I’ll begin, if you’ll indulge me, with an extract from the Introduction to William Wordsworth’s The Prelude, which speaks strongly to the reason TLC and I find ourselves up in the Lakes time and again. Willie was from around these parts, of course—educated in Hawkshead, lived and worked in Grasmere—so he understands the draw of this wild and beautiful place.
The earth is all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!
That’s as highbrow as you’ll get this week.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
By the time you read this, TLC, Harvette and I will be heading north, up to a real happy place for us—Coniston. As such, normal service has been interrupted for the week. However, as I hate to leave you all hanging, a bit of a free form infodump to keep you all up to date.
To start, and for background, here’s a primer on what we’ll be up to this week, based on our last visit to the Lakes two years ago.
Meanwhile, the Autumn/Winter term at Reading Writers kicked off on Wednesday with a session on the craft and publication of poetry. Which sure yes OK, sounds a little dry. In practice, with the expert guidance of actual poet Katherine Meehan, the evening was a warm and joyful experience. Geeky, yes. It’s a room full of writers talking about writing, after all. Another one of my happy places.
Anyway. There was a prompt writing exercise at the end of the night. Katherine passed out tarot cards and over the course of three exercises, teased us into writing some pomes.
Here’s my card.
And here’s what I came up with.
My father told a story Of a garden constellation That he found one golden autumn In a corner of his field
Seven stars all in a cluster Scattered all across the spinach And he stood and contemplated His bizarre celestial yield.
So he hung them in a garland Up above the farmhouse lintel And they shone there till the skies fell And the heavens brought them home
So we toil and work and suffer But the memory keeps us shining Of the stars my father brought us From the great celestial dome.
So. Yeah. that happened. I’m a poet now.
A few life notes.
The best thing we ate this week was a sneaky little weeknight gnocchi hack from the New York Times. Do not, for the love of all things holy, use brussel sprouts. Broccoli works brilliantly. Take the time to get the gnocchi crispy. It’s well worth it.
We’re watching season 2 of Colin From Accounts and season 375 of Taskmaster. TLC has got into the Aimee Lee Wood and David Morrisey comedy Daddy Issues, which is utterly hilarious. I’ve been notified that the Apple+ show Bad Monkey is showrun by the guy behind Ted Lasso from a novel by Carl Hiassen, so that will need watching. The weather is closing in. It’s telly time.
Prime Reading continues to be a source of useful comics goodness. I’ve just found out that all ten volumes of Jason Aaron and R. M. Guéra’s Scalped is up on the service. A black-hearted, blood-red noir set on a Native American reservation, it’s tight, sharp, twisty and nasty—you know, in a good way. Brilliantly written and illustrated, moves like a truck, kicks like a mule oh look you get the idea. If you enjoyed Justified, you’ll frickin love this.
Oh, and I have a low-key obsession to share.
This is apparently a thing on the TubeGrams…
Which naturally brought me here. Delicious.
And we Outro on a high. An utter gem of British variety programming from the 70s, please enjoy Marti Caine tearing the room up with her disco version of a folk rock classic. You won’t be feelin’ low after this.
The Paralympics have been a complete lock on our telly screen this week, for good reason. Drama, tension, comedy, tragedy, triumph and defeat, all played out across the stadia of Paris thanks to Channel Four’s exemplary stewardship. It has been an incredible week, with Team GB blasting past their previous medal total. It’s been fascinating to see how the old guard, legends like David Weir and Laura Muir, have fallen back while exciting new names have stepped up to the podium. The banner has been passed. It is being held high. What a week. What a show. What a tournament.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
The crushing inevitability of next year’s Oasis reunion finally dropped with a clang this week. Once Blur did Wembley Stadium it was only a matter of time, a poker game of bluff, hold and raise until all interested parties came up with a number they could live with. This is a nostalgia-fuelled cash grab, whatever you think of the band and their music. I’m not going to snark, though. Oasis are beloved by millions, and I’d be every colour of cunt if I judged anyone by the tunes that bring them joy. If you’ve been going through the hoops of trying to get tickets this morning, I hope you got the venue and seats you wanted. Me? I’m waiting for the World Of Twist reunion.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
It’s sunflower season. Well, actually, it’s everything season, as the garden reacts to the hot wet weather with an explosion of fecundity. My cucumber plants, grown late from seed and slow to start, have filled the greenhouse in the space of a week. Our trug, which I planted with two tiny squash plants, is invisible under a ramble of greenery and fruit. The brambles from next door which I’ve somehow managed to keep in check this year have rewarded my patience with great heaped handfuls of sweet, finger-staining blackberries.
And of course, the sunflowers, high and proud, shining in late summer sunshine, some taller than me. In February they were seeds in a packet. Now they are a spectacular show. A little time, a tiny bit of effort and here we are, nodding along to each other, shoulders back and chins high.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
After last week’s adventures, my poor old brain has insisted on a reset. Consequentially, it’s a short chapter this week. I’ll regroup next week with a less scattershot offering.
This week: early rising, a Frasier murder mystery and the greatest Emmy acceptance speech ever.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
These are the strange times. The dog days. Summer is in full swing, yet at the time of writing (Thursday afternoon, a quiet time after work, TLC working away upstairs, Millie in the conservatory snoozing while pretzeling herself into increasingly impossible contortions) it is wet and windy and—well, a bit blah, frankly. Post-anniversary blues, I suppose, with our next break a whole (checks diary) SIX WEEKS AWAY! How are we to cope? When shall we breathe fresh Northern air again?
Oh well, at least the roads are quiet.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
I woke up on Friday morning seriously expecting the worst of news. That somehow, despite all reasonable predictions, the country had managed to fuck itself over once again. I still remember the day after the Brexit vote, reading the news in the small cottage where we were holidaying up in the hills above Coniston in the Lake District, wondering if it wouldn’t be better if we just never came back down the steep stone track again.
Sanity, this time, has prevailed, and the sorry bunch of chancers, incompetents and conmen who have blighted the UK’s economic social and moral landscape for the last fourteen years have been kicked unceremoniously into the long grass. Sadly, characters like Lord Scarecrow Jacob Rees-Mogg will be unaffected by their fall from grace. A little humiliation in the local sports hall, then off to have a little cry in their beds stuffed with money, It was all a game to them, a chance to extort power and money from the little people. We were ruled by vampires, and too weak from blood loss to do much about it.
In the end, I guess we have to thank that ridiculous ham left out in the rain Alexander Boris De Pfeffel Johnson for the slow slide back into reason. If this was the sort of person the Tories thought was suitable for power, what did that say about them as a party, as a government, as human beings? From Johnson, found guilty of contempt and ejected by the same people who made him leader, it was a short and very bumpy run to BDSM-bot Liz Truss and finally, lastly and leastly, personality vacuum and nightmare gnome Rishi Sunak. Calling a snap election was the smartest thing he ever did. Pull the ripcord, jump out of the plane before it goes into the side of the mountain. He’s already quit the Tory leadership. I give it six months before he gives up his constituency and fucks off back to America. Sooner if the new team revoke non-dom status for creatures like his parasite wife.
To today, then. Rainy with the occasional shots of sunshine. That’s probably a good metaphor for the coming months. There’s a broken country to heal which takes time and yes, money. Let’s hope we start taxing those who can more than afford it and start taking better care of the vulnerable. Which, let’s face it, after the last near-decade and a half of battering, is most of us. I dunno about you, but I feel bruised and banged up.
I hope for change. I’ll settle for better. For now, at least, hope is back on the agenda, and that’s a feeling I really, really miss.
Sorry, rant over. Let’s have some links.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
I didn’t expect the new pool at Reading’s Rivermead Leisure Centre to be a place where I would be shockingly reminded of my own mortality. I like a bit of a swim, and thought the facility would be a grand place to get back into the habit. The problem was, I booked a fitness session by accident, and found myself trapped in a lane where there was no real chance to take it at an easy pace. Every time I turned I was faced by a determined-looking pensioner bearing down on me disapprovingly.
Readership, I lasted twenty minutes, and five of those were me perched on the side of the pool trying not to cough up a lung. When a concerned lifeguard came up and asked if I was OK, I knew I’d over-extended.
I’ll be back, but making darn sure to to book a gentler session. Obviously, I’ve been spoiled by empty hotel pools for far too long. Once my shoulders have fully popped back into their sockets, that is…
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
A busy old week, what with writing triumphs and social gatherings and an emergency plumber call out just when I was getting cocky. Things never run as smoothly as they could (including the first draft of Chapter 21, lost in a version conflict—gods I love repeating myself) ,so you might as well just enjoy the ride.
This chapter brings you alien tacos, the attempt to steal Graceland and a very insistent seagull.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 