Dermot: Books

"A Strange Eventful History: Democratic Socialism in Britain" (2001) By Edmund Dell

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 11:21:38 GMT

There is one fatal flaw with the very readable account. The author, despite having been a Labour MP and member of the Wilson/ Callaghan Government, quite clearly hates the Labour Party and his vitriol is spread liberally throughout the book.

Thus; “The Wilson (1964/70) Government failed…. It was hardly Socialist and failed in the management of the economy…. It was only trusted by the electorate to halt the march of Socialism”… Which is why the gap between the rich and poorest in Society was at it’s narrowest in history under Harold Wilson.

And; “James Callaghan’s greatest service to the British people was to lose the 1979 Election”.

Mind-blowing stuff. Try telling that to the 3 million unemployed by 1981, and to the victims of the strangulation of British Industry as output fell by a staggering 20 in the first two years of the Thatcher Government despite the Treasury pouring a record amount of cash into British Leyland and all the other Government funded businesses that had been shackled to the State by Ted Heath’s bonkers National Enterprise Board, which even Tony Benn never managed to out spend when he was Industry Secretary.

Not to mention eye-popping inflation which averaged 18% in her first term, and the beginning of the plan to deliberately run down the NHS and to provide education that “would teach people to know their place” (1986 leaked Cabinet Office memo from Thatcher to Ken Baker).

Dell, however does elaborate in depth the successes of the Atlee Government whilst explaining to the reader how it was only US cash that allowed Nye Bevan to get the NHS up and running in the first place, a fact that those within the Labour Party with an anti American default setting would do well to remember.

Another strength of the book is Dell’s analysis of the 1981 Deputy Leadership Election which encapsulated why we unelectable throughout much of the ‘Eighties due to an obsession with talking to ourselves and ignoring the real world, and the damage the Tories were doing to the weakest in Society as well as the nation as a whole.

But Dell’s biggest lazy and yawn worthy effort is portray Thatcher as “the Mother of New Labour”.

Yes. Absolutely. She was all in favour of doubling expenditure on Health and Education, a windfall tax on the private utilities to fund the New Deal, which in turn helped to create record levels of employment. And she cared deeply about the fractured and chaotic lifestyles abroad on sink estates that it was HER idea to set up SureStart and invest in record police numbers.

And I forgot that she really wanted to introduce the National Minimum Wage, abolish hereditary peerages and give equality to gay and lesbian people.

Silly old me.

It makes me go absolutely ballistic when I hear stupid, lazy comparisons between Tony Blair and the Tories. I accept that his belief in the perceived advantages of the market and the private sector are grossly misplaced but to make such an odious comparison is totally ludicrous.

My final beef with Dell is the short shrift that he gives to Tony Crosland, dismissing the Foreign Secretary as an “unsatisfactory Socialist”.

If anyone can lay claim to being a visionary and inspiration for Tony Blair it is Crosland with is seminal book “The Future of Socialism” in which he argues that the nature of post war capitalism is not simply a question of the Left V the Market, but that it is possible, and indeed desirable to use the capitalist system as a means to an end, making the wealth of Britain work for the many, and not just the few.

This excerpt, courtesy of Wikipedia, sums up what we should be aspiring to in the 21^st Century as well as doing what we do best, which is to Govern for everyone and not just a narrow tranch of Society.

“We need not only higher exports and old-age pensions, but more open-air cafes, brighter and gayer streets at night, later closing hours for public houses, more local repertory theatres, better and more hospitable hoteliers and restaurateurs, brighter and cleaner eating houses, more riverside cafes, more pleasure gardens on the Battersea model, more murals and pictures in public places, better designs for furniture and pottery and women’s clothes, statues in the centre of new housing estates, better-designed new street lamps and telephone kiosks and so on ad infinitum”

I would recommend Dell’s book as a good “revision” of post war Labour history as it is a good, entertaining read but it falls down due to the author’s inherent bitterness towards a Party that he feels always somehow manages to let everyone down.

Sometimes, I know how he feels but deep down the passion still burns for me, but the 10p tax fiasco really strained matters, as we seemed to just dump on the people we are meant to protect.

Tokyo Year Zero (2007) By David Peace.

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 11:32:42 GMT

If this is your first David Peace novel, then you will love it as the gambits of repetition, mantra and leitmotiv are deployed by the author to create a taut, claustrophobic, seedy atmosphere leaving a thin film of human degradation all over the reader making you feel in need of a darn good wash.

Peace, like Irvine Welsh before him has a deeply disturbing ability to burrow his way into every nook and cranny of the worst parts of humanity and this made GB84 and the Damned United especially impressive works.

I felt like a real protagonist at the Miners Strike, and this book struck a massive chord within me, and the fictionalised account of Brian Clough’s stormy 44-day reign at Elland Road really evoked the times both in a footballing and social sense.

Delving into David Peace’s back catalogue of the so called “Yorkshire Noir” genre through the West Riding Quartet of books showed an author honing his skills which came together to produce GB84 and the Damned United, so I felt able to cut the guy a bit of slack reading the four books about the 1970’s underbelly of God’s Own County.

When I spied Tokyo Year Zero in the library I was like a kid at Christmas, beginning to read the thing in the bus station.

I admit to feeling badly let down, so this may cloud my judgement making this less than objective.

Hell, it’s a blog, not the London Book Review after all.

All the ingredients that drive Peace’s best work are present here. And how. This is the problem. Everything is done to death such as the narrative of a soldier, which requires you to follow it by jumping through masses of text and then going back over it.

Innovative in GB84. Here just bloody irritating.

In common with the West Riding books we are party to the investigation to a series of grubby murders in immediate post war Tokyo, and if I’m honest its just rehashed material placed in a different historical and geographical context.

The character of the Cop is pure Irvine Welsh’s Filth and just too reminiscent of previous Peace outings so I regret to report I knocked it on the head after 150 pages having lost the will to live a good 100 pages earlier.

But if it is your intro to Peace then I refer the right honourable gentlemen to the answer I gave some moments ago.

The Welsh Girl (2007) by Peter Ho Davies. Amsterdam (1998) by Ian McKewan

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 17:23:50 GMT

I was attracted to this book by the strong reviews and the fact that it was on the Booker Prize Long List for 2007.

It must have been a slow year.

The blurb on the back bears little relation to what goes on in the story, and the stuff about the interrogation of Rudolph Hess by a Jewish émigré proves to be a side plot rather than the main course.

The book is set in the later part of World War Two and we are privy to three lives, that of the eponymous Esther, Rotterdam the interrogator, and Karsten a German POW captured on D Day and sent to a Camp in Wales.

Things start promisingly enough and the encounter between Hess and Rotterdam in intriguing, but then it all goes a bit flat in the middle and I found it a bit of a slog to get through, reading Amsterdam in one go towards the end of this promising but ultimately disappointing tome.

Amsterdam (1998) by Ian McKewan.

I loathed Atonement with the same strength that I loved 2003’s Saturday, set in the shadow of the Iraq War.

The former is pompous, meaningless crap filled with stupid upper class twits and their pathetic “problems”. Complete drivel.

The latter book is set in one day, delves deep into the psyche of the main protagonist and contains a brilliant critique of Blair's folly in Iraq.

Amsterdam falls between the two. I quite liked the story where a politician is caught in flagrante and the editor of a major tabloid has the photographic evidence. This causes friendships and loyalties to be tested to the limit, with plenty of moral dilemmas for the reader to muse over.

I didn’t like any of the characters, but the strength of the story over rode this, but I found it an average read and was flabbergasted that Amsterdam won the Booker Prize.

Various Books by Monica Lewycka, Charlotte Mendelson, Gordon Burn and Paul Harrison with Prof David Wilson

Tue, 20 May 2008 18:48:15 GMT

“Two Caravans” (2007) by Marina Lewycka

There seems to be a new genre of literature that has sprung up over the last couple of years; “Ethnic Chick Lit”, and whilst I enjoyed enormously Lewycka’s first novel “A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian”, I found this book to be bunged full of stereotypes and crammed with tabliody vignettes which smacked of a lazy approach.

Yes, we all know what goes on inside battery farms and that Bernard Matthews is a national disgrace.

Ken Loach and others have tackled the plight of Eastern European immigrant labour with far greater sensitivity, and the humour in this book is at the expense of the very people she claims to empathise with.

“Tractors” worked because Lewycka wrote about characters she knew from observing her Sheffield Ukrainian family, but the people in this novel come straight out of the Daily Mail.

Feckless drunks from Karkov, Russian cigar smoking heavies plus religious and naive Africans are just some of the one-dimensional migrant workers in this novel which was badly researched and unimaginatively put together.

“When We Were Bad” (2007) by Charlotte Mendelson

This comes the same ethnic genre. This time Middle Class London Jews are the subjects as, shock horror, the eldest son (go one guess what he does for a living… Got it in one. Barrister) jilts his fiancé for the wife of an Orthodox Rabbi.

Cue hilarity based on the social disgrace. Yawn. A chick Lit novel trying to be clever and failing miserably.

I only read it because it is on the Orange Prize long list and found it a thorough waste of time giving up after a hundred pages, as I really didn’t care what happened to the puerile, simplistic and shallow characters.

But now to books I did like over the last month….

“Best and Edwards” (2006) by Gordon Burn.

If you are looking for a blow by blow account of the football career of the two greatest ever British footballers, if you want the detail of who scored what and when, if you want long passages about the technical ins and outs of the beautiful game then this book is not for you.

Gordon Burn is not a football writer and this is the greatest strength of this fantastic book.

Eamon Dunphy’s masterpiece “Manchester United and Matt Busby: A Strange Kind of Glory” is the benchmark book about this, Britain’s greatest club and it’s soul during the building of the Busby Babes, their heart rendingly tragic destruction at Munich and the sheer will and determination of Busby and Bobby Charlton to lift the European Cup, a feat achieved forty years ago next week.

Burn takes us on a journey into the soul of post war Britain via the short life of Duncan Edwards who encapsulates the short back and sides era, then contrasts this with the emergence of George Best, the first play boy soccer star and his descent into a living hell of alcohol induced misogyny and ultimate self destruction.

George Best was not a very nice bloke, and whilst there was much to admire, there is plenty here to disavow the casual excuser of a woman beating drunk.

This is intelligent social commentary at it’s best, and placed in the context of football this makes it a seriously brilliant piece of work from the author of “Somebody’s Husband, Somebody’s Son” which was a forensic sociological analysis of the Ripper murders, placing them amongst the economic and social upheaval of ‘Seventies Yorkshire.

Which segues in nicely to….

“Hunting Evil: Inside the Ipswich Serial Murders” (2008) by Paul Harrison and Prof David Wilson.

The title looks brash and very tabloid, and I was a bit unsure but I have to say that this reads more like a Sociology textbook in places as the authors get to grips with the causes of inner city poverty and how New Labour can be accused of letting this section of society down by not dealing with the issue of drugs and prostitution in a coherent and non sensationalist way.

The Daily Mail loves nothing better than to hype up both issues, and when they dovetail with murder it is a true tabloid feeding fest.

Until we deal with drugs in an adult manner, free from denunciation and which Party can be seen to be more “tough”, and until the buying of sex and not the selling of it are made illegal then this depressing scenario of abused, exploited and forgotten women (and men), prey to the likes of Fred West, Peter Sutcliffe, Dennis Nielsen will just continue to roll on and on.

Well done to the authors for covering these issues with sensitivity, and raising the profile of a much-maligned underclass.

He Kills Coppers (2001) by Jake Arnott. ITV1

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 19:40:45 GMT

I first read this book back in 2002 and recently read it for the third time when I noticed it had been filmed by ITV, just to see if it was as good as I remembered. And it is, and what makes it all the better is Arnott’s choice of a real crime which is meshed in with original characters from his first book, the wonderful Long Firm.
The story is set in the Summer of 1966 as the feel good factor swept through England, World Cup Glory being achieved in late July.
However British Society was rocked to the core by the brutal gunning down of three Police Officers in the Shepherd’s Bush area of London which turned Harry Roberts into one of the most notorious criminals of the 20^th Century, still in jail forty years on with no possibility of release.
At the time the great reforming Home Secretary Roy Jenkins had persuaded Parliament to suspend the noose for a five year period, and this case allied to the Moors Murders, put the Wilson Government under severe pressure to renege, but principles won the day I’m glad to say.
Here Roberts is called Billy Porter, for legal reasons I assume, and we follow him through the murder, and on the run until his eventual capture having lived rough in the Fens for a couple of months.
We see the story through the eyes of Porter, the bent cop who is part of the team hunting him and the seedy little journalist looking for the sordid angles to the crime.
Arnott transports us back to the marginalized people of Wilson’s technocratic Britain, where the White Heat of technology fuelled the economic boom and enabled the Labour Government to narrow the gap between rich and poor, with eye popping taxes on the rich to help the poor.
But as with the current success of New Labour, there are people left behind who are explored in this book.
The style of prose and the dialogue reminds me of Iziguro as it cuts to the chase and avoids lazy floweriness which is often deployed to mask weak plot and dialogue, (David Baddiel please note) but it is evocative, giving you a real feeling being there, due to absolutely meticulous research.

The pace is even handed meaning there are no slack bits making this as fine a Cops and Robbers book that you will ever read, and I just hope that in the hands of ITV the feeling of gritty realism isn't sacrificed at the altar of ratings.

One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967) By Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Thu, 20 Mar 2008 14:56:13 GMT

This is a brilliant book and one of the best I’ve read for ages due to it’s juxtaposition of style, genre and above all time which allows your imagination to roam and I often caught myself staring into space as I continued a particular scene in my head.

The book is set in a remote village called Macondo, which has no real contact with the outside world except when a band of travelling gypsies pass through.

The author uses time in a circular way so you are left to ponder whether this is set in ancient times, or if it is contemporary which is a bit weird. But it really works well because Marquez is exploring the human condition via the rites of passage of his characters.

After the initial idyllic phase war and disasters hit the town, and themes of betrayal, plus power and how it is wielded take centre stage.

Marquez uses sequences where it appears that natural laws are suspended, and elements of surrealism are introduced but these never deter from the immediacy in the narrative, and if I’m honest the only comparison I can make in Literature is with the Old Testament with it themes of existence, history and human interaction on an individual and corporate level.

I would sum up by saying that this novel is important because of the issues that it raises both politically, (especially in terms of Latin America) ethically and spiritually in terms of why we are here, and the purpose of life itself.

"The Trial" by Franz Kafka (1920)

Tue, 19 Feb 2008 20:46:52 GMT

A man is arrested and put on trial in Kafka’s surreal and acknowledged masterpiece, the only trouble is that mild mannered Bank Clerk Joseph K has no idea of the charge.....

It is very tempting to make a smart remark such as; “Jack Straw should read this!” whilst sounding like a “I’m SO well read” clever clogs, but I’m afraid that anyone who reads this book will come to the same inevitable conclusion that Kafka hits the nail on the head regarding what happens when the State acts with impunity and runs roughshod over basic Human Rights.

In such circumstances Society degenerates into an uncaring, snitching, manipulative parody of what makes things good when we act together, creating a Yes Culture amongst those, even right at the bottom of the pile who have a vested interest in the Status Quo.

Joseph’s persecutors, and even those who pose falsely as friends have no axe to grind, they find him neither offensive or criminal, but they do him over because that’s just the way it is. Nothing personal. Just pragmatism.

And that’s what scares the beyjayus out of me, because I find myself questioning what the hell I am doing looking the other way as a member of the Governing Party regarding Iraq, ID Cards, the effective suspension of Habeas Corpus and the constant rolling back of Civil Liberties and various other disturbing things.

It’s easy to shrug and say; “That’s life, pragmatism rules and it keeps the Tories out”, but what ARE we doing? WHY are we doing this stuff? What are the Left and the Labour Party FOR these days?

Scary stuff, but not half as scary as the victims of Forest Gate, those banged up in Belmarsh and Guantanamo and the potential scapegoats if the Government gets it’s way and you can be locked up for 56 days without being told what the charge is.

Kafka wrote the Trial in 1920 and this European Jewish guys portrayal of a Totalitarian State is just gobsmackingly prescient given the subsequent rise of the Nazi- Soviet dictatorships which display this pernicious and callous disregard for the individual.

I steered clear of the interpretations, but I can see that this is an existential piece of work and I think that Joseph is reflecting on what it means to be human, and that the situation is allegorical regarding the existence of God, and in the final scene Kafka is drawing these themes together.

You can see how this style of writing which explores the feelings of the characters rather than a plain narrative, was a massive influence on Sartre, Camus and the mid 20^th Century philosophical scene and later on the simplicity of language has been taken on by Kazu Ishiguro.

The Trial is a very easy read, but it is shocking at just HOW relevant this book is nearly a century after it was penned and it makes me think about my relationship with the Labour Party.

But then I can spare such philosophical self indulgence, those living on the margins, who we do the most to help don't have that luxury.

Pragmatism? Sticking the fingers in the ears and going "LAAAAA" when the troubling things above are mentioned? Probably, yes.

Mally Welburn: "Rebel Without A Pause" (2007)

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 15:12:46 GMT

“Rebel Without a Pause” is part two of local hero Mally Welburn’s autobiography and is as funny, engrossing and full of pathos as it’s predecessor “The Boy Who Flew Through Windows”.

Julie Burchill wrote a piece in the Guardian last week, which bemoaned the new genre of “Victim Lit”, a sentiment I entirely endorse.

Welburn can no way be associated with the new literary fad, you know the stuff. There is line after line of this depressing guff on the supermarket bookshelves.

Why on earth anyone would want to read Sara Payne’s account of the aftermath of her daughter Sarah’s murder, or the memories of Soham father Kevin Wells? It just plain takes my breath away.

Pamela Stevenson’s biog of Billy Connelly epitomised this victim-as- excuse culture; Billy had a tough working class upbringing so thereby excusing the fact he is an arrogant bully and all-round horrible bloke.

This woe-is-me charge could be laid at the door of Frank McCourt with his epic book of Limerick life, Angela’s Ashes.

No one can deny that some unpleasant things went on, or that life in inter war Ireland was extremely tough for some, but gloom pervades all, making Denis O’ Shaughnessy’s contributions all the more worthwhile for their balance and perspective.

Mally is a Hull Lad through and through, and these books have the strong flavour of Working Class life, and you can literally smell the fish docks and hear the eerie sound of the Humber foghorn as you read this honest and real account.

Mally’s books avoid all this victim status as he takes us through his upbringing on Gypsyville, near Hessle Road, the heart of our now wrecked fishing industry.

“Dysfunctional” would be the Guardian trendy description of his family. I imagine Mally would call it something far more interesting and colourful.

Welburn first came to my attention on Look North when he was interviewed in his Sport’s Shed which was all decked out in Hull FC memorabilia for the 2005 Challenge Cup Final.

Basically the idea is that Mally builds and sells these Dream Sheds marketed at sports mad blokes who can escape into their own little world at the bottom of the garden.

A genius idea and very much a success story based on initiative and drive.

Mally then auditioned for Big Brother getting to the final lot, but I suspect the production company got cold feet as Mally was “a bit of a lad” having done time for assault.

He makes no bones about the hard drinking and fighting culture that existed amongst the fishing community of Hessle Road, nor does he excuse the terrible things that he did, and their impact on his wife and children.

Welburn documents coldly and rationally what he did and why. Brave words, not mealy mouthed excuses and God only knows, Mally fits every stereotyped profile for a thug.

But, Mally is a very intelligent bloke, as witnessed by his mock nautical exam results (the best ever recorded) which he passed to gain the much coveted Bosun’s Ticket for the lucrative, but gruelling trawler runs.

And therein lies the rub.

If you have brains and the ability to take control of your life, there is absolutely no excuse for underachievement or poverty of aspiration.

Welburn has never wasted a single day of his life, always trying, often failing but willing to graft and never give up.

But this is the bit I admire the most.

He describes in detail what a total inadequate bully of a brute his father was, and the casual violence dished out to him and his Mum in particular.

The way it is written leaves you in no doubt that it is real and true. No one could make that stuff up and write about it in such a manner, just banging away with one finger, no editing, to tell it how it was.

Never at any time does the author blame anyone but himself for the stupid, idiotic and plain irresponsible things that he did.

No excuses, no hand wringing physco/sociological pleas for our understanding. Just the truth and you, dear readers make your own mind up.

It is a story of redemption as Mally reaching his forties, decides he better just grow up, stop drinking and start a new proper fulfilling life.

Using the opportunities provided by the Government schemes, he set up and ran the business living initially rough on the damp squalid, rat infested premises of Hessle Road, breaking up pallets and reusing them.

No matter what the hardship Mally stuck it out and didn’t slide back into his old ways saying; “Well, I tried…..” He just keeps on going.

Winning £54,000 on Deal or No Deal as the production team were seduced by his persona from the Big Brother auditions sealed his local celebrity.

I admit I never saw the programme at the time, but read about it, and Mally in the Hull Daily Mail, and was immediately seduced by his larger than life personality.

These books are brilliant, a real antidote to the packaged dross that pervades most autobiography sections.

You will still “get” it if you aren’t from Hull as the themes are all relevant to our shared human experience.

The message?

Stop whining. If you want to change your life, just do it.

Pure existentialism. As jean Paul Satre famously said;“Humanity is condemned to be free”.

The Body by Hanif Kurieshi (2003)

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 16:29:20 GMT

An ageing Professor of Literature is approached by one of his readers to undergo a procedure that will give him the body of a 25 year old Adonis on a sixth month loan….

Hanif Kureishi is best known for his wonderful screenplays such as Sammy and Rosie Get Laid, My Beautiful Launderette and most recently the magnificent geri-comedy Venus.

In addition he was the first mainstream writer to grasp the nettle of Islamo Extremism and it’s effect on the second generation of immigrants, with 1997’s My Son the Fanatic starring Om Puri (obviously) and Brenda Griffiths, who found fame in Six Feet Under.

This film demonstrated clearly the dichotomy facing the children of sub continental immigrants who, spurned by the indigenous population seek identity via a form of religion that is far from mainstream British Society, thus reinforcing the separation that they feel.

I witnessed this in Northern Ireland where otherwise educated and reasonable young people sought validation on the fringes (and sometimes within) the Republican Movement. They felt disenfranchised and excluded from the Orange Statelet with it’s overtly supremacist ethos, failing to understand that it was a matter of Class rather than ethnicity and that their Protestant neighbours were just as oppressed by the Capitalist system. They just had poverty with an inside toilet.

Hanif Kureishi, whilst addressing issues from his Sub Continental identity has never made himself some self appointed voice of British Asians and writes about everyday British situations, especially the ageing process in Venus where Peter O’Toole, Leslie Phillips and Richard Griffiths discuss seventy something male problems in hilariously graphic detail.

He is a talented storyteller who keeps it simple, and you can see where he has influenced young writers such as Kazu Ishiguro and Monica Ali.

The Body pulled me in with the characters ordinariness being supplemented by slightly surreal, absurd, mundane, fantastic and erotic circumstances as our hero embarks on his new life, but with his old personality and life experiences.

In this age of obsession with body image, Kureishi discusses what it means to grow old, and how marriage, parenthood and the passage of time change our expectations and aspirations.

Matters, predictably do not go as planned and the comedy and pathos just jump from the page because of his laconic, spare style.

A really fantastic book which would provide a good template for a Channel Four drama.

This book was stocked in a rather bizarre section entitled Books for Blokes in Hull Central Library. What does THAT mean? Obviously we have no interest in Monica Ali, Zadie Smith or Andrea Levy…

The Unconsoled By Kazuo Ishiguro (1995)

Thu, 13 Dec 2007 16:58:07 GMT

A concert pianist arrives in an unnamed Central European City in preparation for a concert that he has no recollection of agreeing to, and in a state of seeming near amnesia.

As the novel unfolds we are introduced to characters that at first Ryder has no connection with, but they then turn out to be key cogs in his life and all the action takes place in an ethereal atmosphere of unreality.

I expected some great revelation at the denouement of the book and imagined that the pianist was in purgatory, or some other unreal situation, given that natural law seemed at best suspended, but I was to be disappointed and frustrated on this count.

And those sentiments just about sum up my feelings on this Kazuo Ishiguro offering. To me, this author’s great strength is that he is a great storyteller, keeping it simple and allowing his characters to develop in a manner that allows the reader to make their own judgements.

The Remains of the Day, When We Were Orphans and 2005’s Never Let Me Go are all amongst my top picks in Literature, which makes The Unconsoled such a bitter disappointment as I would consider Ishiguro as a bit of a banker, as I would U2 or The Manics to be regarding music.

The main problem with this book is the pedantry on display as we are party to the totally pointless ins and outs of the character’s thoughts, all to no end.

Ryder has encounters with people from his past, as far back as school but in a hazy dreamlike way and nothing is ever resolved and we never find out what is going on and why.

In Never Let Me Go there is the certainty that the main protagonists are different from everyone else, and the author develops this layer by layer until we work out the truth for ourselves, but this just rambles in a futile I’ve Lost the Will to Live way.

Were it not for the fact that I was a captive audience due to being in hospital, I would have given up about halfway through.

My honest assessment is that Kazuo Ishiguro has produced a piece of self indulgent twaddle in the midst of some great work, and to use a musical analogy this is Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief, and The Remains of the Day is The Bends/ OK Computer. Even genius has an off day.

"Put Me Back on My Bike": In Search of Tom Simpson By William Fotheringham (2006)

Sat, 08 Dec 2007 13:00:27 GMT

Whilst studying for my French A Level in the Summer Term of 1985 we spent some time reading the French Press coverage of that years Tour de France, which was won by crowd favourite Bernard Hinault. I was a great fan of cycling at this stage in my life as it was the real Golden Age of Anglo Irish racers, culminating in the triumph of Stephen Roche in this, the Blue Riband event of cycling in 1987.

I was the only lad in a class of seven, which had certain advantages, but I remember how the teacher Adge Brown, vexed the lasses by talking with me if not about politics, then sport.

But this particular day what he said had a tremendous impact on me as he told us all about the life and death of Tom Simpson.

Adge, despite knocking on 50, was tremendously fit and took pride in beating us all ends up in the traditional winter cross country sessions. He excelled at most sports and had an encyclopaedic knowledge, so when he spoke on the subject it was with real authority.

Tom Simpson died an agonising death during the 1967 Tour on a broiling day near the summit of Mont Ventoux in the Massif Central.

This climb in particular is renowned amongst even the crème de la crème of mountain expert riders as an absolute lung buster, and Simpson expired from heart failure, which was induced by heat exhaustion, exacerbated by consumption of amphetamines and brandy.

Until his excruciating end, Simpson had been a true British sporting hero having been the first man from outside Continental Europe to break into the real top end of cycling. He won the road racing World Title in 1965, and was voted BBC Sports Personality in that record-breaking year which had been the culmination of a glittering career that saw Tom be the first Brit to wear the Maillot Jaune, as well as winning Classic races such as the much coveted Bordeaux- Paris Race of 1963.

Simpson went on to lift the Paris-Nice Trophy, the so-called “Race to the Sun”, and the Giro Lombardia was added to the list of achievements, but the one Tom wanted more than any other was the Tour de France.

1967 saw Tom Simpson in tip top condition as the Tour commenced, and going into Week Two the Durham born ace was handily placed in sixth position overall. But then disaster struck in the form of a stomach upset causing Simpson to lose out in the Marseille based time trials.

Thus the Ventoux Stage took on massive significance. If Simpson’s dreams of glory were to be realised, he had to have the ride of his life. He took the drugs and paid the ultimate price as even when his body started to pack up, he uttered the title of this book and as the video below shows he just refused to give in.

Adge displayed uncharacteristic anger and disdain towards Tom Simpson because he felt betrayed that a guy that he idolised had resorted to cheating and paid the ultimate price.

That was my knowledge of the man, and during a 2000 retrospective of the BBC Sports Personality of the Year Awards, I was surprised by the uproar in the Guardian letters page caused by the Corporation’s decision to say; “in 1965 the Award was won by Tom Simpson”, and move straight on.

I had fallen out of love with the sport by then due to the drugs issue, which had culminated in the disastrous 1998 “Tour of Shame” when the whole sorry mess resulted in the mass expulsions and criminal proceedings against the Festina Team.

But the debate surrounding Simpson caused me to re evaluate his place as a British Legend, as if you take the circumstances into account it is a real surprise that more riders didn’t die.

William Fotheringham is one of my favourite sports journalists, and his coverage surrounding the death of Marco Pantani in 2004 was a masterpiece of balance and integrity after the Italian 1998 Tour/ Giro d’Italia double winner died from a cocaine overdose, having endured years of whispers about his performances.

So when I spied this book. It became a must read item, and I am happy to say it is a stunning achievement, characteristic of the author’s values.

Simpson was a working class lad from the North East via Nottingham, and it was sheer guts and determination that saw him break onto the Continental scene and become cycling’s first “outsider” hero, blazing a trail for the ‘Eighties Golden Generation.

Tom was a driven man and took incredible risks to push himself beyond normal human endurance in pursuit of his dreams; therefore I feel much less judgemental about him and feel his has been badly served by history. He deserves better, and his vilification is totally over the top, something, which I note, is not present in Belgium or France where he is still well known and highly regarded.

As for the speed he took; when you think that riders were only allowed four water bottles per stage, and there were no feeding stations it’ hardly a wonder that this stuff went on.

History is there to be mulled over, investigated and re evaluated. Fotheringham has done a remarkable job, but my cynicism about the modern game remains.

Hypocrite? In denial about the Golden Generation and drugs? Probably, yes. But Robert Millar, Sean Kelly, Sean Yeates, Paul Kimmage and Stephen Roche provided endless hours of entertainment for a teenage boy who needed such distractions more than most.

The Uncommon Reader by Alan Bennett (2006)

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 14:59:32 GMT

Her Majness accidentally discovers Westminster Council’s mobile Library by the Staff Quarters after the Corgis run amok, and so is launched, much to the dismay of her snooty officials, a late-in-life love affair with literature.

I am a huge fan of Alan Bennett’s work due to his use of humour which draws out the pathos in everyday life, and this is a supreme example as we see how Elizabeth is separated from everyone else on all kinds of levels, due to an accident of birth but in common with everyone, she yearns for those routine encounters that we take for granted.

George Best, and to a certain extent Paul Gascoigne suffered similar isolation as they simply had no one on their level, especially in Best’s case, with whom they could empathise and relate to, and this book is about that horrible feeling of loneliness in a crowded environment.

We have no idea what the Queen is really like as an individual and this gives Bennett considerable scope in his characterisation, but I would warm to the woman he has portrayed much more than the ice cold fish as portrayed by Helen Mirren in Stephen Frears’ recent Oscar winning film.

I don’t agree with the concept of a Monarchy full stop. But if we have to be subject to one, then Queen Elizabeth as an individual, has done and continues to do the job supremely well and I admire her fortitude, as it must be an onerous task at her age. If it wasn’t for her meddling, inbred, amoral half wit of an eldest son she could be enjoying a long and restful retirement, but she must realise that if Jug Ears ever got the gig then the Monarchy would be over for good in a storm of ill feeling and recrimination, so it is that very British trait of Duty that keeps her at the helm hoping her son falls before she does.

Bennett’s over arching thesis is that literature has the power to educate, encourage empathy and a more rounded, less abrasive view of things is something that I feel passionately about. Reading is just so important for a myriad of reasons, and in this case it is subversive and enables the Queen to see through her toadying advisors, and her oleaginous Prime Minister.

Rough Ride By Paul Kimmage (1990, revised and updated 2006)

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 10:49:18 GMT

Mention the names Sean Kelly, Sean Yates, Martin Earley, Robert Millar and of course Stephen Roche and I am transported back to the ’Eighties and the tradition in our house of naming a Sportsman of the Week.
This was a serious matter, and always involved a detailed discussion of the various candidates and as the only mainstream sports not followed were horse related activities and motor racing, this left a wide range of achievements to choose from, these names were popular for their many triumphs in such a gruelling sport.

I first came across cycling during the summer of 1979 when we witnessed in Co. Kerry the Tour of Ireland, which along with Rás Tailteann is the most prestigious road race in Ireland’s cycling calendar.

I remember being amazed at the speed and control of the riders plus the size of the support teams with all the cars and vans following in a mass convoy.

Then in 1981 the Milk Race came to Hull, entering the City down Boothferry Road, and then completing a circuit of the City centre finishing outside Paragon Station on Ferensway. The sprint finish looked like a terrifying affair, one false move and the whole peleton would have come crashing to earth at about forty miles and hour.

The race leader coming in was non other than Paul Kimmage, now a famous sports journalist who penned the remarkable biography of Tony Cascarino, and the frankly woeful effort by Andy Townsend which makes Mike Atherton look like Muhammed Ali in the personality stakes.

Rough Ride documents Kimmage’s career in cycling which saw him become Irish Amateur Champion in 1983, which he followed up with an impressive sixth place in the World Amateur event.

After appearing at the 1984 LA Olympics, Kimmage went to France and joined the professional ranks during the Golden Age of Irish cycling, which culminated in Roche winning the 1987 Tour de France, and Ireland winning the UCI World Road Race Championships in the same year when Kimmage teamed up with Roche, the legend that is Sean Kelly (winner of numerous Classics including the prestigious Paris Nice Race a record seven times in a row) and Martin Earley who in any other era would have been the Irish number one and a major celebrity due to his Stage wins in the Giro Italia and the Tour de France itself.

For myself I loved the spirit of competition and the back breaking courage of the riders, and I imagine any Irish father whose son showed promise would have been made up to see his son join the peleton.

Not now.

This year the Tour started in London and as it was to pass directly in front of one of my Dad’s childhood homes in Kent, our interest was re kindled and Eurosport was on all day to follow the action.

But then I was reminded why I had fallen out of love with the sport when two of the leading riders, both disputing the Maillot Jaune, were dismissed from the race. Alexandre Vinokourakov and Michael Rasmussen were both heavily implicated in doping, the Kazak testing positive and the Dane suspended by his team for missing tests and going AWOL from the Inspectors, thus the scandals of the ‘Nineties which wrecked the sport in the minds of the Public were back with a vengeance, and I could hardly bear to read William Fotherington’s brilliant Guardian dispatches from the front line as his whole sporting world seemed shattered by the scandals.

What did it for me was the sheer arrogance of David Millar when he held the King of the Mountains jersey on this years Tour. For me this would have been a major source of celebration for a Brit to attain such a prestigious position, but I was filled with revulsion watching the Press Conference. He had served a two year doping ban and showed not one jot of humility, shrugging it off as an occupational hazard. He still uses the same Doctor. What more needs to be said.

I gave up and have no idea who prevailed by the end of the race. I would never encourage my son to become a cyclist in the same spirit that I wouldn’t want him in the Armed Services.

Paul Kimmage’s book Rough Ride tells the story, warts and all of his four or so years in the peleton, which included two stints riding the Tour de France, and all the various Classic races on the calendar.

Behind the glamour of the race lies a hard and badly paid life where you are the slave for the team, and wholly dependent on the Sporting Directeur for your livelihood.

The weird thing with pro cycling is that you have to follow team orders I what is essentially an individual sport, and one of the main jobs of the lesser riders (of which Kimmage was one) is to protect and nurse the number one team member through a race, stage by stage to the bitter end.

This inevitably leads to a great deal of friction and ill feeling, and it is clear that it is a very solitary life where you have to watch your back 24/7.

Despite this, Kimmage tells heart warming stories of comradeship and shared suffering during some of the worst conditions in any sport.

Then comes the part that saw Kimmage effectively expunged from the sport on his retirement in 1989. Drugs.

He recounts in a detached manner what he saw. The injections and pills which some of his comrades relied on, some to get through the day, and others to make the difference between nearly man and winner.

The revelations are not sensationalist and crucially Kimmage makes no value judgements, nor does he name names for the sake of it, but the message is clear. Then, and now cycling is riven with systematic drug abuse and until it is truly clean, it is not a real sport in the true sense of the word as the ability of your medic, and not your natural athleticism is the difference.

A depressing but necessary read which was updated for the modern era as Kimmage revisited the Tour in 2006 to see what had changed. The answer? Nothing. Just that teams are more professional about cheating.

The Battle of Salamis by Javier Cercas (2002)

Tue, 18 Sep 2007 15:54:07 GMT

A high profile Francoista finds himself at the mercy of a Republican Militiaman in the dying days of the Spanish Civil War, but incredibly the Government Fighter eyeballs his prey and decides to let him go. What really happened?
Rafael Sanchez Mazas went on to be a leading, if fleeting light in the Franco’s Fascist rebellion which, with the help of the Nazis and the criminal ambivalence of the Allies, went onto usurp power from the democratically elected Leftist Government of the Spanish Republic and his hero status largely devolved from this supposed incident.
Soldiers of Salamis is a very unusual novel as the author himself becomes one of the main protagonists.
The first part of the book is about how the writer gathered his evidence , the main story is told in part two, and the final chapters update the reader on what became of the characters.
I am fascinated by this period of history as my hero, George Orwell actually put his Socialist principles on the line to fight for the Republic, the result being a Homage to Catalonia, one of the finest works as a analysis and ultimately a condemnation of War penned in the 20^th Century, and includes references to my late Father in Law’s close friend Staff Cottam, who as a callow 17 year old fought in this conflagration.
His own memoirs were passed on to me and I include them amongst my most treasured possessions, for what they mean for the history of out great Socialist Movement and for the memories of Les Jones himself, a man of outstanding principles who actually did something to change things through his tireless work as an activist in the Trade Union Movement, and in the Labour Party.
No one had more influence over my political education, even if my late Mother in Law often had to tell us to pack in the arguing due to his dickey ticker.
The Battle of Salamis delves into the psychology of human motivation in times of great turmoil, but what interest me is no matter how even the balance the Republicans always come out as the heroes and thirty years after his death, the Francoistas would rather slink into the shadows of history.

A great book and a must read for Socialists everywhere.

Seventy One Guns. By David Tossell (2002)The Story of Arsenal's First Double.

Fri, 31 Aug 2007 16:32:13 GMT

Street brawls in Rome, dressing room unrest, a five nil spanking at Stoke, bucket loads of self doubt but ultimately a last gasp winner in the Cup Final, and the iconic sight of Arsenal’s fan boy, rebel-with-a-cause, Charlie George lying prostrate on the Wembley turf, which is the image seared into the psyche of every Arsenal fan, as this unsung team became the first side to win the Double in the television era and the benchmark for all the triumphs that have followed, and are to come in Arsene Wenger‘s new vision at the Grove.
As I write these words I can feel a frission of excitement and I transport myself back to my early twenties and walking out of Arsenal Tube Station. I can literally smell the hog dog stalls and feel the chill night air in my throat. There was something indescribably primal about night games at Highbury, football fandom stripped of all the modern paraphernalia. Cold, often wet, jostling by the turnstiles, steaming Police horses, stale beer breath, fag cupped in hand, soggy chips. Cliché upon cliché. Nick Hornby has a lot to answer for.
I started to go on a regular basis when I returned to the Britain in 1989, but my first Arsenal game took place at Wembley in the Summer of 1988 during the much maligned Makita Tournament.
English Clubs were rightly the pariah of Europe in the wake of the Heysel Disaster of 1985 which had claimed 38 lives through that great English Tradition of “running”, not proper hooliganism, but deadly when combined with poor organisation and a ramshackle Stadium.
Thus the only action we could get against foreign opposition came through pre season tournaments such as this one which featured AC Milan, Bayern Munich, the mighty Tottenham and of course Arsenal.
We arrived from Ireland at Baker Street Station and this was to be, for me the dreaded Meeting The Family scenario.
A guy turned up driving a convertible blaring New Order, sporting an ear ring and implausibly tight jeans, but enough about Martin Kemp. My future Brother in Law and I spoke the common language of football and this started one of the most important, lasting and valuable friendships and relationships of my life. Brian Marwood is the prime suspect in all this.
I was Hull City through and through, and whilst I watched top flight stuff on the telly, I had no opinions either way about the teams taking part, usually cheering the under dog as in Coventry and Wimbledon in successive Cup Finals.
But when my all time Tigers Hero Brian Marwood, inspiration for two promotions in the Don Robinson inspired madness which saw City come back from the abyss of bankruptcy, signed for Arsenal and Michael was a fan, the jigsaw fell into place. The rest as they say, is history.
Arsenal beat Spurs 4-0 in my first game. This Arsenal supporting thing is easy enough then! If only….
As I got into it, you listen to the stories and talk to the older fans and 1970-71 seems to be the genesis for the modern Arsenal narrative.
All the great Arsenal traits seemed to come together in the Double Team and it’s instructive to compare the first Double team with the 1998 vintage, the foundations of which were laid by George Graham, built on by Bruce Rioch, and topped off by Arsene Wenger in his first full season at Highbury.
A fantastic back five, 1971 and 1998 are legendary for the Captain Fantastic centre half leading from the front and never expecting of others what they wouldn’t of themselves. Tony Adams may as well have been cloned from Frank McClintock.
Wilson, McNab, Rice and Simpson were mirrored in 1998 by Seaman, Dixon, Winterburn and Keown with Steve Bould filling in when required, and the former Stoke man played a pivotal role in that surreal moment when he played Adams through with a pinpoint ball which the skipper buried with the aplomb of a seasoned finisher when the Gunners clinched the Title at home to Everton.
In midfield Coach and tactical mastermind, Don Howe and Boss Bertie Mee had a withdrawn man on the right hand side of the park who possessed a great engine, pace and a fierce shot in Eddie Kelly who ironically gave way to the mercurial Charlie George during the run in. Kelly however came off the bench to score the equaliser in the Cup Final.
Ray Parlour provided that role in 1998, and how the Essex Pele never made it to the World Cup of that year, lies only in the mind of the bonkers Glenn Hoddle.
Geordie Armstrong provided the width and pace on the left wing, and Marc Overmars had the season of his life in 1998 including netting the vital winner at Old Trafford in March.
In the middle of the Park, Manu Petit’s class and ability to play the killer ball directly compares with George Graham, not a man blessed with pace and like Petit he learnt through the sharp tongue of his defenders when he needed to get stuck in and protect as well as create and do the flashy stuff.
Peter Storey, latter-day porn runner, brothel owner and convicted counterfeiter was the archetypal ’Seventies central midfield brusier, the water carrier for the classier players and whilst Patrick Viera was much more of a rounded player as befits the Premiership era, his basic task for Wenger was to win the ball and feed Overmars, Petit and the finishers. And what a great engine the guy had, non stop hard running up, down and all around.
Up front Howe and Mee had the young buck Ray Kennedy, as Wenger had the blistering pace of an 18 year old Nicolas Anelka ably supported by the old head and experience of Bergkamp coming into his pomp. Who can ever forget his masterful hat trick at Leicester early in the season? Howe and Mee had John Radford, a no nonsense Yorkshireman as Kennedy’s mentor.
On the periphery was Jon Sammels. A talented midfield schemer in the mould of George Eastham but who became the butt of the notorious North Bank boo boys. He played a pivotal role early in the season, but injury and a perceived loss of form saw him absolutely slaughtered by a section of the crowd and whilst his colleagues celebrated the Double, Sammels negotiated a summer move to Leicester.
This has become somewhat of a nasty and unpleasant seam running through recent Gunner’s history. In my era it was Perry Groves followed by Jimmy Carter, Martin Keown and almost unbelievably Kevin Campbell. The current target is Alex Hleb whom I observe to be a hard running, committed player on the right hand side, Parlour like. Not spectacular but does a job.
The Groves thing intrigues me. No one doubted his effort but he really wasn’t any good and lived off skinning Gillespie in the 1987 League Cup Final win. I vividly remember the cacophony of groans that accompanied his introduction on the tannoy. His nadir came in a horrendous 0-0 at QPR in 1992 when his name was chanted sarcastically because we were so bad.
The pitch is tight at Rangers and you are on top of the play and during this game a hard core totally crucified a hapless Jimmy Carter.
I felt for the lad and saw him physically crumble in the face of such abuse. He was a decent player by reputation, but we needed him to actually change things, rather than hone his skills and blend in, and he wasn’t up to the job but I am certain the boo boys wrecked any hope of us seeing the best from him.
And yet…. Groves’ autobiography is selling like hot cakes amongst the Gooner faithful. There is a distinct whiff of revisionism at work. Faux sentimentality. But Groves is having the last laugh on his way to the bank. A perverse form of justice.
As for Seventy One Guns… It’s a well researched read complete with fascinating insights from the players, casting light on what it was like to be a pro in that era and I’m sure many of today’s players wouldn’t last the pace what with the heavy pitches and the brutal tackling. And best of all Arsenal pipped Damned United, Dirty, Violent, Thugs Leeds United to the Title.
I would heartily recommend it, and not just for Arsenal fans as you get a great flavour of the contemporary game, and it ranks with my favourite book about football, Eamonn Dunphy’s tome Manchester United and Matt Busby: A Strange Kind of Glory.
There is no way Arsenal can match the magical history of Britain’s (if not the World’s) greatest football Club, but David Tossell’s book reminded me why I fell in love with Arsenal and why I should jolly well do something about re igniting matters which I have let drift since 1999 when I moved to Hull.
Hull City is the wife, but Arsenal is a tempestuous but enchanting mistress.