Category: writing

writing

The Beast is Loose

By all the gods, it’s been a week. Engaging catch-up mode, as I try to, you know, up-catch to events.

The second issue of Dirty Bristow landed at X&HTowers on Wednesday, and oh my, it was worth the wait. This is one gorgeous package. The Bristow boys have always been upfront about making the mag as collectible and lovely as possible. They’ve outdone themselves. The double tracing-paper/card cover looks and feels great, with a matt finish that purrs luxury at your fingertips.

Inside, the open call for submissions under a theme has led to a gloriously all-over-the-place chunk of editorial. With no adverts, there’s a lot there to read and enjoy, and the quality of illustration throughout is a notch above top. If you want an idea of the tone, then the editors Jon Bounds and Danny Smith tell it like it is in the intro:

arty and unashamedly intelligent, no pretension or division between high and low culture and not governed by the Crown.

So, the second issue contains a cookery page that begins with the slaughter of a whole pig, a report from a My Little Pony convention, reprints of the work of acclaimed music scribe Dirk Collins, an entomology of the imaginary beasts of the West Midlands and, and, and I could go on for ages. I should perhaps mention a piece on the contribution yeast has made to the hungry drinker, especially as I wrote it. Even if those clever Bristows came up with a better title for the article than I did. They’re far too talented for their own good. I’m not sure I like them.

Dirty Bristow is available online at the Dirty Bristow website, logically enough. If you’re lucky, your copy might come with a cover-mounted cassette featuring songs and a ZX Spectrum game. Yes, a cassette. Yes, a Speccy game. Glorious, isn’t it?

Buy Dirty Bristow: Beast here.

Smells good, too.

 

A New Phase pt. 2: The View From The Pier

The item below has been crossposted from my other gig. I write three days a week for Pier 32, a promotional clothing company. The twist is that they do everything to a set of strict ethical and Eco-friendly guidelines. My work on their blog reflects that, so I write about ethical and green issues from a fashion perspective.

Readership, I know what you’re thinking. I agree. I am a very fashionable chap, and this is therefore a perfect fit for me. And as X&HT is such a focussed and well-regimented blog, then the concept of writing regularly to a tight brief should cause no challenge whatsoever. Right again. This isn’t giving me any sleepless nights at all. Not a one.

However. You all know I like a challenge, and the Pier 32 gig is pushing my writing in new and unexpected directions. So, do feel free to check both the blog and the main site out. I post on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Mostly, anyway. Here’s the most recent post…

We’ve seen over the past week or so that sustainability and ethics need to be baked into the core of a company’s mission statement. If they’re not, then accusations of box-ticking and complacency are always going to be waiting around the corner, and a brand that can’t quickly respond to those accusations has a PR disaster on their hands.

It’s tough to get big complex corporate structures to understand why it’s so important to make sure that their suppliers are run ethically and responsibly. Child labour and inhumane working conditions can seem like abstract concepts or easily explained away as a different cultural trait to a company whose focus is purely on the bottom line. Not everyone can have Pier32’s ethical guidance, which comes from the very top of the corporate structure.

So, how do we put the issues involved in this complicated subject into a simple and easily understood form?

Well. Shall we play a game?

Channel 4 have just released Sweatshop, a game where you run a clothing factory staffed by skilled workers and child labour. Based on a simple tower defence model (think Cooking Dash, Plants Vs. Zombies or something similar), your job is to fill the orders as best you can while keeping profits high.

The clever thing about the game is how easy it becomes to make the wrong choices. It’s quicker and easier to fill the production line with unskilled kids, and skimp on the essentials like cooling fans and toilet breaks, especially when a big order comes down the line.

But as you make those choices, your karma meter will begin to skew, and it soon becomes clear that by making the wrong choices you’re losing the game and becoming a monster in the process.

Sweatshop is subtle and extremely clever at making the player think on the consequences of their actions, and slips in plenty of informational nuggets along the way. The game is aimed at a teenage audience, but I see no reason why a lot of high-ups in the fashion chains that use sweatshops as a matter of course shouldn’t have a go at it. Who knows, it might just change their thinking.

You can read more on the thinking and design behind Sweatshop here, and play it for yourself for free here.

Pier32’s blog: The View From The Pier

Pier32

Dirty Bristow

I’m pleased, proud and excited to announce my involvement in one of the more interesting magazine projects around at the moment.

Dirty Bristow is, as the clever buggers who thought it up say, a project dedicated to resurrecting the magazine as a fetish object. That is, as something to both covet and collect. An object of desire. Beautifully printed on premium stock, DB is designed to be proudly displayed on your bookshelf.

Each issue takes a loose theme as the subject, which the contributors explore as they see fit. Issue 1 fittingly takes on the subject of birth, with articles on (to thinly scrape the surface) overpopulation, free-running, the creative process, architecture and stand-up comedy. Impeccably designed, deliciously illustrated, the thing is a joy to own.

Yes, of course I’m overegging it. Vested interest, donchaknow.

Aart from the cover price, the mag is funded through merchandising and live events, to make sure that you get a product free from ads. There’s no compromise, no sellout. Everyone who contributes to Dirty Bristow is free to say what they want, how they want. It’s an open forum, mixing the freedom of the small press with the production values of the glossies. The closest thing to it on the  news-stands is probably Little White Lies, which has the same themed approach, attention to detail and love smeared thickly over every page.

Finally, finally, issue two is on sale. The theme is BEAST. Eighty pages of articles, thinkpieces, illos and fiction. And somewhere in there: me, with an article on the smallest and most important beast of them all. I’m chuffed to bits to be asked to contribute, and can’t wait to see how it looks.

Here’s the important bit. You can order Beast here. While you’re at it, Birth and badge and sticker sets are available too. And the call is now out for contributions to issue 3: BREAK. I plan to submit to that, too.

Further, the launch party for Beast is on July 23rd, at the Edge in Digbeth, Birmingham. Six quid gets you entry, a copy of Beast and all kinds of music and general frivolity. If you’re in the area, you should give it a go.

Dirty Bristow. The fetish object that you can show to your mum.

 

 

Going Dark

TLC and I are off into the west this week. I don’t think they’ve heard of the Internet where we’re going, and phone signal is sporadic. So updates this week will be intermittent and tersely worded at best.
Instead, I will be settling down to some good old fashioned reading and writing, without the distractions of yer TwitTwoos and Facebonks and an RSS feed that don’t ever seem to quit.

Serenity or madness await.

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Why I Blog

X&HTeam-mate Rob May asked me one of those questions last night.

http://twitter.com/robwmay/status/70598204093235200

I replied with a flippant fob-off, but my blood ran cold. It was too closely related to one of The Big Two Questions That All Writers Hate. One of which is “Where do you get your ideas from?” (stock answer for that one – “there used to be a guy operating out of a lock up under the rail bridge by St James St station in Walthamstow, but now I just do what everyone else does and get them online, ideas4u.ru). The big one is “Why do you write?” And there is never  an answer to that one that won’t make you sound like a self-absorbed arsehole. “I knew when I was a child.” “I had to find somewhere to put all the stories.” “It’s a calling.”

The swine of it is, all of these are true to a greater or lesser extent. I’ve written since I was a scrawny, speccy runt. I was always good at it, and I always enjoyed it. Even now, drifting into the fugue state where a tale just seems to present itself and all I have to do is write it down is one of my greatest pleasures. I must have been put on this earth to tell these stories. It’s my mission in life.

See. Told you. Cain’t hep masel. Self-absorbed arsehole.

Of course, understanding the grunt work that comes out of polishing and repolishing my words until they shine is another story, There is a world of difference between the first draft that can be banged out in a six-week period if you’re disciplined (braces for howls of outrage from the Nanowrimo crowd) and making something that people would actually want  to read. A story without plot holes, clunky dialogue, cookie-cutter characters, screeds of needless exposition and the hundred thousand little details that can derail a tale if you don’t get them right. Changing eye colour is a good one. Or everyone having the same eye colour. I’ve had heroines that change their age from page to page. The basic misunderstanding of Newtonian physics that sends the engine of your plot off-track and into the trees. I’m writing this on a train, you can see where the metaphors are coming from.

None of which answers Rob’s question. Bear with me.

The thing with writing is that it’s a monstrous, time-eating task that will gobble years like a sugar-starved tween presented with a handful of Haribo. Blogging is very much the opposite. It’s a quick, sharp hit, an espresso instead of a venti moccochoccolattechino with extra whipped cream and sprinkles and three flakes. It’s first draft, front-lobe spillage. It’s 4-track demo, rough sketch, workshop level output. It’s also pragmatic. I can clear out brain cruft that needs to go somewhere, I can work up ideas, try things out. It’s a place to react, to rage, to vent, to roar. It’s the mouth of the gushing hose. Twitter’s great for a lot of things, but it doesn’t let me bend the language in the way that I like. I can’t roll out a run-on sentence in 140 characters. And I LOVE run-on sentences. Blogging is as close to I get to an honest, true immediate response to the world and everyone in it. (As close as I get? Well, take a look at the title of the blog you’re reading…) Broadcasting at the click of a trackpad.

And of course, it’s an exercise in vanity. How could it be otherwise? I’m labouring under the assumption that there are people out there that want to read my views on the AV referendum, on horror, on comics, on beer, on food, on every little thing that pops into my tiny head and gets me to fire up Marsedit. Writers are egoists. They have to be. How else could you blare your opinions at the world if you didn’t think they were worth the world’s attention? Why do it if you didn’t think someone was listening? The blogger that doesn’t check their stats after every post isn’t really a blogger at all.

Rob, I’m sorry, I’m still not sure that i’ve answered the question. X&HT is a huge part of my writing life. It’s a home, a platform, potentially a shop window, a shelter, a stage. It’s me, in some ways, and a weird simulacrum of me in others. It’s a distraction and a workspace. It’s me and the cartoon rabbit-eared, fluff-tailed version of me all at one.  It’s an excuse, Rob. It’s a half-truth.

Why do I blog, Rob? Because I can. Because I must. Because.

England In The Springtime

Yesterday, we cycled down bridle paths, skirting jewel green fields and dozing livestock, to Mapledurham House in the heart of West Berkshire. It’s the home of the oldest working watermill in the country, and you can buy flour ground on the premises. It makes excellent loaves, and they will also sell you miller’s bran which adds a beautifully nutty crunch to your morning cereal. We bought herbs and ate good pork sausages and venison for lunch, washed down with a pint of Hoppit from the Loddon brewery, about ten miles away. Then we sat and ate ice cream, sitting amongst daisies by the side of the mill pond in the sunshine.

Today, we took the train to Oxford. It’s May Day, and traditionally the students are up all night carousing before gathering on Magdalen Bridge to hear the college choir sing at sunrise. There are morris dancers, and an air of springtime festivity spices the air. We had a pint of Lunchtime Bitter from the West Berkshire Brewery at the Turf Tavern, a well-kept secret tucked in a maze of alleyways. Deer cantered in the grounds of Magdalen, and the freshly refurbished quad at New College sparkled in the clean air.

I have never felt so proud and happy to be English this weekend, and it had nothing to do with the dog-and-pony show laid on for the tourists over That London way. This country is filled with delights that everyone can enjoy, regardless of your family connections or who you get to marry. My England is a long way from airless pomp and pageantry. In the fields of Mapledurham, on the bridges of Oxford, my England blooms.

TLC gives us two visions of The Greenman on her blog, which just keeps getting better. And an excellent choice of soundtrack, too!

The Wedding Day

In the catacombs that spread like cancer beneath the big house at the bottom of The Mall, the lizards stir. They are by nature nocturnal, but have trained themselves to emulate the primates they have learned to impersonate so convincingly. Night hunts are saved for very special occasions. After sunset tonight, the lizards will be at their dreadful sport in the streets of London, celebrating their final, long-sought victory.

Continue reading The Wedding Day

A Sort Of Anniversary, I Suppose

I don’t know what drew me back to Blogger last night. I changed this place over to WordPress in 2007, pulling over most of the archive over in the process, and have had little cause for complaint. I barely even consider the early years. Nonetheless, I logged in, to find a surprise.

According to the Dashboard, I joined Blogger back in April 2001. Which makes this my tenth year of writing and publishing online. Good grief.

The problem is, I have no way of proving it. In a dick move that I could only ever pull on myself, The Ugly Truth is open to invited readers only. I am not on that select list. I’ve somehow managed to lock myself out of my own blog.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that I joined Blogger and began writing straight away. I have vague recollections of a couple of false starts, vague entreaties of impressive future content followed by months of silence. The Ugly Truth (named after a Matthew Sweet song, not the godawful Katherine Heigl/Gerard Butler romcom) was my first serious attempt at a blog, and was closer to a Tumblr than the polished new-content machine you enjoy today. There were a lot of links, and the occasional stab at something heartfelt. It was intermittently updated at best, and no different to a thousand other sites out there. It was, of all things, a post by Warren Ellis on the need for original content that inspired me to ditch that approach and, once Blogger no longer suited my needs, the move to WordPress under a new name.

I have no record of any of this. The earliest post in my archives dates to December 2004, which means my early attempts are lost to the aether. I’m content in this. It’s no great loss to the world of blogs.

But the Blogger years were a start, and they led me here. I think all I can say with any certainty is that April 2011 marks the ten-year anniversary of my intention to blog. And that’s got to be worth something. I suppose. Hasn’t it?

Round and Around: The M25 Spin

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For the last fifteen years, a man called Gimpo has been on a journey. It’s a journey that for most people would have little point, and less meaning. But for those who enjoy the idea of simply getting in a car and driving, Gimpo’s trip is the perfect distillation of the joys of travelling without a set destination, going for the hell of it. Driving just to see the road disappear beneath your wheels.

Since 1996, Gimpo has spent a day each year driving around the M25. In fact, a day and a bit, as he takes 25 hours. He plans to do it until 2021. That’s a 25 year circumlocution of one of Britain’s most hated roads. Gimpo calls it the M25 Spin, and it’s quietly becoming one of the most intriguing art projects out there.

He has form with esoteric art. As an honorary member  of The K Foundation, he was with Jimmy Cauty and Bill Drummond when they torched a million quid on the Isle of Jura in 1994. As manager of The Foundry, a bar and art venue in Shoreditch based in an old bank, he would set off army-issue thunderflashes in the vaults to feel the concussive thump in his chest, turning the thick concrete walls into a giant drum.

But the Spin is something else. It’s a mobile, participatory artwork. Anyone can join in, meeting up with Gimpo and his heavily decorated white van for a guest lap or two. Take a seat in the back, where there’s always a sofa, good music and something to drink. The Spin is part celebration of a mobile lifestyle, and the idea is to have fun.

Dom has been helping to document the work for three years now, and I tagged along for this year’s interview. We met Gimpo in his East London back garden on a glorious April afternoon. Over a couple of Red Stripes, some green ginger wine and a Lucozade shot, Gimpo took us through the history and future of the Spin.

When he was a boy, he told us, his dad would let him sit up front on long journeys. He would put his chin on the dashboard, and his entire field of vision would fill with the road unspooling beneath him. Soon, he would slip into a dream state, where he was the master of his own destiny.

Later, as a commercial driver, he would find that he was constantly pushed to meet deadlines, rushing and stressing to get deliveries to their final destination. The journey was no longer the point. He yearned to get back to the time when being behind the wheel of a car or van could become an excuse to simply be. The Spin was born out of those experiences.

Gimpo loves the M25. He believes that most people hate it because no-one travels for the hell of it anymore. We go out to get somewhere. We don’t go out just to go out. The Spin is about recapturing that feeling, the fugue state that long journeys can often induce. He records each Spin, upgrading his kit when the budget allows, moving ever closer to the dream of being able to gather a whole 25 hour session seamlessly, without changing tapes. For now, he captures one circuit at a time and bolts them together as best he can in post.

The Spin was featured at the Portobello Film Festival last year, and Gimpo insisted that anyone that wanted to look at the footage would have to sit through at least one circuit. He wants the road to hypnotise us in the same way that it does him, and that’s a process that takes a bit of time.

As commentary on modern travel, on the way we look at the London Orbital and as an inspired piece of performance art, the M25 Spin is fluid, wise and spiritual. It takes an experience that most of us find boring or repellent, and gives it a strange ungraspable beauty. The more I think about the Spin, the more I agree with psychogeographer Iain Sinclair, who has called Gimpo a visionary. He sees something in the London Orbital that we simply cannot.

 

For more info, your best first pitstop is Gimpo’s website. The Spin takes place on the weekend before Mother’s Day every year, mustering at Thurrock services.