I keep coming back to this Bon Appetit clip featuring the boss of Una Pizza in New York, Anthony Mangieri. His process, his insistence on ferocious control of ingredients and technique when it comes to a meal of very humble origins fascinate me. Seriously, dude, get another dough chef on the line.
Pizza is turning into a bit of an obsession, with it landing for dinner in our house more and more regularly. Specifically, a seafood pizza, which seems to be tricky to get if you go out. Tuna, prawns and mussels is a favourite. It’s all about the dough, though, and I’ve been playing around. Nothing like Anthony’s careful tweaks with different flours and hydration ratios. I use the pizza setting on my 30-year old Panasonic bread maker to make a simple dough with type-00 flour, and let it sit in the fridge overnight. That slow ferment means it comes out lively, bubbly and flavoursome, ready to blast in a hot oven under cheese and a homemade tomato sauce (more below). It’s a good way to decompress and eat something good on a Friday night.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
The first great retail opportunity since X-Day has landed, and on a Friday too, so let’s make a weekend of it. I treated us to an excellent meal deal from M&S which included coquille St. Jacques, prawn and salmon on croute with smashed basil potatoes and chocolate and caramel pots alongside a rather nice bottle of Italian rosé for £25 quid. Plenty of folks are hopefully out helping restaurants and card shops stay afloat over the next couple of days. C and I, as you know are quiet and retiring types. Not for us the crush and hustle of V-Day dining. Like the saintly George said, it’s cold out there but it’s warm in bed. Hope you get a chance to put a little love in your life, even if it’s just honouring yourself with a little treat.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Art Stories at Reading Museum has been, after an admittedly bumpy start, a roaring success. A collaboration between that big red-brick building facing off against Queen Victoria on Market Place, artists like Cornelia Parker and Gerald Scarfe and local creative types, the exhibition has shown how visual and literary disciplines can interact, inform and enhance each other. The public have thoroughly embraced the experience, writing their own responses to the paintings, sculpture, textiles and photography on display.
We got through it, Readership. The first 57 days of January 2025 are finally over and we can get ourselves in shape for the challenges of the next four years. Were you dry? Did you vegan? Is there an untouched gym membership somewhere in your everyday carry, which will glare accusingly at you until you finally give up on it sometime in June? I did none of those things—in fact you could describe my January activity as barely there. However, I have been busy in my head, thinking, mapping, planning. The dark days of January are perfect for preparatory actions, readying for the swing of the season, waiting for the times when I will be woken by the sunrise rather than the buzz of an alarm. Tananarive Due has some advice for these pre-spring days, which resonated with me for all sorts of reasons.
I shouldn’t be focussing on the fall from grace of a certain British fantasy writer given the events looming this coming Monday in Washington, but hey, any distraction from the imminent end of all things is welcome.
The report in this week’s New York magazine on his alleged coercive and abusive behaviour is, of course, pretty bloody horrible—I couldn’t finish the article. The inevitable half-hearted mea culpa and denial has been issued from the Tower Of Dreams, to general eye-rolling and declarations of boycotts.
However things happened, and even if events didn’t roll out as reported (gentle reminder to all that at Excuses And Half Truths we always believe the women), the writer in question has suffered pretty irreparable reputational damage. I’m sure His Nibs will take this whole things as a fine excuse to comfortably retire, crying himself to sleep on a mattress stuffed with cash.
But why should we be bothered? Artists have always been notoriously revolting. I don’t recall seeing the cancel notice on Lord Byron getting much traction, despite the crap he put his lovers through. Ted Hughes was a fucking monster. Francis Bacon? Don’t get me started. I believe in separating the art from the artist, but then I don’t have Sandman-themed sleeve tattoos that probably look a bit silly now.
Look, it’s your call. Base your response to this whole sordid affair on which elements of reportage you choose to believe. If you feel you can’t read his books anymore, that’s completely fine. I’d offer a caveat—his comics are collaborative works, the product of hard graft from a cohort of incredibly talented people. And that universe continues, guided by other equally gifted writers who don’t deserve to be caught in the blowback.
Here we are now. Welcome to Volume 3 of The Swipe, which to celebrate the new year features absolutely no changes to format, style or content. However, this first chapter is a bumper offering, as we always believe in value for money. Even more so as the sticker price on your Saturday Soaraway Swipe is bupkiss, nix, nada and niente. You lucky punters.
Before we get into it, I wanted to share Jason Chatfield’s take on the way cartoons serve as an early warning alert for incoming censorious regimes. Start with the funnies and see if anyone notices.
in an unrelated update, I have cancelled my Washington Post subscription.
I mentioned last week that my involvement in Dingtown’s longest-running writing group Reading Writers (other groups are available—we have no problem with competition) has deepened this year as I amble gently into the role of elder statesman. I’m prouder than ever of our merry band, and the quality of work I see in our monthly manuscript nights and competition entries fills me with warmth and pride.
I’m not a stand-back member by any means, regularly getting stuck into presentations, event management and entries for our twice-yearly themed competitions. But, my friends, there is a complication, one which I couldn’t really vouchsafe for any other aspect of my life.
I think I’m getting too good at this. I have regularly been a prize winner, but in 2024 I won top billing for both the spring and summer contests.
Immediate clarifications required. RW competitions are overseen by a judge from outside the group, and submitted anonymously. There’s never been any accusation of rigging or undue influence—what would be the point? It’s about the work, not the glittering prizes on offer. I’m not desperate enough for a £20 Amazon voucher to risk my integrity and reputation.
This puts me in a bit of a difficult position. The sporting thing to do, surely, would be to withdraw, at least temporarily. If I do, then I can already hear the derisive jeers of ‘gee thanks for giving us mere mortals a chance, oh mighty wordsmith!’ Damned if I do etc etc. I’ve got until March to figure out what to do. I guess I could write a story and hold it in reserve in case we need an entry to make up the numbers—actually, that might be worse.
Here are the two prize-winning stories what I wrote in 2024. I’m very proud of both. For context, the prompt for The Interstice was a set of photos ‘found’ on an old SD card by judge Damon Wakes of the abandoned Childs Hall at Reading University. Rotting urban infrastructure, which informed the mood of the piece. Hercule came from Julie Cohen’s theme of ‘talking parrots’. I don’t think I need to elaborate further.
I hope you enjoy them. Heads up: The Interstice is a horror story, which includes imagery some readers may find disturbing. Hercule was performed by yr humble etc as part of the 2024 Reading Writers Autumn Competition evening with sub-‘Allo ‘Allo French accents, which those present may have found offensive.
One last thing, which I’ll shout about again closer to the time. Reading Museum is currently running an exhibition called Art Stories in the John Majeski Gallery, which teams recent acquisitions to the collection with short pieces from local authors. Reading Writers is very strongly represented, and I’m in the mix too.
On February 1st, some of the writers and artists involved in the project will be meeting each other and anyone who fancies coming along. There will be readings. There may be emotions. It should be a fun afternoon. 2 till 4 pm. Say you’ll come.
I’ll Outro with one of my most-played tracks of 2024, which also serves as a reminder of new Swipery next week. Yep, we’re right back to it.
I take my responsibility to the stakeholders of Excuses And Half Truths very seriously. Whether a long time member of The Readership, a recipient of the email newsletter or one of the pleasing influx of new folk wandering in for a snoop and a sniff around, you are always welcome. But you also, I understand, have a certain level of expectation. I would fail in my duties as owner/operator if I were not as open and transparent about the goods and services we offer as possible.
Therefore, I am delighted to open proceedings on the 2024 Excuses And Half Truths Annual Yearly Report—a review of the last 365 days in Rob And Clare, and a long-standing tradition since (check notes) 2023. We hope you will find, on close study of the following extensive overview, that Excuses And Half Truths continues to offer the most comprehensive insight into the life and world of Rob Wickings on the entire interwub. Other alternatives are available, but I am confident in judging them poorly. They just don’t have the inside sources and exclusive information that I do.
By the time you read this, my work year will be done, and the first of our Christmas Pilgramages will be be underway. Between Essex and Warwickshire, with a pit stop back in the Ding, it’s hardly going to be the most restful of breaks. But a break it shall be, which is the most important thing. A chance to focus on the core life elements—family, friends, food and oh go on then let’s try that Christmas Negroni recipe.
Next week, we are delighted to offer up the 2024 Yearly Annual Report, which as stakeholders in this enterprise I trust you’ll find of interest. I hope you will agree that Excuses And Half Truths continues to offer value, service and an agreeable user experience. As ever, our Complaints Warthog is available to receive any negative comments and deliver a robust and tusk-heavy response.
This week: how to make a living as a creative, how the internet is no longer fit for purpose and the strange tale of the little king.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
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!
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 