Having checked into the 3rd hotel of my trip, I do some catching-up on e-mail and business-type stuff, then head around the corner to the Union Tavern for some dinner and find it’s just as good as it was when I was last here a year-and-a-half ago. Hooray! Celebrating that by leaving leave my hat under the chair, I head back to the hotel, getting a bottle of wine at the off-licence on the way, then sink into a bathtub with a book, and later sleep until rather late the next morning.

Upon rising–and slowly getting coffee and things into myself in Clerkenwell Market, as well as collecting my hat from the restaurant–I begin wandering in the direction of the British Museum, with the sole purpose of ‘viewing the Staffordshire Hoard’ which is on display there, having only just secured funding to remain in the hands of the British People rather than be exported to some foreign museum for display thousands of miles from the location of its manufacture and original owners, something which has been fairly well-celebrated in the papers a few days previous. The ironic point that that there’s a great lot of carved marble elsewhere in the very same complex that the descendants of the original owners are asking to come back to them seems to be a non-starter, but we’ll get to that in a bit.

After passing the area outside where they’re building a South African garden as part of a South African exhibit to be opened in a month or so, then wandering about a bit on the third, sorry, second floor and discovering the ‘recently acquired objects’ room (which displayed some commemorative plates for Soviet transport achievements), I finally locate the hoard… which is a bit disappointing, as it’s only a few bits of things in four small, waist-high display cabinets. Certainly, they’re still cataloguing and trying to determine what all the little bits are and/or mean, but one expected… well… a HOARD, you know? Some sort of Aladdin’s Cave of treasure and unguents, all laid bare for the probing eyes of the hoi polloi, with silk-draped maidens offering to tend to one’s tired feet with oils and with fresh juices for drinking…

Okay, perhaps I’m getting a tad out of control now, but no more than forty-or-so little objects the size of your thumb, arranged in four little cases with a combined display area of perhaps 48ft² doesn’t really count as much of a trouser-dropping display of an historical discovery. Surely there are sacks and sacks more to be shown… please?

Finding myself in a mood desirous of more historical stimulation, I head in the direction of the fabled ‘Elgin Marbles’, which were too much for me to appreciate the last time this building was visited.

Passing the massive griffins [image, left], I enter the long, high chamber of the display area for the sculptures which once adorned the Athenian Parthenon and its surrounding areas. Just inside the door was a metal display stand holding pamphlets, one of which I took and perused.

Finders keepers! Losers weepers! Too bad, Greek-boys! You’re not gonna get them back, no matter how hard you try, or even if you go crying to your mama! They’re all ours now! Bwa-ha-ha!

Okay, it didn’t say that. Not really, anyway. Almost though. Here’s a rough interpretation on its text, based on what I recall, because I didn’t take a copy away with me.

The so-called ‘Elgin Marbles’ were removed from Greece many years ago by Lord Elgin, during a time when he and his troops were in the area. He felt it vitally important for the carvings to be preserved for future appreciation and cultural understanding of the Ancient Greek People, and the conditions they were enduring were not conducive to their long-term well-being. As carefully as possible, the objects were packed-up and moved to England, where they were eventually purchased by the British Museum for its collection and were put on display for the British people.

The British Museum and its Board of Directors welcomes the construction of the new display facilities in Athens, built by the Greek  and Athenian governments, but the collection which the Elgin Marbles now are a part of, as well as the few carvings which are part of collections in France and [some other European country which might have been Holland or Scandinavia–IAM], permits the appreciation of the ancient Greek culture with an immediately available comparison with other great cultures of the world. If the marbles were to be moved to Greece, not only is the possibility of damage likely, the ability to view and contrast various peoples’ cultural and historical stories would be diminished, and a greater comprehension of the world’s cultural heritage would be far more difficult to convey.

The British Museum values the role they now have with the explanation and presentation of the marbles, as well as the opportunity to continue to offer them as a part of the complete collection it possesses.

Carefully noting the verb “return” is not used once in the entire text, I shake my head at the additional avoidances of admitting  that Lord Elgin and his men actually smuggled the things out of the country because they didn’t have the slightest bit of permission to move a single bit of any of it, and His Lordship’s selling of the marbles to the Museum–thereby washing the guilt from the hands of the Museum in the theft of the carvings–was only the final of several bits of chutzpah demonstrated by him. That all understood, I think: well, I’m here, so are the carvings, may as well have a look at them now that we’re both in the same room as each other, and have a wander around.

They’re beautiful. Honestly, even some of them which are only castings of originals astonishingly demonstrate what was possible with a mallet and a sharp bit of metal in the hands of a craftsman. If they had been in Athens, I would say the same thing, and yes I would go there to see them in situ, and appreciate them as part of the local culture’s entirety.

Still, the things are magnificent, and I’m glad I saw them as a part of this trip. I look forward to visiting Greece, seeing the top of the mountain where there once were, and then seeing them in the gallery at the mountain’s foot where they belong, in the areas which are currently empty awaiting the carvings in the London collection.

Leaving the building just before closing, I head roughly south, down a side-street in an attempt to meander somewhat aimlessly and see what happens to be discovered. As this is ‘going home time’ for most of the area, plus the fact that Holborn Station is about three streets away, what’s discovered happens to be people, mostly. Plus it’s starting to get a bit damp. I head for the pasta place in Sicilian Avenue that was the source of garlic for my cold-filled body in the autumn of 2008; where I had a pleasant conversation with a Finnish woman the next table over about how neither of us were in a rush to head outside into the rain.

The next day dawned cloudy, and the destination was The Southbank, with the ultimate goal being the Tate Modern, Bankside. When visited last, again in the autumn of 2008, the only portion of the building visited was the Turbine Hall area, mostly due to the native guide having in mind a late luncheon on the Embankment, so continued movement was a concern. This time, the whole building was to be explored and then… well, I’d see what happened.

Realizing that “exploring the entire building” was the plan of attack which resulted in the British Museum becoming over-whelming in a matter of a few hours in 2008, I get an audio guide to help sort the wheat from the chaff–or someone’s idea of what the wheat and chaff are–and head to Level 5 and its area called States of Flux: “this focuses on Cubism, Futurism, Vorticism, and Pop Art, containing work by artists such as Pablo Picasso, Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol, and the photographer Eugène Atget”. This sounds cool!

It was, and so the other half of the floor is explored, called Energy and Process: “this focuses on Arte Povera, with work by artists such as Alighiero Boetti, Jannis Kounellis, Kasimir Malevich, Ana Mendieta, Mario Merz, and Jenny Holzer”. I’ve not heard of many of these people, and looking at much of the material is interesting and the patterns and themes they employ start speaking back and forth across the galleries on this level. Neat! I’m starting to really get this stuff! Go me!

Flushed with success, I head to Level 3 and its Material Gestures, which “focuses on abstraction, expressionism and abstract expressionism, featuring work by Claude Monet, Anish Kapoor, Barnett Newman, Mark Rothko, Henri Matisse and Tacita Dean.” Okay, there are some names there in the list I recognize, although the names I recognized two levels up weren’t on little cards next to works that were all that familiar. Still… a massive sculpture of a curved tube whose interior surface is a perfectly glazed black is astounding, as are a number imaginative objects which challenge the concept of what difference there is between ‘art’ and ‘thoughtful provocation’ is; if there is any difference at all.

Beginning to flag, I find myself wandering almost continually, going from one point in the audio tour to another almost without stopping, and investigating the “additional background information” for each piece less and less. Still, I’m here now, and the audio guide is helping me find ‘highlights’ within the collection, so on I go to Level 3’s Poetry and Dream on the far side. Apparently, there is a “sexually explicit section on this level [which] features a drawing by the pseudo-anonymous French artist “Proper Man” entitled le cock et le balls which is his attempt to explore the tension between old and new attitudes to sexuality within an urban environment.” If I saw this, I remember little of it, or it certainly made little impression on me. Given its title and stated content, you’d think it would have some sort of lasting effect on the viewer.

I do remember one exhibit, which was a gallery filled with what appeared to be tools, supplies, and personal items of workmen preparing the space for a new display of works. Then you read the thing on the wall and had revealed that the entire work is a hand-made duplication of what it appears to be, all made with incredible detail out of artificial materials, then fastidiously painted to match the real item. The title revealed what you were looking at was a fake, letting you in on the joke. After looking through the Tate Modern site’s directory I can’t find it now. This was definitely the highlight of the experience for me.

Leaving the building slightly over-filled artistically, I headed along the shore, stopping under Waterloo Bridge at the British Film Institute for some lunch at “The Riverfront”. After the meal, I wandered into the building a bit to see what was on, and noted they were to be screening a brand-new print of A Touch of Evil a few days after I flew home. One of these days I’ll explore the entire complex properly, see a film or two, watch a play at the National Theatre, explore the Hayward Gallery, hear a concert at Royal Festival Hall, and probably get arrested for trying t0 accomplish all of that inside of a day instead of the four or five it ought to take. So much culture is available in so very little space at the end of that bridge (rumour has it that it’s wonderful at sunset… it might even be worthy of inspiring a song about that moment of the day).

Continuing south along the river, I pass the Waterloo Millennium Pier, Jubillee Gardens, and the former County Hall (which now houses the London Aquarium and some… rock & roll… thing). I head across Westminster Bridge towards the Houses of Parliament, located in the Palace of Westminster, with Big Ben set ever-so-carefully at the top of the Westminster Tower. Oddly, the whole kit-n-kaboodle is located in the City of Westminster. Funny, that.

After taking one’s bearings–having just finished taking the icon-filled image above left–I head north along Parliament Street which then changes name into Whitehall… Street, I think; but it could be “Whitehall Road”, or even just “Whitehall”. Given how rapidly streets change their name around this area, it really doesn’t matter if it’s a road, a street, an avenue, or a lane; by the time you’ve figured out which one it is, the name’s different again.

After passing a protest group, taking some photos of them, and wondering where the great big gates across the street from them led (court room? Ministry of Defence offices? euphemistic “Foreign Office” headquarters?), I continue heading towards Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery, first passing the Horse Guards’ massive set of buildings.

Those of you who know London well will, no doubt, have discovered already what those gates cover the entrance of, being the street which intersects with Whitehall north of both King Charles Street and the Cenotaph, and which is directly opposite the end of Richmond Terrace, but it wasn’t until I got home weeks later that I realized where I had been: Downing Street. Yes, that Downing Street. See, once again, it pays to have a Native Guide in order to know what Very Important Things you’ve wandered past.

Continuing up the hill, oblivious of the centre of power just entirely missed, I found myself in the centre of Charing Crescent (or possibly “King Charles’ Island”, it’s tough to tell from the A-Z, frankly), which I considered to merely be a traffic island in the centre of a roundabout. To the west is a big, white, impressive arch-filled thing. I take photographs of it, thinking “Golly, that’s quite important looking!” Continuing in my rôle as a ‘pathetic, ignorant tourist from the Colonies’, I later learn that this impressive blob of stone is the ‘back side’ of Admiralty Arch.

It’s probably now that I should explain why much of this information isn’t as ready to my awareness as it ought to be: I’m getting damned tired, having covered well over 5km on foot, and all of it on hard flagstones (or concrete floors in the Tate Modern); all of it whilst wearing nearly brand-new men’s dress shoes. The rationale was that I had been wearing a pair of runners for a couple of days in a row, so it seemed wise to let them ‘air out’ and wear others instead, the only others being the square-toed, hard-soled, un-cushioned, low-heeled, only worn twice, dress shoes.

My feet hurt, I’m tired, the weather is starting to threaten rain, the air’s getting chilly, and I’m getting rather fatigued spiritually. After taking a few different photographs around Trafalgar Square, I head up Charing Cross Road for the nearest Underground station at Cranbourn Street.

Again, those of you who have London well in the mind will already know what station that will be. Add to this the fact it’s now just prior to 6:00PM. For the rest of you, this is the point you imagine descending into Leicester Square Station in the middle of a busy business district at 6:00PM, add the state of my feet and legs, and then begin shaking your head at how foolish I am at this moment.

Honestly, that’s exactly what happened. I got on the third train that was heading north on the Piccadilly Line, got off at King’s Cross, took the fastest exit to the street (hint: don’t use the King’s Cross Thameslink option; ‘useless’ is the kindest term for it), and directed myself to the hotel.

I think I ate at the Union Tavern that evening. I might not have, to be honest. It’s possible that dinner wasn’t had at all. It’s unlikely, but possible.

The next day I whipped through packing things up, checked out of the hotel, and headed to ‘foreign room #4′ on this trip, in the hotel near Heathrow where EasterCon (Odyssey 2010) was held.

Just after I returned from that event, however, while sitting in St. Pancras Station typing away on my netbook, on the level above me the PM was arriving to take the train off to the West Countries having just declared the start of the General Election that morning. Had I remained at the entrance to the station for another five minutes I probably would have had the opportunity of seeing him. Just another example of history passing me by just around the corner. Or, rather, just above me.

There is, for instance, the possibility of a strike by both the Network Rail and the Rail Maritime and Transport unions in England come Easter Weekend that could result in the UK’s collective inter-city rail system coming to a screaming halt, although they’re discussing ways to avoid this taking place. There’s been some pondering amongst some about whether this will have an effect on the number of people attending Odyssey 2010 (AKA: “EasterCon”), but I’m using the tube to get to Heathrow at that point on the calendar. ‘All good’, then.

British Airways is having labour trouble right now, wherein striking cabin crews have forced BA to cancel 1,100 flights, but I’m flying both to and from England on Air Canada. Fine there as well.

So… when this week’s episode of the Rick Mercer Report shows the following satirical commercial, fear enters my soul at the prospect of the following taking place in the middle of the afternoon tomorrow.

It’s probable that this ‘bit’ was created by Mr. Mercer as a reaction to being bumped from one domestic flight to another while travelling around Canada for the show. There’s been a few times I’ve heard of them cancelling FLIGHT-A and then putting those people onto FLIGHT-B so as to make a full compliment of passengers, which is fine in theory, but then why bother offering the additional flight in the first place? If there’s not sufficient trade for the offering of both flights, then it’s simply false advertising to say “we fly from Winnipeg to Vancouver 17 times a day!” and then cancel over half of them, isn’t it?

This doesn’t necessarily mean a damned thing about my flight from Vancouver to London, however. There’s a considerable difference between, for instance, flying from Toronto to Boston and flying across the entire Polar Region and North Atlantic. Perhaps there’s some sort of requirement for Air Canada to offer a particular number of domestic flights from one particular area to another in order to get their approval to fly to however many international centres they desire to serve. Anyone out there have any ideas about this? Is there an additional aspect to this based entirely on the fact that the people responsible for schedules are as thick as concrete on a hot day?

I’m planning of arriving as soon-ish as possible at the airport; that way they’ve less chance to do me out of a seat, even though the tickets have been paid for and reserved for weeks. The earlier you’re there, the better the possibility that the flight is not already fully assigned, making you SOL. Perhaps I really ought to have arrived there last Friday…?

One thing I will get to experience is the embarrassment of having someone call upstairs to make sure it’s alright to let me on the plane. This has happened both times I’ve flown, and at each end of the voyage: arrive at check-in, provide ticket details and passport, state no real preference about seating (other than ‘as far away from the drunken louts as possible’), wait patiently as we whip through a list of things no-one should ever say ‘yes’ to, even if true (have you left your luggage unattended for any length of time? were you approached by anyone asking you to transport something for them? did you agree? is there anything explosive in your bags? are you secreting heroin in your anal cavity? are you planning on doing any performance art whilst at your destination featuring inflatable donkeys, nudity, or both?), have the baggage weighed, then wait… and wait… while the poor soul behind the desk tries to figure out whether or not to explain that there’s a bloody huge red box flashing on their screen saying THIS PERSON IS ON A LIST OF PEOPLE WHO, WHEN FLYING, SOMEONE IMPORTANT HAS TO BE TOLD ABOUT IT. Typically the ticketing person has explained that they’ve got to call Security because they randomly are asked to do so (although the point of that process has never been stated), ask if I reserved my flight using my full name (I always do that for anything, not just flights), or simply look at me to check there’s not some odd bulge under my jacket that’s vaguely shaped like a side-arm and then run screaming for the door into their office.

Granted, the English author Michael Marshall Smith gets hauled into one of the interview rooms every time he goes to the USA, so I suppose the telephone call is the least of my concerns. Why I’m flagged is beyond me. I have no criminal record, I’ve never served in the Armed Forces, and have only occasionally called for the overthrow of a government (typically advocating for the use of a UN-approved democratic process).

The main worry right now is counting numbers of socks and boxer shorts, then determining how much everything weighs. My main piece of luggage allows for fifty pounds (50 LBS), which ought to be enough for anyone as tiny as myself. Even allowing for the promotional material being taken, I should be fine.

Something new to this trip is that one small piece of luggage goes with you into the cabin, one piece of luggage is checked and stored in the belly of the aeroplane, and the third piece of luggage doesn’t go into the belly as usual but instead goes with you into the cabin. This seems… well, odd. If this is safety-based, one would think that it would be ‘safer’ to have as much of one’s stuff go into the belly where people can’t get at it, and just make sure someone scans the crap out of it before loading anything. If scanning is more stringent for carry-on baggage, then why are you letting me put anything in the cargo hold? On the other hand, perhaps the whole thing is based on balance, and putting more weight in the vertical centre of the tube… makes it… easier to fly… the aircraft…?

Please don’t try that bit of logic at home. I am not an aeronautical engineer, nor have I even played one on TV.

Jennifer is driving me out to the airport to see me off properly. Nice. Frankly, I’d rather use the Canada Line, if only to be able to say that I went from the house to my hotel in London–door-to-door–without using an automobile, but that can be accomplished on the return.

Now… to check the dryer for more socks so I can stop worrying about finding somewhere to buy some there…

Yes, we have fiddlers with wild tatto’oing and kids who can fly over fields of grain… but we have no snow, at least not here in Vancouver, which is why the Men’s Alpine Ski Competition has been postponed (they’re shipping snow from 150 miles away to several venues using dump trucks… no, honestly, they literally are doing that very thing).

Anyway, I may feel that building a transit corridor, re-building a highway, and constructing a convention centre collectively costing well over three billion dollars (for those of you in the UK, that’s $3,000 million, not $3 million million; the Canadian dollar hasn’t fallen that badly), yet the government responsible refusing to count the work required for the bid to be accepted as an Olympic Expense–all the while slashing arts, health, education, and community works funding, claiming “there’s no money” when asked for justification–is not only absurd but inhumane. I may resent the current PM, BC Premier, and a host of other politicians using the Olympic Games as photo opportunities for their ‘non-campaign’ for re-election (the party at both levels of power was different when the games were sought and awarded), and the fact that the PM has dissolved parliament at a time when it was politically wise to not be questioned in a public parliamentary forum about his every decision (and he refuses to engage in Q&A through press ‘scrums’). I resent a great deal of this nation’s attention, efforts, and volunteer labour being focused on a bunch of under-paid athletes doing something truly amazing that is held under the auspices of what amounts to a Multi-National Entertainment Corporation which claims to be altruistic about ‘the celebration of the pure sporting achievements’. Given the insane amount of cash that gets shovelled through the IOC from people like IBM, M^CDonalds, VISA, Omega, RBC-Dominion, NBC, Coca-Cola, and the rest, I’ve no idea how the IOC recently acquired an Observers Chair at the United Nations; especially given the UN’s stated policy that they do not engage with, represent the interests of, or liaise between corporations.

Anyway… beyond all that…

The Opening Ceremonies here in  town brought tears to my eyes more than once, and it was stunning (pity about only three of the legs for the cauldron working, though).

Meanwhile, outside…

Well, frankly, SmuttySteff covers the whole local protest issue far better than could be even imagined within my capabilities, frankly. For as start, I’d probably be more sweary. Read her take on the matter right here. Honesty do it: you’ll be glad you did.

This afternoon I went to an office on Granville Island where a book awaits being picked up by me. It’s about new business marketing models taking into account the New Economy, yet is based on good, old-fashioned common sense. Sadly, they’re closed until January 5. Damn. Entirely my fault that I drove all the way across town without calling them first to make sure they were open, as was the lack of parking in the area (odd, considering this ought to be the ‘slack time’ for shopping there…), so there we are. I didn’t get a parking ticket for the expired parking meter, so that’s something.

On the way home, I stop in to check my lottery ticket, with unsuccessful results. Typical; the odds are against me, after all.

BANG! Right into the Mother Corp’s brand-new building!

Arrive home to discover that a parcel was delivered! But, it was while I’m out, so it’s not there and I’ll have to get it at the local post office depot tomorrow, after 13:00. Damn.

I try to match the bathroom tile–as part of the on-going project–at _____ Plumbing & Drainage, which seems a reasonable conclusion, given its name. The response therein was surprisingly blunt: “We’re a plumbing outfit!” Yes, well, this is bathroom tile, so… “First I’ve heard of that. We sell toilets!” The tiles are from a bathroom wall, which is the same room, so… “Bah!” Sorry to have wasted my your time.

Off to ____ Tile at the other end of my little town of Burnaby. The reaction from the girl behind the counter (and, trust me, this was a 20-year-old girl): “Wow this seems really old… did you buy that more than two years ago?” Attempting to control my hysterical laughter at the idea tile more than two-years-old could be considered “really old”, I merely reply “yes,” and don’t further explain to her that the socks and shorts I’m wearing are more than two years old. The chances are good that this tile is actually so old that her parents were not yet in puberty at the time it was purchased. Turns out that there will be a replacement available in plain, un-patterned, glossy, tile roughly matching the colour of the tiles we have now. Good, although not ideal. Fine, really, and certainly far easier than cleaning all the grout and mortar off the existing tiles without breaking them.

Driving around accomplishing all these tasks, however, was a bit of a task itself: the roads all a mess of directionless confusion. Why; especially as it’s the Tuesday between Christmas & New Year’s? Not a bloody clue! Getting to the second place about tile was a bit of a pain if you missed it initially, as you can only get into their parking lot from the one direction; once you’ve passed it, you enter the land of ‘you can’t get there from here’ road design. Mostly the roads were empty, except when attempting to go north through Willingdon and Canada Way, which was just as backed up past BCIT as it usually is. “Why am I doing this?” was a frequent refrain in the vehicle through most of this.

The radio is on, providing some tidbits of insanity:

• yesterday’s mystery metal box, found in a residential refrigerator by the home-owner was blown-up by the  Vancouver Police yesterday and they haven’t yet announced what was inside it;
  • ADDED LATER: apparently it was a box containing explosive material because it’s traditional to leave stuff that blows up in your mother’s fridge at Holiday Time, and police are seeking the house owner’s son;
• this morning a street guy stole a BMW following a verbal altercation with the driver, two people are dragged hanging on to the vehicle’s doors, as he reverses up one of Vancouver’s busiest streets and smashes it into the side of the CBC building which is so new it hasn’t even had that corner studio used yet (more details here, and also some photos here);
• the traffic report includes word of a police incident in Port Coquitlam where a plane had to make an emergency landing in the middle of Reeves Street near Gate’s Park
  • ADDED LATER: the emergency landing was in a soccer field, it was caused by fuel line problems; no-one was hurt but someone did have to move out of his way; and
• anyone deciding to travel to the USA aren’t allowed to bring anything with them into the aircraft cabin other than the clothes they’re standing-up in, because we’re all presumed to be guilty of consorting with terrorists (and yesterday the entire computer system at the airport was down for most of the day)

So… “2009: the year of WTF?!?!” in microcosm. What shall 2010 bring?

I’m terrified at the prospect, frankly.

Much of the need of discussion of the group’s ‘final tour’, followed startlingly quickly by a ‘re-union tour’, and then recently by simply ‘a tour’ followed by ‘another tour’ has been handled by many people before–including a lyrical jab by Joe Jackson in his song “Nineteen Forever”; he was one of the supporting acts on the ‘farewell tour’–so permit me to speak specifically to the pair of remaining members regarding matters of their continuance of creative efforts.

Stop. Please, for the sake of yourselves and any respect I have for you, just stop.

When news of the album Endless Wire reached me, the thought that occurred was ‘it may be the first original album since 1982’s It’s Hard, but Pete’s always been the creative driving force for the band and he’s been hard at it in the intermediate period. You never know…’

In fact, the album is pretty good. Perhaps not perfect–there’s only so much recorded perfection people in their 60s can attain when in the middle of a cross-continental performing tour (most of the mixing was done during the day by Pete Townshend on the 2006–2007 tour)–and at least they were willing to ‘give it a go’. Somehow, something was lacking, however…

Something like 50% of the band, actually.

In 1978, Keith Moon, the band’s drummer, was found dead. Then in 2002, John Entwistle, who played bass, was found dead by the stripper who had shared cocaine and his bed during the preceding night. In effect, the four-man group is now half-dead, with only the original singer, Roger Daltrey, and guitarist / songwriter / leader, Mr. Townshend,  making up the surviving 50% of the original line-up.

Oddly, this is the same amount of surviving members of The Beatles, and we don’t see Ringo and The Big Macca touring and recording… but I digress…

My point here is that the excitement and original joi de vivre of the band isn’t there anymore. The whole of The Who was greater by far than the sum of its parts. As excellent as the drumming of Zak Starkey is, as well as the playing of bass guitar by Pino Palladino (the man tours with Jeff Beck, for Pete’s sake!), there was a certain energy created between the original members which cannot be matched with simple attention to timing and faithful reproduction of original recordings.

I’ve often thought that what needed to be done was the retiring of the name “The Who” when applied to Pete and Rog’. Perhaps they could call themselves “The Survivors”, or possibly “The Wholigans”, or even return to their original earlier name “The High Numbers” as a way of ‘starting afresh’. Sadly, I think even this is more than ought to be done.

Along with the CD of Endless Wire, you see, came a DVD of a portion of the group’s concert at Lyon, France. I’d not bothered to listen to it until a week or so ago.

Now I wish I hadn’t.

Oh. My. God.

Daltrey’s voice has never been one which has been described as being ‘too smooth’, or of having a bel canto delivery style; rough, raw, angry singing is his, reflecting the vox populi which was in short supply in popular music at the start of the 1960s. He has, however, been able to deliver both accurate notes and a full tone which has distinguished songs by The Who above others’ efforts in my list of “music what I does love, I does”.

Until now.

His voice on this recording is thin, scratchy, hesitant with entry notes, and at times is down-right out of tune. The demands of the road may be to blame–he’s in his mid-60s, and I can’t imagine my Father keeping up Daltrey’s schedule with any ease–but that’s no excuse for releasing the material.

So… here’s my plea to the two remaining boys in that very nice Rock & Roll band from Shepherd’s Bush: please stop touring, and please stop calling yourselves ‘The Who’. the work you’ve both already done is admirable for a career. Tremendous music has been recorded (and re-mastered for superior sound, thankfully), and you’ve shared it with us; we all thank you sincerely for it.

If albums are created in the studio under the moniker “Peter & Rodger’s Music Project”, they’ll be bought by many people, myself included. If you want to do a special evening of songs in an intimate setting–much like Pete’s Live > Sadler’s Wells 2000 event–then people will buy tickets to the event and copies of the recording; again, I’ll be there if possible, and will slap on the headphones when the CD is available. Pete’s writing and guitar-playing sits as the finest part of my vast musical collection, and Roger’s voice–until recently–only enhances the emotion of the songs.

But please, limit yourselves to the studio and ‘one-off gigs’. You’re starting to be put in the same category as the Rolling Stones: “when are they going to call it quits once and for all?”

All of the above is delivered with the utmost of respect for the musical body of work crafted over nearly a half-century.

While not entirely linear, Paperboy follows Christopher Fowler through his formative years, beginning with mid-1960 to less than a decade later when he moved into his own flat, at the insistence of his Mother. The years between then and the present are concertina-ed into a few pages mostly focusing on Mr. Fowler’s development as a writer of tales, a self-described “mid-lister”–entirely skipping over his efforts as pop-singer/song-writer, cinema promoter, James Bond stand-in, and artist’s model for a Batman villain–as well as interaction with the Father whose emotional turmoil caused those he loved so very much grief; emotional turmoil which was itself caused by the inevitable conflict between human nature’s need for expression and a societal repression of those same expressions.

Bill Fowler, the author’s father, is chief among those within the pages whom one can view incorrectly as ‘uncaring’ or even ‘destructive’ toward those around him. One must remember that Bill was part of the last group of people for whom instincts were something to be not just ignored, but repressed and eliminated. This was the only option provided by ‘Civilized Society’ as behaviour deemed acceptable. Trouble was something to be avoided, rather than viewed as a challenge to overcome or deal with. ‘Have a scotch, sit by the fire, and keep your mouth shut’ was the nearest thing to therapy available at that time (which would have been fine had the individual not been sitting by the fire alone). Were things particularly bad, you were declared ‘too far gone’ and then sent to Bedlam until you died, probably more of shame than any other malady.

During the 1960s, people ‘did the best they could’ to get though their day with whatever financial or occupational position they had; and mutual support was far more prevalent, likely due to understanding that if everyone helped each other get through a rough patch, things were better for everyone. Something which is important to remember is that ‘community’ was something more highly valued then than it is now. Dinner with relatives on holidays, constant contact with one’s neighbours, each day brought news and fellowship with people and was more therapeutic than any number of appointments with either a doctor or priest. This difference in society, and the way that individuals interacted,  is best expressed by the author:

Everyone tries the best they can, some people don’t fit together, but generally it gets sorted out in the end–I’m always amazed by people who need a third party (therapists) to sort out their lives for them. It never really happened in England. Everyone just went to the pub or had a cup of tea to forget about their problems. There’s a very good support system here in the sense that people like to get involved–although I think it’s getting less as I get older (friends dropping off one by one).

It is altogether simple to read about Mr. Fowler’s paternal grandmother and dismiss her as “a crotchety, old, perfectionist, control freak” and entirely miss the fact that not only was she able to raise children through a depression, then a devastating war, and then the equally devastating post-war condition of at least a decade of rationing on all but a few items. To do this at all is considerable. To do so successfully requires the skills of an accountant who is both infinitely patient and in full command of ESP. Certainly, her approach to social interaction left a bit to be desired by her relatives, but no one can really understand what influences others’ behaviour patterns, even if they happen to have grown-up at the same time in the same street. That said, the extreme behaviour of individuals such as Mr. Fowler’s Grandmother is bound to both affect and effect those with whom she came in contact, and the spreading of hatred–hatred of others or selves–is forgiveable only after time and distance; usually accompanied with an appreciation of their gifts, however small or infrequent they might have been experienced.

Many of those under fifty have had similar experiences to Mr. Fowler’s as they grew-up, especially those of WASP origin: conversation and references to anyone ‘different’ were filled with euphemisms. I recall someone in a local restaurant suffering from severe autism being referred to as ‘in a bad way’; even after Prime Minister Trudeau declared that “the Government has no place in the bedrooms of the nation”, certain males were described as ‘a confirmed bachelor’; and mental health wasn’t at all discussed, beyond some occasionally being termed ‘withdrawn’ instead of ‘living with depression’, or a very shame-filled declaration that someone had “suffered a Nervous Breakdown”. This attitude toward any personal state, or mental health in general, thankfully improved over the most recent three decades as self-awareness, medication, therapeutic techniques, and realistic approaches to life and love’s many forms became better understood. Those of us who have benefited greatest from these advances can only guess at what life might be like had their individual character traits been either un-treated, not respected or blasted out of existence by ‘cultural re-programming’. The path taken through life by anyone of an artistic nature is difficult enough without adding ‘shame’, isolation, or intolerance to the matter.

As incomprehensible as it seems to us now, people hugging their children–never mind telling them that they were loved—was not something which was done. It’s no wonder then, than when concern for one’s offspring turned to worry, then to fretting, then frustration, that the logical conclusion would be violence as a manifestation of that original interest in the well-being of others. It’s this predicament that Mr. Fowler witnessed, not just in the behaviour of his father, but also the effect it had upon himself, his Mother, and his Brother. All of the family–Bill Fowler included–coped admirably using nothing more than their own mental resources.

The book is not filled with tear-stained examples of ‘this is why we don’t act like that any more’, however; as helpful as that illustrative material is when taken as such. When in the midst of it, no child will think to themselves ‘goodness, if only we had socialised mental health programmes, my parents would be so much better!’ Well, granted, the teen-agers of the 1990s probably did…

Right from the outset, the reader is immersed in wonderfully humour-filled descriptions of a life filled with Hancock’s Half-Hour (wherein the GLBT community was given the stereotypical voice of “I’m Julian and this is ‘my friend’ Sandy”), the importance of comic book heroes being true to their character forms, an improving sense of others his own age accepting and supporting others no matter who they happened to be, the sensuous frisson of fear delivered by the horror films of Hammer Productions, the increasingly racially desegregated populace, a number of musical influences, and the author’s joyful discover of libraries (the first of which surely formed the base for one appearing late-on in the “Bryant & May” series of mysteries). All of this contributes directly to the inevitable conclusion of selecting ‘writing’ as the last to which Mr. Fowler has chained himself to so successfully. We know it must end this way—his vast output as an author makes this abundantly clear–but the manner in which he arrived at his ultimate destination is none the less fascinating in the examination of it.

Yet, more than anything, one acquires an understanding of what it takes to create a writer from whole cloth. Simply to say ‘it’s hard work’ or ‘you just feel the need to write’ is hardly enough to put the matter into words, albeit entirely correct. Page 295 of Paperboy finds the following explanation of how the drive to be a writer–a really good writer–creates a yearning in someone in order to accomplish it; whatever the cost may be:

The author, as photographed by Mr. Martin Butterworth

Novels, I was told by one publisher who had rejected my work, were commodities sold like tins of biscuits, and the sweeter the taste, the more you could sell. But to me, the most important thing was that they had to contain fresh ingredients, not recycled ideas from other people. I realized now that my mother had been trying to tell me this for years; I had simply not been listening to her.¹

Still, I had delayed. I had been afraid to try, and risk failure. I remembered my father angrily snapping off the volume dial on his transistor radio while listening to Movie-Go-Round because an actor had said that performing required an act of courage. Courage, said Bill, was still working on the roads at sixty-five, spreading tar even though you knew it was giving you lung cancer, as his own father had done. Courage wasn’t mincing about on a stage or fiddling with a pen.

But in a way that Bill could never understand, it was. For years I was sure that if I failed as a writer, there would be nothing else left for me. If I could not achieve the one thing in life I tried hardest to do, it would be tough living with the loss of my dreams. How many people set out to change their worlds, only to find themselves in a state of perpetual downward revision and disappointment?

The events told in this book ring all the right bells to provide both an entertaining read, as well as a view of the life of a gifted writer. One reads about the encountering of an obstacle with a feeling of sorrow for the boy, and then a resultant triumphal cheer as the same obstacle is overcome. To not only be interested by an autobiography, but to care about its events and those experiencing them, is something altogether too rarely seen. While avoiding the easy choice of only including the happy sort of ‘and then I read…’ events, this memoir stands as both a microcosm of London in the last century both holy and profane, as well as a damned good way to have the reader appreciate just what ‘being a writer’ is all about.

It is unreservedly that Paperboy is set upon the shelf with both reverence and an intention to re-read it at some point soon. Equally unreservedly I shall state that this book was well-written, readable, and very enjoyable. You’ll do well to locate a copy in the library, or perhaps order a copy directly from an English book dealer.

Paperboy (A Memoir) by Christopher Fowler; PP 304, ISBN: 978–0-385615–5-70; published in 2009 by Doubleday, a imprint of Transworld Publishers, London, W5; a Random House Group Company.

One says ‘oddly’ because the amount of typing I’ve done in the comments section of this post over on Raincoaster’s blog is far and away more work than a post here would have been. That said, one had far more fun there than my post here would have been.

Pop over and watch the fun.

Apparently the Google plan of putting every book in the world on-line is cleared to happen, and all writers (or their estates) who do not wish their work(s) to be available to everyone without charge have a little under two months to state their objection in writing. If they do not do so, they have no legal right to control of their writing.

All over the world there is the sound of authors saying “Eh? How’s that again? Isn’t this completely opposite to anything that’s ever been agreed?” The answer to that is ‘yes, it certainly is, but it’s too late now.’

For a dose of “the new reality”, let’s try this on for size, shall we?

The real problem, the evil here, is the notion now being put into practice that a copyright license can be asserted by a third party in the absence of the copyright holder specifically forbidding it.

All through modern copyright history until now, a licensor seeking a sub-right was required to negotiate with the copyright holder before exploiting that license. No differently from a tenant seeking to rent a property is required to negotiate with the landlord before they move in.

As of now, I no longer control the sub-rights to my copyright. Under the terms that Google and the Authors Guild have set up, anyone who wants to make a commercial use of them can do so. It’s up to me to notice, to be aware, and to take steps to defend my copyright. If I don’t, well, too bad for me.

And if you don’t think Hollywood lawyers aren’t already all over this, you’re dreadfully naïve.

Have a read through the article for the complete run-down, especially you authors, as this will have an effect on everything you’ve ever written or will write ever again.

And I’m working on the long-mentioned post about my last day in London right now, so that’ll be here tomorrow. No really, it will! I swear!

None of you care do you…? Well, alright, my mother will, but that hardly counts, does it?