Category: Uncategorized

Why the earth is (apparently) flat

A model of flat earth

There’s a disturbing trend in my Facebook feed. I’m seeing more and more posts from those who deny that the earth is spherical, that the sun is 93,000,000 miles away, and that stars exist. NASA, according to these people, is concealing the fact that there is no such thing as “space”, and that the flat disk-like earth, surrounded by an ice wall (which is why no one is apparently allowed to go to Antarctica), is covered by a transparent dome (the “firmament”) on which the local sun, moon, and planets all move.

Gravity does not exist for these people, and is often replaced by “density”, conveniently ignoring the idea that density needs to include gravity as part of its definition. Nor did we ever go to the moon – “it was all CGI” – ignoring the graphics capabilities of computers in the late 1960s. Nor is it really ever explained exactly why NASA (other space agencies may or may not be collaborating with the Americans) has done this and is continuing to produce fake videos of the ISS, etc.

Confused? So are these people. There seem to be as many models for this fictional universe as there are people describing it (I’m not even going to start describing the armed penguins guarding the ice wall that surrounds the flat earth). Like other conspiracy theorists, these beliefs are not based so much on written work, as on YouTube videos made by amateurs who appear to have slept through elementary physics lessons at school. Demands for proof are usually met with “don’t be a brainwashed sheeple – do your own research” (“research” in this case meaning fast-forwarding through YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram videos).

Even after the failure of their own “experiments” to prove their beliefs, these people still refuse to accept that they may possibly be mistaken.

Some of these anti-science claims are being made by obvious trolls – those putting out outrageous “theories” in order to laugh at the gullible fools who believe them. Some are actually outright hustles, taking money from the believers (and doing very well at it). And some may well be the work of foreign state actors, seeking to destabilise our society though the promotion of questioning authority.

Sadly, though, there do appear to be many who actually sincerely believe this nonsense, and these failures of logic and reason would be laughable if they were not so pathetic and disturbing. I’ve been trying to work out some of the motivations and reasons for belief in this system (not all of these apply to all believers in this anti-science nonsense):

  • Desire to be different: Claiming that you have secrets which eluded Newton, Kepler, Einstein, and Hawking makes you special. Like all keepers of secrets from alchemists onwards, these secrets are not for the common herd. Those who have these secrets are a special breed – part of the hermetic elite.
  • Religion – specifically Christian fundamentalism: By reading and misinterpreting the first verses of Genesis, and various other isolated fragments of the Bible, it is possible to derive a cosmology which has a limited correspondence with reality. Many flat-earthers are also creationists. As a PS, I would add that I am a regularly worshipping Christian – I am no atheist or Satanist arguing against religion.
  • Mental illness: Some of these believers, when faced with facts that go against their pet theory, simply resort to personal abuse, insisting that those who believe in scientific methods have been brainwashed and that the flat-earth believers are being continually lied to. They also, through their writing, may exhibit what seem to be further symptoms of persecution mania (I’m not qualified to make psychiatric diagnoses, so take this with a pinch of salt).
  • Ignorance: Especially in the USA, lack of general knowledge and reasoning ability seems to be disturbingly common. Simple arithmetic seems to be outside many people’s skillset, as do elementary logical thought processes, or the ability to consider others’ observations as evidence (“I’ve never seen the curvature of the earth from a high-flying plane, or seen a SpaceX rocket land, so no-one has”). Homeschooling and the lack of exposure to contrary viewpoints may also play a role here.

As I wrote at the start, I find this disturbing. This move towards a distrust in science also reflects a breakdown in trust in authority. I know people who find any three-letter organisation (WHO, IMF, WEF, CIA, FBI, FDA, etc.) to be an agent of “Them”. The identity of “Them” is vague, but currently seems to be the ultra-rich who are aiming to reduce the earth’s population to about 10% of its current size (“the Great Reset”) through chemtrails, Covid vaccines, food monopolies, 5G, etc. The more people who believe in this and associated paranoid theories, the faster our society will disintegrate.

I’ll leave it there. I’m depressing myself.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Bach to the Past

brown booklet in a brown wooden piano close up photography

I’ve been experimenting with creating versions of J.S.Bach’s masterpiece, The Art of Fugue. Since I lack advanced keyboard skills, I download MIDI files and edit them if necessary before playing them through a sound-producing device.

For those who don’t know about MIDI (Musical Instrument Digital Interface), it’s a way of passing information between devices. No sound as such is transmitted, just commands like “Play the note middle C as if the keyboard had been pressed this hard. Now release it.” A common clock signal keeps everything in time, but keeping in tune is up to the instrument.

I have a weakness for analog synthesisers – these are temperamental collections of electronics which produce sound. With a little care and attention, they can even produce music.

So, here is the Contrapunctus 5 from Die Kunst der Fuge, a counterfugue, in which the theme is plain, inverted, diminished and augmented.

There are four voices and each one is played by a different set of electronics, each of which is capable of playing only one note at a time. Because three out of the four units do not possess a store and recall system for the settings that control the sounds, this will never be repeated exactly – there are little changes that can make an enormous difference to the sound (tuning is also a continuing issue as the electronics warm up and stabilise).

Om the plus side, this means that a new recording of this, now that timings and note length etc. have been adjusted, may quite possibly be better next time tound.

All these synths are made by Behringer, who have developed the art of making very adequate copies of classic electronics at a decent affordable price. The voices on this are:

  1. 2600 (the big blue one)
  2. PRO-800 (the bottom black one)
  3. KOBOL expander (the top black one)
  4. CRAVE (the orange one)

Since some of these have slightly less than perfect MIDI implementations, I use a little box to convert MIDI sent over a USB cable into analogue voltages which are fed into the synths’ electronics to control the sounds.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Rodney Stone – Arthur Conan Doyle – REVIEW

I was lucky enough to find a first edition (1896) for sale in a shop near here. In pretty good condition, other than a replaced spine. Lots of Sidney Paget illustrations, and a few advertisement pages remaining uncut.

I don’t buy first editions simply because they’re first editions, though – I read them. And so I sat down and read this one – it’s an easy read – and found myself amused in places and annoyed in others.

In many ways, it’s pretty typical Conan Doyle. There’s a rather convoluted plot (some of which I had guessed before the end), a healthy dose of jingoism centred around the Royal Navy (this is set in Nelson’s time, and Nelson himself makes an appearance), and a good deal of technical period slang connected with boxing and “the Fancy”.

The narrator describes himself as merely the “thin and colourless cord” on which his pearls of others’ adventures are strung. There is an undercurrent of homoeroticism in some of the descriptions of the bareknuckle boxers, but then “manly beauty” was very much a thing of Doyle’s age.

Here’s the part where he talks about his sources (love the typeface, by the way). He seems to have been quite a serious researcher when it comes to historical detail (note the Ashton in the sources – not, as far as I am aware, an ancestor).

However, Doyle had a sense of humour. It surfaces occasionally in the Sherlock Holmes adventures, and bubbles its way through the Brigadier Gerard adventures. Here, it comes to the fore in the person of the narrator’s uncle, Sir Charles Tregallis, the leader of London dandyism and foppery.

“You number yourself in an illustrious company by dipping your finger and thumb into it,”said he.

“Indeed, sir ! ” said my father, shortly.

“You are free of my box, as being a relative by marriage. You are free also, nephew, and I pray you to take a pinch. It is the most intimate sign of my good will. Outside ourselves there are four, I think, who have had access to it – the Prince, of course; Mr. Pitt; Monsieur Otto, the French Ambassador; and Lord Hawkesbury. I have sometimes thought that I was premature with Lord Hawkesbury.”

“I am vastly honoured, sir,” said my father, looking suspiciously at his guest from under his shaggy eyebrows, for with that grave face and those twinkling eyes it was hard to know how to take him.

“A woman, sir, has her love to bestow,” said my uncle. “A man has his snuff-box. Neither is to be lightly offered. It is a lapse of taste; nay, more, it is a breach of morals. Only the other day, as I was seated in Watier’s, my box of prime macouba open upon the table beside me, an Irish bishop thrust in his intrusive fingers. ‘Waiter,’ I cried, ‘my box has been soiled ! Remove it ! ‘The man meant no insult, you understand, but that class of people must be · kept in their proper sphere.“

“A bishop ! ” cried my father. “You draw your line very high, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” said my uncle ; ” I wish no better epitaph upon my tombstone.”

Doyle makes this uncle to be a figure of fun, but as a man who is aware of his own ridiculousness, and who is capable of laughing at himself at times, and showing a side of sentimentality, and even commonsense at times.

I won’t claim this is an unjustly neglected masterpiece, but it is definitely an enjoyable light read, and shines a little more light on Sir Arthur.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

I become a conceptual artist

(with a little help from my friends)

It struck me that some of the psychobabble that accompanies much conceptual art would be a prime target for Chat GPT. And so it proved to be:

Write the artist’s explanation for a catalogue of a piece of art consisting of three cucumbers in a flower vase standing on top of a harpsichord and entitled “Sonata in Salad minor”

Within the realms of artistic expression, I sought to explore the captivating interplay between everyday objects and the music that resonates within our souls. “Sonata in Salad Minor” stands as a testament to the fusion of visual and auditory sensations, a symphony of form and sound that invites contemplation and delight.

This enigmatic composition revolves around the humble cucumber, an emblem of freshness and vitality, carefully arranged within a delicate flower vase. The three cucumbers, slender and gracefully curving, evoke a sense of harmony and balance, akin to the three movements of a sonata. They symbolize the interconnectedness of nature’s bounty and the rhythm that orchestrates our existence.

Perched atop a grand harpsichord, an instrument of exquisite craftsmanship, the cucumbers take on an elevated significance. The harpsichord, with its intricate design and rich historical legacy, represents the timeless beauty of music and its ability to transport us to realms beyond the physical.

The juxtaposition of the cucumbers and the harpsichord invites us to explore the dialogue between the visual and the auditory. Each cucumber becomes a note on a sheet of music, resonating with a crisp and refreshing tone, while the harpsichord serves as the conductor, guiding their melodies and harmonies. Through this marriage of organic simplicity and refined elegance, a unique melody unfolds, giving birth to the “Sonata in Salad Minor.”

This composition challenges conventional notions of art, urging the viewer to transcend the boundaries of perception and embrace the subtle connections between the tangible and the intangible. It calls upon us to perceive the world around us as a symphony, where even the most ordinary objects possess the potential for extraordinary beauty.

As you engage with “Sonata in Salad Minor,” immerse yourself in the serenade of the cucumbers, feel the vibrations of their verdant rhythm, and allow the harmonious interplay between visual aesthetics and musicality to weave its enchantment. Experience the transcendence of boundaries, the harmony of disparate elements, and the celebration of life’s inherent symphony that resounds through this unconventional masterpiece. May this visual and auditory duet serve as a reminder that art has no limits, and that even the most unexpected combinations can yield beauty and harmony for those willing to embrace them.

And then I asked, what would the New York Times art critic make of this?

Hugo Lombardis’ ‘Sonata in Salad Minor’: A Harmonious Fusion of Visual and Auditory Delights

In a masterful display of artistic ingenuity, Hugo Lombardis unveils his latest masterpiece, “Sonata in Salad Minor,” a composition that transcends traditional boundaries and beckons viewers into a realm where visual and auditory sensations intertwine. Lombardis’ bold exploration of the ordinary and the extraordinary comes alive in this captivating arrangement of three cucumbers in a flower vase atop a grand harpsichord.

Lombardis’ artistic vision is nothing short of extraordinary, as he skillfully crafts a symphony of form and sound, weaving together the most unlikely elements into a harmonious whole. The three cucumbers, elegantly arranged in the vase, stand as testament to the artist’s ability to infuse simplicity with profound meaning. Their slender curves and vibrant green hues elicit a sense of freshness and vitality, mirroring the organic beauty found in nature’s bounty.

Perched atop the grand harpsichord, an instrument of unparalleled elegance and historical significance, the cucumbers take on a newfound resonance. Lombardis draws upon the inherent musicality of the harpsichord, invoking its rich legacy and the melodies it has birthed throughout the ages. The artist presents the cucumbers as musical notes, evoking a visual symphony that seems to emanate from the strings of the instrument itself.

In “Sonata in Salad Minor,” Lombardis beckons viewers to embrace the dialogue between the visual and the auditory. The cucumbers’ form becomes a melody, their contours dancing across the canvas of the mind, while the harpsichord serves as the conductor, guiding their harmonic progression. The result is a sensory experience that transcends the boundaries of perception, inviting viewers to immerse themselves in the serenade of organic simplicity and refined elegance.

Lombardis’ composition challenges our preconceived notions of art, urging us to embrace the unexpected and find beauty in the most ordinary of objects. Through “Sonata in Salad Minor,” he invites us to reevaluate our understanding of the world and its inherent artistic potential. The piece serves as a reminder that even the most humble ingredients of our lives can be transformed into profound sources of inspiration.

In encountering Lombardis’ work, one cannot help but be captivated by the interplay of colors, textures, and sounds. The “Sonata in Salad Minor” resonates with a quiet intensity, encouraging viewers to contemplate the harmonious balance between simplicity and complexity. It is an invitation to perceive the world as a symphony, where each element possesses the potential to contribute to a greater whole.

Hugo Lombardis’ “Sonata in Salad Minor” stands as a testament to the artist’s unrivaled creativity and his ability to blur the boundaries between art forms. This extraordinary fusion of visual and auditory delights invites us to listen with our eyes and see with our ears, reminding us of the boundless possibilities that exist when we open ourselves to the unexpected. Through this captivating piece, Lombardis reaffirms his place among the most innovative artists of our time, leaving an indelible mark on the art world and inspiring us all to embrace the transformative power of art.

And one more for luck

Write the catalogue entry for a piece of art consisting of a violin stuffed full of popcorn, entitled “Vivace ma non troppo”

Artwork: “Vivace ma non troppo” Artist: Hugo Lombardis

In this intriguing and whimsical composition, Hugo Lombardis presents us with “Vivace ma non troppo,” a thought-provoking piece that merges the familiar elegance of a violin with the unexpected abundance of popcorn. This unconventional creation challenges our perceptions and invites us to explore the interplay between music, texture, and the ephemeral nature of our desires.

At the heart of the artwork lies a beautifully crafted violin, an instrument renowned for its capacity to evoke emotions and transcend boundaries. Yet, instead of the expected strings and bow, the body of the violin is filled to the brim with a cascade of fluffy, white popcorn. The juxtaposition of the classical instrument and the everyday snack captures our attention, urging us to delve deeper into its symbolic meaning.

“Vivace ma non troppo” not only tantalizes the visual senses but also beckons us to consider the audible and tactile dimensions of art. The violin, with its rich history and association with music, embodies the harmonies and melodies that resonate within our souls. In this piece, the popcorn becomes an unconventional orchestra, its individual kernels representing musical notes ready to burst forth in a symphony of sound and texture.

The title, “Vivace ma non troppo,” which translates to “lively but not too much,” further emphasizes the artist’s intention. The juxtaposition of the violin’s classical elegance with the casual nature of popcorn prompts contemplation on the balance between the refined and the mundane. It suggests that, while life may present us with contrasting elements, there is beauty in embracing the unexpected and finding harmony in the most unlikely places.

Through “Vivace ma non troppo,” Lombardis invites viewers to reflect on their own relationship with art and the boundaries they perceive within artistic expression. The piece encourages us to question conventional expectations and to discover new meanings by challenging the limits of our imagination.

By incorporating popcorn into the violin, Lombardis provokes a sensory experience that stimulates multiple facets of our perception. We are encouraged to consider the crackling sound of the popcorn, the soft texture beneath our fingertips, and the unique aroma that pervades the space. This multisensory encounter invites us to embrace the ephemeral nature of art, as the popcorn serves as a reminder of the fleeting moments of delight that can be found in the simplest of experiences.

“Vivace ma non troppo” stands as a testament to Hugo Lombardis’ artistic prowess and innovative approach. Through this captivating composition, the artist challenges the boundaries of traditional art forms and invites us to explore the harmonious coexistence of contrasting elements. As we engage with this thought-provoking piece, we are prompted to consider the symphony of life and the beauty that emerges when we embrace the unexpected.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Johnson at 10 – Seldon & Newell: REVIEW

Quite a monster of a book – I bought it as an ebook, which in fact is probably the best way to read it. The index is well-constructed, and it’s easy to use the search function. There’s a lot in it, and this review concentrates more on Johnson’s character as revealed in the book than on his relationships with other members of his party, with his attitude to Brexit, and the details of his actions and reactions to the Covid pandemic.

I suppose everyone reading this book comes with a preconceived opinion of Johnson. Mine is typical, I suppose, of many, seeing Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson as a lazy narcissist, with sociopathic tendencies. The view expressed in this book, based on interviews and contemporaneous documents, is a little more sympathetic. There’s a lot to read, not only about Johnson, but also about the other big beasts in the Tories, some of whom are still with us, and also about Johnson’s ally, and in many ways, his nemesis, Dominic Cummings, who comes over as more sensible (though just as dislikable as a person) than his Spitting Image caricature.

Though Johnson likes to compare himself to Winston Churchill, Seldon sees him as being much more similar to Lloyd George, likewise a notorious philanderer and populist, who swayed with the prevailing political wind.

From reading the book, it seems that Johnson’s main aim in life is to be liked, together with a disregard for truth that borders on the pathological. Couple that with an almost complete ignorance of the functions and utility of the various aspects of the organisations that help the Prime Minister’s office (civil service, Cabinet, Parliament), and you have a premiership which is destined for disaster.

As a child, Johnson famously wrote that he wanted to be “king of the world”, and that indeed is the way in which he wished to be Prime Minister – as an absolute monarch, ruling by whim, dispensing favours, and building monuments to himself.

His propensity for self-promotion through large projects was noticeable in his Mayoralty of London – the ill-fated ”Garden Bridge” and his island airport schemes, for example. The 2012 Olympics was an exception, but this event rested as much on the hard work done by others as it did on Johnson’s efforts.

As PM, he was largely responsible for the continuation of the over-budget and already obsolete HS2 line (albeit in abbreviated form), as well as the promotion of totally impractical projects such as the Northern Ireland bridge.

Indeed, this obsession with self-promotion led him to believe that the 2019 election result was the result of his own charm and charisma and popularity, ignoring the roles of Nigel Farage, who had paved the way for the Brexit fanatics to take over the steering wheel of the Conservative Party, and Jeremy Corbyn, who had been demonised by the right-wing press as a Marxist monster. Naturally, the image of the jolly, bumbling, tousle-headed Eton toff with a taste for Latin phrases, who nonetheless was “one of us” helped, but Johnson was keen to believe that the victory was his alone.

Since he had no knowledge of how a Cabinet operated, and had no wish to involve others in decision-making at any serious level, his Cabinet appointments, following his purge of the Conservative Party, were a rump of mediocrities and ideologues (sometimes both at the same time, such as Braverman or Rees-Mogg). His ongoing relationship with Gove, who comes over in this book as almost the only surviving Tory with any brains, is complex, and perhaps beyond the scope of this brief review.

And, while Johnson had wide-ranging ideas as to what should be his legacy (reform of social care, etc.), he could not be bothered to think about the details of what these reforms would be, let along how they were to be achieved. In fact, the refusal to examine detail and to comprehend the issues confronting him in any depth runs through his premiership.

His desire to please everyone, together with a disregard for honesty and truth, and a refusal to confront the details of issues, could lead him to give three different answers to the same question on any given day, depending on the questioner, and to deny on the following day that he had given these answers.

It’s hard to imagine almost any other senior politician doing as badly as Johnson when faced with the Covid crises. Seldon does however give him credit for his response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, which gave him his opportunity to do his Churchill impression on the world stage, and to make relatively simple decisions on black-and-white issues.

Overall, though, the impression that can be taken away from this book is that Johnson should never have become leader of the Conservative Party, still less Prime Minister. His character flaws make him totally unsuitable to hold any public office other than a ceremonial one such as the Mayor of London, where he was able to assemble a team of competent underlings to put his ideas into practice.

After reading this book, it is unbelievable to me that anyone can seriously still support this man as the political leader of the UK.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Why does art seem like a good investment?

It seems that the price for fine art continues to soar, with even relatively minor works by lesser-known names fetching ridiculously (“eye-watering” is the phrase du jour) prices. Buying a work of art now seems like a solid investment for the future – prices can only go up, can’t they?

When it comes to the bigger names in the art world, the prices get even more insane. I’ve just been looking at the catalogue of a Christie’s sale of contemporary art (not that I have any intention of buying any of this, but just to see what’s going on).

There’s a rather nice Hockney chalk drawing dating from the 1970s (I’m not reproducing it here for copyright reasons). It’s 65 x 50 cm – decent size, on good paper. Estimate at £300,000 to £500,000. It’s pleasant, I could certainly live with it on my wall, but not at that price (even if I had that sort of money to spare). But why is it so expensive?

I think that the clue lies in the details of the provenance supplied by the auction house:

M. Knoedler & Co, New York.
Private Collection.
Anon. sale, Sotheby’s New York, 5 May 1987, lot 227A.
Private Collection, Los Angeles.
Private Collection, Los Angeles.
Private Collection, London.
Paul Kasmin Gallery, New York.
Private Collection (acquired from the above in 2017).
Acquired from the above by the present owner.

Every time that the painting changes hands, it will go up in price (not necessarily in value, though, as I try to explain below). One reason is the commission that you pay as a seller, and another is the commission (and taxes) that you pay as a seller. For example, if I were to go mad, and spend £400,000 on this rather nice drawing, the estimated buyer’s premium (according to Christie’s) would be £104,000. That means a cool half-million for this little beauty.

Now, if I fall on hard times and decide that I want to recoup my costs, this thing has got to sell for the same amount (plus seller’s commission). Seller’s and buyer’s commission? Indeed so:

…a single Seller’s Commission rate for the services we provide. The commission is calculated on each item as a fixed percentage based on the eventual hammer price at auction. This rate includes marketing costs and insurance cover (except for Wine sales, where marketing and insurance are charged separately). If your item sells for over the high estimate we agree with you, there will also be an additional 2% Performance Commission fee.

You may also be charged for other external services such as shipping, restoration and framing, but these will be discussed and agreed with you beforehand. VAT (value-added tax) or applicable duties or taxes may be due on such fees based on the jurisdiction of the auction site.

and the poor soul who next falls in love with Hockney’s Celia is going to have to spend considerably more than the £500,000 I spent if I am to recoup my costs.

Does this mean that the Hockney in five years’ time will be worth more than I paid for it? Hardly – what it means is that Christie’s/Sotheby’s/Bonham’s/whoever are doing very nicely, thank you. And when you do this kind of calculation, and couple it to the greed and pride of the art collection world, you can quite understand how a rather small Lucian Freud oil (50 x 70 cm) can attract an estimate of between £3.5m and £5m.

What’s the answer? It would seem that avoiding the big names and the big auction houses is the first step for those of us who enjoy original art but can’t afford these prices (that is, 99% of art lovers). Of course, there are always the museums.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Here’s one I did earlier…

In 2012, I wrote a story for the benefit of a young lad who was going into hospital for a dreaded medical procedure. This was part of an anthology arranged by Jo, the Boss Bean of Inknbeans Press, for the son of one of her authors.

I’d forgotten all about it until now, and I recently discovered and re-read it, actually enjoying it. I’d forgotten the punchline, and it actually made me chuckle.

So… why not let the world have a look at it – for free? Here it is. Enjoy this short SF story.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

What have I been reading?

Like many people, I suppose, I have a pile of books by my bedside, one or two of which I am currently reading, some of which I have read, some I have part-read, and some I have the intention of reading some day.

This morning, I decided that I would take a look at the pile and make a list (in no particular order) of these books. Here we go (title capitalisation as on the spine where it is mixed or lower case):

From the Dreadnought to Scapa Flow (Vol 1) Arthur Marder
Redback Howard Jacobson
Blood on the Tracks Various (anthology)
Towards the End of the Morning Michael Frayn
Jonah and Co. Dornford Yates
The Smartest Guys in the Room Bethany McLean & Peter Elkind
Thomas Cromwell Tracy Borman
In cold blood Truman Capote
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell Susanna Clarke
what if? Randall Munroe
Cover Her Face P.D.James
The Rainmaker John Grisham
The Decameron (Vol I, Folio Society edition) Boccaccio
Henry VIII : King and Court Alison Weir
The Philosopher’s Pupil Iris Murdoch
Brit Wit Various
Picture Palace Paul Theroux
Clinging to the Wreckage John Mortimer
Eats, Shoots & Leaves Lynne Truss
Strong Poison Dorothy L. Sayers
Play All (library loan) Clive James
Augustus Allan Massie
The Dunwich Horror and other stories H.P.Lovecraft
Little, Big John Crowley (this was a present – unreadable for me)
Oswald Mosley Robert Skidelsky
The Tailor of Panama John le Carré

And what have I been reading recently on my Kobo (my current read-in-progress)? American Caesar by William Manchester (a biography of Douglas MacArthur).

So make of all these what you will.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Why don’t I watch films (or TV series)?

It’s true, I don’t really watch films very often. Name a film that “everybody” has seen, and the odds will be that I haven’t seen it, and I have no wish to see it. Same with TV series – I have never seen any episodes of many series that “everyone” has seen – Breaking Bad, Downton Abbey, Game of Thrones, etc.

I was asked why this was, when I read books (and write them as well!). I didn’t have an obvious answer at the time, but I think I have some answers now.

On-screen dialogue is often weaker than written

This often refers to the “film of the book”. A book can use more dialogue with a more complex structure than a film. Written dialogue in a novel is often more complex and less true to the way in which people actually talk than film or TV dialogue. This (a) provides a much deeper understanding of the character, and (b) the reader is able to revisit the conversation later on in the story to determine exactly what was meant by a character’s words.

I can put a book down and come back to it

I can’t do the same with films. Once a film has started, I become emotionally invested in it, and stopping or pausing breaks the flow. There aren’t many occasions when I have a couple of uninterrupted hours to lose myself in a film – but occasionally my wife and I will agree on something that we both want to watch all the way through. Not many of them, though.

I lose interest in films or series

With a few exceptions, series don’t hold my attention past four or five episodes. This may just be me, of course. Recently there have been a few exceptions – mostly catch-up on series I missed while I was out of the UK (I’ve subscribed to Britbox to pick up some references, though): the first series of Line of Duty; all of The Thick of It that I could find; and a lot of the first three series of Hustle. I loved the characters and the plotting of Hustle, Line of Duty because of great acting and plotting (though I’ve felt no wish to see any further series), and The Thick of It because I sort of identify with Malcolm Tucker, and I love this sort of politics. The US House of Cards and Veep didn’t do it for me, though and Borgen lost me after about two series.

There are a few others that I saw all the way through, but they tended to be based on real life situations: Inventing Anna, and Queen’s Gambit come to mind. Some time I will get round to the UK House of Cards, but I don’t really feel an urgent need to do so. And this brings me to another reason why I don’t watch films.

Films now are crap

I have zero or less than zero interest in Marvel or DC franchise films. I’ve seen two on plane journeys. That’s two too many (and one was Benedict Cumberbatch as Dr Strange). This seems to be half of the recent Hollywood releases. The other half are remakes of older films or “movies of the book” (see below). There are exceptions to this, of course, but they’re not subjects that appeal to me from their description, though I might actually enjoy them if I was dragged in to watch them.

I can watch a series of documentaries on the SAS, but the recent fictionalisation on BBC is basically military porn. Forget it, and the majority of formulaic crime series. And I really can’t be bothered to get into 30 years of missed backstory of Doctor Who, excellent though it may be.

The BBC SHERLOCK? Loved the first series, liked the second a lot, thought the third was crap and never bothered with the fourth.

The film of the book

“If you can sit and read a book, how is that different from watching a film of the book?” There’s no comparison. Part of the joy of reading a book for me is imagining the scenes and the characters. Even if they are minutely described in the book, they never match the film versions exactly. Description is part of a book’s appeal. There is no description in a film – the scene is handed to you on a plate, and there’s no room for imagination. Dialogue (see above) is often dumbed down, and the witty lines made in passing are highlighted so that you won’t miss them.

Two exceptions to screen versions of books: The McEwan/Scales/Hawthorne Mapp and Lucia. It’s not accurate in plotting, but the characterisation is lovely, and; the Granada/Brett Sherlock Holmes, which again fools with the plots, but the characterisation is wonderful. So perhaps it’s the lack of characterisation or the lack of fidelity to the written characters on screen versions that turns me off.

Interesting exception – Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell – the TV series took a few liberties with the plot (how could it not?) but at the same time, actually expanded the character of Mr Norrell, and made Jonathan Strange a more rounded figure in many ways. However, the Gentleman failed to impress, and of course, the whole business of the Raven King and the massive footnotes that make the book such a joy for me were necessarily lost. Also Good Omens (see my review here).

So… I’m not stretched enough by screen adaptations, with very few exceptions. Reading a book for me is an active experience – films and TV are passive. Is this Marshall McLuhan’s “hot” and “cool” media? I think so.

Summing up

A lot of (most?) people will disagree with me on most or even all of what I am saying. However, when I say I haven’t seen such-and-such a film or TV show, there are reasons that I believe to be valid why I haven’t done so. It’s not a value judgement on the production, or even on the medium, but a personal choice.

Comments welcome.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

The Bomber Mafia – Malcom Gladwell — REVIEW

I read a lot of history for fun. I’m interested in how we fight – what we fight with, and how we use these weapons, even though I am really a pacifist at heart. I’m especially interested in aeroplanes (airplanes to some of the world), and have been even more so since I took up scale modelling again during lockdown (current build is a 1/48 MiG-21MF (“Fishbed”) in Bundeswehr livery following German reunification).

So, when I saw Gladwell’s “Bomber Mafia” offered for sale, I actually bought a copy (we have a Waterstones in Lichfield at last!). I was disappointed. I’m not an expert in bombing tactics or strategy, but I flatter myself that I know more than the average bear.

So to read a book about “the bomber will always get through” without a mention of Douhet or Balbo and only a passing reference to Billy Mitchell seemed to me to be extraordinary. Instead, emphasis is placed on a small group of US Army aviators who are reported to have a belief in the ability of a small force of aircraft (even single plane) to perform precision bombing on a logistical Schwerpunkt such as a ball-bearing factory, thereby saving the lives of thousands by a surgical strike.

In this, the aviators would be aided by the Norden bombsight, designed by an eccentric monomaniac, described in loving detail in this book, which in theory would allow the placement of a bomb in a pickle barrel from 20,000 feet. In practice, of course, this proved completely unworkable. Winds, vibration, the difficulty of mass-producing a precision device, and human factors made it impossible to achieve this laudable goal (laudable because it would reduce the number of casualties needed to achieve a definitive war-winning result.

The British, of course, under “Bomber” Harris, scoffed at this utopian vision of warfare, and carpet-bombed German cities at night, when precision bombing was impossible. They looked at the American Schweinfurt-Regensburg raids which cost the USAAF over 60 planes and 500 men, while having results which were less than conclusive at best and wondered what the “Yanks” were playing at.

Curtis LeMay, a less than idealistic USAAF general, once he had been transferred to the Pacific theatre from Europe, decided that the best way to use the US military’s latest and most expensive project, the B-29 Superfortress, was to bomb the inflammable wood, straw and paper Japanese civilian cities with the newly invented napalm incendiaries which spilled sticky liquid fire over everything and everyone. They even built Japanese style urban dwellings to test the effectiveness of napalm.

Eventually, thanks to the discovery of the jet stream at the projected operating altitude of the B-29, these massive aircraft were sent night after night at low level to burn Japanese cities – and thousands upon thousands of Japanese civilians – indiscriminately to the ground.

But ultimately, the book somewhat underplays the horror of these mass killings, other than to describe them in American terms. The planes were so filled with the stench of burned human beings that they had to be disinfected after the missions.

And yet they continued, even after the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. As a professor of history recently said in a conversation with me about this book, one problem is “the pigheaded belief that if it was Americans committing the atrocities, that somehow meant they weren’t “atrocities””. Actually, LeMay is reported to have said that if the Allies lost the war against Japan, he would be tried and hanged as a war criminal. He was fully aware of the fact that he was burning thousands to death, and however much the Japanese were depersonalised as “yellow monkeys” and the like, he was aware of the crimes he was committing. No wonder he was satirised in Dr Strangelove as General Jack D. Ripper.

To me, the book started with a reasonable idea – the story of the precision bombing, but it was full of facts which are disputable (for example, in 1936, were variable-pitch airscrews really standard? Spitfires and Hurricanes didn’t get them until 1941). And the emphasis was on the wrong people in my opinion: Norden and Lindemann (Lord Cherwell) as examples. Not a recommended book if you know anything about WWII air power and strategy.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Overdoing it

depth photography of blue and white medication pill

This came to me in the wee small hours of this morning, almost fully-formed. We’ve just returned from a hotel holiday by the sea, and I’ve had a medical diagnosis which has been worrying. I think that many people when they are ill take advantage of their illness, consciously or not, and I wondered what it would be like if a naturally lazy and self-indulgent man became even more entrenched in his ways as a result of a vague medical condition.

“Shall we walk to Underdowne Sands today?” Jill said, taking another slice of toast and covering it with butter before sliding it under her fried egg, placing a rasher of bacon on top, and cutting off a less than delicate corner before conveying it to her mouth.
Her brother shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “How far is it? You know what the doctor said to me about overdoing things.” He stared resentfully at the untouched solitary poached egg that adorned his plate.
“I looked it up last night,” Jill said. “Three and a half miles along the cliff path. Or a little less if you go along the beach, and the beach would be flatter.”
“I’m sure that an hour’s walk wouldn’t be bad for you,” his wife, Lucy, told him. “I know Doctor Williams said that you shouldn’t overdo things, but he also said that you should get a bit of exercise. We’ll take it easy, and you can stop and take a rest whenever you need.”
“And there’s a café just outside Underdowne village which is meant to be really good,” Jill said. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Oh, very well,” Jack said.
The fourth member of the party, Alice, sat silently, eating her grilled tomato and mushrooms. She never said much anyway, so it was difficult for the others to know what she was thinking. As the unmarried sister of Jill’s late husband, Bob, she was invariably included as part of Jack and Jill’s family events, but there always seemed to be more than a whiff of condescending charity about the invitations.
Jack attacked his egg. He’d had a bad scare when he’d visited the doctor a couple of months previously with a mysterious pain less than a year after retiring from his job in the insurance company. He’d been relieved when the tests had showed that it wasn’t cancer, but even so, it seemed that something strange was going on inside him, and as he often reminded the others, he’d been warned not to “overdo things”.
If truth be told, Jack rather enjoyed being treated as an invalid. Lucy had always spoiled him a little anyway, fussing over him, making sure he was comfortable and that everything was the way he wanted it to be. He wasn’t ungrateful about that – far from it – but the doctor’s diagnosis had brought a new level of solicitude and care into his life. There was even a thrill, if he admitted it to himself, of danger – living close to the edge – which had never been a part of his previous existence.
Added to his natural hypochondria, which had seen him take to his bed on more occasions than many would have considered necessary, this change to his medical condition suited him very well indeed, thank you.
He was lucky, he thought to himself, chasing the remains of the egg yolk around the plate with a corner of dry toast from which his wife had thoughtfully and wordlessly removed the crusts, with Lucy. And with Jill, as well. Some people seemed unable to appreciate their brothers and sisters, but Jill and he had always got on fine, and had been proud of the other’s achievements at school, college, and work, and had divided the chores associated with looking after their elderly parents equally between them. There was an unspoken agreement between James and Gillian (who had been “Jack” and “Jill” almost since they were born) that they were good for each other.

Half an hour later, the party of four assembled on the steps of the hotel, with the three women wearing sensible shoes and thin sweaters. Jack was dressed as if for an assault on an Antarctic mountain.
Jill laughed at the sight. “Jack! You’re going to roast in that lot. We’re going for a stroll along the beach in England in July, not hunting polar bears or penguins or something.”
“I told him,” Lucy said to her. “But he wouldn’t listen.” But there was no malice in the words, almost a quiet pride in Jack’s stubbornness.
“I can always take something off,” Jack answered her. “And if any of you ladies get cold, as I’m sure you will, that’s exactly what I’ll end up doing, lending you my coat and sweater.”
“Oh, don’t be so silly,” his sister told him. “Off we go.”
She strode off, swinging the Alpine walking sticks that Jack and Lucy had given her for her birthday some years ago. The others followed in her wake.
They reached the beach to discover that the tide was in and they would have to find a path through the rocks and boulders above the high water mark, rather than on the firm sand that would have been exposed at low tide.
“This isn’t easy,” Lucy said, after a few minutes.
“It’s not,” Jack agreed. “I think this comes into the category of overdoing it.”
“Wait for poor Alice,” Lucy said. Her sister-in-law was some hundred yards behind them, making slow progress as she picked her way between the rocks. “I’ll go and fetch her.”
Jack perched on the edge of a large rock and caught his breath. “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he said.
“Well, there’s always the cliff path,” Jill replied, pointing upwards.
Jack groaned. “I’m not sure I can make it up there.”
“Of course you can. You lead and set the pace, then we’ll be sure we won’t be going too fast for you. Here, have one of my sticks.”
As she passed the stick over to him, Lucy and Alice joined them.
“Sorry,” said Alice. “I was looking at some of the plants growing on the rocks back there.” She was looking flushed and was breathing quite heavily.
“I didn’t mean to rush you, Alice,” Lucy said to her. “Sorry if I made you catch up a bit fast.”
“Oh, it’s all right. Just not very used to walking on stones like this. It’s a bit different from Edgbaston, isn’t it?”
“Will you be all right if we go up the cliff path?” Jill asked her. “It will be a bit longer, but I think the views will be lovely once we get up there. Jack will lead, so we don’t go too fast for him.”
“I think I can manage that,” Alice told her. “I’m ready to go on. Sorry, everybody.”
Jack strode off. Not too fast, he told himself. Remember what the doctor said about not overdoing things. With the staff in his hand, and the three women following him, he felt almost mythic. A sort of tribal leader, guiding his people. So, his body might be weak, but he had a mighty spirit, didn’t he? He breathed in the sea air as he started to climb the cliff path. It wasn’t too bad, actually. The path was clearly marked and quite smooth. There were even handrails in places. He strode on, the staff digging into the chalky soil as he climbed.
He started to hum wordlessly to himself, and suddenly recognised the tune. “Onward Christian Soldiers” – now where had that come from? He hadn’t been in a church since… since his brother-in-law Bob’s funeral, and he couldn’t remember that they’d sung that then.
“Are you all right?” Lucy’s voice came from behind him. “Need to rest?”
“I’m fine,” he said, stopping, “but it might be nice to have a bit of a breather. Did you bring the water bottle? I’m a bit dry.”
“Take off that thick jacket, then,” suggested Lucy. “I’ll carry it for you.”
“Thanks.” He shrugged his way out of the expensive insulated breathable windproof waterproof jacket that he’d bought specially for this trip.
“What a view!” Jill exclaimed, looking out over the bay. It really was wonderful, Jack had to agree. The sun was starting to burn through the mist, and the windows of the town below were shining in the sun.
“Where’s Alice?” Lucy asked.
“Here I am,” came a small voice from the path below them. “Sorry again, everybody.” Alice’s little round red face appeared from behind a gorse bush. “I just had to catch my breath a bit.”
“Oh dear, are you all right?”
“I’m fine now.”
“Do you want to rest a little more before we set off again?”
“I’m OK, really.”
Jack felt a little aggrieved. After all, it was he who had been told to not overdo things and to watch his health.
Almost angrily, he set off up the track with deliberate strides, going a little faster than before. By the time he had reached the top of the cliff, he was blowing hard, and felt the need to sit down.
Lucy caught up with him a minute or so later. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked, with obvious concern in her voice.
“I’ll be okay,” he replied in a martyred tone. “Just a bit winded, that’s all. Did you remember to bring those pink pills with you?”
“I’ve got all your medicines with me in my bag,” his wife told him. “I know you never remember to bring them with you when we go out. Here you are.”
“Water,” he demanded, putting the tablet in his mouth.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” He might be unwell, but that was no reason to be ungracious, he said to himself.
Alice and Jill appeared at the top after a while.
“The view’s even better from up here,” Alice said, looking around. To Jack’s relief, she seemed to have recovered completely from whatever it was which had affected her earlier.
“You’re looking better,” Lucy told her.
“Second wind,” Alice said. “Anyone want a bit?” holding out a bar of Kendal mint cake.
“Lovely, thank you,” said Jill, taking a piece.
“Thank you, Alice,” said Jill.
“I’d better not,” said Jack, “after what the doctor told me about eating too much sugar. Especially if we’re going to have a cake or something when we get to that café you were talking about.” Time for him to reassert his place as the invalid of the party now that Alice seemed to have recovered. “Just give me a couple more minutes before we set off again.”
“Take as long as you need,” Alice said to him.
The cheek of it! After waiting for her to catch up, three times now, she was the one who was telling him to rest. “Perhaps you’d like to go in front?” he suggested, more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“No, it’s best if you lead,” she said.
At least there was that. He heaved himself to his feet, with Lucy giving him a hand, and set off along the cliff path. The sun was shining now, and even without his jacket, which Lucy was carrying for him, he was still too warm, but he decided to say nothing, although the sweat was now running down his face.
“You’re looking very hot, dear,” Lucy said to him when he paused and looked back at his followers. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. How much further?” he asked Jill, who was looking at the map on her phone.
“Another mile or so to the village. The café’s a few hundred yards inland from the rest of the village. Perhaps another thirty minutes. Can you manage?”
“Of course I can,” he replied indignantly. But despite the indignation, it was nice, he told himself, to be treated as the member of the party who needed the care and attention of the others. This was the compensation for being an invalid. Almost made it worthwhile.
He started to hum to himself again, and to his surprise heard Alice’s voice singing along.
“Like a mighty tortoise,
Moves the church of God.
Brothers, we are treading
Where we’ve always trod.”
“Where did you learn that, Alice?” Jill asked, laughing.
“At the Diocesan Synod,” Alice said. “From one of the assistant bishops, actually.”
“I never knew bishops had that sort of sense of humour.”
“You’d be surprised,” Alice told her.
They reached the village. A bowl of muesli with plain yoghurt, one poached egg and a slice of dry toast seemed a long time ago, and a cup of decent coffee and a slice of cake sounded like a wonderful idea.
The café, which was only a few hundred yards up the road from the village, was appropriately Olde Worlde. There was a table in the garden, pleasantly shaded by a fig tree, and the waitress took their orders for two lattes (Jill and Alice), a cappuccino (Lucy), and an americano (Jack, reluctantly) and cakes.
While they were waiting for their order, “Just look at those roses,” Lucy said, admiringly. She had a passion for roses. The flowerbeds in the garden at home were filled with them. She got up, and Jill joined her as they walked over to the flowerbed.
“I’ll stay here and wait for them to bring the order,” Alice said. “Don’t be too long, or the coffee will get cold.”
Jack said nothing, but closed his eyes. He felt weary. He seemed to become tired and want to sleep more than he ever had done before the diagnosis. Slowing down, he told himself. Perfectly natural. But it was very nice to be able to do nothing, and for the illness, whatever it might be, to take responsibility for it.
A slight clinking of china and silverware told him that the drinks had arrived, and he heard Alice’s voice explaining which coffee and which cake went where. No need for him to open his eyes. He drifted away, listening to the sound of the bees in the lavender, a pigeon cooing somewhere close by, and a tractor somewhere in the distance… Thanks to the tablets he’d taken earlier in the day, he felt no pain…

He was woken by Lucy shaking him and shouting at him, “Wake up, you lazy lump!” There was a hysterical scream which he recognised as Jill’s voice.
Lazy? Him? Lazy? Why, he’d led them on this morning’s trek, hadn’t he? Lucy never used that sort of language to him. He opened his eyes. Lucy was standing in front of him.
“What’s the matter? If the coffee’s gone cold, we could get another one.”
“Look!” Jill shrieked at him. Lucy moved to one side. He could now see the waitress who had taken their order, bending over Alice, who was slumped over the table, her face half-buried in the slice of chocolate cake in front of her. “She’s dying, you fat fool!” his sister said. “And you just sat there and did nothing!”
“I… I…” He stopped. “Dying?”
“There’s a very weak irregular pulse, said the waitress. “I was a nurse, and I know what I’m looking for. I’m so sorry. I’ve called 999 but God only knows how long it will take for them to get here from the town. I’m so sorry,” she repeated.
“Did you really not notice anything?” his sister asked Jack. “You really are bloody useless, aren’t you?”
“I was asleep, I suppose. You know how easily I get tired with this condition and all.”
He felt a strong resentment against Alice. He had been supposed to be the invalid, not her. With a sudden stab of self-knowledge, he realised he’d never be able to rely on Lucy, or Jill for that matter, to sympathise with him again.
“Sorry,” he said, but if his apology was heard, it went un-noted.
There was a hostile silence as the women raised Alice back in her chair. The waitress disappeared and returned with a bowl and a damp cloth which she used to wipe Alice’s face gently. The bees still hummed, and the pigeon still cooed, but the sound of the tractor had been replaced by the distant sound of an approaching ambulance siren. Other than that, the brittle silence prevailed.
At length, the ambulance arrived, and the paramedics skilfully bundled Alice onto the stretcher. “We’ll give her oxygen,” one of them told Jill. “There’s an excellent chance of her survival, I’d say.”
“We’re going to the hospital,” Lucy told Jack, “Jill and me.”
“And me?”
“You’re going back to the hotel.”
“Walking? In my cond—” He broke off. His trump card had been out-trumped.
“Yes. Walking. Here’s your coat. And your bloody pills. And your water bottle. And all of your other crap I’ve been carrying for you.”
And with that, they were off in the ambulance.
And just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse…
“I know you didn’t drink your coffees and eat the cakes, and of course I’m terribly sorry about what happened to your friend, but I really do have to ask you to pay for them.”
It was the last straw. Lucy was the one who carried their money. He tried to explain, and ended up breaking down. Life was just so unfair.

Sadly, I do recognise some of myself in Jack – but I’m not that bad. Honestly.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton

Nostalgia – a British disease?

There seems to have been a lot of this sort of thing recently on Twitter, etc.

You were lucky. We lived for three months in a rolled-up newspaper in a septic tank. We used to have to get up every morning at 6 o’clock and clean the newspaper, go to work down t’ mill, fourteen hours a day, week-in week-out, for sixpence a week, and when we got home our Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt.

“The Four Yorkshiremen” sketch – Monty Python

We have a cost-of-living crisis in this country. Energy (gas and electricity) prices have soared to unimaginable levels. Food in the shops has become more expensive. Petrol prices have gone up, meaning that everything costs more. Many now have the choice between eating and heating – it’s not possible to afford both.

And yet, there are still those on Twitter who are saying that living in an unheated house with inadequate sanitation etc. “never did me any harm”. Actually, while it may not have done the writers of these tweets any harm, the average life expectancy has gone up by about 10 years. If the standard of living had been as high then as it is now, they might have enjoyed their grandparents’ or parents’ company for ten years more. The “good old days” were not all good. But let’s not argue about the causes and remedies of this present disaster. This is a symptom of a more general condition – instant nostalgia, and in many cases, I think it’s a peculiarly British phenomenon.

I recently went into a Waterstones nearby (The Royal Town of Sutton Coldfield, if you want to know) to promote my latest, On the Other Side of the Sky, and see if they would (a) take a copy or two, and (b) agree to a book event.

As it turned out, I ended up talking to a very sympathetic and friendly man, and we ended up talking “local authors”. Apparently, the most popular local author genre is “the hard times I experienced while I was growing up”. The French call this nostalgie de la boue (nostalgia for mud) as exemplified in the four Yorkshiremen above. This is apparently what fills the shelves marked “Local Author”.

As a footnote, he did order one copy of On the Other Side of the Sky and said that he would order more if there seemed to be a demand. If anyone reading this is from Sutton or the neighbourhood, and feels that they need something different in the way of reading material, please feel free to pop into Waterstones and ask for a copy.

But I digress… When the first effects of Brexit started to strike (empty supermarket shelves, etc.) social media was full of people talking about “Blitz spirit” and so on. Most of these people were born long after the 1939-45 conflict, and had no idea what actually went on. Even today, it’s hard to find unromanticised accounts of the British reaction to the German air-raids. There was a class divide – the rich stayed safely underground in wine cellars of their clubs and hotels, the poor huddled under corrugated iron sheets with a few spadefuls of earth on top. That is, until there were riots demanding that the Underground stations be opened as shelters.

And even then, life wasn’t exactly all “White Cliffs of Dover” happy singsongs.

…there was widespread looting during the war. In 1940 there 4,584 cases of looting in London alone. People would come back to their bombed out houses to find their belongings stripped from the rooms. The black market in stolen goods and ration coupons was so widespread that the ‘spivs’ who operated it became a national obsession.

https://www.counterfire.org/articles/history/14482-the-real-blitz-spirit

The happy days of evacuee children leading an idyllic existence in the countryside, far from the falling bombs and the dirt and grime of the big cities? Quite a few were abused, or used as virtual slaves by their “hosts” – it wasn’t all roses.

And of course, the grinding hunger and cold. The misery of blackouts (and how many crimes went unnoticed and unreported in the dark?).

Of course, it wasn’t all misery, but it seems to me that there is a hunger which is especially British for a past that was actually pretty crappy, but we have chosen to hang Union Jacks over the mouldy patches on the wall and glorify the days of WWII, the Thatcher/Falklands years, and no doubt in 20 years’ time, those who are children now will look back with nostalgia on the days when “we had to huddle in blankets and eat cold baked beans because we couldn’t afford the gas bill. We had it tough, not like the kids today”.

As far as I can tell, such a nostalgia is particularly endemic to Britain (or possibly even to England). Yes, other countries may regret the passing of older, simpler times, but I don’t think they glorify ice-topped toilets over central heating, or mouldy carrots over the range of vegetables that were available pre-Brexit (the range has been reduced). This seems to be a particularly British form of masochistic fantasy. I’ll be interested to hear others’ comments.

Anyway, I shall continue my own forms of nostalgia, for times and places that never were, and were never intended to be, outside the pages of my writing.

Posted on by Hugh Ashton