Rob Wickings's Blog, page 2
July 5, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 18
A week full of drama and astonishing changes in fortune, none of which I can sensibly talk about in a public-facing forum. That sounds like a big fat tease, I know, and I hesitate to even mention it. But at least I’m entering the weekend in a slightly more stable frame of mind than on Monday night. The garden, as ever, remains a place to regain perspective and get grounded. I pulled a handful of gherkins from the plants this week, and the squashes we planted last Saturday are already shouldering up out of the bed. Now those are events I’m happy to celebrate loudly.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Overstory by Richard Powers. One of those huge multi-character, multi-era books which take on Big Ideas and Big Themes in a mildly science-fictional way. It’s as dense and chewy as malt loaf, but luckily just as tasty. If you like trees, you’re in for a treat.
Rob is watching…
The Bear Season 4, duh.
Rob is listening…
Bruce’s Tracks 2: The Lost Albums, duh.
Rob is eating…
Home hot-smoked salmon, 40 mins over applewood from a tree we chopped down in Copse End last year. Perfectly juicy, a little smoky. Lovely in pasta, on a bagel, tossed into a salad. I really must talk about my pal Joe Junior at some point soon.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
I know gambling is a mug’s game and subsequently keep away from it. The mechanics of the pastime fascinate me, though, and this run-down of some common cheats and scams grabbed hard and would not let go.
A blog about interfaces in SF movies. You’re lucky I managed to peel myself away from this one, it’’s a not-so low-key obsession. Funny how real-world data screens never look that cool.
Yes, yes, more on the new Springsteen box set. It’s not every day one of your favourite artists drops seven previously unheard complete albums. There’s more to come too, apparently.
Secret Histories And Other Directions
A really great long interview with Lyle Lovett. I’ve been a fan sine Pontiac, and the dude comes across just I expected, calm, cool, polite, a real gentleman. I was amused by the connotations of being labelled a cowboy, though—it’s very different for someone to call you that to your face in the UK
Hamburgers are definitely part of the deal
Elise Wortley is an absolute badass, but the women in whose steps she’s followed must have been utter forces of nature.
Please, take your time with this long read on New Orleans chef and restauranteur Frank Brigtsen. It’s a loving portrait of a highly talented cook, and a potted history of how food culture in the city radically changed, thanks to him and his indomitable boss ‘K’ Paul Prudhomme.
The downfall of modern literary fiction has been gloomily forecast for as long as it has existed as a discrete genre. Yet, somehow, people still read the books and they keep being published. Something is off. Lincoln Michel runs the numbers. Again, a long one, but Lincoln’s dry wit carries you through.
I make no apologies for the knot your brain will tie itself into by the end of this post. I have the headache, so you must have the headache too.
On the (probably quite small) likeliehood that you need to carry water or make fruit tea while stranded in a forest, take wisdom from your pal Sergio. Thumbs up.
https://www.tumblr.com/jartita-me-teneis/786773767325171712/sergio-outdoorsOne last thing.
We’ll outro with a Granada TV special which reunited the original lineup of Fairport Convention years after their acrimonious split. This could be twice as long and I’d still be happy. A delightful rarity. YouTube is sometimes a very happy place to be.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
June 28, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 17
We’ve finally hit a point in the garden where most of the heavy work is done and we can relax into the space a little. We’ve spent an awful lot of time, energy and yes, money, to get here. I shudder to think how much we’ve coughed up just for compost. But it’s worth every penny and bead of sweat to sit out at the end of a hard day in the sunshine, watching bees and butterflies hover and swoop, jackdaws and blue tits hop around the feeders while red kites make bombing runs overhead. The garden kept us sane over lockdown. Now, in an ever more lunatic world, it’s a truly safe space.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Red Noise by John P. Murphy. Yojimbo on a space station. The ronin character setting two warring criminal factions against each other is depicted here as a nameless female assassin with a bod full of enhancement-tech and a love for indoor plants. It’s not great literature, but nails the action beats and fills the setting with flawed and quirky characters. Murphy, a Nebula Prize nominee, writes with flair and style and is clearly enjoying himself. As am I.
Rob is watching…
Dept. Q. An Edinburgh-set reboot of a Scandi noir. We’re seeing more of these and they work extremely well—the bleak but beautiful settings, the dour characters, the moody cinematography. The glue is the wounded and bitter detective Carl Morck, a career-best performance from Matthew Goode. He’s a delight—snarky and vicious, but you can see he’s barely hanging on to his sanity. Written by Scott Frank who gave us The Queen’s Gambit, this is really great telly.
Rob is listening…
To ten hours of art rock and you can either join in or step aside.
Rob is eating…
Curry shrimp, please. Although that oxtail is also talking to me.
PULL UP, BELOVED.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
This goes deeper than you’d expect. I suggest you just relax and slide on down.
Really, I should have saved this one for Halloween, but it’s just too good. It’s funny how masks reveal as much as they conceal, doncha think?
Elena Gonsalvez Bianca looked after Patricia Highsmith in the months before the crime writer’s death. Her account of that last winter opens up a new perspective into the mind of the woman who brought us dark visions of creatures like Tom Ripley. No wonder Elena wondered if Highsmith was plotting one last murderous act…
On the one hand, movie executives gloomily predict the end of the cinema experience. On the other, places like The Nickel on Clerkenwell Road in London choose inventivelness and sheer love of the medium to show there’s still life in the notion of sharing a room with strangers while a dream flickers to life on a screen at the far end. I find this story hopeful and inspiring.
An impromptu performance of classic Greek mythology which ends in a highly unexpected manner. Who knows, maybe the denizens of legend do live among us after all.
How Do Muppets Go Outside? Not a question I thought I’d be asking this week. The answer is one of my favourite watches of the week. More and more, I believe Jim Henson to be one of the greatest film-makers of the 70s and 80s. A true innovator.
At low speeds, Harvette our beloved Honda sounds like a spaceship, emitting a low, ethereal tone. This is deliberate—all cars with electric motors have to give some sort of audible warning when they’re on the move in the absence of engine noise. But different manufacturers have different solutions to the problem, which this Washington Post infographic shows in a very elegant fashion.
Really good comics defy explanation. They simply are. A perfect merging of words, pictures and the undefinable magic that happens in the spaces between the panels. I’m with Alan Westbrook. This simple four-pane from Lynda Barry is everything.
One last thing.
I found this on a ramble around YouTube and couldn’t get it out my head. It’s your turn now. You can thank me later.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
June 21, 2025
Fire in The Hills
I believe that human ingenuity is only matched by the equally human capacity for cruelty. Think about what we have achieved over the millennia—the great works, the stunning, almost incomprehensible technological leaps. Then think about how they were achieved, and the terrible choices we made to enable that progress.
At Ironbridge in Shropshire, you feel the push/pull of human inventiveness very clearly indeed. At first sight it seems bucolic—a small town hugging the banks of the River Severn, tucked into the lush green of the Ironbridge Gorge. The differences become clear once you see the bridge after which the town is named.
The iron Bridge at Ironbridge A great arch of red-painted iron connects the two banks of the river at the town square. It stands out against the quiet green like the wound left by a slashed sabre. From the 1780s it was a major ventricle through which trade and commerce could flow. The bridge is just a curiosity now, good for foot traffic only. But it’s importance can’t be understated.
It is the first span bridge built of iron, and the town it calls home is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. You see, Ironbridge is best known as the cradle, or more accurately the crucible, of the Industrial Revolution. If you want to understand how the modern world was built, this little Shropshire town is a good starting point.
The folk of Ironbridge take their role in history seriously. There are ten museums dotted around the site, some more walkable than others (to be frank, you really need a car to explore properly). There’s an award-winning living museum where you can awkwardly interact with costumed players in a reconstruction of Victorian times. The hard-core knowledge seekers, though, will follow their noses in a quest for fire.
Iron workingsThe Old Furnace squats at the far end of a manicured courtyard like an abandoned temple to an ancient god. Its sides are stepped like a ziggurat, blackened and scarred through decades of flame. It was here, in the 1770s, that Abraham Darby perfected the art of smelting iron with roasted coke instead of coal, allowing for much cheaper production. His grandson would forge the iron which would span the Severn and give the nascent British Empire a symbol of the Englishman’s mastery over nature.
Wandering around the site or the many museums, you can feel the white heat of knowledge, experimentation and sheer will to create crackling in the air. The Old Furnace, long cold, reeks of carbon and iron, the bricks still strangely warm to the touch. That connection to the past is not sanitised or glossed over—Ironbridge may be proud of its history but it never turns from the suffering which went along with the Darby’s achievements. Every step of the process which led to the raising of The Iron Bridge was dirty and dangerous—from the mining to the transport to the smelting and pouring. Thousands died every year in the service of the Industrial Revolution.
Over the river at Coalport and Jackfield, the fire burns differently but at similar cost. The area was a hub of pottery, particularly decorative tiles and fine china. The delicacy and artistry of the finished objects cannot be undersold. They were a key part of the British Empire’s export strategy. Coalport china graced the tables of the well-to-do from Birmingham to Bombay. The plates, bowls and vessels were status symbols, a perfect way to show off your wealth to your neighbours. Meanwhile the tiles rolling out of Craven Dunnill (which still produce on the original site) could be seen on pub walls, cladding butcher’s shops, even the tunnels of the new London Underground railway. The craftsmanship involved in pottery frequently boggles my mind—how on earth can these beautiful objects come unscathed from the fire?
Encaustic tiles—these are still produced today at Jackfield.
I mean, come on.The kilns at Coalport and Jackfield are less brutalist in form, taking the shape of high, wide-necked flasks. This shape allowed for even, steady distribution of heat—essential to ensure delicate porcelain and highly decorated tiles did not crack or shatter. But again, the folks who fed the kilns and dug out the clay led very different lives to those who would enjoy the fruits of their labour. The kilns would reach temperatures of 1000%C, and the working conditions for a pottery worker gave little concessions to health and safety. Their existences had all three elements of a life you would not wish on anyone—nasty, brutish and short.
At Coalport we met a lovely woman on a pottery course. She was making saggers, the round clay trays which would cradle and protect delicate items as they were stacked in the kiln. She identified as a practicing witch, and her work was decorated with magical sigils and spell-signs. This warmed me somehow, and I wondered if women like her had carved protective wards into the bricks and saggers in the past, as a way to guard the folk who risked their lives every day to feed the hunger for the trinkets they produced.
Heading east, Witley Court in Worcestershire offers a final vision of an England defined in flame. It was originally built as a humble red-brick house for the estate landowners in the 1630s. Successive families, connected to the iron trade, built onto the original structure until, by the 1870s, it had become one of the most palatial structures in the country. A status symbol like Coalport chinaware, but on a much larger scale. Think billionaire’s super-yacht and you’re in the ballpark.
Spectacular, no?Much of the reconstruction work was carried out under the direction of the Ward family, who owed significant iron-production facilities in the West Midlands. The scion of the clan became powerful enough to earn an Earldom—yet another example of the robber-baron formula which became the foundation of our current system of privilege and influence.
The Ward’s facilities at Round Oak Steelworks in Dudley were infamous for the callous indifference to the well-being of their workers. Health and safety was not a consideration. Round Oak was a death trap. An employee under the ‘care’ of the Earl of Dudley would only be expected to survive until the age of, on average, sixteen and a half.
If you made it to your twenties, you were considered lucky.
Visiting Witley Court today is a strikingly eerie experience. The frontage sparkles in the sunlight, the grounds are beautifully kept. On the hour every hour, a gigantic fountain depicting Perseus and Andromeda blasts gouts of water 120ft into the air. So far, so National Trust. It’s only missing the scones.
But once you step inside the building, things change.
The Wards left Witley in 1920, and its new owners didn’t have fortunes fed on the blood of their workers to keep it in prime condition. They lived in straitened circumstances in corners of the massive building, which gently mouldered and crumbled around them. In 1937, a fire swept through the Court, gutting it. There was no money available for restoration. The decision was made to simply let it rot.
Now managed by English Heritage, the shell of Witley Court is, on approach, a stunning riot of Palladian arches and columns, a bold clash of different architectural styles. Once inside, the bones of the place are open to the air. This is not a stately home. It’s Britain’s most opulent ruin. There are traces of the original red-brick building—an old archway, a mullion window. Scraps of wallpaper are visible, in the arsenic-green so beloved of Victorians. There are ghosts at Witley, for certain, and I was convinced I could smell smoke in the Great Hall. It’s all too easy to get turned around, unsure of your bearings, even though the outside is always clearly visible through the great, glassless windows.
The building is still used for film and photo shoots—an Indian couple, the bride in red, were directed by an eager director into moody poses between the pillars of the entrance hall during our visit. It would make a wonderful location for a post-apocalyptic movie or an experimental production of Shakespeare.
The Bride Wore RedA fitting end to the tale would keep the Wards in residence when the flames tore through Witley Court—hubris punished in the manner by which their casual cruelty manifested. Sadly, that’s not the case. They drifted away years before, unaffected, uncaring, inviolable.
But I sense a karmic load at Witley, as if the phantoms of the Industrial Revolution set focus on this place as a lens magnifying the cruelty, until a spark was finally kindled and a debt repaid in flame. It makes for a more satisfying story, at least.
And in a larger sense, there’s a lesson we can take away from Ironbridge and Witney Court. The British Empire is gone but we as a nation carry on—showing our best face to the casual visitor, letting them wonder at the relics of our history, hoping they won’t notice the ugly hollowness beyond the shining facade we present so proudly.
June 14, 2025
Tin Crown In A Paper Bag
I’m still working on a piece about our time in Shropshire—you should see that next week. It’s proving a little more difficult to get a grip on, but I think I’ve finally figured out the structure and key points. Hopefully it’ll be worth the wait.
Instead, let me offer up a piece of original short fiction. Reading Writers celebrated the results of our Spring Competition this week. Judged by author Gill Thompson, the theme was A Terrible Loss. Clearly the notion resonated, as we had the biggest ever response to a competition prompt. My entry, in a stunning reversal of fortunes from last year when I won both writing competitions, did not place—which I’m relieved about. It’s a take on a famous tragic hero of literature. See if you can figure out who I’m lovingly parodying.
‘They told me I was everything. T’is a lie!’
That’s how it always starts with the old guy. Three drinks in, a beer and a shot of the cheapest bourbon we have on the side. Rounds one and two sucked down in silence, bar the odd grumble and mutter to his sidekick, the freak in the motley coat. Once the old guy gets his nose into the third round, the volume ramps. Gradual at first, then louder and louder. His sidekick tries to calm things down. It never works.
Eventually tears come, and I know we’re close to the end of the performance. One last roar of primal despair and he’s done. Shuffles out, chin on chest, weighed down with sorrow. Clutching the crumpled paper bag he totes everywhere, heavy with whatever he’s stuffed inside.
Normally by now I’d have barred the pair of them. My clientele doesn’t need that sort of floorshow. They’re a cultured, refined class of barfly who react badly to anything that distracts them from the important business of the day—beating their livers into submission. We’re losing business, which is impressive for any drinking establishment still in one piece during wartime. But the guy in motley swipes a crisp fifty across the bar-top to me every time as they leave.
‘You may think me a fool,’ he says. ‘ But this keeps him quiet at night. Staves off the nightmares—well, some of them.’
And that was our routine. Twice, three times a week. Drinks, sound and fury, exit stage left pursued by black dogs. I was almost getting used to it. I was certainly getting used to the bump in my pay packet.
So, the last time I saw him. Saturday, that’s six days ago. Six days, ok? Our guy had sunk bourbon numero tres in a single swallow, and was cooking up for a big show. Tearing of hair, rending of garments, the whole tragic panoply. Trouble was, our pal in the technicolour shitcoat who would have normally kept things to a low-key breakdown was scrunched in the phone booth by the front door, muttering urgently into the mouthpiece. He kept flicking glances at his—boss? Dad? Lover? But whatever was on the other end of the line was holding him fast.
In the end, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I grabbed a bottle from the top shelf, poured two shots and took the lot down to the loud end of the bar.
‘Come on, buddy,’ I said. ‘You can’t do that in here.’
It was like I’d flicked a switch. He stopped in an instant. He raised that great leonine head, letting the soft light of the bulb above him hit every angle of the rubbled landscape of his face. His eyes were a blue I’d hardly seen before, except in the lowering moments before a storm ripped itself from the sky and struck hammer blows on the earth.
It was the sort of face that inspires apocalyptic poetry is all I’m saying.
‘Once I could have had you killed for saying that.’ His voice up close was lower, deeper than I’d realised. The deep boom of the sea in a subterranean cave. A voice of command, a voice from which dissent shrank and withered. ‘One glance, a single gesture and my guard would have dragged you away and beaten you to fragments.’
I matched his gaze, careful not to blink. I’d run a bar for long enough to know you don’t take shit from the clientele, and threats should be shut down before they bloom into action. I raised my glass, took a sip. Inside my guts were churning. The old guy had a power to him, that was sure, even in this badly compromised guise. I just couldn’t let it show.
’Yeah? So what happened? The only guard I see is busy talking to grandma over by the door. The drink’s on me if you can keep the dramatics down for once. It’s good stuff, not the cow-sluice I usually rip you off with.’
He smiled then, and his face lit up like winter sunshine. Bright, hard, cold. He took the glass, lifted it, clinked mine.
‘What are we drinking to?’ I asked.
He thought for a moment. ‘Family,’ he said finally. ‘Can’t live with them, can’t—actually, that’s it.’ He sunk the shot, closed his eyes in bliss. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You have been ripping me off.’
We both laughed then, loud enough that the guy in motley glanced over. The expression on his face was too complicated to make sense of, but it was mostly fear wrapped up in determination.
The old man waggled his glass and eyebrows at me. ‘I promise to behave if you keep up this new level of hospitality. He tilted his head, puppy-like. The sort of puppy who’d rip out your throat if you didn’t keep up with the treats.
I sighed. ‘Fine. Special offer, today and today only. You’re back on the dregs tomorrow.’ I re-brimmed our glasses. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
He flinched at that. I could see his mind spinning. ‘Call me—Roy,’ he said eventually.
‘Ok, Roy. The drink’s not free. I’ll take a story in exchange. Your story.’
‘My story? Oh, well, that’s a big ask. My story is a vast tapestry woven from woe and despair. The tale of a great man fallen. Of betrayal, of a tremendous loss. An empire torn asunder. A world abandoned to chaos .’
He started talking then, and to be honest I didn’t really understand everything he said. See, I’d kinda thought he was a mob boss, a toppled capo di tutti capo of one of the gangs from the north side who spent all their time fighting over turf. Those guys always exaggerate the drama of their sad little scuffles. But Roy, he was talking about something else. Something huge.
Something to do with the war. The dark cloud of our country fighting against itself.
He was part of it. If I heard it right, he was the cause of the whole tragic mess.
And suddenly, the spell was broken. The freak in motley was running back down the bar. ‘We have to go,’ he said, breathless. ‘Now.’
‘But I’m just getting comfortable,’ Roy said. The whine in his voice was back. I wonder how much of the sad victim act was put on for his companion.
‘They’re coming,’ Motley said. ‘We’ve stayed in the city too long. I knew it was a risk. I’ve found us somewhere safer.’
They matched gazes for a moment, a full argument blazing wordlessly in the hot air between them. Roy, finally, bowed his head. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Wherever you lead, I follow. The world has changed that much, I see.’
Roy hefted his bulk off the stool, and allowed himself to be led away. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘You forgot something.’ I lifted his paper bag. The contents weighed a ton.
’Keep it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t fit me anymore.’
And that’s everything. Like I said, he was here six days ago, I haven’t seen him since. I’m amazed it took you that long to get here, from the way motley-boy was panicking. So you can tell your thug in the armour there to lower the gun, princess. I don’t have anything else to say.
Oh, actually, I do. The bag’s over at the end of the bar. I guess you have more right to it than me. Don’t look so surprised. I knew who you were from the second you walked in, all fur-coat and spite and fury, flipping tables and barking orders. You’ve got his eyes. That same blue. Another herald to the storm. You know what we call the war down here? The War Of The Three Sisters. Which one are you? Pretty sure you’re not the nice one.
Hey, you know, I’ve just figured it out. Your pa was telling me who he was all along. I thought it was Roy-with-a-Y. It’s Roi-with-an-I, isn’t it? He was a lot smarter than he made out. Just tired and sad and sick of it all. I hope he’s far away from all this, in a place he can forget about you and the plots and the betrayal.
Yeah, sure, whatever. That gun’s not holstered, is it? I knew how this would end. You don’t march into a bar in full battle order and not intend to leave a mess behind. One last thing. Take what’s in the bag when you’re done. Just know this. He didn’t think it fitted him anymore. I’m damn sure it won’t sit on your brow any easier.
Let’s Outro with Tin Crown Kings by The Manic Shine. Seems appropriate.
See you next Saturday.
June 7, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 16
We’ve been on us holidays. Still unpacking, both mentally and physically. There will be more about the whole experience next week in a diversion from the norm. But today here’s your expected slumgullion of goods and services.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Dead Ground by M.W. Craven. A recommendation from one of my sources, this is the fourth in the Washington Poe series. Craven specialises in twisty turny murder mysteries which end up 180 degrees from where they started. All of which is fine, but you have a lot of sitting down while the detective tells the murderer how he did it. Perfectly entertaining, and Poe and his sidekick Tilly Bradshaw make for an interesting diversion from the norm. Definitely worth the £2 spend in a National Trust book nook, but I didn’t feel the urge to bring it home with me.
Rob is watching…
The Shepherdess And The Chimney Sweep, the most influential animated film you’ve never heard of. The craft and art on display in this 1950s French film still looks beautifully fresh today. There’s a link to an Internet Archive dubbed version which makes for very good use of an hour.
Rob is listening…
to The Del Fuegos. This sort of music, garage rock with a hit of Americana and no concessions to keeping things civilised, always brings me out in smiles and goosebumps. A similar vibe on this side of the Atlantic would be the pub rockers and blues thugs of the mid-70s like Nine Below Zero and Dr. Feelgood. The kind of band who would start a fight then play an encore.
Rob is eating…
Ditalini with peas. There’s something about this simple, stocky dish of veg and stubby pasta which feels right on the money at the time of writing. Seasonality makes a lot of sense, and when you can throw dinner together with a limited set of ingredients in a short period of time—well, why wouldn’t you?
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
As a sidebar, I have too much stuff.
Animation art director Catriona Drummond talks about her time on one of the most famous animation shows out there. She takes us backstage for all the glamorous details. Spoiler: there is no glamour. I have no idea why anyone would become an animator—it’s a grind.
This is a weird one. MacKenzie Chung Fegan is the restaurant critic for the San Francisco Chronicle. She went for dinner at The French Laundry, a top ten destination for all foodies. Not in her official capacity, and under a pseudonym. Events take an odder and odder turn from there. For me, neither party comes out of this well—Keller for his contradictory behaviour, Chung Fegan for doing exactly what Keller feared she would.
I loved this eulogy for jazz critic Stanley Crouch, a man who loved to argue about music as much as he listened and wrote about it. Clearly obnoxious and irritating, but I somehow warmed to Crouch in the course of the article. The guy had standards, certainly, and stood by them to the bitter end.
The story of the sample rights battle over Bitter Suite Symphony, the one song you know from The Verve. I hadn’t realised how predatory Allen Klein was over the issue. It’s pleasing that the gents who actually wrote the song did the right thing in the end, but it seems to me Klein deliberately laid traps and waited for less unprincipled musicians to set them off.
Max Read lays out the ground rules for a very particular type of SF. I’m pretty fond of this sort of work—Dave Hutchinson’s Europe trilogy drops neatly into the box, I feel.
No lead up on this one—it’s a story you need to go into cold. Trust me, though, it’s worth it.
Adam Mastroianni has opinions on writing, and he’s going to share them. A lot of useful stuff here, some of which I intend to take away and use.
This is delightful. Dr. Ella Hawkins makes and decorates biscuits. One slight problem—they look too good to eat.
Today is National Biscuit Day, and it’s about time that I populated this account with biscuit (cookie) sets from the past few years. Here are some of my favourites.
— Dr Ella Hawkins (@ellamchawk.bsky.social) 2025-05-29T07:04:56.531ZFirst up, a set inspired by the delicious designs of William Morris and John Henry Dearle.
On the design language of pubs. I am very familiar with and extremely fond of this aesthetic. Let’s just say over the years I have immersed myself fully at the source.
One last thing. I’m behind the curve on this, I’m sure. But gods damn, melon with a hit of Taijin is the bomb.
Tangy, spicy, fruity, cooly. The mouthful of summer.More graunchy garage rock, which was the soundtrack to our week in Shropshire, from my old pals The Georgia Satellites. Crack a beer and crank this up.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
May 31, 2025
Too High, Too Far, Too Soon
It starts with a fanfare. A single trumpet, blowing high and wild, glimmers of sunlight jabbing holes in a stormy sky. Behind it, guitars, not so much strummed as hammered, wire and wood pushed to their limits. The chording is almost Spanish, calling up the drama of a spaghetti Western, a Morricone showdown. Two gunmen, hands crooked over their holsters, waiting for the first toll of high noon. A honky-tonk piano slides into the mix, maybe from the saloon where an argument over cards or a girl started, to finish the matter at hand in a crack of gunfire, of blood in the dust.
It builds, it builds, you can smell the tension, the tremble in the trigger fingers, sweat easing out from the band of the stetson. One last howl from the trumpet, a single pure high note holding for that second longer than it should and then and then and then
BANG. The drums, finally, a cannonade, regiments of worn boot heels marching in lockstep across a windblasted mountain range. More guitars, electric now, overdriven, snarling like predators running down their prey. And a voice, sneering, insouciant, a challenge, a dare.
‘So here we are in a special place
What are you gonna do here?
Now we stand in a special place
What will you do here?
What show of soul
are we gonna get from you?
It could be Deliverance
Or History
Under these skies so blue
Something true…’
Now that’s how you start an album.
The album in question is This Is The Sea, the third record from The Waterboys, released in 1985. It’s the home of their best known track, The Whole Of The Moon, a staple of wedding discos everywhere. The entire album is a wild flurry of wild-eyed poetry carried on the back of music barreling along with the unstoppable momentum of an out-of-control stagecoach. Think Springsteen arm-wrestling with Van Morrison on the peak of a Scottish mountain in the middle of a thunderstorm.
There is a name for this stuff, a term coined by head Waterboy and sole continuing member, Mike Scott. He calls it, with admirable simplicity, The Big Music. For a glorious moment in the mid-Eighties, it was all and everything to me. U2, Simple Minds, Big Country, even early goths like Echo And The Bunnymen knew that nothing succeeded better than excess. Huge-sounding, theatrical, dramatic, wide-screen, lyrics a torrent of verse with the vision and scale of Blake and Pound and Whitman. Celtic hearts and bones, looking west to all the promises of the Americas. This is still, even now, thirty years down the line, music which grabs me by the lapels and goes in all tongues for a big hairy kiss.
The Waterboys had it all. They could have sounded the trumpet from the mountaintop and armies would have followed them. Instead, Mike Scott chose a quieter path. He decamped to Ireland, gathered a family of musicians around him and rewrote the mythology.
Fisherman’s Blues, as the start of Waterboys Phase 2, seems like a wildly different offering to what came before. An amble down Irish folkways, soaked in tradition using largely acoustic instruments, it feels like a record with little to prove, without fire in its belly. But listen closely and you can hear how Scott and his raggle-taggle band of brothers have simply refined the sound. The poetry and passion are still there. And Mike’s still a storyteller. He starts the album with a clear map of this new journey—a map which, by necessity charts where things began.
‘I wish I was a fisherman
Tumblin’ on the seas
Far away from dry land
And its bitter memories…’
The Big Music left scars, clearly.
Fisherman’s Blues would become The Waterboy’s biggest selling album, building a new fan-base while hanging onto those who had raised their banners alongside the group before. One more album, Room To Roam, carried on with the folk feel. Then Mike, ever restless, moved on again, returning to a rockier sound for Dream Harder before losing heart, shuttering the band and trying music under his own name.
These records, Waterboys music in all but name, garnered a modest following but the armies ebbed away. It felt as if the visionary we loved had lost his mojo, wandering in the desert in search of a sound he was finding increasingly hard to hear.
Finally, following an onstage reunion with old Waterboys from the first two chapters of the story, Mike raised the four-striped flag again in 2000, understanding the new century needed his brand of what he called ‘psychedelic elemental roar’ and, with the experimental A Rock In The Weary Land, restarted the engine. The cover shows him on mission, shoving the headstock of a Telecaster into the camera lens while stormy skies roil behind him.
And the ride continues to this day, as Mike and his ever-changing band explore new horizons. From blues to soul to Americana and even hip-hop, the feel is different but the spirit remains in place. The passion, the giddy rush of wordplay, the sheer joy of poetry (which exhibited most clearly in 2010’s ‘An Appointment With Mr. Yeats,’ a touring show and album which set the verse of W. B Yeats to music) are the links in the chain which continue to connect us to The Waterboys.
All that history, all those songs and stories, finally brought me to Oxford last week to commune in person, to finally join the congregation of The Church Not Made With Hands. Mike and The ‘Boys are touring a new record, a double concept album on a central figure of the counter-culture, Dennis Hopper. Those expecting a lazy greatest-hits set were in for a shock. The middle section of the concert was a run through the highlights of that album, complete with art, a ragged choir and projections. A bold move which could have sucked all momentum out of the evening. But the songs are fantastic, and the subject an object of continuing fascination. Let’s face it, if Mike can call in contributors like Fiona Apple, Steve Earle and a certain Mr. Springsteen to help out, you know the music is good.
Scott strode the stage like a gunfighting angel, resplendent in spangled denim and a huge Stetson, wrangling heavy weather from his beloved Dan Armstrong Perspex guitar and a filigreed Zemaitis which sang and hummed, spitting aural fireworks. Flanked by the latest iteration of the band, including long-standing members Famous James and Brother Paul (who cooked up a storm with piano and organ on a raucous blast through Medicine Bow), there was little chance to catch our collective breath. The hits were there, of course, and by the encores most of the crowd were on their feet. It was a celebration but also a marker laid, a flare lit.
This did not feel like the end of a story, or even a chapter. Everyone on stage was energised, engaged, ready for the fights and the dances to come. It was typically Waterboys—just another milestone on the endless journey towards transcendence.
May 24, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 15
A real Jeckll-and-Hyde week. On Saturday I started feeling unwell—a killer combo of aches, shivers and hot flushes which rendered me horizontal and housebound until Wednesday. Once I was back on my feet, I had to negociate three days of social activity, including a trip to Oxford to see The Waterboys—of which much more next week. It would have been very easy to cry off on the extrovert duties—I had a great excuse, after all. I’m pretty sure I was no longer a carrier for whatever hit me at that point, but folks would have understood. For once, though, I felt I needed to be out and amongst friends. And you know what, I think it really helped in the recovery process. My hermit tendencies are strong. I need to not let them take over.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel—a second attempt at reading after Sea Of Tranquility persuaded me I should give her best known work another go. And it’s fine so far. The tale of a post-collapse world and a group of theatre folk in a travelling show who act as our guides, it’s beautifully written and uses a couple of carefully crafted details to connect the dots of the story. I’m kinda done with apocalyptic SF—the tropes and symbols are desperately overdone. Station Eleven, however, seems to be sneaking past my defences. Maybe the virus which hit me this week has rewired my brain a bit.
Rob is watching…
Tucci In Italy. When I grow up I want to be Stanley Tucci with his incredible life and cool easy demeanour and charm. His new show, for National Geographic, is glorious eye-candy, all swooping drone shots of sun-drenched crumbling architecture and markets heaving with perfect produce. It is, I’m sure, as far from the life of the average Italian as I am from Stanley Tucci. But hey, a boy can watch—and dream.
Rob is listening…
Pharrell Williams released an album of smooth yacht rock as a birthday present to all of us. It’s free to download as you wish. It’s the ideal soundtrack for a sunny weekend. Mix that Tucci-approved Negroni and go be beautiful.
Rob is eating…
Food I haven’t cooked, an inevitable by-product of the giddy life of a socialite like what I has become. Burgers, nachos and a very passable version of pollo Milanese, which I am happy to see start to reappear on chain restaurant menus. Yes, OK, it’s fried chicken and chips. No, nothing can ever match up to the exemplar of the form, my regular lunch at the long-gone Soho hangout The New Piccadilly, and yes I am aware of what a ridiculous ould gobshite that makes me sound—‘it was the perfect meal, you can never taste it and I am sustained only by my fading memories of the flavour boo hoo oh sweet tragedy of passing time’ and all that bollox. This seems to have gone off the rails. Perhaps I should eat a salad.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Richard Godwin makes the case for a frosty creamy beverage to enjoy as part the long weekend and I for one am here for it.
Kendra Dawsey talks to Bad Environmentalist about the comedy of climate change. There’s nothing funny about what we’re doing the planet. But our reactions to it and excuses for our behaviour—lotsa laffs.
Laughing While The World Burns
George Orwell was very precise about what constitutes a nice cup of tea. He leans hard into the ritualistic aspect. This is as it should be. You may find the whole rigmarole of using a pot and measuring out the loose-leaf to be a bit much. At least try and leave the bag in the mug for a couple of minutes rather than just stir and squeeze. You’ll get a far superior cuppa. Use the steeping time to track down some biscuits.
Some notes from Octavia Butler, which can be boiled down to the three words no writer wants to hear—write every day. It’s as easy and as horrible as that. Then it’s all about waiting for the good stuff to start emerging.
How do you like your eggs in the morning?
https://www.tumblr.com/famouspainterwombat/780157482080288768Frances Wilson on parties in history and literature. I firmly believe any party is greatly enhanced by organising your exit strategy before accepting a drink. Then I can relax and enjoy the vibes, knowing once the time comes I can exfil in seconds.
Dr. Kate Lister makes a very solid point about the inherent inequality of the housing market using a clever pop-cultural example. I won’t spoil it any further. I think anyone who says millennials just need to save a bit harder to afford a house could do with being shown this. C and I could never have afforded Swipe Towers at its current market valuation. As for our first house, a humble two-up two-down in the unfashionable reaches of East London? Forget it.
A fun interactive tect game which could just end with you as the new Vicar Of Christ. The concept of Conclave fascinates me now. The back-biting and machinations. The subtle and suddenly brutal power plays. The gorgeous frocks!
Finally, as a taster towards next week, here’s John Higgs taking to Mike Scott, head Waterboy about forty-odd years of The Big Music and the stories behind the latest album, an ambitious concept album on the mad whirlwind at the centre of the counter-culture.
One last thing.
The Waterboys’ support last night, a rather excellent combo called Sugarfoot, romped through a cover of this early Fairport Convention track. Just my cup of tea. Assam, please. Fetch the pot. I’ll grab the Hob-Nobs.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
May 17, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 14
I think I have to make a deal over Eurovision this year. I love the songs, the manic vibe, the surreal quality of the whole big-tent circus. But once the songs are done and the judging machine grinds into life—well, I lose interest rapidly. I know C feels the same way—she’s talking about giving the whole thing a miss this year. So, we’ll see. I suspect we’ll watch the performances and find out who won the following morning. Rooting for the UK of course (What The Hell Just Happened? has strong musical theatre vibes which may help it out) but I’ll tag my personal choice below.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob’s Eurovision recommend:
It has to be Finland, who always understand the assignment.
Please note how Erika Vikman sells this without backing singers or much in the way of expensive staging (with one very big exception), bringing the noise through sheer force of personality. I love this.
Rob is watching…
Murderbot on AppleTV+. A smart new adaptation of Martha Wells’ stories comes loaded with just the perfect level of snark and humour. Alexander Skarsgård is perfectly cast. It’s a romp, what more do you need?
Rob is listening…
This great Mississippi Blues Trail playlist, inspired by Sinners. A very smartly made bit of cultural tourism.
Rob is eating…
We’re leaning hard into the seasonal bounty of late spring. I threw together a slumgullion of Jersey Royals, asparagus, radishes, green beans and salmon, bound with a quick blender pesto. It was pretty darn delicious and extremely low-effort. Oh, and spinach is a feature on every dinner plate right now. It’s gone off like a bomb in the raised bed.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
(through gritted teeth)
Steve the fish.
Look, you don’t understand. He has the arms. And the legs. AND HE’S ORANGE.
Mike Achim tells the story of a strange vibration which echoed across the entire planet in 2023. It mystified geologists worldwide. What caused it, and what that could potentially mean is pretty sobering, but the tale is still mind-bending in the extreme.
Ornithological geekery of the highest order. I’m not selling the story well. Go check it out and admire the sheer commitment to detail. As I write this the garden is filled with birdsong and I couldn’t tell you the difference between one chirp and another. It’s a nice soundtrack, though.
This next recommend is a bit rich, coming from a writer who uses a bespoke set of frameworks to push out your soaraway Saturday Swipe. But, if it really came down to the wire, I could lash the newsletter up using the simplest and most robust of programming languages (in fact, in the far long ago when it was a Blogger site called The Ugly Truth, I had to). If a doofus like me has a handle on HTML than all of us have a chance.
On a tangentially related subject, why buy new when you can fix? We used to own an incredibly complex temperature controlled kettle. The lid of it detached within nine months of purchase. I glued it back on and it lasted another couple of years. Now, I’m not saying I could tear down and repair something like that, but I’m certainly happy not to bin something if an ugly fix with Gorilla Glue or a cable tie will keep it in play. Reading has both a repair cafe and a library of things which are designed for just such occurances.
Jimmy Mackintosh is the Pints Correspondant for The Fence. His bone-dry, deadpan reports from booze-halls across the land are a regular on whatever passes for my social feed nowadays. I get strong reminders of the work of Jonathan Meades or Iain Sinclair whenever I find one of his despatches. Here are his 51 words for pubs.
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Speaking of the new school of journalism, can I also recommend The Bee? It focusses strongly on working-class issues and the writing is absolutely first-class. Here’s an interview with writer and musician Willy Vlautin to give you a flavour.
A charming moment as Damian Lewis and Mark Rylance come face to face with Thomas Cromwell at the newly re-opened Frick Collection in New York.
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One last thing.
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We Outro with new Wolf Alice. I had a hand in bringing this one to market, and I have to say it looks great. Great to see them back, totally glam and gorgeous.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
May 10, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 13
All of a sudden, I’m playing catchup to my salad and spinach from the garden. The good green stuff is constantly in need of cutting and eating. Not a bad thing, of course—C and I are filled with fibre, vitamins and iron. And an armful of spinach melts to a few spoonfuls of concentrated goodness in a hot pan. I just wish the same could be said for my cucumbers and tomatoes, which are taking their own sweet time. Yes, I know it’s only May but still.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Wager by David Grann. The true stories of the mutiny and murders swirling around the tragic wreck of a ship of His Majesty’s Navy in 1740. The actual truth will never be known as two parties of survivors told two very different accounts, and swore to their veracity even unto death. It’s a hell of a read—bold, detailed and bulging with jaw-dropping, horrifying details of the life on the ocean waves.
Rob is watching…
Doctor Who. The new season is the best in years. The writing is confident and crisp, the pairing of Ncuti Gatwa and Varada Sethu crackles with energy and yes, that Netflix money is being spent wisely cos the show looks gorgeous. I’m actually looking forward to Saturday nights again. As a sidebar, autoplay on iPlayer led us back to the start of NuWho (20 years ago!). I’d forgotten how good Christopher Ecclestone and Billie Piper were together. Sure, the effects look a little dated, but the scripts and performances still shine. Honestly, despite the bumps in the road, this show remains a great British institution, rolling along with grace and charm.
Rob is listening…
L’ Impératrice. Mellow French synth vibes. Perfect for a sunny Saturday morning, no?
Rob is eating…
Fish finger sandwiches. Simple, right? But there’s a joy to that simplicity, and the elements have to be on point. I actually prefer to use a soft bun or muffin rather than squidgy white bread—you get a bit more structural integrity. Tartar sauce is non-negotiable, as is a square of melty industrial cheese. A little greenery stops the whole thing turning into a Filet-o-fish. Although, actually, who am I kidding, I’d eat a pair of those right now…
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
The third in the Now You See Me magical heist movies just dropped a trailer, finally using the title which should have been a no-brainer for the second. It looks, let’s not kid ourselves, terrible. But at the same time magnificent. How many fedoras can you cram into one two-minute trailer anyway?
The big problem with electric cars (putting aside the contentious issue of charging infrastructure for a minute) is that they’re just too complicated and expensive. I love the idea of this American startup, which strips things right back to basics and provides you with a decent local runabout for something like £17K. I’m almost tempted.
Title sequences, done right, can be a real boost to a movie. You’re lured in, given a taste of what’s to happen. The mood is set, the appetite piqued. Think about Bond movies, Se7en, Halloween. Johan Liedgren discusses the start of Top Gun, how and why it succeeds and how the titles to Top Gun: Maverick, while using the same elements, does not.
Siobhan Phillips for Vittles (you’ve renewed your subscription, right?) on the niche pleasures of the restaurant cookbook. I don’t own many of that type, although I found both the Dishoom and Honey & Co books to be surprisingly readable in their own right, not just as collections of recipes.
The story of Tim Friede, who deliberately allowed himself to be bitten by venomous reptiles hundreds of times. His blood could now be the base building block for a universal anti-venom. Obviously, I admire the commitment to the bit but the big question hanging over the whole endeavour—how on earth did Tim decide that was a good thing to do in the first place?
On ugly book covers. I find some of these to be delightful. Sometimes, elegant restraint is simply not the way to go.
Don’t Judge A Book By The Cover
I’m loving the memes swirling around Pope Jake-Elwood The First, especially as he’s giving the Orange Administration a poke in the eye from day one. But let’s take a peek at some ecclesiastical roleplay, which looks like a big ol’ conclave of chuckles. Intrigue! Duels! Sexy robes! How can you resist?
Who needs F1 when you can have 24 Hours Of Lemons? This feels to me like a gathering of the true believers—the folks who like cars because of their flaws and their quirks, an event focussed on the sheer joy of haring round a track, hoping the brakes don’t drop off the wheels. Cars and drivers with personalities instead of machines driving machines.
A really good interview with one of my musical heroes. Bob Mould talks music, embracing his inner bear and how wrestling saved his life. Bob is a legend, an icon and his new album is a solid blast of joy. Fire it up while you read this one.
You’ve probably seen The 48 Things Women Hear That Men Never Do, but it should be highlighted for those in the Readership who have yet to spend two minutes wondering what the fuck is wrong with humanity. Please also check out the opposite angle, which might help to explain a few things.
Comics legend Fabio Bá on how important it is to go that extra few yards in your creative life, to make sure your art is as good as it can be. Detail is key, and even though Google Search is fundamentally broken, you can still find the fact which makes your prose sing in a matter of seconds. If you’re serious about your work, be serious. Case in point—the extra five seconds it took to put the correct accent on Fabio’s surname.
The Beths have new tunes. What more do you need to know?
In conclusion, pack your life as full as this burrito.
https://www.reddit.com/r/nonononoyes/s/6o08LQpkZ3
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
May 3, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 12
Susie Dent says: ”Word of the day is ‘forswunk’ (13th century): exhausted from too much work. I like to think that ‘foreswunk’ is to be exhausted before you even begin.”
Your umble author is well and truly forswunk, it’s been a wild week. Therefore a slightly foreshortened chapter this week, with a hopeful long weekend ahead. I shall be laying a concrete patio. Pray for me.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Hope That Kills by Ed James. Dark Scottish police procedural, tortured cop with a past, race against time, deep atmospherics. It’s all about the plot twists and the way the mechanism James has constructed snicks neatly together. Not the most cheerful read, but I’m hooked nevertheless.
Rob is watching…
The Secret Genius Of Modern Life. Doctor Hannah Fry indulges in gleeful teardowns of the devices which we find almost impossible to live without to winkle out the science inside. Like Inside The Factory, which shares the Open University backing, this show slips down easy, and you’re guaranteed to learn something. Hannah is the perfect host for this—nerdy and goofy while somehow also glam and flirty with the camera. The episode on motorways is well worth your time.
Rob is listening…
To an old playlist which pal Jillian is adding to. It’s sometimes good to tinker with your artifacts, especially when the things you got wrong last time just jump out at you. Do we really need a ten-minute Orbital track in there?
Rob is eating…
It’s king kebab season, so a big chunk of marinated skewered chicken is going on the kamado today to char and sizzle before getting hacked up and devoured with flatbreads, yoghurt sauce and salad. Men lay concrete, men hungry, feed men meat.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Fluid dynamics, as it pertains to the smooth and level application of concrete to a less than even substrate.
The history of the most enigmatic figure in the Alien movies , and its ignominious end outside a movie theatre in LA. Giger’s work redefined how we consider otherworldliness, and his influence remains strong. Ridley Scott had to fight hard for his inclusion, and he was absolutely right to do so.
The Rise And Fall Of The Space Jockey
A little story with a very squishy ending from Dr. Phil of Funranium Labs. This could be horrible, but instead it’s hilarious because of the way he tells it. II guess I should issue a warning for the delicate of stomach.
I’m fascinated by the industry response to ‘Sinners’, a certified cinematic smash, an original non-franchise property made with care, skill and art. Why are outlets like Deadline and The Hollywood Reporter being so sniffy about Ryan Coogler’s latest.
Go, on, guess.
This is me all over, as I urge my San Marzano seedlings to power up and bear fruit for the table. When you grow food, you want results and fast. Sadly, nature just doesn’t work that way…
An Open Letter To My New Tomato Plant
With the inevitable caveat that one person’s wisdom is another’s stating the bleedin’ obvious, here’s Merlin Mann’s long list of life lesson. Glean what resonates with you, ignore the rest.
All other live streams are irrelevant. Pay attention to Mugs, he’ll see you right.
Let’s Outro with a tip from Pal Dom-Dom, a very groovy piece of synchronous sound, colour and movement from the master of the form, Norman McLaren. Synchromy looks digital but was entirely hand-crafted. Something overly to bounce you into the weekend.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
