money makes the world go round

Strange going ons in the world of football. For those of you who have no interest; you're missing out - this is a peculiar and interesting season for a number of reasons - the big clubs are struggling, the smaller clubs are contracting and expanding, playing rich, rewarding football on the one hand and spitting out managers on the other. Adapting to face new commercial realities, and creaking under the weight of the grim hold that capitalism exerts on the game.

And old certainties are no longer quite so certain - I can no longer find it in myself to hate Sol Campbell for leaving Spurs all those years ago, for example, and I find myself inwardly applauding the dreadful Joey Barton for claiming that footballers 'are knobs' on Radio 4, of all places. Grand old clubs like Man City, Portsmouth and Notts County, meanwhile, have futures which are suddenly, truly, completely unknowable. Glory or bankruptcy.

This isn't the prelude to a review of the year in football or anything; just a few notes before I sling off a couple of interesting links I've encountered in the last few weeks. The first concerns the afore-mentioned Portsmouth, for whom every moment seems a drawn-out agony, for all that (actually) they have an OK team, who play nice football. Their problem is not that they look dead-certs for relegation (actually, that's the least of their problems) but rather that they tried to compete with the big teams financially and messed it up, before taking the hand of the first person who promised to clear up the mess without checking him out properly first.

If anyone wants to formulate an argument about capitalism ruining football, they should board the train to Fratton. Jamie Jackson, writing for the Guardian, delivers a damning indictment of Portsmouth's profligacy.

John Utaka was Portsmouth's record signing when he joined from Rennes in July 2007 for £7m. In two and a half years, he has become their record waste of money.

Utaka has started 31 Premier League games and scored seven times in all competitions. Since claiming five of those goals in his opening season the Nigerian's form has declined disappointingly. This season his highlight was scoring against Hereford United in the Carling Cup five months ago. Despite Portsmouth's well-documented problems – Avram Grant has only 17 outfield players, and is operating under a transfer embargo – Utaka has started only twice in the league, back in August. Not only was Utaka rejected by Nigeria for the Africa Cup of Nations that starts tonight, he did not even get into the 32-man preliminary squad.

Portsmouth are debt-ridden and threatened with administration. Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs served a winding-up petition on the club just before Christmas, and Portsmouth cannot find the £10m required to lift the transfer embargo. Utaka, meanwhile, continues to enjoy the rewards of his four-year contract on a barely credible £80,000 a week. If he stays to the end of his term, the total cost to Portsmouth will be about £23m. That would be enough to secure their immediate future.

If that tale of excess isn't enough to momentarily divert you from the small pyre of wicker bankers which you are absent mindedly building at your desk, a slightly more jolly tale from Manchester, where at Man City, meanwhile, things could not be more rosy since they shacked up with their own - somewhat more credible - Saudi sugar-daddy, and made the decision to sack Mark Hughes.

Football being football, they elected to do so in an entirely dishonourable fashion, and earned the condemnation of many in the game for their methods, but, football being football, they've won every game since (under the stewardship of the handsome Roberto Mancini), so everyone has forgiven them. Except for Mark Hughes, presumably.

Even I've fallen under the spell of Mancini. He's just so sophisticated. Look, here he is bemoaning the food culture at his new club. He wants the players to eat better before they run out onto the pitch.

"I will calmly make corrections to what they eat before matches," City's manager told the Italian newspaper Corriere dello Sport. "You need more chicken, pizza, carbohydrates. As well as a glass of wine, which isn't being served."

Brilliant! He wants his players to eat pizza and drink alcohol before they play!!! I love this man. When his time comes, I hope his petty, fickle, nouveau-riche employers treat him better than he did his predecessor.

And, more importantly, last night's game between Liverpool and Reading was just fantastic, fantastic stuff - a genuinely deserving smaller team, a huge team in a state of crisis, and a great finale. Here's Dan, rather pleased with Reading's performance.

jonathan ross and mark kermode

Do I care that Jonathan Ross is leaving the BBC? Well, of course not, given that I hardly ever watched or listened to his programmes, but I mind a little in the sense that the baying, myopic tabloids which made such a prolonged and nauseous protest against him have been handed their victory.

I actually think that Ross is a very talented and likable presenter - although by no means flawless - and he has been treated very shabbily by the BBC over the last couple of years. He should have walked when they made him pre-record his radio show.

Either way, his parting does create one point of interest - and that is whether the BBC will appoint the one obvious, deeply intelligent, stand-out candidate to replace him on Film 2010 or, well, or someone that isn't Mark Kermode. He would be a fabulous appointment - he's already responsible for one of the best podcasts, if not the the best, that the BBC make, and would, I suspect, immediately transform BBC1's flagship film programme from something I never watch, to one of the best programmes on TV. I hope they do it.

changing opinions

Julie Bindel is easy to admire - a courageous, dogged fighter for women's rights and relentless campaigner against men who abuse women - but rather hard to like. The Guardian has been running a series of columns recently which describe the things its respective authors have changed their mind over during the 2000s. Bindel's contribution reveals that she, over the last decade, has learned that it's possible to be friends with men. It's really rather shocking that this realisation has come so late, and while I'm glad for her, it's hard not to wonder if the problem is not that, as she suggests, men are intimidated by her sexual politics, but rather that she's not a very friendly person. Towards the end of the article she reveals that she's even had a male friend over for dinner, as if this represents incredible progress. It's a world-view I don't recognise.

As often happens, she gets a bit of a kicking in the comments, which probably just confirms her distrustful attitude towards men. Nevertheless, the following comment made me laugh out loud.

meat after moral certainty

Sitting having breakfast in Billie's Cafe in Brighton this morning, Alba, Lyndsey, Dan, and I discussed foods that we can't - or rather, won't, eat. I was a horribly fussy eater as a child, forcing my poor mother to serve me up all sorts of deeply indulgent dinners as a way of encouraging me to eat. Like a lot of kids, the number of foodstuffs I rolled my eyes at was embarrassingly great - eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes etc. The one constant component of my diet was always meat, although I'm proud to say that I have eliminated practically all of my food-phobias in adulthood. There's pretty much nothing I won't eat now, with the exception of grapefruit (I know, weird). I like just about everything, including things I would have had a cheerful tantrum over when I was a kid - brussel sprouts, frog's legs, olives, avocados. I still eat an awful lot of meat though - too much to make ever becoming a vegetarian absolutely unthinkable.

Still - this article, by Neel Mukherjee, is pretty much beyond reproach. He's absolutely right to say that the intellectual and moral argument over the eating of meat is settled, and that vegetarians are on the right side of the debate. That I can admit this and at the same time admit that I'm still not tempted to abandon meat is evidence, I guess, of a certain moral cowardice. But it's tempered by the suspicion that attempting to live one's life by virtue of rational, intellectual moral arguments alone is ultimately fruitless; a never-ending quest. There will be many painful decisions still to be made once animal welfare issues are resolved.

And anyway, I'm much too thin as it is, so I need the sustenance. So there.

Back to the article - it's hardly an in-depth study of the subject, but I like Neel's candour, and his own admission of inadequacy at the end. Worth reading.

"To understand intellectually is one thing, to put it into practice quite another, a whole untraversable territory away. I still haven't been able to stop eating meat. In any restaurant, my eyes alight first, as if by an atavistic pull, on the meat dishes on the menu. In any dinner party I throw, I think of the non-vegetarian dish as central. I view this as a combination of weakness, greed and moral failure. Someone please help."

No need to help me - but I'm roasting a chicken tomorrow, so let me know if you fancy lunch.

filesharing misfire

This article, published on the Guardian site today and written by Anne Wollenberg, is one of the worst discussions of filesharing I've ever come accross. That said, it's worth a read simply to discover the the extent to which it is unutterable, unreadable, gibberish. Hopefully when the day comes when publishers are forced to defend their copyright in the face of mass downloading, we’ll be more eloquent – and less fatheaded – than this.

Sample:

"Hey, how about I help myself to your car while you're on holiday. It's OK, I'm not going to deprive you of it – I'll leave it where I found it, with the same amount of petrol and everything, so that's fine, right?"

Christ. That analogy doesn't even work. Someone offers a swift correction in the comments section, thankfully, replying:

"No, but if you want to buy the raw equipment and materials to make an exact copy of my car, knock yourself out".

obama and the wisdom, or otherwise, of crowds

I'm interested in this piece by Michael Tomasky in today's Guardian, which looks into the incredible amount of opposition which Barack Obama faces in the US, and examines whether - or more accurately to what extent - the hostility he faces is rooted in racial prejudice.

It's a good article not only because Tomasky is even-handed and cautious about making accusations of racism (unlike, say, Glenn Beck and Rupert Murdoch) but also, mainly, because he is perceptive about the nature of crowds. He acknowledges that, person to person, many of Obama's most steadfast critics may not be racist. But having described the opposition he faces, Tomasky notes:

"This is the Obama-hating crowd. It's deeply conservative, and it's about 98% white. And the thing about crowds is that they develop a personality of their own that is not merely the sum of individual parts. A crowd is an organism that grows in its own way and tends to be led and excited by its extremes. It can mutate into being racist without many or even most of the individuals in it being so."

Good article - you can read the rest here.

on siblings

This article in the Guardian today is really really fascinating; after a shared childhood which was both mutually-supportive and unsettling, the Kaczynski brothers became estranged. And one, David, gradually realised that the other, Ted, was the Unabomber, the American murderer who carried out a campaign of mail bombings over almost two decades in protest at the encroaching influence of technology on society. His victims – thankfully only three were killed – ranged from University Professors to airline passengers, from lobbyists in the Timber Industry to a computer rental shop owner. Most suffered because of a sometimes only minor connection with technology. David, noticing similarities between the Unabomber’s manifesto and the furious letters he sometimes received (a key recurring phrase was ‘cool-headed logicians’), notified the FBI.

I’m always powerfully attracted to stories about siblings, and intrigued by the relationship between them. It’s common I think for only children to be interested in this concept – and people often ask me if, when I was young, I wanted a brother or a sister. The answer is that I never, even for one moment, considered it a possibility. I never imagined having a sibling, never felt that my position as an only child was under threat – which is testament I suppose to how loved my parents made me feel. It’s only since I’ve been an adult that sibling relationships have started to interest me – not in such a way as to induce any feelings of envy or regret; but as a powerful spur to my imagination. I often find myself, when I write, returning to the idea of siblings, which is probably a bad idea as I’m not in a position to write with any authority on the subject.

The other day, working on a new song, I was struggling with finding lyrics for the vocal harmony I had in mind. Just as I was at the point of giving up, I invented a completely different melody and grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote a very quick, almost stream-of-consciousness lyric about waiting to be collected from some kind of meeting or event in a village hall. Without thinking, I included the verse:

"I collect up the bodies,
I fold down the chairs,
I wait for my brother.
I whistle a tune,
And our mother – she gave us new clothes to wear".

Flicking through song lyrics I’ve written, I often write as if I’m one of a pair of siblings. How strange. Another song opens with the line,

"Oh Catherine… I know you’re not my sister".

Dr Freud? Any thoughts?

the papers laud blur

I’ve been having laptop troubles this week, so I’ve lost the Blur review I’ve been working on, so it’ll be a little while before I get a write up posted of last week’s Southend gig. In the meantime, you’re probably up to speed with how effective and moving a reunion their return is proving, courtesy of last night’s (annoyingly brief) Glastonbury highlights on the BBC. Today’s papers seem to echo my view; that although the band started ever so slightly slowly, before long they gelled perfectly, and played pretty much the perfect festival set. Here’s a quick run-down on the reports I’ve been reading in the Nationals…

Tim Jonze from the Guardian was fabulously impressed, choosing to contrast Blur’s hi-energy performance with the workmanlike sets of Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen. He writes:

"Tonight Blur are sticking their fingers up to dad-rock by falling in love all over again with the dumb art of playing pop music – and playing it loudly. Girls and Boys literally throbs with sordid energy, Song 2 sees the crowd threatening to pogo themselves off the earth's axis, and Parklife turns every man, woman and anarcho-crustie into a cockney geeza. It's hit after hit after hit. From She's So High to the Universal, via Popscene, For Tomorrow and Country House, it's nothing short of relentless.

(…) But for all their energy, it's the sad songs that work best: To the End, The Universal, This is a Low. Weirder still is the reaction to Tender, a song never really rated (at least by me) as a classic, transformed into a joyous hug-a-long that reverberates around the crowd after the first encore and the second encore.
It's at this point – when previously dismissed tracks acquire a new life of their own – that you realise something truly magical is going on. Because tonight's headline slot is not just about the music. It's not even about nostalgia. It's about friendship – and the truly heartwarming sight of two best friends throwing aside their differences and starting afresh."

Nick Hasted, writing for the Independent, noted the emotional undercurrent in the band’s performance, too:

"When Damon Albarn starts to grin five songs into their great Glastonbury comeback, Blur start to look like a band again. And when he breaks down weeping near the end, you know how much it meant. "Beetlebum" is the song where Albarn's errant guitarist and childhood friend Graham Coxon fizzes up his effects pedals, bassist Alex James starts to spin, fag dangling, and you remember Blur were the 1990s' great psychedelic band. (…) It is just before "This Is A Low", the best of Albarn's often deeply personal songs, that he sits on the stage and weeps, utterly overcome by all the times that have just been unstopped. Getting up to sing it is almost heroic."

Here’s Pete Paphides in the Times.

"As for Blur, a simple “Wow!” from Damon Albarn hinted at the scale of their reception. The love their music continues to inspire was measurable in countless moments: the sight of four fans who had gone to the trouble of dressing up as the sad-faced milk cartons in the video of 1999’s Coffee and TV; the spontaneous communal “Yesss!” that greeted Girls and Boys; the way almost everyone present continued to sing the “Oh my baby” refrain of Tender — even after a hair-raisingly beautiful seven-minute performance of the song — so that Blur eventually had to start Country House over it.

If there was one thing that the group’s warm-up gigs of the previous weeks had lacked, it was a fitting arena for Britain to show how much it had missed them.
Not here though. Not a chance. A guesting Phil Daniels came on for Parklife and 100,000 people absolutely bellowed the chorus into the night sky. It was perhaps at this point that our memory of how good they were intersected most dramatically with their readiness to confirm it. Had we just witnessed the greatest headlining set in the festival’s history? The eno-o-ormous sense of wellbeing that swept through Worthy Farm suggested we most definitely had."

And lastly, back in the Guardian, the most lyrical, evocative description of the lot, courtesy of Laura Barton.

"The audience, elated, even a touch delirious, wills them on; when Albarn's voice gives way a little in Beetlebum, the crowd rushes to catch it. Tender, one of the set's many highlights, is greeted with a warm rush of approval. "I'd forgotten they're a singalong band!" says the man to my right, as the band stops and starts, revs up the chorus once more and then falls silent, the sudden quiet filled by several thousand festival-goers softly singing the song's chorus: "Oh my baby," they lilt, "Oh my baby. Oh why. Oh why." It is one of the sweetest moments of the festival. Their efforts are duly rewarded with an ebulliant rendition of Country House, a song which acquires greater resonance here tonight for the muddy-booted masses. And for Alex James of course.

They haul out the hits: Parklife, This is a Low, To the End, to an increasingly enthusiastic reception. Returning to the stage for a rousing rendition of Song 2, and then again for The Universal, the band looks genuinely delighted as they look out over the flags, over the crowd with its sunburned noses and glitter-smeared faces, and peacock feathers in its hair, and far off to the countryside of Somerset and the floating candles flaring up into the sky. There is a pause as they seem to take in the magnificence of what they have done. And then comes the guitar, and the great singalong continues."

who will rid of us of this ridiculous prince?

There's a super article by Roy Hattersley in the Guardian today; I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels frustrated by Prince Charles' intervention in the Chelsea Barracks architecture debate, and Hattersley takes my thoughts to their logical conclusion with a stinging, thoroughly enjoyable assault on our hopeless heir to the throne.

"Prince Charles is clearly a philistine – a quality which would not be a handicap in his line of work were it not for the presumption that prompts him to believe he is an expert on subjects about which he is ignorant. He knows nothing about architecture"

reluctant heirs

Articles about the Royal family are rather more the preserve of the Daily Mail than the Guardian, but there's a genuinely fascinating article in the paper today, in which Patrick Barkham looks at the two young Princes and attempts a serious study of their respective characters and prospects. When I was younger I was a fervent anti-Royalist, to the extent that I affected to loathe them, using their privilege and position as excuses to wish them ill. I didn't feel the slightest sense of loss when Diana died.

I'm still not a royalist by any means - I'd go for a republic in a heartbeat; but I have to admit that I now reserve my loathing for the institution, rather than the people within it. I suspect they live sad, lonely lives to be honest, and probably do a reasonable (even good) job of coping with the duties along the way.

Barkham's article is fascinating and well worth a read. It ends thus:

"William is nice but I can't help hearing him ask, 'Do I have to do it?'" [Judy]
Wade [, a royal reporter of 30 years] says. "You're a prisoner, not just of
the palace but the Foreign Office - telling you where you can and can't go. You
walk round all day talking to awestruck people who can't string two sentences
together. It's a terrible life. That's why William and Harry don't want to do
it. They want to put it off for as long as possible."

What a strange life.

corden and horden

In the last couple of weeks I've read an absolute mountain of sniping articles about Horne and Corden (the stars of BBC3's Gavin and Stacey, who have recently launched a very poorly-received sketch show), and I find myself getting quite annoyed by the relentless critism. I don't doubt for a moment that their new show is poor (most TV sketch shows and sitcoms are) but there's something off-putting in the way that TV reviewers have gone for them so aggressively. I'd much rather read a review of a programme that the critic rates, so that I might find something new to watch - especially in the days of iPlayer when catching up on last night's TV is a realistic possibility for an evening's entertainment.

Everyone seems to have back-dated their criticism, too, deciding that Gavin and Stacey was over-rated, too; that it was sentimental, cloying, unfunny. It certainly was a gentle comedy, a million miles from, say, Stewart Lee, but I thought it was beautifully judged - charming and good-natured, witty, silly and believable by turn. I know I am a renowned wimp, but it regularly used to make me cry, too. It may well be fashionable to decry such family fodder - but I don't like the trend.

Over at the Guardian, Mark Lawson is wondering how the pair will revive their nosediving careers. It's a ridiculous article. Cordon is perhaps a bit full of himself, but he's funny and a talented writer, and Matthew Horne is a promising actor. They'll never be conventional comics, perhaps - but writing off their careers at this very early stage is plain daft.

on carol thatcher

I am disgusted with the fashion in which the Queen has capitulated to the Golly-hating Nazis at the BBC. I used to admire the Queen till she started pushing the diversity agenda of the lefties, signed the Lisbon Treaty which gave over the country to EU control. The Queen took a coronation oath to serve her country but it seems now she serves herself and the Marxist Government! I urge everyone to complain to the BBC and Buck Palace. Carol Thatcher should not be fired over a private comment about a well-loved toy!
- Pat, Dublin, Ireland, 5/2/2009 22:48

If I write about Carol Thatcher and the fact that the Daily Mail are orchestrating yet another public campaign to influence the perception of, and activities of, the BBC, I know that I am just falling into a helpless trap; giving yet more oxygen to a spurious subject and allowing myself to become enraged by myopic prejudices which are, despite the amount of coverage they generate, largely on the wane.

So its ok for that Jo Brand to make jokes about women and their times of periods and the BBC consider it comedy to be broadcast, also Ross and his twisted idea of filth, but to use the word Golliwog is a sacking offence. I hope the tories when they get in purge the BBC of all the freaks who staff it-
Stephen H Print, Thailand, 5/2/2009 6:35

Yet at the same time it's incredibly hard not to be exercised - and incredibly frustrated - by the whole kerfuffle. The facts as they stand are reasonably straightforward. Carol Thatcher, in conversation with a number of colleagues in The Green Room after a recent appearance on BBC's One show, made a comparison between a black tennis player and a 'gollywog'. Several amongst the number present were upset at this remark, which they interpreted as racist, and the BBC, after failing to extract anything but a very half-hearted apology from Thatcher, decided to terminate her contract with the show.

So all those Enid Blyton books I grew up with will have to be edited now, since golliwog is soooooo offensive?
- nell, sydney, australia, 5/2/2009 5:16

Now, as the comments above demonstrate - which are taken from the Daily Mail website - the right-wing media are swinging behind Thatcher (and most importantly, against the hated BBC) by declaring this a victory for political correctness and a defeat for common sense. So far, so very predictable. Just as the Mail occupied a position of moral authority when it decided that Jonathan Ross (the personification of the vulgar, liberal Briton they deride) had gone too far in his merciless teasing of Andrew Sachs, now they decide that Thatcher has been a victim of the same, ultra-liberal forces. Never mind that Thatcher's comments were arguably much more offensive. In the minds of the Mail, there is no connection between Ross's offensive language and Thatcher's. Far more important is that they hate him, and are like her.

If political correctness means anything, it is that those that practice it believe it important to take care, when using language, not to gratuitously cause offence to others. Ross was scapegoated by the Mail because they considered his words gratuitous and offensive (as indeed they were). Yet nowhere in their coverage was any mention given to the fact that what they were in essence asking him to do was think about what he said and not say things likely to upset others; a classic argument for political correctness. Although their intentions were undoubtedly malicious, and borne out of a hatred of both Ross and the BBC, one couldn't help wondering if the Mail was at last becoming alive to the importance of not abusing, denigrating, offending others.

The Thatcher debacle proves they have learned nothing. Their argument is not for sensitivity, care, thoughtfulness and good manners, but rather for the promotion of their own, highly traditional, values, and the disavowel of any beliefs which contradict them. One can say whatever one likes, and offend whomever one likes, so long as one doesn't depart from little-England prejudices. That Thatcher's colleagues were offended by her words is deemed irrelevant. Much is made of the fact that the racist term was used 'in private conversation', but in fact it took place in the workplace, where no conversation can be considered truly private.

So - I admit that getting worked up about all the above is largely pointless. The Mail will continue to pursue it's agenda, and I will continue to either avoid it, or read it in a fury. What I think is relevant, however, and worthy of conversation, is the increasingly importance being afforded to public complaints and online petitions, and the way that media is able to manipulate stories by encouraging reader participation, and along the way turn minor stories which fit their agenda from trivia into headline news.

If I were asked to name one positive thing about the Daily Mail, I'd say that it's always been a good campaigning paper. It has the ability to flag up bellweather issues and make headway with them, and it's certainly the case that over the years it has been a powerful - if not always positive - lobbying tool. I admired it for its coverage of the murder of Stephen Lawrence and its decision to give away energy-saving lightbulbs to readers.

Nevetheless, its influence in the last six months has been deeply pernicious; by encouraging outrage and fermenting dissatisfaction with the BBC, it's whipping up a frenzy which actually puts the reputation and future of the corporation in some doubt. It's a deeply cynical move driven not purely by this simmering, inconsistent moral outrage, but by the fact that the paper's owners have a vested interest in the demise of its most significant media rival.

More broadly, I'm starting to worry that the Mail, with a reach which far outstretches most of its rivals, is using this sequence of media stories to try to encourage some kind of moral revival, akin almost to religious fundamentalism in the US. Its aims are not journalistic, or even strategic, but rather political - it's putting together a coalition of deeply conservative, disaffected readers (not limited to these shores) who are feeling bold enough to decry not just political correctness but the very notion of anti-racism.

I don't mean to say that the Mail is starting a political party, or stoking the fires of revolution, but just as the arrival of Tony Blair and the revitalised Labour Party turned the nation gently leftwards in the mid-90s, there seems a risk that the right is attempting a similar trick. Unless the Mail's petty concerns and prejudices are combated, there's a risk that this mini-moral revival will drag the country to the right - and that would be a disaster.

I am sick of forever walking on egg shells in case some wimp gets offended by something I inadvertently say or do that they chose to misinterpret so they can play the victim card. I cannot believe all the fuss over an innocent toy and it is a repeat of the Sootygate episode! Golliwogs are not illegal and are found in many homes and I for one still have my old Golliwog from childhood. What next? Will this petty. toy-obsessed Government appoint Golliwog inspectors to break down doors and confiscate all the Golliwogs and Sooties?
- Elaine Worthington, East Sussex, UK, 5/2/2009 21:24

john martyn

Ah, sad to hear that John Martyn has died. 'Solid Air' is a beautiful record.

There's a nice tribute to him over at the Guardian, where Erwin James recalled the time when Martyn played a Prison show which he saw. Like all of James' writing, it's rather beautiful.

John Martyn was on top form – he seemed to go into his own dream world as he played through his set, many of the songs the majority of us were hearing for the first time. And then something magical happened. He put down his Strat and called for an acoustic six string. The band slunk back to the shadows. "Some of you may know this song," he said. Then taking a deep breath he steadied his voice and sang, "May you never lay your head down without a hand to hold, May you never make your bed out in the cold…" His signature song, the classic made famous by Eric Clapton's Slowhand cover, but most truthful when sung by Martyn himself. Until that moment we had been a rowdy bunch, revelling in our entertainer's onstage revelry, relaxing in the ambience of the music, chilling, dreaming. But suddenly Martyn was singing directly to each and every one of us: "Well you're just like a great strong brother of mine and you know that I love you true/You never talk dirty behind my back and I know there are those that do/ Won't you please, won't you please, won't you bear in mind, love is a lesson to learn in our time/Won't you please won't please won't you bear in mind for me … "

Those lines meant so much to us, among us the down, the defeated, the betrayed and the betrayers – an anthem for relationships, a hymn to friendship and love. "And you're just like a good close sister to me and you know that I love you true/You hold no blade to stab me in the back and I know that some do…" The words could not have been written for a more needy audience. As he sang, the depth of our exposure was near tangible. Even Crusher looked like he was going to cry. When he finished we stomped, yelled, whistled and cried for more. But with lock-up upon us there was no time for encores. Martyn bade us farewell with a giant, rasping, "Keep on rockin' brothers!" And then we filed calmly out of the gym and back to our cells, feeling for a while like members of the human race once more.

The next day the gym cleaner found Martyn's big mineral water bottle. It stank of vodka – that made us howl. No wonder he was on such good form. Thank you John. Wherever you are now, I hope you have a hand to hold.

Over at his website, Graham Coxon recalls Martyn fondly, too:

i last saw john martyn at the mojo awards when i gave paul weller an award. it was a mass photo of all awardees and awarders (?) backstage somewhere in front of a big sheet of backgroundy paper and it was hilarious. i was next to paul who wouldnt stop having his beer in shot and was talkin in swear words to jerry dammers who was grinning and answering in swear words and not taking the slightest bit of notice of the photographer who was trying in vain to get all these tipsey musicians to pay attention and watch the birdie.. i was leanin on john's wheel chair which was under the control of phil collins and trying not to stare at him. every time john held out his hand a boy would appear and slap a drink in it. john was laughing his head off and swinging his head around to everyone and chattin the fraff...
i saw him in real life around 3 times and each time he seemed to be red faced and out of control with glee and mischief and making everyone else the same way. he was very funny indeed..
well the last time i saw him i thought "christ this man is amazing, how long will he be around for?...logic says he shouldnt even be here now!...how does he have this much energy?.....will i ever see him again?....will i ever see him play again?... no one plays the guitar like him.....he is a one off, like davy graham and jeff beck and nick drake and pete townshend...i have to shake hands with him and say something...like..."

"hi john just want to shake your hand and say how much...i...er..just how much...i..." by which point john has taken my hand in his huge and very warm hand, shaken it heartily and has continued to fall about in his wheelchair laughing at me like a loon.....amazing....lovely...

when i talked to danny thompson, who plays upright bass on many of the songs on my new album, about john he said that when they went to pubs together in the 70s before they drank a drop they would give the barman £200 and say "ok..thats to pay for the damage we are going to cause tonight"

Click here for one of Martyn's characteristically marvellous performances.

gordon brown's worst enemy

The measure of a good politician is often that his decency shines through whatever he says and does, even if one is minded to disagree with him. Frank Field is a public intellectual who is frequently on the opposite side of the argument to me, a politician whose dogged principles mean that he is often infuriating and counterproductive, undermining fellow Labour politicians and siding with political enemies, backing free market policies or supporting immigration caps, but I've always found it hard not to respect him, even where it's been hard to listen. A religious man, a moralist, a believer that the 1950s represented a golden era, Field is nevertheless exactly the sort of man we need in politics; someone to raise unwelcome arguments, to air grudges, to fight for the underpriviliged - something he is always prepared to do.

There was a fascinating, irritating, inspiring interview with him in the Sunday Times magazine this week - it's worth a read. I particularly liked this section:

As we settle into our seats, Field tells a bizarre story, speaking volumes about the singular and eclectic nature of his career. Two nights before Mrs Thatcher lost office in 1990, Field — convinced few Tories had the guts to tell her the game was up — decided to visit Downing Street and tell her himself. “For some extraordinary reason, I used to have — and still do — a good relationship with her.”

Informed that the PM was busy, he settled in a waiting room. After a while Norman Tebbit entered: “Frank, what do you want?” “I’ve come to tell the PM she’s finished. I suppose you won’t let me see her.” Shortly afterwards, Mrs T herself appeared, “trembling”, recalls Field, “as I imagine people do when told they have inoperable cancer.”

Field found her a chair. “Frank, why have you come?” she asked in quavering tones. “I’ve come to tell you that you are finished. I’m not discussing fairness, Prime Minister, I’m discussing the options. You cannot now go on a top note, but you can go on a high note.” He told her that Michael Heseltine, who was leading the drive to unseat her, was vacuuming up MPs’ support in the race to be her successor. “Oh, Mr Heseltine is a dreadful bad man,” she said wearily. Field urged her to get her candidate in the race, and when she asked who that would be, said: “It’s obvious, Prime Minister. It’s the person you’ve promoted to all these offices — John Major.”

Elsewhere there's lots of other interesting things. Try as I might, I can't help but admire Field.

Mrs T (it’s interesting how often her name crops up) once told him her main regret was that the very rich in Britain had not become philanthropists on the scale of America’s super-rich. Field would tax them “till the pips squeaked” unless they “voluntarily” gave away chunks of their fortunes. He believes both rich and poor have been sapped by the collective nature of British society. Leave it to “them” has become a crippling national watchword.

beautifully mannered

This article, by Andrew Roberts, is a wonderfully bonkers bit of writing, and well worth a read. Titled 'History will show that George W Bush was right', it's an incredible, fawning tribute to the outgoing President, by a historian whose reactionary ideas have been well-documented. It's no surprise to find him so keen on Bush, and the arguments he makes in the first few paragraphs are familiar, even plausible in places, although I fundamentally disagree with most of his conclusions. Whatever, the article only really flies off into the stratosphere when Roberts describes Bush as a:

"charming, interesting, beautifully mannered history buff who, were he not the most powerful man in the world, would be a fine person to have as a pal".

Extraordinary.

the whole shebang

Shebang is a fanzine put together by Liv Willars and Lynsey Woods, and it is one of the most beautifully designed and carefully constructed fanzines I’ve seen. Much effort has clearly been put in on Lynsey’s part putting together an attractive, cohesive page design and the team have commissioned an attractive selection of line-drawings, collages and paintings to illustrate their articles, which themselves demonstrate a satisfying breadth of content.

Although a majority of the features relate to pop music – with decent interviews with the excellent Peggy Sue and the young, eager Poppy & The Jezebels – Liv has been careful to commission articles on photography, art and travel, and it’s in these respects that the fanzine really excels. I’d much, much rather read an article about Berlin or Ghent than I would another indie band, and Tilly Stasiuk’s description of her Geisha makeover is fascinating stuff. When the fanzine dips into popular culture territory to talk about the Mighty Boosh, it takes an unexpected and welcome approach, talking to the prop master who worked on the first series of Julian Barratt and Noel Fielding’s show. It provides for energetic anecdotes and a view of the duo we’re not familiar with.

Some of the features are possibly under-written, and would benefit from more detail, but the overall feel is impressive. It’s a cleverly curated and beautifully executed effort, and hopefully the first of many. Feeling a bit inspired, I dropped them an email a month or two ago asking if they wanted any contributions. I’ve had no reply, which is probably for the best – it points to the fact that they’ve got plenty of stuff lined up for future editions. This is a fanzine definitely worth keeping your eye out for.

What I don’t know, unfortunately, is how to stress the title. Is it shebang or shebang? I don’t know, but I’m guessing it’s an ambiguity that Liv and Lynsey are happy with; both emphases seem equally appropriate.

You can buy the fanzine at http://www.shebang-mag.co.uk, or find it for sale in the following Falmouth shops: Jam, Here&Now and Babahogs, as well as in Brighton's Resident Records and Stand Out Records in Salisbury! There's even, wonder of wonders, a Facebook group, here.

waste not want not

Oh, I wish I wasn't as guilty of inefficient shopping as I am, but sadly I'm useless, always misjudging food quantities and either running out of stock almost immediately, or else opening my fridge and finding food which has passed its sell by date.

With Gordon Brown asking the nation to consider cutting back, the Guardian spend some time thinking about food wastage. Laura Barton writes:

"There is something slightly irritating about the prime minister's insistence that it is down to us consumers to cut our food waste. Less than half of the food thrown away each year comes from households. To suggest that the average householder is to blame for our colossal national wastage is to ignore the way that the food industry has been allowed to develop in this country, from the relentless rise of the supermarket to the flourishing of the fast-food outlet, the decline in farming and the death of the local shop. All of these affect why we buy the wrong things, and why we buy so much of what we do not need".

All of which is undoubtedly true - but the fact remains that a lot of people (including, for the most part, me) could do with developing stategies for efficient food consumption. So the article's tips, put together by Ms. Barton and John Henley, make sound advice and a surprisingly good read. I'll certainly be trying to think this stuff through more.

A few of their best tips:

Don't be afraid of an empty fridge

"I think that goes back to the rise of the big American fridge," notes Blythman. "It's an aspirational thing." You do not, therefore, need to buy acres of food each week to keep it chock-full.

Learn how to use leftovers

The lovefoodhatewaste.com site has a huge array of recipes contributed by celebrity chefs, nutritionists and members of the public, including a large number dubbed "rescue recipes" - in other words, how to put that bit of leftover chicken or half courgette to delicious use. There are also websites out there (leftoverchef.com and kitchen-scraps.com, to name but two) that, one you've typed in the primary and secondary ingredients you have spare, will go away and search their databases for recipes to use them up. Bit of fish left over, and some broccoli? Try, for example, Chinese steamed fish. And a couple of books may help: Second Time Around: Ideas and Recipes for Leftovers by Pamela Le Bailly, and The Use It Up Cookbook: Creative Recipes for the Frugal Cook, by Catherine Kitcho.

Take sell-by dates with a pinch of salt

As a general rule, only "use by" is worth taking seriously; "sell-by" and "display-until" dates are merely stock-control devices for food retailers, and "best before" is simply the producer's estimate of when the food will stop tasting good, which is fairly subjective anyway. Rather than slavishly observing these date labels, we'd be far better off understanding the kinds of foods that could actually be harmful if they go off, such as ready meals (including sandwiches), soft cheeses, pates and cooked, processed meats and seafood. Eggs with a Lion Quality stamp can be kept for weeks in the fridge; chicken, raw meats and fish will all look and smell unpleasant long before they're actively unsafe (as long as you cook it thoroughly, chicken, for example, is good for at least a week past its sell-by date). Apples last for months; potatoes are fine as long as you chop the green shoots off before cooking; tins and jars will last decades if not centuries; hard cheese is indestructible; and dry foods will last for years too. "Ignore sell-by dates," insists Swannell. "They're not relevant. And best before is just what it says on the tin; it doesn't mean the food is toxic the day after that date."

Elsewhere, over at B4L, Andrew asks an interesting question:

"Would the Government have been brave enough to suggest that people might save money by using less petrol, or that by borrowing less they might insulate themselves from rising interest rates? People inevitably realise this and adapt accordingly, but the reaction to a politician stating it would be furious."

the pace of things

From Michele Hanson's column in the Guardian today:

"People are forever coming round here glaring crabbily at my computer because it isn't fast enough. It takes one whole minute when it ought be taking a nano-second. They sit there, desperate to get online, and to them the huge seconds trundle by, each like the passing of the longest night. Unbearable. "You need a new computer," they complain rattily. "This is ridiculous."

No it isn't. It is heaven. I switch it on, it has a little warm up, I go into the garden and deadhead a few daisies. Clip, clip. I count the froggies in the pond. I come in, I press connect, I turn to the piano, I practise a fragment of sonata, I return to the screen, I press mail, I give the dogs a kiss, I come in, I arrange my coffee and biscuit, and voilà - the computer is ready. It has taken a few brief minutes."

Great stuff.

chlorine, bromine, resistence swimming

I've always been more of a splasher than a swimmer; when I was a kid I just couldn't get rid of the panic-tendency which meant that as soon as I put my head under I opened my mouth and gasped, getting a mouthful of salty (or chemical-flavoured) water for my troubles. I hated school swimming-lessons, hated every texture and fibre; lycra skull caps, goosebump-effect vinyl, hard towels and rubber locker-key bands. Snorting up water, particularly, wanting to retch.

I hated diving, racing, treading water. I hated getting out of my depth. I hated the coach-journey to the local grammar school, whose posh pool was rented out to the local comprehensives, but I liked the way we used to walk through their playground and sneer at the fact that they were playing cricket not football.

I hated too-tight inflatable arm-bands, compulsory showers. I never had a veruca. I skipped class the day they told us to bring our pyjamas.

Once, long after I'd dropped PE and stopped going swimming, my grandmother told me she hated Wednesdays, and when I asked why, she said "because you always go swimming on Wednesdays, and you hate it".

I do actually like swimming, so long as no-one is making me do it. But even then I lounge round the edge of the pool or, if I swim out to the centre, eschew straight lines in favour of broad arcs and slaloms.

Here's how I learned to swim: Not at school, I don't think, although my primary school did have a pool. I remember swimming for the first time in the sea on holiday with my parents, somewhere warm. I hadn't summoned up the courage to swim properly, so I used to play a game in the water instead, which consisted of walking out well within my depth and half-running, half-bouncing along the sea-floor, playing an imaginary, slow-motion game of football. I'd pass the ball, turn, and pound slowly through the water to my position by the goal, anticipating the cross, which I would meet with a diving header carefully calibrated to leave me back in the shallows, still dry from the neck up.

One day I was scooting along on my hands and knees where the water was warmest, and hence only a foot or two deep, when I looked up to find my father pointing his camera at me. On the rare days the photo album comes out, he always points out that was the day I learned to swim - he doesn't see how my arms are tense, supporting my weight and keeping me anchored. There wasn't a moment on that holiday when I decided to take the plunge, but I think my strides got longer and my body relaxed more, until it seemed I wasn't touching the floor at all any more.

And then I noticed I wasn't.

I suppose I always associate the ability to swim with the process of growing up; the inability to do so is something you throw off, like the inability to walk, or ride a bicycle. We get to the age of, I dunno, three or four or five or six, and learn how to be comfortable in the water. Then I read this weird thing in the Guardian today, an archived article from 1919, and it really surprised me and made me think, and the idea posited within - that we are an island people scared of water - really captured my imagination and made me think about the things we take for granted about modern Britain; including the ability to swim.

"At Ashton on Sunday a crowd stood on the banks of a canal and let a two-year-old child drown.

They even held back a spirited lad who was about to dive to the rescue, and delayed his effort until it was too late. The Coroner yesterday censured the crowd for their cowardice, but we doubt if he touched the root of the trouble.

It needs little or no courage to rescue a child from a canal. If courage were the only essential, no average British crowd would be found to lack it. But the prime factor in courage is confidence, and the paralysis that falls too often on the spectators of drowning accidents is born of a pitiful and needless fear of water.

We are an island people. None of us lives more than half a day's journey from the sea. Water is our natural element, our strength lies on it. Yet the majority of our whole population still dare not trust themselves in it."

The article goes on to declare support for the 1919 Education Act, which made special provision for a new subject; the teaching of swimming. All of a sudden I think back to my childhood swimming lessons and feel a touch of gratitude, rather than remembered horror.

they always let you down...

...if it's true.

The Guardian report today that John Lydon - a musical hero of mine for his heroic PiL records - has been accused of punching Roxane Davis, assistant producer on a TV show Lydon is making, in the face because he didn't like the hotel room he'd been allocated. Stunningly unimpressive stuff, and bewildering too. I hope it isn't true, but it might be.

Oddly, having recorded this sad story, the Guardian's Sean Michaels decides to close his news piece by turning the article into an advert for the latest installment of the Sex Pistols tour. It's strange and dispiriting to encounter an article about a pop star punching a woman in the face should end with the line "You can admire Rotten's new teeth and nasty demeanour at the following gigs..."