Pooter's week

Nearly a month since I last posted here. There seems to be such a torrent of commentary on all channels that I'm losing my enthusiasm for adding to it. That, and the fact that life is so irredeemably awful at the moment. My friends all have coronavirus, the world's on fire, there's a war on, my university - and sole chance of meaningful employment - is collapsing and I'll probably (hopefully) be on strike next month. I'm technically on research leave but the sheer volume of union casework coming through means that I'm spending every day trying to help deeply distressed colleagues. But apart from that…

Any bright spots? Well, the Ukrainians are doing better than I expected even if we discount the thrilling but probably not representative videos of farmers nicking tanks and so on. The Russians may have overwhelming numbers but they also seem to be quite incompetent. I also enjoyed the Irish government's glossy St. Patrick's Day video, which combined a rather classier dig at a certain large and aggressive next-door neighbour's past behaviour with several pointed references to the joys of European membership than I managed last time. 

What else? Well, I helped organise and run our regional fencing championships last week and it all went very well except for my performance. I joked on Twitter about aiming for that coveted 13th spot, secretly hoping for last 8 or even last 4, having once won all three weapons. Turns out that 13th was way too ambitious. I blame a combination of despicable youth, a concentration of left-handers for which only witchcraft can be blamed, the late entry of lots of actually good people, and exhaustion. I'd definitely have won the foil if I hadn't laid down the pistes and refereed the epee. No, really, I would…

I've also read some books, partly for work, partly for pleasure. Amongst the definitely-not-for-pleasure pile was the 1000 page volume 2 of Chips Channon's diaries - the 1930s/40s Tory MP, sometime novelist, gadabout, fascist and social climber. It's now 1939-42 and Chips is consumed by rage against all women; convinced that Britain is on the wrong side of WW2; feeling betrayed by his wife even though he's sleeping with his brother-in-law and every titled man (and occasional woman) he can get his hands on; determined to overthrow Winston Churchill; subsisting on a diet of anti-semitism, oysters and champagne; down to the last 12 servants because they keep getting called for military service which infuriates him. Now and then his father-in-law Lord Iveagh pops round to give him 30,000 Guinness shares or a few thousand quid to spare him the shame of ever having to get a job. At one point, jaded by city life, he checks in to a monastery for a week's retreat and meditation, but admits after a couple of days that he's only there because he hears the monks whip themselves. He manages to spy on them, but fails to persuade the abbot to administer what he wants and leaves. 

More happily, I spotted Robin Llewelyn's White Star in a charity shop: I didn't know his stunning, magical-realist novel Seren Wen Ar Gefndir Gwyn (White Star on a White Background) had been translated. It's a weird and wonderful mix of Beckett, Jeff Noon, Dario Fo and mythological quest narrative. Highly recommended. In the same charity shop I found Margaret Elphinstone's 1980s feminist SF novel The Incomer and - ideal for my project on canons and literary quality - a collection of parodies of the 'greats', How To Become Ridiculously Well-Read On One Evening, including entries from some quite well-known poets like Wendy Cope - I think my favourite is NJ Warburton's Wind in the Willows in which Mole has taken on the persona of another character of the same name, Adrian ('Ratty took me to see his friend Toad …Came away feeling tainted by bourgeois values…Some more spots have appeared'). 

In terms of music, I'm thrilled that Troubled Liverpool Genius (TM) Michael Head has actually released a song with a whole album apparently due - I think a record shop still owes me for the preorder of the last three cancelled albums. If you don't know his stuff, start with the wonderful but fated (deaths, studio fires, lost tapes etc. etc) Pale Fountains, then Shack, then the Michael Head and the Strands albums. Lovelorn strings, jangly guitars, scouse wit - perfect. I also liked the new RLPO recording of Vaughan Williams' disturbing Sixth Symphony, Spoon's new album Lucifer on the Sofa, and most of all, Daniel Elms' contemporary classical album Islandia