fifteen years ago.

We have the Internet now after all so we can do our shopping and trading and monitoring of business from our home computers. This isn’t even seen as being eccentric anymore.

You don’t need college or school when you have true, reliable, seldom-biased Wikipedia.

You wouldn’t starve to death. All of your food could be bought via the net and and books or videos or other consumables could be acquired likewise. You could even adopt a circular metabolism by selling the stuff on eBay once done with it. Not your food, obviously, but your books et cetera – the gods of eBay froun upon poopoo being listed for international auction (yet they encourage the listing of Dan Brown novels – there is no consistency in this world).

Imagine if everyone was agorobobic. Our carbon footprint would be smaller for one thing. I imagine the fashion supplement of the newspaper would be less interested in designer duffle-coats and would give promience to the latest pyjama and dressing-gown combinations. The showbiz pages would feature the latest photographs of celebrity stay-at-homes with oversized beards and kleenex boxes upon their feet. The new sports would be origami, sex and chess. The new motoring supplement would focus exclusively upon model railways and Scalextrick.

There would have to be a brave few who would deliver the mail and keep the electricity flowing and the crops in production. In fact the more I think about it, the more I recognise the importance of “non-agros” to my vision – or “Norms” or “Mundies”, if you will. Heck, let’s not beat about the bush. We shall call them “Morlocks”. Only the bin men can take our smelly garbage to an appropriate resting place far, far away.

OK – the agorophobes would have to be a new social class. We would sit at the top of the class system, god-like monarchs who stay at home, pushing our money around electronically and nodding approvingly from afar. Noble, we at once the the consumer market, the royal family and the government.

Me (Calling down to the quiet street from a high window): You there! There’s been no mail delivery and my pants must be sent to the laundrette post-haste! What day is this?

Bin man: Why, its Christmas day, mistah.

Ah, so easily we lost track. Our pipes and slippers seemed the heith of it all but at what cost, dear reader, at what cost?

< size="1">*The plain people of cyberspace. This is a reference to the excellent Myles Na Gopaleen – a humourist whose works I am developing an obsession with, largely thanks to . In his newspaper columns he will frequently publish imagined conversations between himself and ‘The plain people of Ireland’. I might continue to rip him off… um… homage him in this way for a while.

Luke Wright, Poet & Man

The poet, Tim Turnbull, once opined that the difference between stand-up comedians and performance poets was that the poets try to make money by selling their books during the intervals while the comics “just want to be loved… like dogs”.

A good point well made, but there are other differences too. It’s a matter of punctuation: the stand-up comedian must annexe his sentences with a shrill exclamation mark if he’s to get the belly laughs he’s after. The performance poet or the humourist can get away with a humble full-stop and is happy with a few nods of agreement and the occasional isolated chuckle in the darkness.

A stand-up comedian would never orate someone else’s work either (unless he happens to be Joe Pasquale). Repetition of another’s material is comedian kryptonite. But Luke Wright, as performance poet, boldly goes there.

The set, as the audience enters the room, consists of a bookcase and an occasional table stocked to the gills with excellent books. From Kafka to Harry Potter and The Bible to Zadie Smith, it’s all there. Breaking up the flow of his own poetry, Luke reads selected paragraphs, humourous and profound, from his favourite books with energy and a passion.

I see in the bookcase that there is a copy of ‘The Idler’ magazine in which I published my first essay. “Go on!” I tell the poet telepathically, “Read it!” Alas, no dice. He decided to read Goethe or something instead. There’s no accounting for taste.

The theme of the evening is masculinity (which explains why my piece got overlooked) and the selected pieces from his library highlight ideas discussed in Luke’s own works. His poems apparently derive from real-life experiences concerned with symbols of masculinity: his car, his childhood friends, his working class origins in Colchester “where not a lot of culture stirs”, his less-than-manly role as a poet and his the problems associated with “big gay face”. What emerges is the portrait of a culture-thirsty, eager-to-entertain, slightly socially awkward young man. It’s good and one can tell that poetry is therapy to Mr. Wright.

As an entire it works rather well. What works less well is Luke’s ad-libbed attempts at stand-up connecting everything together. His hubris isn’t quite ironic enough to make you laugh and you’re left feeling a little awkward for it. But this aside, his show is a five-star performance.

Librarium Part Two

Originally published at The Idler

We’re all fairly familiar with the public library system and those vast depositories attached to universities, but there are other libraries that hide from public view: special collections, private subscription libraries, law libraries, remote stacks and libraries so unusual that they fail to be noticed due to their sheer implausibility. The Library Hotel in New York City, for instance is a sixty-room book-filled hotel with rooms arranged according to the Dewey Decimal Classification system. And then there is the Vaughn Williams Memorial Library, completely dedicated to folk music; the legendary deposits of pornography held by The British Library and The Oxford Bodleian; and the remarkable archive at BBC Scotland: a seemingly endless vault akin to one of those said to exist beneath the Pentagon, only filled with tapes of Balamory rather than bits of UFO and the lovely fluffy truth about Al Qaeda.

Perhaps one of the most notable libraries in terms of unusual content is the American Nudist Research Library. With over seven thousand magazines on the topics of naturism and the philosophy of nudity and a copy of almost every book printed on the subject, ANRL is a pretty exhaustive resource. It is based in the Cypress Cove Nudist Resort in Florida and has been around for an impressive twenty-six years. By email, I caught up with the library’s president and director, Helen Fisher:

How was the Nudist Library founded?

“Twenty six years ago a couple who lived in California (Jayne & Read Schuster) had a collection of nudist/naturist magazines and books which they needed to find space for. They were friends of [the couple] who owned Cypress Cove Nudist Resort. When offered room space, they shipped a huge number of boxes here. A group of Cove residents volunteered to help organize them. From that beginning the collection grew by donations and before long needed more space. A small building was set up for the library and it was staffed, and still is today, completely by volunteers. Eight or nine years ago, having outgrown the building, an addition was made which doubled the building size and which we are now rapidly filling.”

Do your librarians go naked while at work?

“Ordinarily, the librarians are dressed since we have visiting outsiders who are not members of Cypress Cove and they feel more at ease if we are mostly dressed. The librarians are free to dress as they please. The visiting outsiders make arrangements ahead of their visit so they are admitted through the front gate. They come directly to the library and cannot visit other parts of the park.”

How is the library perceived by the locals? There are some who might think your subject matter was a little controversial. Do you get along?

“Yes, we are welcomed by the locals. Dean Hadley and Ted Hadley, son and grandson of the resort’s owners are members of local town organizations, including the Chamber of Commerce. Once or twice a year, the Chamber visits the Cove for meetings and tours for new members.”

Who can access your stuff? Do you have to be a member to get in?

“Our materials are available to anyone visiting the library and this includes nudists who are visiting the Cove, although nothing can be taken out of the library. Since everything has been donated and much of the older material is getting fragile, we keep control of handling. Also, we now have about 450 nudist / naturist videos / DVD’s which can be watched in the library.”

*

It is how the librarians are described as “mostly dressed” that fascinates me. I wonder if that means you get the occasional naked librarian or that they’re all partially naked. Either way, the idea of a Nudist library is marvellous: it is a symbol of how libraries can be relaxed and leisurely places while working to combat censorship and to stand guard over the world’s knowledge, no matter how specialised or obscure.

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Best Days of your life: Kim and Jason Kotecki

Originally published in New Escapologist

GunsboyIf you feel as though you’re taking yourself to seriously, have forgotten how to have fun or simply don’t have time for mucking about any more, you’re probably suffering from a bout of ‘Adultitis’. Help is at hand as Kim and Jason Kotecki – authors of a forty-step Escape Plan – show you how to flee the world of electricity bills and mediocrity, and return to the innocence of childhood.

New Escapologist: What are the main things we can learn from childhood?

Kim and Jason: There are eight “secrets” or qualities that all children posses. These are things that can get a little rusty as we grow older. Some of the biggest things we can learn from childhood are the ability to slow down and appreciate the little things in life, to dream big again and to renew our natural curiosity.

NE: You’ve interpreted maturity as an illness. What makes you see it as one?

K&J: Maturity is not necessarily an illness, but taking yourself too seriously can be a problem. We like to differentiate the differences between being childish and childlike. We don’t think people should start paying their bills with Monopoly money and mucking around with Play-Doh all day. But we think getting back to a more childlike attitude is important.

NE: So what’s the cure for Adultitis? How can we escape the shackles of being an adult?

K&J: There are many ways to counter the effects of Adultitis. Anything you can do to get yourself thinking and acting in a more childlike way will help. Our entire web site revolves around the idea of giving people tools to do just that. Our most ambitious project has been the Escape Plan.

NE: The Escape Plan is described as the first ever ‘experiential blog’. What does that mean?

K&J: Basically, an experiential blog (or xblog) is a blog that inspires active participation in events or activities, leading to the accumulation of knowledge or skill. You might think of it as a community self-help or how-to blog.

It’s different than other blogs because it invites active involvement from the reader in the experience, beyond just responding to what the author has written.

An experiential blog contains the following elements:

1. It has a finite number of posts, each of which constitute a specific step towards a stated goal.
2. Community is created by readers (voyagers) who share comments on their experiences.
3. It is written by an individual or team of sherpas, who lead the experience and guide voyagers in the journey.

NE: What has been the response? Have many people taken up your challenges?

K&J: The response has been quite good. Jason has had a chance to talk about it during his speaking presentations. People have loved hearing about some of the ways we’ve solved various challenges and are inspired to do the same. Quite a few people have been doing the challenges, and people from all over the world have taken the time to post their adventures online.

NE: You completed all of the challenges yourselves, of course. What do you think were your most notable escape plan adventures?

K&J: Well, we’ve done many of the challenges several times – it’s really something that can be done over and over again and you get different results. Some of our favorites have been when Kim celebrated the first “Hump Day” of the year by making camel shaped pancakes and getting her picture with a camel at the local zoo (Challenge #2 – Instaparty: Find a reason to celebrate and do something to celebrate it.) and Jason was pretty excited when he made green eggs for breakfast as a part of Challenge #24 – Outside the Lines: Figure out a way to add some color to your day in a new, unusual, or wacky way.

Lately, we’ve been filming some of our escapades as part of Escape Plan TV. It’s a new project we’ve started since we do so much travelling. In a soon to be released episode filmed in Colorado Springs, we had a chance to feed some giraffes with our mouths.

NE: A lot of people have trouble with taking the first step in an escape plan. The survival instinct makes it difficult to leave comfort behind in favour of adventure. What’s the best way of setting out?

K&J: Yes, the desire to stay firmly in our comfort zone is a powerful instinct, and a breeding ground for Adultitis. The good news is that the Escape Plan is unlike a diet or new workout routine; it’s actually fun! If someone is having trouble getting motivated, we recommend doing the Escape Plan with a friend. You can hold each other accountable and have fun sharing how you’ve each decided to solve each challenge.

NE: You have a book out called ‘Escape Adulthood’. Which came first, the website or the book?

K&J: The comic strip we do and its characters started everything. Then, Jason wrote Escape Adulthood as a way to really fine tune the idea of what it means to be more childlike. Then we cooked up the Escape Plan and the corresponding website in an effort to come up with a tangible system to help people deal with their Adultitis.

NE: There is something to be said for a guerilla approach to art and your website seems to have embraced this. You have developed an industry around yourselves by developing your own comic strip and your own videos. Is there a particular secret to getting noticed when you “do it yourself”?

K&J: We are both big fans of Seth Godin, author of Unleashing the Ideavirus and Purple Cow. His ideas have been a big source of inspiration. Basically, we’re just trying to be ourselves, have fun, and create a remarkable experience. We try and make it easy for other people to spread the idea of [the] Kim & Jason [canon]. We’ve tried many different things – some of which haven’t worked very well – and are not afraid to experiment with new technology. One cool thing about the Internet is that it gives you access to so many people. In many ways, it’s a great equalizer. However, it still takes a lot of effort to network with people and get the word out, but the Internet makes it much easier than it ever was before.

NE: We always seem to be running from something or to something. We want to quit our jobs; we want to quit this city. No one seems happy with where they are these days. Why do you think people are so bent on escape?

K&J: People look for meaning in life. They are disenchanted and fed up with the stuff we’ve all been fed through the media and the advertising of big corporations. There’s way more to life than chasing after the next big thing, “keeping up with the Joneses”, and buying “stuff” to make us happy. Children have a built-in purity, wisdom, and happiness that we often overlook and that is definitely worth tapping into.

NE: Finally: what one piece of advice would you give to the world on how to live a fulfilling life?

K&J: Don’t take yourself so seriously. Take some time to slow down and appreciate the little things. Don’t worry about what other people think of you. And finally, be yourself. Be the person you believe you’re supposed to be (and what that looks like is different for everybody). That’s really the only way you’ll be truly fulfilled in this life.

Kim and Jason Kotecki run the Kim and Jason website and comic archive from www.kimandjason.com. The escape plan can be found at http://www.escapeplanblog.com. Jason Kotecki’s book, Escaping Adulthood is available from Amazon.

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Andy Zaltzman

Originally published at The Groggy Squirrel

ANDY ZALTZMAN, 32, ADMINISTERS HIS AFTERNOON DOSE OF UTOPIA, STEPS BACK, AND WAITS TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS

If your budget for this year’s festival is a little lower than usual and you want to stick to the ‘safe bets’ rather than squandering your money on something dubious, Andy Zaltzman should certainly be towards the top of your list. Hard to believe he’s only been performing since 2000, Zaltzman is a seasoned satirist and a real Fringe institute.

He’s one of those natural comedians who you can’t imagine being anything else (he even resembles a clown with his receding mop of curly red hair) and though he often gives the caveat that the new show might be a little ‘shambolic’, it never ever is. He just talks and gold comes out:

Zaltzman: Where in the world is better than the United Kingdom?

Audience member: Switzerland!

Zaltzman: Why Switzerland?

Audience member: They have the chocolate.

Zaltzman: Yes, but how do they pay for all that chocolate? Nazi gold.

This year’s complexly titled show explores the idea of utopia and how we, the plebs, could do a better job of running things than any government. Zaltzman develops, with suggestions from the audience, a microcosmic society in the form of a flea circus. The end result is presumably different with each show.

In addition to ‘utopia’, Zaltzman is comparing the late night ‘Political Animal’ show at the Underbelly and performing at various nocturnal cabarets such as the notorious ‘Late and Live’ and the brilliant ‘Spank’. ‘Utopia’ takes place at a staggeringly early 3pm, meaning that Andy has to deal with audiences of the remarkably drunk and the painfully sober. It takes a good improviser to deal with both ends of the alcoholic spectrum in the same day.

The demographic of Andy’s audience is telling. A man behind me laughs loudly into my ear at anything vaguely political, to demonstrate that he ‘gets it’ and is up on the political zeitgeist. When Zaltzman asks about good alternatives to democracy, the answers that come back are “Philosopher King” and “Benevolent Dictator”. One member of the audience makes a heckle about the economic advantages of terrorism before announcing that he is a student of international relations. Political animals, one and all.

And this is Zaltzman’s brand: intelligent political satire with an absurdist edge. You can’t go wrong really.

Johnson and Boswell – Late But Live

Originally published at The Groggy Squirrel.

Openly insulting Scotland to its face has become a recurring theme in the latest works of Stewart Lee. Thankfully, it is an imagined Scotland of haggis and shortbread and an arachnid Robert the Bruce that is the object of his comedy scorn and the result is very, very funny.

“To say that a Scot speaks English,” opines his devised version of Samuel Johnson, “is to say that a dog eats a bone when in fact he merely mauls it”.

Such is the meat of this piece of comedy theatre: Simon Munnery as Dr. Johnson, lambasting Scotland for what he perceives to be its incivilities and peculiarities. In a belated book launch for Johnson and Boswell’s ‘A Journal of a tour to the Hebrides’, ‘Late But Live’ is a combination of stand-up comedy and theatre successfully blurring the boundaries between the two.

Simon Munnery is brilliant as Johnson. Perfectly cast, Munnery even looks like the good doctor and the parallels between this new character and Munnery’s infamous ‘League Against Tedium’ creation are myriad. A robust and regal creature, turgid with Nietzche-like witticisms and angry judgements.

Miles Jupp, perhaps best known for his portrayal of Archie the Inventor in BBC Scotland’s ‘Balamory’, makes a first-rate Boswell. He starts out as a smug champion of Johnson’s work (if always operating in his shadow) and ends up as his victim and appologist.

It’s difficult to say exactly how much input Stewart Lee had into this cleverly shaped piece of comedy theatre but it has many of his hallmarks. There is even a cheeky mention of Lee’s erstwhile colleague Patrick Marber (“the Johnson to his Boswell; the Marber to his Coogan”).

The play falters a little in the fourth act but its important to remember that Edinburgh is designed to be a launch pad for new material and a Petri dish for bold experiments. ‘Jerry Springer – the Opera’ felt a little half-baked at the Assembly Rooms back in 2003 and is now a tight and worthy object of international recognition. It feels good to be present at the start of something excellent.

Whether ‘Late but Live’ becomes a phenomenon of Jerry Springer proportions remains to be seen (or whether that is the intent) but it certainly has the potential.

Unfinished Stories

Sauntering along Edinburgh’s Royal Mile, seeing what might be what and who might be whom, I chanced across a strange scene.

The Royal Mile during the Festival is, of course, a metric kilometer of patently strange events but this one seemed a tad too domestic for performance purposes. Consequently, it became “strange” in this context by its very kitchen-sinkness. Several people had gathered to watch.

It seemed to me that a dispute had resulted in a young girl breaking the finger of an older man with a beard. She stood at the steps of her flat. He stood just outside of the door. The police had been called in. The bearded man was showing his finger to one of the officers who was trying to ascertain whether or not it was actually broken.

The young girl was very pretty. She had nice hair and a red dress. The older man was drunk and had food in his beard. What had happened?

Above the muttering ruminations of the crowd, my attention was snagged by the discourse of street sweepers.

One street sweeper, leaning casually on her broom, said to her colleague: “You see, I used to want to be in the police. But I couldn’t deal with that.”

That she had once abandoned the idea of being a police officer in favour of being a street sweeper was interesting. I wonder what made her change her mind?

Perhaps she took the phrase “clean up the streets” a trifle too literally and from there it was a downward spiral.

Not one for adding to the publicity of other people’s affairs, however, I continued on my way.

Librarium Part One

Originally published at The Idler

Along with cafes, pubs and narrow boats, libraries have always been a top-drawer refuge for idlers. Oscar Wilde used to immerse himself in the beautiful literature of the British Museum’s reading room, as did George Bernard Shaw and H. G. Wells. The idle life’s founding father, Samuel Johnson is also said to have been something of a bibliophile having once achieved the autodidactic feat of reading 35 000 volumes of the Harlean Library in way of constructing a catalogue for it.

A good library can be a comfortable oasis amid the hubbub of an otherwise busy city and the best sort is host to everything the urban flaneur holds dear: peace and quiet, dog-eared books, crackly old jazz records, fascinating characters lurking in every corner and haphazard furnishings liberated from innumerable closed-down gentleman’s clubs. Today’s library directors are forced to go the extra mile to make these oases all the more appealing: these days the daily papers are laid out ready for you; access is granted to the digital delights of the Internet; librarians are getting younger and more attractive and it’s all absolutely free. Many public libraries are even installing coffee and tea facilities for their punters. No wonder Ray Bradbury described these as “birthing places of the universe”. All we need now are on-site tobacconists and somewhere to get some shut-eye and we need not ever bother going home.

That’s precisely the idea taken into account by Saint Deiniol’s Library in the leafy town of Hawarden in Wales: the only library in the UK to have bedrooms. Not only is the library (of 230 thousand theology, philosophy and history books) housed in a beautiful and rambling nineteenth-century country house; you can also stay the night there – or even a month. That’s right: it’s a residential library. For a relatively low sum of money you have your own bibliographic retreat at which you can make full use of the collection; have dinner; sleep in a proper bed and wake up to enjoy a continental breakfast. Heaven on Earth, surely. They even have a copy of Johnson’s Idler in the annexe. To think that people pay so much money to go to health spas.

The library was initially put together by Victorian politician and dedicated polymath, William E. Gladstone (though the current building wasn’t erected until after his death, as a publicly-funded memorial). Gladstone was probably an enemy of idleness: he was the holder of three first-class university degrees, curator of this great library, self-stated utilitarian, staunchly religious, four-time prime minister of Britain and it seems that (for a spell during his early years) he opposed the abolition of slavery and factory legislation. Phew. He even personally delivered many of the books from his private residence to a publicly accessible building by wheelbarrow, shortly after his eightieth birthday. Nonetheless, you can’t help but admire the guy’s gung-ho spirit and his ability to stick in the craw of Queen Victoria who once remarked upon his insolent lack of formality in her presence.

Why exactly Gladstone chose to erect the only residential library in Britain rather than a regular non-residential one remains something of a mystery but James Cape Story (a regular Saint Deiniol’s patron circa 1905) was right in declaring the library, “a place for restful meditation, for research, for mental and spiritual refreshment”.

Health Spas? Pfft.

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