Rumblings from my lung.

Silver Dollar Jim, as some of you may know, enjoys his cigarettes. There is something beautiful about inhaling the smoke of fine virginian tobacco rolled on the thighs of illegal Mexican immigrants. There seems to be almost no event where a cigarette would not add to the occasion positively in some way. If any of you have enjoyed a smoke whilst on the crapper it is an interesting experience, if not a little unsettling. There is always the post-supper pre-crap cigarette, often goes well with an americano- it makes the final defecation all the more satisfying. Then there is the obligatory cigarette after sexual intercourse whether hand relief or not. It turns one's hand relief into an occasion! Lest we forget, perhaps the most sublime experience of life is a gorgeous double fag after a long haul flight. Of course these are some of the most common smoking occasions. I have never smoked during sex, in a hospital or while playing squash but I have my entire smoker's life ahead of me. 15 more years of bliss.

I have laid the facts down on the table for all to read. Yet for reasons that defy economic, social, metaphysical and evolutionary logic, HM Government has banned it in enclosed public places. This forces the poor, defenceless smoker into the night to be savaged by some gang-member looking to 'score some rock'.

Silver Dollar Jim hopes that the current public sentiment against enjoying tobacco is just a fad, like prohibition in his own country or the current obsession in the pornographic industry with tattoos.

Peripatetic Paninaros push pallid product

I was walking through my local high street at around lunchtime when I was offered a promotional panini (sic) by a woman in a tabard. The jostling throng hurried me along before I could properly say thank you, which gave me some passing discomfort, but nothing compared to that conferred by the 'panini' proper, which was composed of heavy glutinous ciabatta, sweaty cubes of cheese and a square piece of ham, the entire sandwich innocent of butter and seasoning. Some questions were raised.
1 - Assuming the sandwich was supposed to be eaten as it was, why would Ugo's (that, as far as I remember was the company name) go to the expense of handing out free samples when palatability is clearly not the bankable suit of the product?
2 - Assuming that the sandwich was supposed to be grilled before consumption (grilled seems to be the default setting of the expatriate panino) which would explain the underbaked ciabatta and the cubic cheese, why would they give out this product at midday in the high street, when most people would be unable to get to a grill or toastie maker for at least five hours?
3 - Does it make sense to preserve the Italianate plural (panino/panini) in a loan word? Also to be considered: Should people who call toasted bread with tomato and basil 'brushetta' be mocked or hailed as patriots? Should we call a female barista a bariste?
4 - Is it fair or even tasteful of me to be rude about a free sandwich that I was handed in the street?

Flying High in Mumbai

For those of you who share Hamilton's ever-diversifying penchant for prescription medicines, I am now in a position both to recommend and to caution you against Parvon-spas, an opioid analgesic with antispasmodic properties prescribed me by a cheerful consultant in Jaipur. This drug was, as far as I can tell, in my case, completely unnecessary. I made it clear that the abdomenal muscle pains incidental to my gastric shenanigans were very minor. Nevertheless the doctor decided that a three-day course of strong painkillers was the way forward. I have experienced vagueness of mental faculties, fatigue, spontaneous anger and mild euphoria. I would liken the good periods to that sense of pleasant detachment effected by gentle dope-smoking; but the bad parts are comparable to the worst, most soul-destroying hangovers. Parvon-spas is a charmless appellation. I feel that Dogtooth's Gambit is apposite and has real prospects as a calling-card when this giddy formula hits the backstreets of London.

Michael Winner seems to have lost a lot of weight lately, which means that he now reminds me harshly of my own mortality.

I have long enjoyed Anjana Ahuja's Science Notebook column in the Times, but does it not seem strange that a major newspaper should allow the bulk of its science reporting to be done by a postgraduate who specialised in space physics (probably the branch of science with the least bearing on our everyday lives). As scientific issues such as cloning and genetic modification, the status of DNA evidence in trials, animal testing and the threat posed by climate change increase there currency in political debetate it is worrying how few MPs, government officials or journalists have a grounding in the physical sciences.

When Cole Porter was played a recording of Ella Fitzgerald, arguably the greatest singer of her age, singing his songs he is said to have remarked only 'what marvelous diction that girl has.' As, in fairness, she does.

Bibliographica Impenetranda

'Get stewed' said Philip Larkin, 'books are a load of crap'. He was, up to a point, right. Broadly speaking the only hobby more likely to waste your time, scarify your liver, retard your career, stunt your social powers and atrophy your pudenda than the reading of novels is the writing of them. There are however two parts of every novel which are both fun to read and to write. I refer, of course, to the blurb and the first sentence. Generally a quick glance at these two bits of prose will see you through all but the most protracted lavatorial visits, and arm you with enough information to claim to have read the book in social situations. (This may not suffice in the case of 'the classics' which many people were forced to read at school. Don't panic, it is no coincidence that these very same 'classics' are the ones with helpful little introductions at the start. Don't, for the love of God, confuse this introduction with the Author's Foreword, which is even more boring and pointless than the novel itself.) So, I have devoted my not inconsiderable free time to crafting a series of first lines for your enjoyment. A selection of gripping and informative blurbs is sure to follow.

Firstly let us consider some antiquated styles of opening sentance, popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, but outclassed by the sleeker and higher powered openings of today.

The Locational Opening - 'Rumsfield House lay quiet as the dawn broke/sun set (it doesn't matter what the sun is doing, as long as it is doing something) behind its high roofs.' For this type of opening you will need a stately home. The sun also does these things behind Watford services, but no novel will come out of that.


The Geographical opening - 'The village of X lies in the county of Y on the north side of the river Z, surrounded by the forest of J.' This sort of opening will continue with a local squire adopting the son or daughter of a washerwoman (also local) and will play out in rollicking, picturesque form.

The Biographical opening - 'I was born in the village of X, which lies in the county of Y on the north side of the river Z, surrounded by the forest of J.' The narrative proceeds in a similar manner to that of the Geographical opening, except that it is in the first person, and is usually written by Tobias Smollet rather than Henry Fielding.

As you will no doubt have worked out, the art of the opening was in its infancy until very recently. In modern times we have seen a return to the concept of In Media Res, the Greek technique of starting in the middle, proceeding on the beginning, and then moving to the end. A modern thriller might begin 'The Rugglington revolver (if you writer a thriller make sure you mention the manufacturer of all the guns, this will make the book sound well researched) jumped in my hand, and the man in black spun backwards toward the cliff edge.' A more punchy thriller writer might start his book 'Bang! went the Rugglington Revolver.' A writer more punchy still will just write 'Bang!' which brings us pretty close to the gripping, if unfortunately untranslatable opening sentence of Beowulf: 'Hwæt!' (the exclamation mark is implied rather than written, but like 'oy!' the word is hard to say without one).




But it was Anthony Burgess who wrote the book on opening lines. The book is Earthly Powers, and the opening line is 'It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday, and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the archbishop had come to see me.' If you must ignore my advice and actually read a book then Earthly Powers isn't a bad one to waste your time on, though it isn't a patch on the first sentence. It fulfills all the criteria for a good first sentence: it raises questions it cannot answer, it hints at a story far more interesting than the one about to be told, and it brings into the story characters who will become regrettable burdens by the end of the first page. A sentence like that is perfect, because the average reader will think 'only a really great writer could take an opening line like that and weave it into a full and complex story'. The average reader is a forgiving soul, and assuming he or she doesn't make it down the first page (and once you have a really excellent first sentence your next challenge is make sure that no prospective reader does make it through the first page) then he (or she) will assume that you have succeeded, and you are, in fact, a really great writer.


Anyway, here are some more first lines after the Burgess model:

It is now nearly Whitsun, and though I may still be persona non grata in many parts of Northumbria, Porson's worm and it's attendant properties are finally mine.

Marcus was playing backgammon with his late Uncle Millroy when the Admiral's gyrocopter landed on the east lawn.

'The Headmaster has left for Vienna' said Dr Nicodemus, his eyes flashing wildly in the light of the burning museum, 'and I fear that nothing on earth can stop him now'.


An incident

I walked into a pub with a copy of The Doctor is Sick in my hand (I had been reading it on the tube) and Dogtooth looked at me in surprise. 'You're reading something by Burgess other than A Clockwork Orange.' he noted astutely. 'Isn't that a bit leftfield?'

An Evening with Dogtooth: Popular Quotables

I enjoyed this from GK Chesterton:

In former centuries the educated class ignored the ruck of vulgar literature. They ignored, and therefore did not, properly speaking, despise it. Simple ignorance and indifference does not inflate the character with pride. A man does not walk down the street giving a haughty twirl to his moustaches at the thought of his superiority to some variety of deep-sea fishes.

Delightful!

Misconduct

Courtesy of Charlie Brooker in The Guardian: 'This week Charlie accidentally got drunk and speculated wildly and offensively about an ongoing news event, breaking into song as he did so, at the top of his voice, in a pub.' We need to see more of this. Mr Brooker will receive a warm welcome at the Muted Slughorn.

Small things for small minds

'How dare you have a terrible cocaine addiction at Phillipe's birthday party!'

This made me laugh. So did this.

Brass Monkeys

As if the African farming community didn't have enough on their plate... An unfortunate turn of phrase. I'll try again: (Clears throat) AS IF the farming community of Nachu, in Kenya, did not have enough to be getting on with, the female contingent of the village are now being menaced by an influx of monkey sex-pests. 'The monkeys grab their breasts, and gesture at us while pointing at their private parts,' complained one woman. There is widespread concern among the local people, but, perversely, the first thought that struck me on reading this unhappy tale was that we should all, perhaps, be taking the Great Ape Personhood movement more seriously. In fact, the common-and-garden variety monkeys are excluded from proposals, but one wonders whether their case should not be reviewed in light of their exhibiting an advanced and highly-sophisticated facility with comedic sexual vulgarity and chauvinist backchat. Or perhaps Australian men should simply be downgraded.

Post-colonial guilt syndrome has Britain in a half-nelson

None of my numerous get rich quick schemes is bearing fruit, and the duns and bailiffs are closing in, so I have regrettably been forced to seek gainful employment as a typist and part time waiter. This will have obvious ramifications on the frequency of my posting, but I'm sure you will all cope. I took a break from my hectic schedule last night to watch The Last Confession, which is about the surprising and unexpected death of John Paul I, and stars David Suchet. We were encouraged, at least implicitly, to warm toward the short-lived Pope because of his liberal views, particularly regarding birth control. Could it be that the likability of a given Pope is inversely proportional to how Catholic he is?

I'm currently angry about the plan to build a statue of Nelson Mandela outside the Palace of Westminster. I suppose I have to state my compulsory respect for St Mandela (the respect is actually genuine, though I hate the odour of sanctity which surrounds him, and which C list celebrities, who wouldn't know Biko or de Klerk from Adam, flock to inhale), but I don't see why a South African hero should get a statue in London. If we are going to be motivated by craven post-colonial guilt and liberal self abasement let's at least build a statue of Gandhi or (and I like this idea) a wild haired Mau Mau freedom fighter, in other words people who enacted a genuine change in British history. There is room for many a statue of Mandela in South Africa, and maybe even a few more in London, but to erect a monument outside Parliament is nothing less than creepy. Imagine if the Japan put up a statue of the Duke of Wellington outside their parliament, would we be flattered, or would we think them either ingratiating or insane?

Jesus supported Villa!

For several months I've been a-nose-scratching over the numerous examples of supposed racial/religious provocation, and the number of people who publicly start bonfires under their collars at every opportunity. There was the problem of the Birmingham Sikhs who stormed a theatre after a performance depicting sexual abuse in a gurdwara - laughable, I know! But it's hardly the first time the Sikhs have resorted, en masse, to violent and unreasonable measures. Later we all had to endure an enormous, self-indulgent Islamic whinge-along about those irreverant Denmark cartoons, about which I can sum up my feelings in either of two considered phrases: Free Press. Fuck Off. The Moslem 'bath of their own tears' love-in was at least a rational response - albeit overblow - to their censorship of the prophet's image. Now, there are Christians and, puzzlingly, Hindus protesting over a Malaysian cartoon of Jesus smoking a cigarette and brandishing a can of lager. I would go so far as to suggest that those protesting are perhaps without a sense of humour. In any case, last time I looked - though in the Labour Britain's political climate, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise - smoking was not a moral transgression. Ultimately - and perhaps a new addition should be made to our manifesto - religious sensibilites are a myth! No-one really cares about insensitive images, they just crave an excuse to waggle their swollen religious identities at the rest of the world.

Punjabia

Just as I was beginning to be able to translate freely from Delhi English into English English, the itchy feet propelled me Punjabwards. Inadvisedly, I failed to get out of Amritsar after the first day, and am now looking at a second night of (albeit air-conditioned) hell in the dusty nightmare of the north-west. Amritsar is host to the very beautiful Sikh enclosure of the Golden Temple, but the Sikh religion is one of spectacular morbidity and unwarranted fanaticism. The ethos of the the creed is constructive, but for a religious group that worships a piece of paper, one cannot help feeling that the Sikhs take themselves a little too seriously. And in light of the seemingly slight differences between between their faith and the predominant Hindu inclination (they share the same objectives and the same notion of a formless/everyshaped deity, although Sikhism is without the perceived idolatrous clutter of Hinduism), and the lack of hostility on either side of the religious divide, the call for an independent nation of Khalistan seems about as reasonable as a Dorset secession movement...can you imagine: 'We will not rest until we have claimed our right to a freer, stronger, independent Dorset!'

In Defence of Neoconservatism

I'm bemused by the idea circulating in various film reviews that we need to decide which is better, Bond or Borne. This kind of ranking is moronic: both franchises serve up similar thrills and compared to, say, The Princess Diaries or Dude Where's my Car? they are very clearly aiming at the same demographics. The Bourne Identity clearly shows the influence of the Bond films (namely in the idea that espionage involves climbing up walls in black outfits and handling firearms rather than asking questions).
I am a great fan of the Bourne films, after watching the Bourne Identity I simply couldn't believe no-one had told me about it, however I can't help but rail at some of the claims made by Brenden O'Neill in Spiked. Bourne is not nearly as clever as its ravishing grey and blue photography makes it look: like the film Ronin it hides the heart of a balls to the wall action film behind muted colour tones and a 'classy' European setting. The films are much less clued up on post-Cold War politics than O'Neill claims them to be. Any film which portrays the CIA as a powerful and threatening force, rather than a hunted, haunted entity completely failing to combat international threat while its authority at home is steadily eroded by an unfriendly White House does not have its finger on the pulse. Washington is far more of an international force than Langley Falls could ever hope to be. Bourne is a much less complex hero than O'Neil gives him credit for, he stands reliably against government organisations who are almost always shown to be malicious without cause. The Bourne films fail to engage with the depressing reality that grim and despicable as American and Western foreign policy may appear to be, it is often our only bulwark against the greater evils of Communist or Islamist aggression.

I'm working on putting together a half-way readable review of Thomas Pynchon's Against the Day. In the meantime, for you enjoyment, I give you Proverbs for Paranoids, culled sensitively from Gravity's Rainbow:
1. You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
2. The innocence of the creatures is in inverse proportion to the immorality of the Master.
3. If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don't have to worry about answers.
4. You hide, they seek.
5. Paranoids are not paranoid because they're paranoid, but because they keep putting themselves, fucking idiots, deliberately into paranoid situations.

So farewell, then, Bill Deedes (1913-2007)

Separated at birth

Lavatoria

I enjoyed Mick Hume's most recent article in spiked. However, I'm left torn over issues such as 'awareness ribbons'. I hate anyone who wears one, or at least I would if I didn't know lots of generally decent people who do wear them, but I find it hard to scoff at the whole concept of 'awareness'. If any positive change is bought about in Darfur by UN intervention then we can thank the medias interest in the region, compared to, say, the Congo which is far harder and more dangerous to get cameras into. Take the Poppy Day phenomenon: I don't wear a poppy because I don't see any particular need to remember the first world war, but I do give money to the collectors more often than I give to any other charity can janglers because I don't want to think that I'm refusing the Poppy for reasons of parsimony. The cause is a good one, and they've pried some money from me which would no doubt have gone on drink, and indirectly the entire Poppy gimmick is to thank for it.

I visited the lavatory of a London pub, and while urinating I noticed a machine selling 'novelty condoms', including what looked in the picture like condoms with clown faces on them. I dread to think what sort of man would look at his equipment and think 'It's good but it could do with being funnier'.


Some artists gain fame by their elusive, boundry-breaking genius, some by their obsessive dedication to the detail. Some, however, are just in the right place at the right time. Case in point: Andrea Della Robia, probably the only Old Master whose work I would pay a gallery owner to take out of my house.

Why we should take the police out of policy

In concert with Hamilton's exposure of Metropolitan idiocy and double standards, I find it objectionable that the police will freely propose new and uncomfortable restrictions on our lives every time they decide they don't like an aspect of their job. Crucially, the post-adolescent years between 18 & 21 are (give or take a cheeky annum) most people's bright college days, in which we live in unfortunate and sometimes electric proximity to the permanent residents of provincial towns and villages. It is important to usher as many of us as possible into pubs and clubs on any given evening, where we can do less damage to ourselves and innocent bystanders. And whatever happens, we will get hold of the stuff - without delay or exception. Anyone who swallows the equation NoHooch'Til21 + ThirstyStudents = AppleJuicesAllRound seriously needs their head examined. Peter Fahy, the Cheshire Chief Constable who has suggested the minimum age be raised, has unwittingly requested much more work. As the situation stands, he only has to police the 2% of 18+year-olds who are actually out of control. If and when he gets his way, he will have to police 100% of the 18-21s who like alcohol - and I imagine that's 100% of them.

Newtballs: "Your life is worth more than a chocolate bar." An insight provided by DCI Cliff Lyons of South-east London.

Barring university students from pubs will undoubtedly make them drink more responsibly!

The chief constable of Cheshire has said that parents of teenagers are 'abdicating responsibility for their children.' He goes on to place the blame for Britain's supposed 'binge culture' squarely at the feet of advertisers and the drinks industry. Abdicating responsibility is a terrible thing, isn't it?