No Carbs before Marbs

Dear reader, so soon, but alas I must leave you, albeit temporarily. I fly to sunny Spain in the morning to test myself in Marbella against Essex slutes and forest-fires. Obviously, I won't be able to post while I'm away but usual service will resume when I return on Thursday. I head off with Thom, a fairly unsuitable partner, but he tells me he's eaten no carbohydrates since I invited him. Fairwell.

Marikana Injustice

I appreciate the two share different weights on the scales of consequence, but further to learning that this country still kicks ministers out through a revolving door made of old and forgotten legal papers, South Africa's government is still using theirs to kick the poorest and most vulnerable members of their society into jail. The Marikana miners are to be collectively charged with the murder not only of the two police officers and two security guards that were killed outside the mine on August 16th, but also for the murder of six of their fellow protesters. That seems to me to represent the first injustice. The second, and most alarming, is the doctrine of "common purpose" that adds a steel cap to the boot of the backward and discredited justice system. One hopes that, thanks in part to the availability of video footage of the clash on the internet, South Africa is able to unite against the policemen responsible for applying unreasonable force, none of whom are currently held in custody, and the pathetically retrograde doctrine of "common purpose".

Making Friends Is Easy

Seldom am I reduced to screaming at the box. Not even the Olympics, for example, elicited as much volume out of me as you might suspect. Indeed, what's the point? Last Friday however, John Humphrys took aim at a chap called Roland (yes) on Mastermind and fired twelve or so questions about Radiohead at him. In fairness to the contestant it must be rather shaky under the bright lights and he did fairly well, maybe better than I did at home, albeit without a few hours to swot up. For a long time I've wondered how hard the questions actually are on specialist subjects, but now I know, sort of. Then again, how are they gauged against other specialist subjects? Some seemed laughably easy, such as the question about Radiohead's 2007 album blah blah, while others were impossible, like the question about the 'Rhinestone Cowboy' session. I realize I'm writing for a distinct minority at present, but they know who they are.

James Wood

And that is why, I think, Knausgaard finds it necessary to see his father’s corpse twice. The first time, he goes with his brother to the undertaker’s chapel. His father seems still to be alive. Outside, someone is mowing the lawn, and the expectation that the noise will waken the corpse is so strong that he can’t help recoiling. The second time, he is alone, and his father is becoming a thing, an object.

~ James Wood reviews Knausgaard's My Struggle for The New Yorker 13.8.2012.

A minor and (un)important correction

Alarmingly I was in error when I described Louise Mensch as an ex-minister. Only now has she been appointed "steward and bailiff of the Manor of Northstead" in some sort of absurd parliamentary tradition, employed only when a minister wants to step down, that would be better remedied by rewriting the law instead of ritually circumventing it and exposing the frayed and decaying pages of the document on which it was written.

Hitch in Passing

It's been a while but now we imbibe. The Hitch is back on the radar after a hiatus, which was never going to last, brought about by his death. Drawn from the afterword to the upcoming Mortality, Carol Blue reflects on what life was like before and after her husband's passing, and she reveals that, while he was in hospital more or less permanently, he did expect to "be home soon", which runs a broken nail down the chalkboard. Similarly, Martin Amis talks to Slate about his relationship with the Hitch and anticipates the depression that lies ahead subsequent to an episode of finding Christopher's "love of life" bequeathed to him. Amis runs another hand down the chalkboard when he admits continuing dialogues and jokes with the Hitch in his head, jokes that were never tempered or restrained but rather proudly obscene, and unknowingly evoking the simple thought-experiment: with whom can I share an equally unbridled conversation?

Perversions

Newsnight devoted almost its entire run-time last Thursday to broadcast a discussion about Prince Harry's naked bod, which I'll get onto later. And so, besides watching Max Clifford in sandals and Bermuda shorts face off against Vanessa Feltz no less, we were introduced to former feminist-twitter-Nazi turned transcendent-matriarch-goddess, Louise Mensch discussing the finer points of Ken Clarke waffling on about proper and improper rape. I almost fell off my beanbag when, coming to his defense, Mensch used the term "mis-speak" as though that were perfectly acceptable. Not only that but it also went completely unchecked by the presenter. One can't help but feel that were Mensch to have used that sort of language a month or two ago when she was still a minister Kirsty Wark would have made her eat her cheeks.

Which reminds me, I was hit with another kind of lingual perversion last week when my mate Thom and I attempted entry into the VIP campsite at V Festival; the organizers wanted a compulsory donation of twenty rubs for charity. Now, call me a square, but a "compulsory donation" not only sounded like an oxymoron but it also felt a bit red, so we gave the girl on the desk an earful of jip and she wound up giving us purple wristbands instead of silver, which worked all the same. The only problem of course arose at the end of the night when we wanted to bring a couple of totties wearing those licious high-waisted shorts back to our tent. They however were not VIP while we were so the only damp we got was from the morning dew.

Ian McEwan on the Hitch

He's made a big hole in our lives.

McEwan before an audience in Edinburgh - Front Row 22.8.2012.

announced death

What man couldn't be said to expend altogether too much energy on fending off prematurity? Nothing I've done in the past five or six weeks could be described as premature. Quite the opposite. It's nine months since the Hitch lifted his pen for the last time (premature), and today on Slate David Plotz motioned towards the one year anniversary (premature).

It strikes me only now that I wasn't writing at the time and so never took the time to note my sorrow properly. I still visit the sites every day for news on the Hitch. Long ago I realized that, no, what was written has been written and what was broadcast on YouTube is multiplying no more. But it's a ritual, a mourning, an homage.

So prolific was the Hitch, writing constantly for Slate, the Atlantic, Vanity Fair, Free Inquiry, his next book, his latest exchange, speaking publicly at debates, on television, at signings and in interviews. December 16th 2011 was a doorstop. I honoured him in my own way, a gesture undoubtedly shared by many, by reading and toasting a glass of Johnnie Walker Black with friends, "the greatest blended Scotch in the history of the world...breakfast of champions".

More than once I heard the Hitch talk about the pillars of free thought: logic, reason, and irony. I struggled with this last one. Certainly a good trait to cultivate, but a pillar of one's life? Those close to the Hitch have surfaced a selection of his notes that will appear in his final book, Mortality, which has been on pre-order since the morning of its announcement. Perhaps my favourite is the following:

Misery of seeing oneself on old videos or YouTubes…

Here it is, Hitch yearning for forgotten pride; the constant assessment and reassessment of the self, his indefatigable attack on hypocrisy, his pursuit of self-awareness and irony. And pluralising YouTube, pre-empting all of us, something melts inside me.

Dry Dentist

I've watched enough ice hockey (which almost came out ice hokey) to know that a man, certainly a man without facial hair should always get his teeth fixed at the earliest opportunity. The dentist seemed somewhat peeved that I hadn't proffered him my open mouth for about five years on account of my stint Stateside, and when I explained my swimming background, concluding with a solemn reflection on my Olympic failure, he held my gaze and said yeah I just missed qualification too as though that were an acceptable thing to say. Even after he lapsed and said that I had probably worked a lot harder than he I still felt unduly faced. Once he'd finished rounding off the bottom of my now less pronounced canine and offered me the green swill-juice I deliberately aimed and spat the stuff on his midget sink, gratuitously spraying the vicinity with green splashback. At reception they didn't charge me a penny on account of still being a student (?) so I've felt guilty all day.

Paint

My unyieldingly helpful mother has let me allone in her home no less and taken brothers two and three with her on the express condition that I paint the porch and garage skirting before they return. It sounded easy and pleasant and worthwhile while the sun was shining but then someone said something about sanding and undercoating and priming and of a sudden it seemed rather an undertaking. My hands are covered in the white stuff and it's fast transferring itself to the already abuggered keyboard and the effect is embarrassing. Earlier I noticed while crouched in the garage that I'd positioned the door in such a way that I had in fact painted myself into a corner and I burst into tears.

The Dark Blost Rises

I have arisen from the ashes, been reborn, and from the dust shall I grow wings again. I've clung to the bottle for a long while now as though in a dream and meanwhile the simple realities of day-to-day life have left me without a home, without a beloved, without a career, without money, without half a front tooth, without a laptop, and even without sport during Olympic sanctum no less. I am bashing away on an old Sony that someone kindly donated to me, however the c and f keys take some thumping. So too, I'm discovering, does the spacebar, so if you see any fors come out as ors you'll have to bare with me. I suspect I'm not alone in feeling summarily kicked in the rear by the Olympics, not only to dive back in the pool, but to get on and do something with my life, which almost came out as do something with my lie, which also works. On that point I'd like once again to publicly thank all those who sent me messages of support before, during, and after my competition in Sheffield. At the time I billed that swim as my last, but I can't let it fall; it's too great a part of my life, which nearly came out as too great a part of my lie, which again also works. While I'm still getting wiser, faster, bring it on. Courtesy of JP I bagged a ticket for the Aquatic Center to watch Addlington barely let the 400m freestyle title fall from her around her neck, and see one of the sport's greatest races, the 4x100 freestyle relay play out as though for a fairytale. I saw Ryan Lochte a couple of times in London nightclubs after the event and his shoulders slumped like the heads of new-born babies. Incidentally, as a rule they didn't let me in. Welcome home.