Northumberland is border country, and normal rules barely apply. It’s wild land, rugged but beautiful, a place where authority has always struggled to assert itself. One of the most famous hard borders in the world is here — George RR Martin was hardly the first person to come up with the notion of a defensive wall between the ‘civilised’ south and the ‘untamed’ north. Rievers, bandits and scallywags roamed free across a landscape called, with no lack of irony, The Debatable Lands.
Here the borders between past and present seem thinner, too. Walking a path across fields hemmed by dry stone walls, or simply gazing out over a landscape where human intervention is barely visible, it’s easy to think you’re looking at the same view people from hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago, would recognise.
But be careful, student of history. What you’re looking at and what you’re looking for are not the same thing.
Featured image: The Great Hall At Wallington, Northumberland. All picures by yours truly.
At the Reading Writers Winter Social this week, a conclusion was reached – we are in the December doldrums. Consider: it’s been nothing but Christmas since the first of November. You can see the pinched tension in the eyes of every retail worker following six solid weeks of Now That’s What I Call Christmas playing at heavy rotation level on the store stereo. This week is peak works do, making it nearly impossible to pop out for an impromptu bite to eat or quick pint without a crush and a twenty minute wait at the bar. And we’re still two weeks away from the main event. It’s not surprising we’re all suffering from shell shock.
Of course, as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, this is old news for us December babies. We are sadly doomed to play second fiddle to everyone else’s good time. That’s if we’re even considered at all. I have dark memories of birthday drinks where a tiny minority (and on one particularly bleak occasion, no-one) showed up. So much for your special day. And folks wonder why I get grumpy at this time of year.
And this is just the background to the sad truth about every birthday, which becomes ever more apparent once you hit your half-century. You start to hear the clock ticking in lockstep with the creak of your bones and the twangs and clunks coming out of your muscles. One step closer to the grave. Here’s a card and a ten pound TK Maxx voucher. Happy bloody merry.
Oh look, this makes me sound like Scrooge on steroids. I know I’m not the only one who struggles at this time of the season for whatever reason, and melancholy in December is hard-wired into us as the weather turns and the nights overtake the days. But I have to be honest, forced jollity never sits well with me. I don’t look good in a Santa hat and have a low tolerance for carols.
But I am also happy to let others get their jingle on. I internalise my humbug. And of course there are brighter spots. After all, I love Cheeselets and Christmas Pud and day-drinking. Seasonal survival tactics mean leaning into the stuff I enjoy, and away from Whamageddon and dreadful jumpers and the tired argument about whether Die Hard is a Yuletide movie. No thanks. Pour me another port, pass the Celebrations and put Bad Santa on.
Would I feel differently about the whole situation if I was a June baby? I don’t think so. Although I enjoy the excuse to cocoon (I still have yet to receive a reasonable explanation for why winter hibernation is not an option) I prefer warmth and sunshine and greenery. When TLC and I were first married, we’d regularly go on winter sun holidays to the Canary Islands and Ibiza. I miss that. Gintonics on a sunny balcony overlooking the sea in February? Dozing by the pool with a good book while the storms lash at jolly old England hundreds of miles away? Come on, what’s not to love?
But you have to play with the hand you’re dealt, and mine is a hard thirteen. So I’m refusing to mope or gloom this year. Plans are in place. We’re spending the birthday night in a hotel, enjoying a nice meal, and seeing the lights in That London. Cocktails will be ordered. Sure, it’ll be busy. Yes, it’ll be expensive. But it’ll be me and my very love, finding the joy in our own quiet way. And what could be more Christmassy than that? Look, it could be worse. I could be like my sis-in-law Sarah or pal Kate – a Christmas Day or New Year’s Eve baby. Now that really would suck.
Sorry, both. But I will be there for your celebrations. We children of the dark times have to stick together.
To finish, let’s play the only Christmas song which accurately portrays my feelings about this time of year. It’s become traditional to have it as the Outro for the last post before X-Day, but let’s move things forward a week or so. .
See you next Saturday for the last Swipe of the year!
Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before. There’s this guy who works with computers, a software developer. As part of his duties, he has to interrogate the equipment, a quality control pass to make sure the program is working within normal parameters. He discovers, or realises, or believes, his particular piece of software is not only over-performing—it has developed a soul.
We’re told to go out. We’re told to stay in. We’re told we can gather in groups. No, not that many people. The Situation changes with every passing day. Is there nothing on which you can depend?
Just us, o Readership. The Cut’s record of dependability, of delivering what we say when we say, speaks for itself. That’ll probably fall over next week. Until it does we are the only publication you can trust.
This week, free jazz against fascism, the joy of rice and a profile of the actor everyone hated. Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
A wide-ranging music section this week. We begin in Tupelo, the town with a righteous claim to fame–it’s produced more Elvis tribute artists than anywhere else. What, you think they just come out of thin air? There’s training involved here, folks! There’s hairstyle instruction! It’s a competitive field, and the rewards are manifold…
It would be easy to diss Mariah Carey. She is a figure ripe for parody and ridicule. But that hasn’t stopped her from becoming an iconic singer and recording artist with a trunkful of hits. She’s also done it her way, writing her own tunes and living her life as it suits her best. You may not be a fan of her music, but after reading this Vulture profile you may be more appreciative of the woman.
Marc Bolan was the very definition of the star that shone brightly for far too short a time. A prime architect of glam rock, an early and enthusiastic supporter of punk rock and the guy who could rock a feather boa like no-one else. With the release of a covers album of his music, Alexis Petrides looks at the man and the glitter bomb he exploded over the seventies. There’s even a helpful Spotify playlist of deep cuts to get you in the mood.
To close out the music section, a quick look at a loose but ferocious collection of musicians using free jazz as a form of anti-fascist protest in Denmark. We can’t help but think bringing the noise is an excellent way of turning the tables on a very nasty resurgence in far-right agitation.
Right, we’ve got the tunes, let’s head to the kitchen. Who here likes fried rice? Mmhmm, thought so. How about pancakes? Yes, as expected. In that case, my hungries, have we got a treat for you!
For such a simple food, rice is surprisingly contetious. We linked in Issue 12 to the irascible Uncle Roger and his horrified reaction to Western takes on egg fried rice. Best not to get involved in any discussion on jollof–as Jamie Oliver discovered, the one point on which Ghanaian and Nigerian opinion meshes on the subject is how badly he messed up the iconic African rice dish when he tried to make it. The Guardian looks more closely at one of the world’s staple foods, and how different cultures treat the grain.
Yes, yes, we know, a lot of Guardian links in this week’s Cut. We will not apologise for including this brilliant piece on rewilding farmer Derek Gow. Pressure on the land has never been higher as an increasing population demands cheap food. Returning rural landscapes to a better natural balance instead of trying and failing to bend it to our will has real and quick-to-see benefits for everyone and everything. Bring back the beavers!
We start our entertainment section with a review of a movie featuring an absolute cracker of a cast. Who wouldn’t want to see an action thriller starring John Rhys-Davies, Laura Dern and George Clooney? Grab your popcorn and settle back, Readership. Let’s enjoy Grizzly 2!
Hannah Berry is Britain’s current Comics Laureate. Her work is funny, sharply-crafted and thoughtful. In this article for the British Council, she’s clear-eyed but sombre on the state of the comics nation and the challenges anyone who wants to make a living in the Realm of The Ninth Art will face. Now more than ever, it’s tough to be a star of the gutters. As Jack Kirby said, ‘comics will break your heart.’
Rex Harrison made a living portraying a particular kind of Englishman–the stiff upper lip personified. A little cold, emotionally distant but with a warm core. Away from the stage and cinema screen, Harrison was all that and less, with hardly any sense of redeeming features. The warmth he brought to his roles was replaced by a block of ice. In short, he was a monster and universally disliked. Graham McCann profiles him for the British Comedy Guide. We remain astonished that he got as far as he did with the attitude he presented to the world.
One for the writers among us. Punctuation is a vital part of clear communication–the difference between ‘let’s eat, Grandma’ and ‘let’s eat Grandma.’ For many, though, proper punctuation is just not that big a deal. Why sweat a misplaced apostrophe? We at The Cut understand both stances, realising that language is an ever-changing situation. It’s still important to understand the rules in order to break them, we feel. And a little historical perspective never hurt. Therefore, although we appreciate this is not for everyone, we urge you to check this look at the history and evolution of punctuation.
This week’s Exit Music is brought to you by the NPR Tiny Desk Concert series. Or rather, the new iteration now that musical artists can’t cram into Bob Boilen’s office to play and sing. The acclaimed series of short, intimate shows is now being recorded by musicians at home, but it was clear viewers missed the iconic backdrop of shelves crammed with memorabilia.
How then, do Billie Eilish and her brother Finneas look as if they’re in Seattle as they present two recent songs? The answer is refreshingly low-tech, and worth sticking around to the end to see. Also, we like Billie’s way with a tune.
Thirteen weeks of this foolishness! The smart move would be to bail while there’s a scrap of dignity left to wrap around our scrawny thews. But no, that is not how we operate, as well you know. Therefore, o our Readership, the luck is all good for you. Enjoy this week’s slumgullion of linky loveliness.
Come on, we’re all friends now. Say it with me.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
I consider myself a romantic. As a long-term SF addict, my sense of wonder is sharply honed, and I love my wife with a passion that can reshape continents. But the notion of Valentine's Day, and the industry it supports, has largely passed me by. Continue reading The Machinery Of Romance
The UK Government's attempts to nanny up the images that we are allowed to make and view just took a new and twisted turn. Under amendments to the outdated Obscene Publications Act, which have already passed the Lords and become law on December 1st, there's about to be a major clampdown on the legality of extreme imagery—one that should worry every British film-maker.
I've made my disapproval of state control on the moving image clear in the past. If people want to bring a camera into the bedroom, that's their business. But, in using worries over child porn to pass ever more restrictive legislation, lawmakers have gone too far.
The existing rules are already open to abuse, and cases with laughably thin evidence have already gone to court—thankfully, usually to be thrown out. A recent case featuring an unfortunate young man found to have a beastiality video on his phone hit the headlines when the animal in question turned out to be a bloke in a tiger suit, who finished off with a cheery thumbs up and a Tony The Tiger-style “that's grrrreat!” Hilarious, right? Not for the poor sod in question, who lost his job and suffered two years of approbrium. Turns out the film was sent to him by a mate. I wonder how strong that friendship turned out to be…
The new amendments seek to legalise (gee thanks) the depiction of normal sexual activity on screen. And therein lies the problem, of course, because we now have a government intent in codifying what constitutes normal sexual activity and criminalise anything that isn't—at least, on screen. God help you if you like a bit of bondage and the rules and safe words that you and your partner worked out in advance aren't on there at the beginning as a kind of censor's warning.
So let's look at those amendments, just in case you think I'm over-egging the pudding. The new restrictions make it illegal to show torture with instruments, bondage with no clear sign of consent, realistic depictions of rape, and dismemberment. Which are terms so vaguely drawn that they could describe almost anything. Certainly, most horror movies made in the last 50 years fall into those definitions in one way or another. As does art-house fare like Gaspar Noe's Irreversible and Lars Von Trier's Anti-Christ. As does the work of prominent directors like Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese. As does last week's episode of Marvel's Agents Of SHIELD. As do recent episodes of Eastenders. At a rough count, thirteen nominees for the Best Picture Oscar over the last 20 years would be illegal under these new laws, including five winners and the current holder of the award, Steve McQueen's 12 Years A Slave. In short, any film that shows any gore other than a gunshot squib or a blood-pack stabbing, or any captive tied up against their will will be subject to prosecution under these new laws.
Except, of course, there's a handy little out-clause. Anything with a BBFC certification is exempt from the rules. Hollywood breathes a sigh of relief. But where does that leave the film-makers who choose not to go through the hoops and expense of the Soho Square tango for a short film they made for zero budget in their shed? Where does that leave the horror enthusiasts who show at festivals like Horror-On-Sea or Grimm Up North? Where does that leave talented film-makers like my mate Mike Tack, whose work is based on just the kind of extreme imagery that Westminster wants to ban?
The law as it stands has sent innocent people to jail and ruined their lives for entirely consensual activities. Now that law is tightening its grip on independent film-makers who choose to use rubber and corn syrup, or CGI, to create films that will shock and disturb, but also get us to think about our lives and the frequently fragile grip we have on them. I could talk at length about the importance and history of horror, and how we love to be shaken and stirred by the dark arts. There should be no need.
There should also be no need for legislation to reach this far, or be worded so vaguely that it can be used on nearly anything on which the police care to prosecute. It appears that in fact, police are increasingly using the Act when they can find no other way in which to charge people, as Jane Fae points out in a recent politics.co.uk article (which at least opens up a little hope that this law may be quashed in the court). In the meantime, indie and underground film-makers are on the verge of discovering that their work has made them lawbreakers.
Let's end with a fun game. Take a look at the Charging Practices section of the new Obscene Publications Act, and see how many films you can prosecute!
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 