A Quiet, Busy Couple Of Weeks

You’ve probably noticed that yet another Update Sunday has gone by with no updates. That is not laziness. It is the problem with any blog that is run as a labour of love rather than as a commercial concern. Life, quite simply, keeps getting in the way.

Allow me to take you through the last couple of weeks. The Great Work takes up all my day-job time and then some, of course. Two weekends ago, we hired a tower and finally tore down the dead ivy that has been disfiguring the side of the house for the last three years. Pics of that mighty task can be found here.

Yes, half of it did come down in one sheet, and yes, it was one of the most satisfying moments of the year. As a sidenote to the endeavour, the new light we’ve put in by the door is so bright that you can see our house from the bottom of the road. Handy for directing cab drivers, although I’m sure we’ll eventually freak one of them out, by pointing them down the road with the cemetery at the end of it and telling them to head towards the light…

Last weekend we were up at the Caravan and Motorhome Show at the NEC in Birmingham, musing on the idea of never paying for a package holiday again and spending some cash on a camper van instead. You can pay silly money of course, and in the midst of the credit crunch it was nice to see the occasional two-bedroom flat on wheels sporting SOLD signs in the windscreen. I think if we’re cautious and do our research, there are bargains to be had. Then of course, there’s all the sights of Britain and continental Europe to be had from our doorway. I for one would be happy never to see the inside of an airport again. And it’s a much greener way of holidaying, of course.

This week has been spent preparing the house for winter. We’ve decorated the main bedroom, shunted round the spare room, got stuff up in the loft, and generally started battening down the hatches, ready for the cold days ahead. That’s a metaphor, by the way. After lugging furniture and slapping paint around all week, I’m at that acceptably knackered stage of proceedings, with just the odd twinge in the lower spine region to tell me maybe putting that last shelf up today might be a bad idea. But the vinyl cubes have arrived, so I can see an enjoyable evening playing with the record deck ahead. Some of the old Husker Du coming out for an airing, I think.

So, in general, adventures in domesticity. I’m content with that. It’s been a very simple week, and I’ve had some time to think and muse, getting in the right frame of mind for Nanowrimo, an open, thoughtful state where ideas can flow freely. I’m really excited about the novel I’ve come up with this year. It’s a fresh new idea that simply landed on me fully formed, and one I feel could go all the way to being properly published. I’m considering putting everything I write for it on the blog as a live experiment. Anyone up for reading unfiltered content?

The Problem With Phileus Fogg

Fogg, contemplating a spate of dickish behaviour.

My research leading up to this years Nanowrimo has led me to re-read Jules Verne’s “Around The World In Eighty Days”. It’s been a salutary lesson for more than one reason. Firstly, I haven’t read it since I was 11, and I’d forgotten just how tightly written and fast-moving it was. Its the perfect example of the kind of book I like to read, and the sort of book I want to write.

Secondly, and more importantly, I’d never realised that Phileus Fogg is a complete knob. Worse, he’s probably seriously mentally ill.

Let’s examine the evidence, ignoring the urbane charm of David Niven in the delightful 1956 Hollywood version, or indeed Willy Fog, the cartoon lion of the 90s kids show. No, the Fogg I am talking about is taken straight from the pages of Verne’s novel. This is a man with few friends, no family to speak of, and habits that are not merely regular, but obsessive compulsive.

 

During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions. 

He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment. He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.  

 

This is a man that will fire his manservant for bringing his shaving water two degrees too cold, and yet will happily drop everything and gamble his fortune on a club-room wager. Bi-polar? Quite possibly. This is a man that, on that journey, will show no interest in the wonders unfolding before him, preferring instead to stay in his cabin and brood over railway timetables and steam train schedules. This is a man, who when presented with the opportunity to rescue a maiden from an untimely death at the hands of Brahmin fanatics, chooses to do so only because his timetable has opened up enough that he has some free time to do so!

This is no hero, Readership. This is a sociopath. Phileus Fogg is desperately unstable, unable to relate to the outside world in a normal fashion, and frankly seems one rash, ill-thought decision away from killing himself and taking his travelling companions with him.

More of an anti-hero then, I guess. I swear, if it wasn’t for the more honest lunacy of Passpartout, the thing would be almost unbearable. I have to admit that I can’t stop reading, though. Not just to find out what happen at the end. To find out also if the so-called hero becomes any less of a dick.

Freaky Friday

Well, here we go. The markets are in freefall, the end of the free market economy is here at last. You know what? I’m glad. I’m glad that the experiment in trickle-down economics, the mad idea that if the rich were made richer, somehow we’d all benefit has been shown up as a blatant sham and a fraud. I’m glad that Thatcher, that mad old bitch, is still alive to see the epic failure of her life’s work. We’re going through massive changes, and who knows what’s going to come out of the other end? A better, more accountable economic system? The global apocalypse? Everybody running their own pocket banks, as we devolve back to a system of barter and trade that doesn’t depend on ghost money and phantom promises?

Whatever happens, we’re smarter and better connected at this point in history than we have ever been, and we’ll figure it out somehow. It’s a new day, and I’m treating the fear-mongering of the press with contempt. I’m a banker now. We all are. We have a chance to look beyond the tired old formats and systems, and come up with something genuinely 21st century.

While we consider what form that new financial model might take, let’s have a little music, shall we?

Thoughts Gathered

Saw this the other day on the tube, and got unfeasibly excited at the idea of Paul Pope drawing Tank Girl, and that prospect being advertised on massive billboards.

kaboooooooooooooooooooooom
kaboooooooooooooooooooooom

It was, of course, not to be. I have no clue what the show the poster’s advertising will be like, but I have no doubt that it won’t be anything like as cool as this image.

Incidentally, I’m pretty excited about the return of Tank Girl to UK news-stands, as she finds a new home in the Judge Dredd Megazine. Rufus Dayglo’s art has a rough-hewn Hewlett quality that I find most pleasing. Alan Martin in particular seems chuffed that the Girl is back in a British magazine, and I can only concur. The Ashley Wood stories that came out earlier in the year were fine in their way, but they seemed to be dicking with a winning formula, in much the same way as the abortive Rachel Talaly movie. The new story, Skidmarks, harkens back to the Gumball 3000 strip back in the Deadline days. I could well find myself investing…

More coolness, from A Softer World. The perfect browse for a Sunday afternoon.

Baby Doom
Baby Doom

And finally for now, a response to possible-Vice-Pres Bookburnin’ Palin from the guys at Tales From The Crypt. I’ll try to get hold of more comix versions of The Hockey Mom From Hell over the next week or so. She seems to be galvanising the comic community in ways I’ve not seen since the golden age of Thatcher. She’s just so easy to hate…

Burn Baby Burn.
Burn Baby Burn.

A Fable

My mate Kev told me a little story this lunchtime that I thought was worth sharing with you, Readership.

Two guys walk into a village, trailing a big cage on wheels behind them. They gather the inhabitants.

“Right,” the first guy says. “I’m in the market for monkeys. Anyone that can bring me monkeys will get ten quid a head for them.”

“Deal!” say the villagers, and off they scurry. Soon, the two strangers are inundated with monkeys.

“Right,” says the first guy when the cage is filled. “That’s a lot of monkeys. I’d like more, but I appreciate they’re in short supply at the moment. So, if you can find any more, I’ll pay you twenty quid a head.”

“Deal”, say the villagers, and off they scurry. They return, with a much reduced haul.

“Now,” says the guy when he’s jammed the monkeys into his cage. “I’m a fool to myself, but I loves me the monkeys. So, if aaaanyone can find me any more of those adorable little furry primates, I will pay them fifty quid a head.”

“Deal!” say the villagers, and off they scurry. This time, most return empty-handed. A couple have scavenged up some scrawny-looking specimens, but on the whole it looks like the village is out of monkeys.

“What a shame,” says the first guy. “Tell you what. The weekend’s coming up. I’m going to take a day or so to take care of some other bits of business. I’ll leave my assistant with you to finish off the paperwork, and make sure things are straight and even. You never know, you might find some more monkeys in the meantime.”

And off he goes.

“You seem like nice, financially astute people,” says the assistant later that day. “So I want to share an idea with you. How about you buy all your monkeys back from me for oh, I dunno, say 35 quid a head. Then when my boss comes back on Monday, you’ve got a fresh new supply of primates to sell him at fifty quid a pop. You’ll make a fortune!”

“Deal!” say the villagers, and buy back all their monkeys at thirty five quid a head.

“Excellent!” says the assistant. “Now, I just have to confer with my boss about something completely unrelated to this deal, and I’ll be back to conclude our business on Monday with him.”

And off he goes.

And the villagers never see anything of the pair of them again.

And that, my Readership, is how unscrupulous financiers go about shorting stocks.

Seems a lot like a cheap, dodgy con, don’t it?

Further:

Douglas Rushkoff gives more background to the fun and frolics of the financial marketplace. Moreover, he actually uses plain English, and makes sense. Which, these days, is a bit of a godsend.

A Good Day For Writing

The last sunny Sunday of the year, probably, and I have spent the best part of it in the conservatory, and allowing the light to push some particularly black and nasty bits of writing out of me and onto the site.

Firstly, the regular update of Satan’s Schoolgirls has reached Chapter 8, where I go sort of torture porn. Sort of. I’m trying to be subtle, really I are, Readership.  It’s a good chunk of verbiage, that try as I might simply couldn’t break up. Let me know if it’s too much, won’t you?

Secondly, a new short is up in the fiction room. The Murder Room is a short burst of bile that shot out of me pretty much fully formed. It wears it’s heart and it’s influences very clearly on it’s sleeve. I won’t pretend it’s particularly great art, but it’s at the sort of level that I’m happy to hit on a warm sunny Sunday, thinking on the dark days to come.

Autumn, I mean. Nether Gods, I can be over-dramatic sometimes.

Here, have some patented lighten up Rob funnies, courtesy of the fabulous Kate Beaton:

Muxtape out, Blip.Fm in.

Guess it had to happen. Justin of the mighty MP3 streaming service Muxtape has finally called it a day after months of pointless wrangling, negotiations and lobbying with record companies and the RIAA. Such a shame. It was a great service for radio streaming, with a clean, sharp interface and a musically literate community that never ceased to come up with nice surprises. I didn’t tend to build many mixes myself, partially as I don’t have the encyclopaedic music collections of a lot of the good Muxers, and partially cos most of my music tends to be AAC rather than MP3.

I’ve played around with Mixwit for a while (as you can see in one of the earliest posts to X&HT last month) but it can be a bit glitchy. Last.fm is a favourite now and on the iPhone was an absolute gem up until the 2.1 update broke it. Seriously, it’s a way of carrying the whole of your music collection around with you without needing a big storage device. I’ve just started playing with Blip.fm, which seems like a lot of fun. Kind of like Twitter for music. And in fact, you can hook it into Twitter and your Last.fm feed, so you can harangue your followers with your suspect musical tastes. Which sounds like a winner to me. Radio Conojito. Coming in your ears.