Hiraeth:

I’ve been feeling homesick recently.  Considering I have lived in Mid-Devon for four years, you’d think this would have happened a long time ago.  But no, It’s more of a recent thing.  

A few things built up, those small pebbles of life that make a mountain.  Firstly, my parents health needs some attention. Nothing much to worry about.  However, the other side of that balances out with the fact he is an old man.  Then again, there is always the thought that when The Sun engulfs The Solar System in five billion years, it’ll be him, Keith Richards and the cockroaches enjoying the most expensive fireworks display in history.

On a less flippant note, two people from my past have died.  One, from a college course in mid-twenties.  The other, someone I would have considered my best friend over thirty years ago.  But the converse of this is, I’ve had no contact with him for seven of them.

These two people, characters from my own personal play died in completely different ways.  I felt, two tiny moments of sadness – one longer than the other.  And yet, I expected to feel something.  In a way, I questioned why I didn’t.  

I suppose, it all links in this great Panglossian myth.  As we’re still in the middle of a pandemic, still trying to work how long the middle actually is.  It keeps coming, dripping across tweets, posts and local news.  That we should “reach out to an old friend” or “be nicer to each other.” Or, the biggest pile of mawkish bullshit: “kindness always”.  

Some people are with you, as the phrase says: for a reason, a season or a lifetime.  I am unable scientifically or spiritually, to trace the twist of collagen and calcium phosphate to find if they remembered me as they died.  That’s impossible.

The people who are with me now, are meant to be.  Included in that group, a friend.  I would consider him my best friend.  We don’t see other much, but I know if either of needed a chat, either of us would appear on each other’s What’s App.   

And yet, I still feel like a stranger in a strange land.  I wear one of my nine Liverpool shirts on matchdays.  I’ll make Scouse on the darkest and lowest of Winter mornings.    Liverpool is my cultural identity.  And on the days, I need to belong anywhere, it is at Anfield, watching Mo Salah score.  it is walking down William Brown Street to either The World Museum, Central Library or The Walker Art Gallery.  It is anywhere within earshot of an elongated vowel. 

And yes, there is a word for it.  Hiraeth is a Welsh word that has no simple meaning.  It’s not one of the two Welsh words in the English language.  Those are Corgi and Penguin – put that in your next Zoom pub quiz.  Hiraeth is loosely described as “homesickness, tinged with loss and sadness over the departed; especially in the context of Wales and Welsh culture.”

And on the day, I found out about someone’s passing; I did not shed a tear.  I was off to see Blood Brothers with my family.  And you could dismiss it as mawkish.  But it’s a musical about class, destiny and the continuing inequity at the heart of being English.  But above all, living in/being from Liverpool.  

I’ve seen it a number of times.  I mean, it’s part of being Scouse.  And I always cry at the end, alternating between weeping and singing along.  And seeing it in Plymouth, a week after a man both alienated and radicalised murdered five people; you’d have to possess a heart of stone not to feel moved.  

The next day, I lay on the couch.  Chased the Wist away with some podcasts.  And as I did that, Swifts swarmed and chased each other on a late summer afternoon.  I’ve been fascinated by them since I read about them in Helen Macdonald’s book Vesper Flights.  Birds that are innately restless, flying from the moment they hatch.  Feeding, sleeping, even mating on the wing.  Only stopping when they nest.  

And I decided then that home is where you are.  Where the people that you love live.  Your culture is an internal thing, twisted like string round your DNA and threaded through the soul.  Homesickness is, merely one fact of what a great man called “the thousand natural shocks”. It is a temporary, transitory sickness.  Accept the small fact of its existence, but don’t spend your life there.

Book Review - The Slow Road to Tehran by Rebecca Lowe:

 

In 2015, Rebecca Lowe spent 11 months cycling from London to Iran on what was part fact-finder, part act of Stakhanovite endurance.  She's a journalist with extensive experience in The Middle East.  And probably, here this is the first in many points of exploration. At different times, different empires have defined the spot at where Europe ends and what we know as The Middle East (first used in 1900 by Thomas Edward Gordon) begins.  

And Lowe is honest about the misgivings and both family and fixers.  She eats where she can, but drinking is possibly more important in 44-degree heat. You can almost taste that, as much as the metre-long kebabs.  Her panniers include GPS, a mobile phone and a laptop.  Thankfully, she leaves the ukulele. She's reliant on the kindness of strangers and is at constant threat of either assault or harassment by some of them.   

That is the real key to this book's enjoyability.  Lowe comes across as an engaging, knowledgeable guide to countries that are frequently viewed by us as rogue states where religion is weaponised in acts of hatred. What she finds is that most people just want to be safe, happy and free. And she's absolutely right in saying: we created all that for political power, an illusory form of safety and cheap oil. It's a human book, with a granular, sand-coloured level of research. 

 

However, it's the characters in this book that stand out.  The Egyptian medical students who use English textbooks as they're easier to understand, the bisexual Iranian woman who campaigns for gay rights and the sadly numerous people at constant threat of arrest and torture for merely speaking out against their own government.  

I should also mention the other character in this book.  Her bike Maud (named after a female traveller).  You'll gasp as Maud sends Rebecca into a ditch.  You'll wince as she crashes, crushing a pint of milk against her laptop.  Slow punctures are written with the tension of painful conversations and a week-long wait for a vital part for a bike chain is tense, gorgeous and ultimately satisfying. 

Those seven days are spent secretly partying with Iranian youth, attending a wedding, before ultimately finding out it is rude to immediately accept an invitation; unless someone waives your obligation to refuse three times.

In short though, Lowe has created a book which could have been a leaden, two-wheeled slog.  She's instead created something with kindness, propelled by human energy and literary skill. Accept her invitation to travel.    

 Stars and Bones by Gareth L Powell: 

Gareth L Powell is a recent discovery.  I've read two of his books so far and I've literally devoured both within days - Stars and Bones is his most recent and it made a dose of the lurgy (not that lurgy) a little more enjoyable and a welcome antidote to the return of war to Europe. 

It's filled with great ideas, well-written characters and a masterful control of the plot that it can make some stunning left turns and barrel rolls and still have you greedily turning the pages.

   

Split across two narratives; the early one sees humanity literally saved at the last minute from environmental/nuclear catastrophe by god-like aliens called The Benevolence.  However, don't cheer just yet.  We're evicted from The Earth and now roam the galaxy in arks made from Saturn's rings and warned not to find another planet; unless we treat it better.

   

Meanwhile, Eryn King searches for her sister, missing presumed dead on a scouting mission for that elusive other Earth.  When she finds something that is less benevolent and more malevolent, the fate of humanity is in her hands between two god-like forces with very different intentions. 

So, a massive novel with big timely ideas.  But Powell has great control here, serving slabs of body-horror as both human beings and spaceships are literally torn apart to find out how they work.  But it's matched with a huge, metaphysical thought experiment: how would humanity cope if greed, hunger and poverty didn't exist?

  

That is a huge concept for a novel... but to tack onto that; all the gore, big spaceships and pulpy characters you could ever wish for shows real skill and an intention to entertain as much as intellectually stimulate.  At one point, we even go within the genre of police procedural - and even that works.

   

And it would be incredibly easy to dismiss all of this as silly, superficial space opera.  But that genre is rarely about the sizzle of lasers against shielding. It's a very human piece of work about loneliness, family, the sacrifice of being a parent (explored more in the metaphysical finale) and our moronic propensity to ruin good things with acquiring more wealth.

 

I also enjoyed the dash of dark and ingenious humour dotted throughout the book.  One of the things granted to us by The Benevolence is that cats and dogs can talk.  Sam, Eryn's cat is a cynical, thoughtful, feline chorus to the action.  This itself, is a call-back to his novel Embers of War, featuring the sentient warship Trouble Dog: a lethal mix of dog/teenage girl DNA; which commits a war crime and then decides to do good.

   

And possibly, in a few years' time we may see Embers of War on TV as it's been optioned for a series.  In the meantime, enjoy this: a bloody, but ultimately beautiful vision of what we could be if we treated each other a little bit better.  And if you don't see that as apposite, watch the news.   

 Biographies And Diaries: 

At the suggestion of an ex-girlfriend, I have kept a diary for the last thirteen years.  This is a habit I have kept four times longer than the actual relationship, which says more about my habits, than my choice in partner.  I do it for mental clarity, even though I wonder what my stepson will actually do with them when I am not here.  

This must explain why I am fascinated by autobiographies, biographies and diaries.  This, for an avid reader like myself is the equivalent of a nourishing meal.  You can learn a lot about your favourite celebrity, the best will leave the odd unanswered question. Either well, there is skill and craft involved as much as a good read.

So firstly, a word about celebrity autobiographies: don't read them.  They are the instant noodles of the book world, but at least instant noodles aren't sold at 50% off in January.  If this is your bag, bag them then.  Sports biographies used to be like that and still are to a certain extent.  Possibly the best: 61 Minutes in Munich by Howard Gayle, the first black player to play for Liverpool.  Honest about both what was a disappointing career and the part that racism played in curtailing it.

Music is my other big passion, and again there has also been an improvement in this genre.  Me by Elton John is candid, shocking and no stone is left unturned, either in terms of his sexuality, addictions or tantrums.  It also confirms the urban myth that whilst staying in a hotel, he rang his record company to ask the wind to stop blowing outside his room. 

Keith Richards confirms the "I am not your drummer story" in Life, as well as his ongoing guerrilla war with Mick Jagger - he describes him as "a nice bunch of blokes."  I'll Never Write My Memoirs by Grace Jones is in the same vein, with possible pub quiz questions about regretting turning down a role in Blade Runner and being asked to do Slave to the Rhythm by Trevor Horn, whilst setting fire to her then boyfriend Dolph Lungren's trousers.  

Head On/Repossessed is a double volume charting Julian Cope's rise from slacking Scouse student teacher to post-punk icon and finally, The Arch Drude we know and love today.  The best is undoubtedly Miles: The Autobiography.  Published a few years before an untimely/somewhat inevitable death, Miles Davis talks at length about being one of the great artists of the twentieth century, but with as much honey as venom.  It's like being mugged by angels.  

For actors and entertainers, start with Who on Earth Is Tom Baker? It's delicious stuff from the best Doctor Who.  It's good on growing up as a Catholic in 1930's Liverpool as much as Tom's "experiences" with Doctor Who groupies or drinking with Francis Bacon. John Peel was halfway through Margrave of the Marshes when he died.  And appropriately enough, you get two sides of the man: the first is as dilatory as Peel himself, the second reveals someone with real doubts and insecurities. 

A recent read was I Know This Much Is True by Miriam Margoyles.  Arch, entertaining and completely filthy. The book is pretty much the same. See also Absolute Pandemonium by Brian Blessed. Jasper Rees was given access to Victoria Wood's archives by her family.  Let's Do It is a loving portrait of a much-missed comic mind, but someone with a propensity for personal cruelty as much as a Stakhanovite work ethic.  

In a similar vein, Piers Paul Read was given access to Alec Guinness' diaries.  This is as complete a picture as you'll get, despite the destruction of several volumes of diaries throughout his lifetime (and Read explores the reasons why).  It's shows a man who was fastidious, insecure about his own talents and ultimately resentful of being in Star Wars, which gave both financial freedom and an unwanted, but geeky fanbase.  

Richard Burton's widow gave Swansea University his diaries after his death.  Chris Williams condenses 45 years of introspection into nearly 700 pages of brutal honesty, self-destructive behaviour (hence lapses in the narrative) and a man who wanted to be rich, but with minimum effort. Finally, Richard E Grant's diaries With Nails is as gossipy and witty as the man himself.

So, plenty to enjoy till Alan Rickman's diaries are published in October.  You can expect my diaries sometime in the late 21st century, subject to my stepson understanding my handwriting and legal clearances.

Grown Ups by Marian Keyes:  

A new year, maybe time to try something new.   Four years ago, my wife suggested I try one of Marian Keyes books.  She pointed me in the paper direction of Rachel's Holiday, her second book and then I have been slowly obsessed.  She is a writer with a moral purpose, but with a light, comic tone and an absolute master of the laborious plate spinning of novels that sometimes span hundreds of pages.  A sequel to that first book Again, Rachel is published this month.  However, if you would like to make a start, try her last novel Grown Ups.  

In many ways, it is a fantasy 2020 published as we saw the start of Covid and all the things that we saw taken away from us.  The Casey's run a chain of independent grocers and spend that missing year on holiday, at a festival and a truly awful murder mystery weekend with their blended families.    At a family party, one member suffers a concussion and a lifetime's worth of unhappiness, mental health problems, infidelity and general unhappiness come tumbling across the kitchen table.  

That is a huge scope for any writer and I've said, she's in control.  The novel starts with the inciting incident and works backwards, with the last third working through the emotional carnage.  It ends on an uncertain, yet satisfying note.  No-one is particularly happy, but at least they are honest about their dissatisfaction.  And in one case, one character achieves a transitory form of happiness on their own terms.  

This is Nell, young, restless and socially conscious. Married to an older man (a former cycling champion), step mum to his children from a previous relationship.  Nell is possibly one of the few times I've had a crush on a fictional character in a book.  It's Nell, or Ashley in Iain Banks' The Crow Road. Maybe that is a trigger for me, big, bold novels about family secrets. 

Anyway, this is a comic novel achieved through hard graft and great skill.  In many ways, Marian Keyes is an underrated writer and it's a literary mystery as to why.  Her books have been translated into over thirty languages - that is over thirty years, fifteen novels, two collections of non-fiction and a cookery book.  She deals with human issues in a warm, comic way.  Another writer of a different gender or country (she's Irish) would be lauded for that grace and body of work.  The Walsh's in particular, who feature in six of her novels are a wonderful creation.  Putting the fun into dysfunctional, but never with authorial snobbery or judgemental polemic.  Again, Rachel sees Rachel Walsh working in the rehab she attended in Rachel's Holiday.  

I'd start there and work around.  She's a writer you'll discover and become slowly obsessed with.  In uncertain times, warm your soul with a new, literary discovery.   

 The Peripheral:  

Ah, 2022.  The year of George Jetson's birth, which will make those of us of a certain vintage feel old.  It's also forty years since an American science fiction writer called William Gibson needed a term for a fourth-dimension created by a network of computers and called it "Cyberspace".  

It'll never catch on.  

His work has been eulogised, derided and "paid homage to" over four decades (I'm looking in your direction The Matrix and Inception).  His books are epically cool, a Kubrickian remove from their narrative, but with a real moral purpose and chapters like hot shots of espresso.

Later this year, we'll see an Amazon Prime series of his 2014 novel The Peripheral.  Adaptations of his works are rare, but look elsewhere on everyone's favourite parcel delivery service for the teeth-grindingly awful Johnny Mnemonic.  The Peripheral is perhaps the most accessible of his books, but it appears to have acquired a curiously timely status.

It's a novel across two time zones: a pre-apocalyptic mid- 2020's, before an event called "The Jackpot" wipes out 80% of humanity: a tsunami of war, political instabilities, global warming and pandemics. 

I know, sounds far-fetched.  

The other is a mid-23rd century, where science has thankfully solved all of our problems.  London is ruled by a monarchy, but in reality, AI makes the big decisions and Russian gangsters have the money.  Thankfully, there is a something to take your mind off things.  There's a Victorian cosplay zone with both robot street urchins and prostitution.  If that's not your bag, Time Travel (called Continua) is possible by the manipulation of data, creating an alternate reality called a "stub".  

Video games tester Flynne Fisher sees a murder in a game which, in reality takes place some two centuries hence.  Fixer Wilf Netherton becomes involved in a plot to manipulate the past, to suit the needs of a greedy future.

Like most of his oeuvre, it's a caper with the eponymous McGuffin.  Here: a robot, which can house the consciousness of a living being.    It's involving, imaginative and slick piece of work.  Most of Gibson's books come in trilogies, Agency is set in the same universe - with a Continua enthusiast called Vespasian creating a world on the brink of nuclear war. The finally book in this trilogy is, as yet unwritten.   

And so, later this year we'll see a much-delayed series of The Peripheral.  Some eight years after the publication of the novel, not helped by a mid-production shutdown due to Covid.  This is a level of irony that even Alanis Morrisette would shy away from. Production finished in November.  No trailers, no photos, but an IMDB listing with actors. Yes, it actually exists.

Hopefully, this will lead to his work receiving more praise and more curious readers.  Go to BBC Sounds to hear him on Desert Island Discs, or discussing his debut Neuromancer on World Book Club. His elongated drawl of a voice has addictive, mesmerising qualities.  He is a prime example of a novelist as both a visionary and an idealist; who sees technology as both saviour and satan.  To quote him nineteen years ago, "The future is here.  It's just not widely distributed yet."