Martin Probert Davies's Blog, page 3

Review: The Smallest Lights in the Universe by Sara Seager

Beautifully Written, Brutally Honest and Passionate Portrayal of Human Drama and Enterprise

Sara Seager has always been in love with the stars: so many lights in the sky, so much possibility. Now a pioneering MIT astrophysicist, she searches for Earth-like exoplanets. But after her husband’s unexpected death, Seager struggled to see the purpose of her own life and raise two young boys. It was then that she was unexpectedly reminded that there is another one-in-a-billion match, not in the starts but at home.

What hits you most, within the first chapter or two, is just how well this is written. Do not be put off by the fact that Seager is an MIT Professor, she can write, and this is not a science textbook. Yes, there are references to her work which will interest the science-minded, but even these are written with the very sense of childlike awe that gets people into astrophysics in the first place.

This book is a memoir; a disarming, tragic, beautiful, and sometimes brutally honest portrayal of a girl who nowadays would be classed as ‘on the spectrum’ (she wasn’t diagnosed properly until nearly 50). A girl having to grow beyond her years from an early age, focused on her dreams whilst at the same time struggling with society and relationships, who, on top of all that, then has to deal with the sudden death of her unexpected soulmate, and the two young children now left without a father.

I’m an astrophysics graduate myself, though I have unfortunately never managed to work in the industry, but you don’t have to be to follow Seager’s interesting career, which focusses on exoplanets and their atmospheres in particular. Because she can actually write at the level of a ‘proper’ author, not a just a competent professor, even the chapters focussing on her work are incredibly accessibly, and once more, profoundly interesting.

But it is really the human side of the story that stands out, and there’s no holding back. This is true account of grief, and the unexpected curveballs life can throw at you. Seager’s brutal honesty is disarming, and a little shocking at times, because she isn’t selective – she’s tells the story as it was, however unsavoury her thoughts at the time. And they can be unsavoury; her autistic logic magnifies these contradictions that anyone in her position would feel, whilst at the same time laying bare the pure anguish and emotion revealed by them. The consistent theme here is the struggles of the large against the small, the internal battle of someone dreaming of other worlds and universes, whilst at the same time craving and ultimately savouring the little things in life here on Earth.

If you’re looking for deep scientific discussions on Seager’s work, then this isn’t the place. There are many other books that cover that, though I think you’d still find plenty to keep you interested. What this is, is a wonderfully structured book about life – the wonders and dreams that drive people to study the heavens, and the human dramas that keep us firmly down on the ground.

Having said that, Seager’s passion for astronomy oozes from the pages from the very beginning, and if you’ve ever wondered how people become interested in the heavens above, then you’ll find no better reference.

A beautifully structured and well-written human story, in which the smallest lights in the universe can be found in both the far reaches of the galaxy, and as close to home as you can get.

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Personal Consent

So back in 2017, I starting writing a novel, which of course, I didn’t finish. However, below is an extract from it, and below that, is a link to a story on BBC News today, interesting I thought:

(It was an ‘ideas’ first draft, so please don’t judge the writing!)

“In fact, when it came to dating, most people today went one step further by using an app called Personal Consent, which enabled people to sign a contract, using their fingerprints and irises, in order to do exactly that – register consent. In years gone by, it was contraception that would be the main topic of Sex-Ed classes the world over, but now, ‘Protect yourself’ had a whole new meaning.

The app worked by pairing two devices and then scanning the two sets of fingerprints and eyes on each device. The scanner was also capable of biometric analysis, meaning that it could detect things like toxins, alcohol levels and whether the user was fully conscious, along with many other potential red flags. If all was well, the contract was produced and sent to the Personal databanks where it would remain if required. Colloquially, they were known as ‘Connery Contracts’, in reference to Peter James Connery who originally developed Consent, with the need to get ‘Pete’s Permission’ also entering the popular lexicon. It was the original flagstone of the now ubiquitous Personal Group, a software empire unrivalled throughout all the known virtual and physical world.

It had its flaws of course – phone and identity theft combined with some clever manipulation could result in what was now known as ‘virtual date rape’, a growing problem for crime prevention agencies, as well as good old-fashioned hacking – though the Personal Group obviously denied any breaches, and the meticulously long legal agreement made sure that they were not responsible for the actions of any of their users, who used it at their own risk. Despite this, however, amongst the younger generation, it was regarded as necessary as condoms or the pill, and often even throughout a long-term relationship. Keeping the magic alive, Finn had always joked. Nothing sexier than signing a contract.”

And the BBC Article:

Austrialia: Sex Consent App Proposal Sparks Backlash
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-australia-56438560

“…the technology could be used to establish “positive consent”.
But many people have criticised the proposal as short-sighted and potentially open to abuse.
Concerns have also been raised about whether it could be used for state surveillance.”

Spoiler Alert – in my story, it was most definitely used for surveillance…

I should point out that one of the other major plot points of this novel was a severe Flu Pandemic. I’m beginning to think that perhaps I should start listing a few more of the dark ‘predictions’ contained in it, but maybe a ‘what you don’t know doesn’t hurt you’ philosophy is a better way forward.

Or maybe I should just finish the damn thing before it all comes true.

Anyway, stay well, stay safe.

Shelby Martin – The Circle

Shelby Martin is my stage name (as one half of Westcountry band Shelby’s Elbows), and yesterday I released a single for the first time in a long time. A cover of Ocean Colour Scene’s 1996 hit ‘The Circle’.

It’s based on a live recording made during the summer, when I was live-streaming on Facebook during lockdown.

Anyway, hope you enjoy it. Stay safe and stay well. x

The 21st Century Guide to Firework-Free Fun

Come for the magic Firework-free fun!
But when you arrive here, please walk. Don’t run.
Drive slowly. In fact, just don’t drive at all,
As the engines are loud.
It makes your conscience seem small.

We won’t light the fire, as fire can harm,
Little beasts and asthmatics, disrupting the calm,
Of the delicate lives in retirement town –
Which reminds us to ask,
That the music’s turned down.

You don’t need the lights, or the bangs, or the sounds,
You can talk (nice and quietly) whilst you’re hanging around,
But don’t tell any jokes as you well may offend,
And the last thing we want is to ban you again.

So please, have fun! Just don’t make any noise,
Or get too excited, or dare to enjoy,
Your life.
Just be sensible.
And do what we say.
Or you might just offend our new century’s ways.

The Clown

The Clown has a happy face.
He’s achieved his dreams. He rules this place,
By virtue of his rightful grace,
As men have always done.
He doesn’t even have to try,
The body count may start to rise,
But people laugh and close their eyes,
Oh, Clown! You’re such good fun!

The Clown has a sad face.
Though underneath the smile’s in place,
His snarling grin denies disgrace,
The way it’s always done.
Warmth still flowing from the backs,
Of victims stabbed to feed the hacks,
Who gorge until the blood runs black,
But boy, that Clown is fun!

The Clown has an angry face.
The make-up’s run and shown the basic,
Lust congealing selfish fate,
Just as it’s always done.
But still, they feed upon his breast,
The milk still warm with gammon breath,
Still tasting sweet though spiced with death,
For clowns are so much fun.

The Clown has tears upon his face.
They’re painted on above the place,
His smirk distorts with grimaced hate,
The way it’s always done.
His people die. His people starve.
While flesh of hopes and dreams are carved-up
For the leeches, safe from harm,
As long as clowns are fun.

The Clown has a happy face.
The smile is back. The crowds disgraced,
And put back in their rightful place,
Where they have always been.
Upon his throne of fetid corpse,
His sycophantic flies of course,
Will rule the minds, control the source,
Make sure the Clown is seen.

And just a clown is seen.

Because when all is said and done,
The Clown’s a clown, and clowns are fun.

A Novel Oracle

A couple of years ago now, I started to write a novel.

It was something I had always wanted to do, so really it was just for myself more than anything. However, it was still a stupid move, as having not done any serious writing for a number of years, it turned out to be somewhat more than I could swallow. I’ve basically abandoned it for about 9 months and there’s a number of reasons for this, including a new job, family time, more musical projects and suchlike, but really, if I’m being honest after re-reading it, the main reason is that the 90,000 or so words I’ve written so far are a massive shit-stained lump of illegible wank that bores in ways I never thought possible.

However, there was something interesting about the read-through. The story is set in the near future, a political thriller I suppose (of course) which essentially warns of the coupled threat of automation and apathy. You see – you’ve switched off already, don’t worry, I get it – it was never going anywhere, despite having a talking dog in it.

But bear with me – the main protagonist is a chap who feels isolated and powerless, having lost his only child to a preventable illness due to a decaying health care system. He is head-hunted by an underground resistance group fighting what essentially is an autocratic government disguising itself as a democracy using social media and a software group that has inadvertently become the most powerful entity in the country. Most people are unaware and don’t care. The whole premise really is a question of how bad do things have to be before people start caring, and how history continually repeats itself regardless of any cultural or technological advances.

Now here’s the ‘fun’ bit – and if you’re still ready, well done, just imagine how bad the actual book is – basically, to cut a long and very boring story short, they don’t really get anywhere until the country is hit by a massive Flu epidemic (no, really!), and millions are directly and radically affected, with nothing left to support them within their decayed social structures. Then, they wake up.

Just call me the oracle.

But on a serious note, although my cynical mind means that the story couldn’t possibly have a simple, happy ending, with hints at the end that the old ‘establishment’ is regrouping, and history will once again repeat itself, it’s made me think about what’s happening today, and perhaps that maybe, just maybe, we may be able to see some positivity emerge from the coming months of isolation and change.

I don’t mean to distract from the imminent hardship that people are going to face, and by no means want to diminish what is going to be some serious suffering for a lot of people, but we are now in a situation where our current extremely broken system is beginning to show itself for what it is. Just this morning, we’ve seen the list of ‘key workers’ published. I did not see banker, hedge-fund manager, ‘job creator’ or even CEO in that list, the people who, we have been told for decades, are the most important to placate for our great nation’s growth. No – we see the nurses, the carers, the teachers, the checkout workers even. The true wealth creators. The true key to our economic and social progression.

We see the response from other countries. More socially-minded countries, such as Denmark, have already offered wage protections and they certainly aren’t the only ones. There will be a concerted effort no doubt in this country to subvert comparisons with other nations, as there always is (because Britain knows best!), but these countries are going to come out of this a damn-sight healthier than we are unless something drastically changes. Countries that haven’t inflicted extreme ideologically-led austerity on their citizens for the last decade are going to be relatively OK because basically, they still have some semblance of infrastructure to fall back on. It’s easy to blame 40 years of indoctrinated individualism for the extreme panic-buying we see in England and elsewhere, and there is undoubtedly an element of that, but perhaps there’s also an element of mistrust in the government and the powers that be. Maybe, deep down, even the most staunch defender of the political class knows that it’ll be their moneyed-interests that are protected first. The question is – are they going to continue to simply accept it now that the lives of their own friends and family are potentially at risk?

Perhaps not – we can only hope. The downside to this positivity is that we’ve already been there to a point of course, in 2008, when the current system first ran out of money. What happened then? Did the people rise up? Did we replace the failing system? No – governments bailed it out, and the bill was passed on to ordinary working people in the form of ‘we’re all in it together’ austerity. The structures that caused this initial hardship were rescued, ironically, by government, and therefore remained relatively unscathed, and then continued to decry state intervention and democratic socialism without even the slightest trace of irony or embarrassment.

Perhaps now, now that this terrible event is beginning to affect rich and poor alike, we might wake up. Maybe having people who actually care at the top isn’t such a bad idea after all? Perhaps now the government are actually forced to invest and forced to commit to what essentially are democratic socialist policies in order to rescue the nation, we might open our eyes to the fact that this is exactly what we should have been doing all along? That ‘market forces’ are merely an excuse for free-market immorality? Will the hypocrisy and selfishness that our current economic system is built on finally be seen for what it is, and dealt with accordingly?

I don’t know. The problem with history is that it repeats itself. That’s why I couldn’t end the story without some hint of darkness – the powered and moneyed-class always seems to find a way back. They’ll shift the blame, just like they did in 2008, using the pandemic to mask the economic hangover of austerity. But maybe, just maybe, a once-in-a-century pandemic might just be what it takes to change our course, at least for the immediate future. The cynic in me still doesn’t see it, but I’d love to be wrong.

I suppose we’ll find out on the other side. Until then, stay safe and look after each other, and think about what’s really important.

Perhaps the story can have a happy ending after all.

The Convoluted Café

The Convoluted Café was a little coffee shop run by an amenable young man named Chris. A lovely little spot in a small urine-soaked side street, it had all the trappings expected of such an establishment, with its unfinished ceilings and semi-plastered walls creating a perfect cathedral of crap fitting of any modern self-respecting hipster. Lounging at tables of unwashed driftwood that wobble on that precarious line between ultra-trendy and totally useless, he, she, or ‘they’ could happily ponder whichever fad they’d pulled out of their waxed moustache that morning and feel utterly Woke whilst doing so.

And draw them in it did, since, as expected, this deliberate decor of defecation made it as popular as consuming unspecific smoothies from highly dishevelled jam jars which, for some inexplicable reason, was very popular indeed.

However, Chris had a problem.

His coffee machine, like everything else in his venue, was basically a bit shit. This didn’t really matter with everything else of course, but the coffee machine really had to work. You could always stick some old rusty metal signs to it if you really wanted to, but underneath the not-so-gleaming facade of ironic bullcrap, it actually had to do its job.

The issue was simple. His machine could only make 30 cups of coffee an hour, and quite often he would have at least double that number of people wanting one. He was having to turn customers away frequently which, despite helping his hipster exclusivity, wasn’t exactly helping with his debt which was beginning to mount up in an annoyingly un-ironic way.

That morning, he’d sat down with one of his regulars, Jeremy, who had suggested a solution. He’d never understood why Jeremy was always there since he really didn’t fit in at all. His square beige jackets and uncultivated facial hair had no hint of pretentiousness, something which Chris found a little disturbing, and most other people wouldn’t go near him as they’d ‘heard things’. Strange things. Disturbing things. However, Chris, being one of the few that talked to him rather than about him, had always found him quite friendly even though many of those around him constantly tried to convince him otherwise.

Jeremy told him that there was a coffee machine in the megastore opposite, that would easily make 50-100 coffees an hour, solving his production issue and allowing him to make easily enough to pay off his debts. ‘Great’, said Chris, trying to ignore Jeremy’s plain un-tattooed arms and beginning to wonder if everyone else had been right all along, ‘How am I supposed to afford that?!’.

‘Simple,’ Jeremy explained, ‘Get yourself a loan. With your footfall, the potential is there, you have a great business model. You borrow the money to buy the coffee machine, your takings will increase, and then you can pay the money back and pay off your debts as well. You’re already turning people away; the business is there – it’s a great investment. You could then give that lovely little helper of yours Katy some extra, and even hire someone else too, this place would really take off.’ Then, after an awkward and bizarre conversation about manhole covers, he left, leaving Chris his usual generous tip.

Later that afternoon, Chris was planning to call his bank manager to set up a meeting, when he found himself sitting at a table with another one of his regulars, Boris. Boris was great, he was always in the café, slightly drunk, sitting in the corner holding court with the other customers. In truth, he wasn’t really like them at all either, with his clean-shaven face and distinct lack of tattoos, but he had this anarchic head of blonde hair which bounced around in a grotesquely foppy juxtaposition, which was not only fantastically pretentious in itself, but also gave those around him a great excuse to use the word ‘juxtaposition’, which was simply wonderful. He jabbered away in an almost unintelligible baffle which nobody really understood but that didn’t matter because he was hilarious.

‘What? Wiff what? What did Jeremy say?!’ he guffawed whilst swilling his brandy (which, incidentally, Chris did not sell), ‘Get a loan?! Get MORE debt?! So, and let me get this right, his answer to get out of debt is to get more debt?! What a load of utter wiffle waffle! Just what you would expect from him, of course, being a robber, yes! And a rapist!’

‘Yeah! And a pickpocket!’

The crowd that had now gathered all cheered and raised their chilled Matcha lattes, though most didn’t really know why. It was jolly good fun though, and Boris was such a card.

‘Look, you are living above your means, you need to reduce your overheads, and clear your debts,’ said Boris, in a matter-of-fact and obvious kind of way, ‘You can start with that little helper of yours, whatever her name is. She’s a wonderful bit of totty to have around but you can’t afford her. She’ll have to go.’

They all laughed and jeered in agreement. That bit in between the jokes had sounded very authoritarian and knowledgeable, but Chris wasn’t completely convinced. ‘I’ll have to do the job of two people though?’ he protested, ‘I might end up being able to serve even fewer people at a time. With Jeremy’s idea, I would get busier, and would need her more…’

‘And pay her more no doubt!’ Boris bellowed, gesticulating theatrically as he did, ‘Yes, well if Jeremy had his way, you’d have to give her half the takings and probably half the café too! But what do you expect of a commie spy, eh?! No, she has to go – we all have to pull our weight, you know, to succeed,’ he said, emphasising the syllables of ‘succeed’ whilst taking another slurp of the brandy he had brought in from elsewhere, ‘We all have to tighten our belts if we need to, you can’t afford her. Now, that reduces the overheads, now we need some capital. You must have something of worth?’

Chris looked around his little café. He loved the decor and all the furniture, it was all so poetically vintage, but in the same breath, all so actually shite. He knew that would bite him one day.

‘What about that coffee machine?’ Boris suddenly said, pointing at the unnervingly shiny machine behind the counter.

‘Well, yes,’ said Chris, ‘Isn’t that the issue? I kind of need that…’

‘You need to have one!’ boomed Boris, ‘But you don’t need to own it, do you? Look, I’ve got a friend, Zhang Wei, he’ll buy it off you, and then lease it back. Or perhaps even a better model! I’ll set it all up for you! It’s great – you get an injection of cash, and you don’t have to worry about maintaining it and what wiffle not, he’ll deal with all that! You see, you clear the debts, cut the overheads, get more efficient and this place will be jumping more than a couple of piccaninnies with a basketball!

‘Oh, and I’ve got another friend, Donald, he’ll do you a great deal on coffee, whatever you’re paying now, he’ll do it cheaper. Just as good of course! I’ve got a deal with him, I’ll sort it. Much cheaper, just none of that red-tape wiffle waffle nonsense, that’ll save you even more – stop being a fool, Chris! What wiff! Shake of the quiff! Let’s get it done!’

The crowd cheered, and Chris suddenly found himself swept up in the euphoria. Boris stood, swayed a little, and raised his brandy to toast ‘To us! To this wonderful wiffleful café!’, and then continued to get progressively drunker whilst not buying a single coffee. But that didn’t matter, the place was jumping, everyone was happy. ‘This is what it should be like!’ thought Chris, ‘Boris is great, he really gets everyone going! Yeah, there’s no beard, but look at that hair! With the suit! What a fantastic juxtaposition…’

It made sense. His debts were increasing. He’d have to let Katy go, but that would save him money. Sure, he’d have to work a bit harder, but only for a while. He’d get an injection of cash from selling the coffee machine and wouldn’t have to worry about maintaining it or worry about it breaking. It was basic bloody common sense.

And then he thought about Jeremy. Boris was right about him too, he didn’t belong here, you’d never see him enjoying a drink and partying with the other regulars – and what did he suggest? More debt! On top of everything he has already! And for what? His mate who runs the bank no doubt, pocketing the interest so he can have more money to hand out to any old scrounger. HIS money! Yeah, they were right. They were right all along about him, promising the world with other people’s wealth. He would be the one buying the machine, putting himself on the line, risking it all, for what?! So he could give more of his profits to Katy?! What an absolute joke. Bloody pickpockets.

***

Chris collapsed onto the table and surveyed the Convoluted Café. The other tables were empty, but that wasn’t unusual now. It was probably for the best, as he certainly didn’t have the energy to make any more coffee. In fact, after today, that was it. All over.

It has started well. He had sold his coffee machine to Zhang, and with the money had paid off some of his debts. His outgoings had reduced too after he laid off Katy, and although he could now only manage around 25 coffees an hour on his own, that didn’t matter as there was less money going out.

He remembered being a little put out when he found out that Boris has sold his coffee machine to Zhang below market rate, but the lease wasn’t too bad, and Zhang took care of all the maintenance. Over time, however, the lease began to creep up. Market forces, he was told, and where Zhang would originally come to clean the machine once a week, that slipped to every fortnight, and then every month. To cut costs. ‘We all have to tighten our belts’ Zhang had said one evening, as he slipped into the back of his top of the range Mercedes and headed off to a board meeting.

Despite paying the lease, Chris now found himself maintaining and cleaning the machine himself anyway, just to keep it running. The quality suffered. The coffee from Boris’s friend Donald was definitely cheaper but was bad enough as it was, even without the increasingly old and dirty coffee machine creating it. Coupled with the fact that Chris was now so busy serving that he had no time to do anything like general cleaning and maintenance, the café slipped beyond the ironic dirtiness of the hipster to the downright dirtiness of the gutter.

Katy had stopped coming in too. She and her friends would often socialise in the café, but when Chris had laid her off, she’d struggled to find another job. Now, with less disposable income, the group stayed at home to have coffee, as they could no longer afford to drink it from dishevelled jam jars at driftwood tables now blacker than the cold sea they used to drift upon.

Eventually, it didn’t matter that Chris could only produce 25 coffees an hour. He only had 20 customers.

Boris didn’t come in anymore. Chris had started to insist that he actually bought some coffee and contributed, but Boris ‘wasn’t drinking that waffle’, and after a while, he didn’t come in at all. ‘I’ve had it with you bunch of crusties,’ he had said as he’d stormed out in huff the last time has was presented with a bill.

It got worse too. When things started going downhill, Chris discovered that Boris had tipped off his mate Moggsy and helped him to buy the building. He got it cheap because, in Boris’s words, it had a ‘run-down, grubby, crusty caff full of bumboys’ in it. Moggsy then progressively put the rent up, and Chris was now in arrears and being evicted. Apparently, he was planning to convert it into luxury flats, and then flog it off to his mate Vladimir for a massive profit. It seemed to Chris that nobody was better off now except for Boris and his cronies.

‘And they say I’m the Russian stooge.’ said Jeremy, as he finished his coffee.

Jeremy had continued to come in, even after Chris had stopped talking to him for a while believing him to be an anti-Waxer. He had even continued in trying to help, but once the business had slid to the point that it was no longer an investment to anyone, there was no going back. That was the key, Chris had learnt. Borrowing to invest. If he had borrowed to invest, he’d have seen the return. Borrowing as he was now, just to try and pay his rent arrears, was a spiral into the abyss. He didn’t even have any capital to fall back on now, having sold it all to Zhang.

How had he been convinced? How had borrowing to invest, or simply investing in future growth, somehow been promoted as some grotesque fanatical ideology?

And still, Jeremy was there, keeping him company in his shit-tip of a café in the final hours. Boris, well, he was nowhere to be seen. He’d never given a shit, never even bought a coffee. He was doing fine, glugging his ridiculously expensive brandy at a clubhouse far away from this neighbourhood. The more he thought about that fateful day, the more he realised that Boris had simply set things up to get the best for himself and his associates, cloaked in a mantra of ‘common sense’.

He looked at the strange, bespectacled man opposite. Although they chatted, if he was honest, he didn’t really get on with him. He certainly didn’t agree with everything he said, and he certainly didn’t want to hear anything ever again about manhole covers and marrows. Christ, he was boring. They had nothing in common. But he was still here, long after the others, and once more, he actually seemed to care.

‘I’ve been coming to cafes like this for decades,’ he said. ‘There’s always a Boris, and this is, unfortunately, how it usually goes in the end. So, we move on, and try again at the next one.’

‘Why do you keep doing it?’ asked Chris. He had seen the abuse. He had even been part of it at times. It must take great strength to continue to fight on, he thought, especially when it seems like the entire world is against you. Quite a trait for a man who, he was constantly told, was weaker than one of his upcycled wicker bar stalls.

‘Hope,’ replied Jeremy. ‘One day, we’ll get there. I believe it. We have to really. You must have hope. Sometimes, it’s the only thing we have.’

He stood up and put on his beige overcoat, leaving his usual generous tip on the table. ‘Take care of yourself, Chris,’ he said as he walked out of the door.

Chris turned the sign over to ‘closed’ for the last time and tried to see some of that hope for himself, but all he saw was the dirty semi-plastered walls of his empty dream lighting up the urine-soaked alleyway.

As he stacked the last of his jam jars and turned off the lights, he saw Boris’s face projected from a billboard across the street. He was the face of the megastore now, having bought shares just after they had opened their own café. A venture funded by their private investors, no less.

Chris left the shop for the last time and shuffled along the dark alleyway, towards the small cramped home he could no longer afford, thinking about how things could have been oh so different…