So, the results of my escapade with Ben

A heavy cold, an extra stone in weight, and a lot more books.

Stratford on Avon - birthplace of Shakespeare apparently, though they're very reluctant to make a song and dance about it - is slightly odd: half ancient beauty beloved of coach tour brochures, half run-down trap. It has an awful lot of charity shops, and we visited all of them, plus one bona-fide secondhand book shop.

We bought Dan the 3-DVD John Lydon's Mega Bugs (yes, the Sex Pistols' John Lydon), and I bought a few books: Julian Barnes's England, England; Kevin Crossley-Holland's Arthur: The Seeing Stone, Emma Donoghue's Stir-Fry, Frederick Buechner's The Return of Ansel Gibbs (lovely 1950s Penguin), Thomas Disch's The Genocides, a classic Panther SF title with a stunning cover (Disch managed to write both the children's book The Brave Little Toaster and The Businessman, in which a man gets his murdered wife pregnant with a hideous foetus ghost), and Robertson Davies's philosophical/historical What's Bred in the Bone.

After that, we lunched at the revitalised Swan Theatre: deep-fried breaded strips of pig's ear for starter then a quality steak, washed down with a non-alcoholic mojito for me, a fine Riesling for Ben, who also found room for pudding. No wonder they treated us like a couple. Then it was off to Paxton and Whitfield, where we both purchased ridiculous quantities of fine cheeses, before meeting the Map Twats in Brum for even more food and a stupid pub quiz. The evening was rounded off with - yes - a cheese-eating marathon. At this stage, liposuction is the only thing that will save me.

Ben didn't arrive empty-handed: he brought me a huge stack of politics books (mostly Readers Union reprints from the 50s and 60s, and a Millennium Falcon, which Ewar claims is for his brother.

For Ben, who's finishing a novel

Family Guy. Occasionally they hit the spot.

All hail the Manchester Blog Awards

I went along to the Manchester Blog Awards last year, to support Cynical Ben, who is now Who The Fudge Is Benjamin Judge? and a load of other sites of which I've lost track, because life's too short, although they're all very good. I was a little bit snarky at the expense of some of the crowd.

He didn't win, which was a shame, but some good blogs did. And some not very good ones. He's nominated again this year and I've a feeling it's his year. He's added lots of his literary work to the site, as well as the old favourites like winding me up. Surely that's a winning combination?

Perhaps it's time to start the Dark Place Bloggies?

Folk off.

Hello all. Very late start to the day - sometimes staying in bed is just irresistible. Lasst night saw the Map Twats gather in a trendy pub in Birmingham to gossip and watch Topkapi, a Peter Ustinov crime caper which wasn't very good really. We abandoned it halfway through in favour of catching up with each other. To mark the occasion, Ben and Jo presented me with a badge reading 'love me I'm a liberal' which pleased me very much because I'm a hard-leftist with the occasional disgraceful liberal outburst, and because one of my favourite songs in the world is Phil Ochs' satirical 'Love Me, I'm a Liberal', in which he pokes fun at the class which liked to see itself as cool and relaxed until actual serious issues have to be tackled.





Here's Jello Biafra's updated version for the 1980s:



I'm having an all-Joni Mitchell day. I know that will horrify some of you, but I don't care.

Oh Ben

Despite having a job, a wife and a novel to write, Cynical Ben has launched his second blog in a week (I notice Plashing Vole isn't on their blogroll) after Roy Keane's Lucky Scarf, as well as reviving Culture Cheese and Pineapple as some kind of rococo cursing locus. The boy's incorrigible.

Roy Keane's Lucky Scarf

OK, Cynical Ben has yet another website, possibly his 14th. It's called Roy Keane's Lucky Scarf and there seem to be other people involved, though as the Rosetta Hampshire Affair shows, you can never be sure. It might be him playing games again.

Anyway, have a look. You're invited to submit your own works (fiction, poetry, anything) on the subject of Roy Keane and the philosophy associated with his singular way of life. It pains me to admit that it's very good.

David Blunkett, Eat Your Heart Out

Santa's been. The new Arcade Fire LP The Suburbs, Jonathan Lethem's physics'n'literary theory novel As She Climbed Across The Table (currently being filmed by Cronenburg), and a t-shirt, designed by Ben as a birthday present from him and Jo and delivered beautifully packaged.

What does it say?
It invites the Conservative Party to vigorously procreate. In Braille.

Story time

Well, it is for me: I came back from seeing Jo and Ben loaded with books Ben either thought I'd like, or wanted to get rid of (he's ruthless, that man).

Here goes:
Light Years and The Flood, by Maggie Gee.
Tibbott's Welsh Fare.
Wolfgang Flür's memoir of his years in Kraftwerk, I Was A Robot.
A selection of forgotten weirdo Llewelyn Powys's writings (his brothers T F and John Cowper were similarly odd - mystical, philosophical, experimental writers - highly recommended, and it's time for a revival).
Sir Ifor Evans's 1940 A Short History of English Literature in a beautiful 1958 Pelican-Penguin edition.
William Taubman's biography of that cunning peasant Kruschchev.
A 1930s recipe book: 100 Ways of Using Marmite.
A 1985 hardcover edition of Douglas Adams's So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish.
Finally, a better edition than mine of T. F. Powys's gently subversive death allegory, Mr. Weston's Good Wine.

Talking of Douglas Adams, here's part one of his prophetic BBC documentary, Hyperland. Go here for 2, 3, 4 and 5.

Hasta la victoria siempre!

Daniel has finally given me copies of photographs from 2007-2008, including these, from Cynical Ben's stag weekend. It wasn't orgiastic: we had a brilliant weekend in the West Bromwich Mountaineering Club hut near Beddgelert, North Wales. Walking, cooking, drinking, a quiz on Ben's life for the prize of Least Worst Best Man (I won, by getting the answers from his sister) - wonderful. We also failed to see Ospreys and went to the beach.

I don't know why the Map Twats are wearing Zapata/Pancho Villa disguises. It probably made sense at the time.

A few more here.

Fake pink feathery gits

Cynical Ben has posted a short story. It's very, very good. If you like cruelty to flamingos, which I do. I can't get enough of it.

Read it here.

Reading a blog are ya? Yeah, bit tossy innit mate?

Sorry, infected by the Drive By Abuser book Cynical Ben's just sent me for Easter, along with one of his custom CDs (no tracklist though). Drive-By Abuser is one of the Modern Toss characters who had misery and cynicism to our lives. He slides past on a scooter uttering unnecessarily passive-aggressive comments on everyday activities.

Here's 'Ornithologist', in honour of Ben and Dan:

Hiding in bushes yeah?
spying on birds
ticking 'em off in a little book?
Still, there's no law against it is there?
be different if it was people though wouldn't it?
you'd be banged up
with all the fucking perverts

Home again, home again

Hello readers. How've you spent the weekend?

Emma, from her ever so slightly smug texts, has been surfing, rafting, lolling in a hammock and generally doing things unavailable to Wulfrunians in winter. She's in New Zealand, visiting her sister. She promises to update her blog from Down There.

I was in a posh boarding school in Somerset (within sight of Glastonbury Tor, hippies), managing the West Midlands team for the Cadet Winton fencing tournament. It was very, very cold (hurrah for Icebreaker woolly gear) and quite stressful, but we did well. Last year we were 9th: this year we came 4th, so thank you to all the fencers, particularly the women's epée team, who were undefeated the whole weekend. They all behaved, too…

In my absence, Neal and Dan entertained Cynical Ben and his long-suffering wife Jo, at my flat. Actually, while I slept in preparation for getting up at 5.00 a.m., they entertained Mark to drunken pizza the night before. I didn't hear a thing. Ben's Christmas present to me was a huge box of the most depressing literature you'll ever see, plus a Jeeves and Wooster compendium, a Gary Rhodes cookbook, a cheese-making book, and Stephen Fry's guide to classical music, inscribed with the words 'This book is shit, love Ben'. And guess what: he's right!

Ben has this to say about me over on his blog:

In a year when I gave up on the Guardian where can I turn when I want a left-leaning stance on world events? The answer is provided by the Vole who I agree with almost everything in general terms and almost nothing in the particular. His prolific blogging takes in the personal, the private, the political and the pant-wetting indie. I read his blog every time I am online and there is always something worth reading. He is a word machine. He also has an especial good humour and is wonderfully patient with my often incredibly rude and argumentative comments

The last comment is the accurate one. His visit to my flat was his first. I wasn't there. Ben's considered judgement was apparently 'it's not as bad as I expected', which is a beautifully weighted insult. However, he'll no doubt have a completely different opinion by next week. He always does, on every subject. Other than Muriel Spark, that is. He loves Muriel Spark.

Ewar: I have a beautifully wrapped parcel of books for you, courtesy of old Cynical. Call in for them next term.

Dan presented me with a Roy Hattersley book on the period in which I specialise, and a compilation CD, which starts with LFO and presumably gets weirder. Our own Christmas album will be available for your delectation very soon. Be afraid, be very, very afraid.

Lunchtime bulletin

Hello. Anyone still out there, or are you all doing your Christmas shopping?

I'm still deaf (thanks for the solidarity, Demented) and feeling grumpy, but the sun's shining so I'm slowly unfurling.

I went off to my department's Christmas dinner last night, at Don Salvo's. Good food, odd service, and good conversation. Well, I'm assuming it was good conversation. People's mouths were moving anyway.

Anyway, I'm here in the office, seeing the occasional student, doing some marking and moaning to colleagues. Maybe you should move along to Cynical Ben, where he's listing his albums of the decade, rather provocatively. At least he's included P J Harvey's White Chalk, certainly amongst my favourite two or three LPs of the decade. It's a stunning work - bleak, uncompromising but essential. It reminds me of Kate Roberts's novels and short stories: tales of a life made strong through hardship, effort, resilience and determination. Lives stripped down to their bare essentials yet never lacking dignity. The music echoes this - minimal instrumentation and effects. The album certainly isn't one to play over breakfast, but it swiftly becomes addictive.



This is 'The Devil'.

Cynical Ben - time on his hands

I've lost track of how many blogs Cynical Ben has now. He's just added another two, which are rather promising:

http://thegloriousdecade.blogspot.com/

http://topseventyalbum.blogspot.com/
for which I believe I took the photographs.

Wet music for Cynical Ben

I have a soft spot for music with emotional intelligence and maturity, just as much as I love teen punk lo-fi. Some of it would make Ben stamp on children's feet just to rebalance the emotions.

Amongst my secret pleasures are 10,000 Maniacs and the solo work of their former lead singer, Natalie Merchant.

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Manchester Blog Awards - the main event

We're a snide bunch - well, I am at least. I'm also slightly hearing-impaired, which meant that my bon mots reached perhaps more ears than I intended. Add to that the fact that Bacchus had been particularly kind to us over the course of dinner, and you have the perfect conditions for some quality snarking.

Some features of the evening were all too predictable: barefoot comperes (Arts Council funded, naturally), berets and, well, students.

More photos are here.

A blog awards ceremony faced a simple epistemological problem: how to demonstrate the genius of the nominees? Blogs are, of course, extended chronological musings, differentiated from diaries, creative writing and other forms by technological means - primarily mixed media and linking. At the awards, some nominees were asked to read from their blogs, which in some ways suggested that what the awards were concerned about was simply good writing, rather than the generic characteristics of blogging per se.

Highlights were My Shitty Twenties, who has a witty, relaxed style which masks her ability to draw profundity from apparently quotidian situations, and Follow The Yellow Brick Road, who understood the value of concision as well as of erudition, humour and good writing. The former won two awards (full list here), and Cynical Ben was runner-up to her in the Best Personal Blog category.

It feels very strange describing Ben as 'runner up'. He's never, since I've known him, run up to anything other than a mound of cheese… though he has just bought a bike.

Blog of the year went to the anonymous Lost in Manchester.

Needless to say, I'd managed to dress as a Mark Corrigan impersonator and acted accordingly - too tongue-tied in the presence of greatness to make actual, y'know, conversation with anyone not connected to the Map Twats. Luckily, I had a train to catch…

So now, here I am in a darkened office, while Cynical and the other Map Twats are in Southport, birding and browsing secondhand bookshops, like apprentice Last of the Summer Wine characters.

Manchester Blog Awards - the prelude

Weirdly disconnected from the web for blog-related purposes, Neal and I set out for Manchester with high hopes for Cynical Ben.

My good wishes were somewhat leavened with bitterness after he suggested we meet in Vinyl Exchange, knowing very well that this is like scattering coke around in a Betty Ford clinic. By the time he turned up, I'd hoovered up two Kris Drever LPs and one of Cajun dance tunes. Don't worry, I can give up any time. £250 for a Meic Stevens LP? You must be joking. Rare in England perhaps, but they litter Welsh charity shops!

After a brief interlude while Neal bought trousers (yes, we lead a glamorous life), Ben took us to Oklahoma, a cool little backstreet bohemian coffee bar, then off we went to meet Mrs Cynical. Gradually acquiring more friends: the recently engaged Alison of this parish (romantic post not weakened at all by her revelation that this declaration of love was produced by a shambling drunk at three in the morning, clothed only in his boxers - it's the blogger's way), and Caroline, who invites you all to buy her house in Salford.

We dined, flatulently, in the Armenian Taverna near Manchester Town Hall. If you like flavoursome salads and meat as far as your intestines will stretch, it's definitely the place for you. It certainly pleased me mightily.

The dew has fallen with a particularly sickening thud this morning

Morning! Not much blogging from me today! Ironically, it's because I'm going to support Cynical Ben and others at the Manchester Blog Awards. I'm too obsolete to have wireless internet on an iPhone, Blackberry or via a dongle (my Mac is 7 years old), so I'll just have to take pictures and notes to post tomorrow.

So I'm spending the morning doing the work that the university considers important: admin. All that boring old thinking, writing and reading has been put aside in favour of Excel…

Support the CWU

There's a postal strike coming. Support it - the postmen and women are being painted as lazy, reactionary troublemakers rather than hardworking people who aren't opposed to 'modernisation' - they're opposed to reduced services with inadequate staffing.

Personally, it means going cold turkey. No books in the post. Worse than that, the university post is suspended while new pigeonholes are constructed (they look too small for more than a single paperback - more dumbing down). I had to scavenge in the school office to get my fix today: two Angela Carter novels (Love and Several Perceptions) from the 1960s and (finally) Colfer's Hitchhiker's Guide novel, And Another Thing… Wonder if I'll hate it as much as Cynical Ben (here and here).

Ben! Stop messing with my head

Thanks to his gift of Katie Price's Perfect Ponies, Amazon now recommends more Katie Price, alongside books about Letter Carving and typography, thanks to my previous purchases. At some point their computer will blow up in the face of the contradictions. Perhaps it thinks I'm planning a monumental (well, it would have to be) statue of Jordan, with an inscription in Comic Sans…

I've just finished teaching for the week. For the poetry seminar, I'd asked the class to bring in poems which were important to them. They surpassed my expectations. Eliot, Silkin, Betjeman and some by amateur poets. Silkin's 'Death of a Son' brought me near to tears, the selection from The Waste Land was a fascinating example of modernist writing and Betjeman's 'Slough' was serious and funny. Agard's 'Half-caste' was a great poem to talk about poetry as its practiced and read. The students talked about the poems emotionally and intelligently: a success.

Here's the Silkin (1955) and you can hear the poet reading it here (about half way through the recording):


Death of a Son

(who died in a mental hospital aged one)


Something has ceased to come along with me.
Something like a person: something very like one.
And there was no nobility in it
Or anything like that.

Something was there like a one year
Old house, dumb as stone. While the near buildings
Sang like birds and laughed
Understanding the pact
They were to have with silence. But he
Neither sang nor laughed. He did not bless silence
Like bread, with words.

He did not forsake silence.
But rather, like a house in mourning
Kept the eye turned in to watch the silence while
The other houses like birds
Sang around him.

And the breathing silence neither
Moved nor was still.

I have seen stones: I have seen brick
But this house was made up of neither bricks nor stone
But a house of flesh and blood
With flesh of stone
And bricks for blood. A house
Of stones and blood in breathing silence with the other
Birds singing crazy on its chimneys.


But this was silence,
This was something else, this was
Hearing and speaking though he was a house drawn
Into silence, this was
Something religious in his silence,
Something shining in his quiet,
This was different this was altogether something else:
Though he never spoke, this
Was something to do with death.

And then slowly the eye stopped looking
Inward. The silence rose and became still.
The look turned to the outer place and stopped,
With the birds still shrilling around him.

And as if he could speak
He turned over on his side with his one year
Red as a wound
He turned over as if he could be sorry for this
And out of his eyes two great tears rolled, like stones,
and he died.