Rob Wickings's Blog, page 3
April 26, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 11
As we slide into May, all the hard work C and I have put in at Copse End over the last six months is starting to pay off. Most of the new beds are in, dug and planted. There is one big path up the whole length of the garden now from the back door to Gwen’s Den, dozens of stepping stones in a long undulating line. House Beast Millie approves, marching up and down her territory like the boss she is, big fluffy tail held high.
It’s growing season. Lots of the plants we started from seed in the new year are ready to harden off before their final destination. My trug of salad leaves and radishes is romping away, and the chard, fennel and spinach up top looks very promising. The apple and cherry trees are in bloom, all candy pink and floss-white.
Speaking of which, the annual confetti-fest from next door has arrived. A huge old apple tree looms over the top of the garden and creates giant puffballs of blossom. The windy weather shakes it all onto our patio. It looks like the aftermath of a particularly camp wedding.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
A lot of Fantastic Four comics, particularly from the early 2000s—an era which I suspect will inform the direction in which Marvel’s First Family will be led as they enter the DCU. Some real bargains on Kindle for the Ultimate Fantastic Four run, if you’re interested.
Rob is watching…
Andor. Star Wars for grown-ups. Brilliantly nuanced and subtle performances from a cast rising to make the most of a chewy, complex script. Sure, it looks great, but that’s a given at this point for SWTV. Compared to the dry, wooden am-dram of The Acolyle or the 80s kids-movie pastiche of Skeleton Crew, this is leagues ahead. If you like spy stuff with deeply ambiguous characters, dive in.
Rob is listening…
We’re coming into that time of year. If I was serious about it, I’d have been posting Eurovision vids since January, but there’s no reason not to pop a few of the proper tunes up before the big Saturday, whether they make it to the final or not. Luxembourg’s entry is full of pep and vim, has a third act costume change and a real earworm of a tune. What more could you want?
Rob is eating…
Roast chicken. Spatchcocked, dry-brined in a seasoning mix which is past its best but still flavoursome, roasted for an hour or so on the kamado until golden and juicy. Served for a late Easter lunch with roasties, cabbage, leeks, carrots and gravy from the tray juices. That’s meal one.
The following day, stock from the carcass and reserved backbone formed the base of a chicken noodle soup which was warmly comforting.
Meal three was a creamy chicken Alfredo pasta, the stock and some sour cream combining for a luxurious mid-week dinner. The last of the meat went into sandwiches with a squirt of mayo and some lettuce on Thursday.
There’s still stock left over.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Chairs In Space. Long-serving members of The Readership will remember my obsession with the decor details of filmed science-fiction. Mid-century design still informs a lot of set dressing. It just looks so damn future.
And don’t get me started on the re-issued Bodum tea cups as used by Jean-Luc Picard when he fancied a tea, Earl Grey, hot. I seriously had to restrain myself.
Everything about this reveal of a beautifully rebound edition of The Subtle Knife is utterly adorable. I’ll say no more. Just go and enjoy.
I honestly believe Sammy Davis Jr. was the greatest member of The Rat Pack. He had all the disadvantages of a black, one-eyed entertainer in the fifties. He took the bullying from Sinatra and his goodfellas with grace. Because he knew, as they did deep down, he was better than them—even with the metaphorical equivalent of one hand tied behind his back.
The co-creator of Tank Girl writes winningly on how he got his mojo back. Whatever it takes, however you do it, there is no substitute for words on a page. There’s a reason they call it writing.
There are side hustles and then there is a career built out of getting paid to wait in line. The UK is often portrayed as a nation of queues, but I think the Americans have us beat. Four hour lines for a doughnut? Thank you, no.
With that in mind, apparently people don’t choose their dining venue because of the food any more. It’s all about the decor, the ambience, the vibe. And the ‘Gramability of the setup, of course. I mean, if you can’t see it on your feed, were you ever really there in the first place?
Look, it’s easy to snark on people who will point at a single frame defect in a movie and declare it to be a huge mistake. But there’s something charming in the sheer bloodymindedness taken in this piece to track down the Force Ghost who pops up momentarily in one shot of Revenge Of The Sith. Sounds like more fun than the film itself.
More writing nerdery, I’m afraid, but this is useful stuff for genre writers who maybe spend too much time on the wrong sort of world-building. Get your character right and a lot of the heavy lifting is already done. Sometimes I’ve had a plot take a wild left turn because my hero or heroine simply wouldn’t work with the story I had laid out for them and went off-piste. The moment you realise you’re not quite in charge of events in your own book anymore is the electric jolt we all go looking for as writers.
Believable Characters In Unbelievable Circumstances
Ian Dunt lays out the pros and cons to becoming a ‘better person’ and dumping the vices of the past in favour of today’s virtues. Which is fine, as long as you accept those vices are part of the person you are now. We learn and grow through all our glorious mistakes.
A Love Song To The Filth We Left Behind
One last thing.
As fan-shot concert grabs go, this one ain’t bad. AC/DC in Dallas, 2025. If you want blood… you got it.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
April 19, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 10
A bumper edition ahead this week, all the better to feed your greedy curious minds on this deliciously elongated weekend. I trust the Easter Bunny laid you plenty of treats and you’ve started the long slow roast of the festive beast. My haunch of unicorn went into the fire pit yesterday afternoon alongside woody herbs and a couple of diamonds for flavour. The meat should slide off the bones in perfect time for our celebration of nailing some poor Palestinian to a tree a few thousand years ago.
There may also be trifle.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you celebrate, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
‘If on a winters night a traveller’ by Italo Calvino. A core metafictional text, a book about reading, a travel journal where the principal modes of transport are books. One for the bibliovores amongst you, and certainly not one to pick up if you just want a light read. But it’s brilliantly executed, lighter and funnier than you might expect. Hey, I picked up my copy for a quid in a National Trust book nook so the risk is minimal. It was if it had been waiting for me to jump in and take a ride.
Rob is watching…
Retroflix. A cornucopia of esoteric goodies—terrible horror movies, vintage animation, fascinating documentaries. Go have a dig and find something which provides an unreasonable amount of pleasure.
Rob is listening…
to this, obviously. Happy Avril 14th week, everybody.
Rob is eating…
Lincolnshire plumbread. A discovery from our visit to that fair county, this dense, heavily-fruited cakey loaf contains no plums. But it’s an energy bomb, a perfect accompaniment to your mid-morning cuppa. Try it with a toothsome layer of butter and a slice of cheese—Lincolnshire poacher, naturally.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Vangelis’ music for neurosurgery. A lost gem from the synth master.
The work of the Hernandez Brothers has been part of my comics life for as long as I can remember. A stack of collected volumes of Love And Rockets has a proud place on our bookshelves. I’m behind the times, though—the book is still going strong and chalked up 40 years of continuous publication recently. The joy of the series is how the characters have been allowed to age in real time, letting you grow up alongside folks like Maggie and Hopey, allowing you to share their tragedies and triumphs.
This NYT article on solo dining seems deeply strange to me as a committed and cheerful advocate of the table for one. In fact, I first read it in a booth at Reading’s Honest Burger, and most of the folks sharing the space with me were also on their own. I have never felt strangely about eating on my own, or that I am somehow pitied or looked down on by the staff. I guess the negative view is an American thing—which says a lot all by itself…
This is a useful attitude to take when crafting a piece of art. It’s really easy to play to your base or pander to an audience you think want things done in a certain way. Why exclude anyone?
Here’s an interesting take on the choose-your-own-adventure story. You may end up with a slightly clearer understanding on your own particular world-view. Or, like me, more confused than ever. To be fair, I took the quiz twice and ended up with completely different answers both times. Perhaps my reality is more malleable than I thought.
Mic Wright, who’s on a tear at the moment on his Substack with daily updates, offers a shortlist of favourite fictional journalism movies. OK, all movies have a fleeting relationship with the truth, but Mic sets out his terms clearly. And every one of the films he picks is a cracker.
One for those of you who consider Tove Jansson’s tales of the Moomins to be happy, light stories of cute forest creatures. It’s Scandi noir for kids and the forests are dark and deep.
Travel Through Fearsome Forests And Swamps
Science writer Eric Berger shares some highlights of his long career and the particular skills he’s developed in interviewing some of the smartest, sharpest folk on the planet. And Elon Musk.
Film nerdery ahoy. I wasn’t planning on seeing Ryan Coogler’s Sinners, but I have to say it looks stunning, and I appreciate the effort in this little primer into the dark art of the aspect ratio. One question, though—what frame did Coogler himself prefer?
A short treatise on chicken and waffles because, you know, chicken and waffles.
As Mark Twain said, history may not repeat itself, but it often rhymes.
One last thing.
On Avril—excuse me, April 14th, 1984, the Cocteau Twins released this beatless masterpiece. Happy 39th birthday. The perfect soundtrack for the next few weeks. Let’s hope for sunshine.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
April 12, 2025
Five Minutes
The week can just run away with you. Perhaps it’s a symptom of age, maybe a simple matter of perception versus to-do list versus the increasingly urgent need to bank more than eight hours sleep a night. You can only fit so much into a sixteen-hour day. This week, unfortunately, has not provided opportunity for the glean and winnow of the internet which ends up with the half-baked confection that is your soar-away Saturday Swipe.
To put it another way—no linky madness this week, chums. Instead, let me open up and talk in a freeform way about time, roughly ordered into five short segments.
Boy, I know how to sell it, don’t I?
The Day Job continues to exasperate, confound and irritate in equal measure, but it has its shining moments. Take this Wednesday, when we hosted a session where an honest-to-goodness national treasure was in attendance. A veteran news broadcaster, he submitted with grace and good humour to a few hours reviewing film and video footage of reportage from atrocities of the past. Uganda, El Salvador, Iran. He was there, on the ground, with corpses as backdrop, making sure the folks back home knew what was happening to people who were very much like them and, if it were not for the lottery of geography, could have been their neighbours.
It was an eerie experience, to be frank. His commentary, delivered in familiar velvet tones, expressed regret for not doing more to highlight the horrors of the arenas in which he worked. I couldn’t think what more he could have done.
Chatting at the end of the session, I mentioned how important I felt his work had been and how formative to my worldview. I was doing the maths in my head—his reports would have gone out on British TV 44 years ago, and I would have watched them as a teenager. The worst thing about all of that, of course, is that nothing has meaningfully changed except the location of the horror.
Which gets me thinking even more seriously about the inexorable flow that the river of time takes towards the wine-dark sea. 2024 was a banner year for TLC and I, spanning thirty years of marriage and twenty in Reading. To mix the metaphors further, a milestone and a hurdle leapt, but the race continues. I have saucepans older than some of my work colleagues. And yet it feels sometimes that I’ve stayed put while everything else has galloped past. Looking in the mirror, the guy who stares back at me is an amalgamation of all those years, all that change—and yet behind the eyes he’s still a weird, nerdy eighteen-year-old, blinking in the early daylight, wondering what’s coming.
Martin Belam wrote a bit about this last week, particularly applying to music, nostalgia and the cycles of trend. In associated news, we’ll be going to see The Waterboys next month. I suspect it won’t be a young crowd and, although Mike Scott and the ‘Boys will be touring a new album, everyone there will be waiting for the songs they remember from forty years ago.
A daytime trip out last weekend for some comedy. Chris McCausland, to be a little more precise—Strictly champion, advocate for the blind community. He did three shows in Reading on Saturday at 1, 4 and 8, which quite some going. He was sharp as a tack and brutally funny at the late afternoon show. I suspect the last one of the night may have been a little looser, a bit more sweary.
He noticed, with typical acuity, that the crowd (a sell-out, not bad for a weekend afternoon in April) had ‘an old laugh’. He was dead on—most of the folks in the Hexagon that afternoon would have broached their half century or were coming up on it. Not a surprise, of course—us oldies would find a show where we could be entertained, go out for a meal afterwards and still be home for bed at 9 to be a very attractive proposition. I’ve embraced the whole ‘early-rise, early-bed’ lifestyle and it suits me very well. I was never that sociable anyway. Maybe I’ve grown into my truest self, the person I was all along. Only now do I have the belligerence and honesty to fit into that skin.
I ran a pretty successful session at Reading Writers this week. The theme was prompt writing—putting together a piece based on an object, image or phrase—but I made it clear from the start the real point of the night was just to give everyone time to write. It’s a solitary discipline, one to which it’s difficult to give the solid, daily routine it really needs. If you have a life, a family, a job, it’s all too easy to find the excuses not to pick up a pen or unfold a laptop.
Structured around three fifteen minute sprints with a short break between each (a sort of lackadaisical Pomodoro technique) with a table full of objects to spark the imagination, this simple gift of time worked brilliantly. Everyone took something away from the evening—a bit of character work, some settings or even the structure and plot for a whole short story. We’ll be doing more sessions like this. Who knew that a writing group could actually enjoy writing if they got the chance?
Thinking about the perception of time—or rather, how we choose to perceive it. The prompt writing night seemed to fly by yet, if we had spent the same evening at home with our families, cooking dinner, helping with homework, maybe just watching a bit of telly, it may have passed far more slowly. The tick of a second hand can seem to pause if we look straight at it, our brains filling the gap between moments in an unevenly distributed way.
This can start to scramble your head if you let it. Who decided that a second was a second, anyway? Why do we portion the day in the way we do? Different cultures have different calendars, or they will be adjusted over centuries as new regimes decide there is a more logical method—just look at the French Revolution, whose architects declared each month to have thirty days, each week to be a ten-day cycle. Don’t forget, we’re still subject to the whims of government-mandated time travel twice yearly. The clocks may go forward or back, but the river of time flows in the same inorexable fashion.
I look at the guy in the mirror and think ‘how old are you really?’ The aches, pains, belly flab and jowls tell one story. The eyes tell another. I’m subject to biological changes which I could, if I had the money and the nerve, largely reverse. But it would be a lie. However I choose to ride the river, it carries me on regardless. Here in Caversham, I choose to spend this particular sliver of time at a table, writing away, sharing the contents of my head with you. Nothing makes me happier than knowing you choose to spend another segment reading it.
View this post on InstagramOne last thought from Ralph Waldo Emerson.A post shared by Letters of Note (@lettersofnote)
For The Outro, I couldn’t think of a better tune than this, from Annie and Dave’s foray into power pop. The drums, front and centre in the mix as they should be, are courtesy of Clem Burke, whose boat slid into the wine-dark sea this week. The engine of Blondie, he was one of the few sticksmen who could lay down the thunder while dressed in a full Elvis-style gold lamé suit. Did I say sticksman? I meant showman.
(I only realised after posting that the director of this clip is playing his own games with time—stopping and starting the action, spinning Annie backwards from the floor in a pirouette. Another one of those examples of once you find a theme, the story starts to write itself.)
See you next Saturday, time travellers.
April 5, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 9
A rough week on the Day Job, for reasons it would be unwise to go into here. The latest bout of annoyance has had an upside, if you can put it that way—I am awake before sunrise today, plying my Swipery while the trees at Copse End slowly emerge out of the night into the soft blue of dawn. All is quiet part from birdsong. It’s a nice time to be up and about. I might need a nap later today, though.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
A Thousand Feasts by Nigel Slater. Not, perhaps, the best choice of bedroom reading as our Nige goes hard on luminous descriptions of his foodie adventures across the globe—and sweetly, puts his cards on table for the perfection of the simple bag of plain crisps.
Mmm, crisps.
But the commonplace-book aesthetic, which means each chapter runs for barely a page, is utterly addictive, keeping me reading for just one more just one more just one more. This may be his greatest work and there’s barely a recipe in it.
Rob is watching…
tv.garden is the natural succcessor to radio.garden, the service which allowed you to drop in on streaming radio services around the globe. You can probably guess what this new project offers. I am very fond of the Eastern European turbo-folk stations. Like a double espresso injected straight into the eyeball. Boy, that’s refreshing.
Rob is listening…
Pal Jillian and I have swapped playlists over the past couple of weeks. They were created with the mindset of a good old-fashioned mixtape with a beginning, middle and end. I wanted something for the drive down to Somerset, and she delivered in spades. There’s a story in here, if you care to listen out for it. Best played on an open road at—well, just around sunrise would be perfect.
Rob is eating…
Moussagna. What happens when you try to make a moussaka, realise you don’t have enough aubergine, so have to bulk it out with lasagne sheets. It was perfectly fine for a slightly more complicated than planned midweek dinner. But C and I both agreed it needed a) more protein and b) to be one thing or the other. Lesson learnt—sometimes fusion cuisine is not the best of both worlds.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Sally Rooney on Ronnie O’Sullivan. Yes, that Ronnie O’Sullivan. Yes, that Sally Rooney.
I picked up a cheap subscription to The New Yorker, just in time for the venerable magazine’s 100th anniversary. There’s a lot of good reading to be had with full access to the digital archives. I really enjoyed this trip to the essential resource for any print publication.
The early 80s was a wild, febrile time for cinematic science-fiction. The one-two punch of Star Wars and Alien completely changed the landscape, and the bleak socio-political realism of the mid-seventies was swept aside in favour of space-opera fever dreams. It’s unlikely a movie like Saturn 3 would be made nowadays, and the cost was high in all senses of the phrase. Typically, the story of how it came to the screen was as crazy as the finished article.
Something Is Wrong On Saturn 3
Up to a couple of years ago I would have shrugged at the announcement of bankruptcy for boobs-n-burger franchise Hooters. Another example of an idea which had dragged on well past its expiry date. Of course, there’s more than the perceived image to be found. As I’ve grown and oldered I see how there’s always another side to the story. There’s a sweetness to the legend of Hooters. It can be a place of respite, of discovery—of sanctuary.
Refuge Where You Least Expect It
Yep, ok, hands up, I am one of those insufferable foodie bores who owns a copy of Harold McGee’s On Cooking and have barely opened it since landed with a resounding thud on the bookshelf. In my defence, it’s a daunting hill to climb. But based on the next link, I might just have to take that first step.
Wayne Chambliss is making a habit out of turning caves into camera obscuras. The question is not why but, given the opportunity, knowledge and materials, why wouldn’t you? A fine example of art for art’s sake. Keep going till the end for a hint of The Matrix.
Graphomania is defined as an obsessive compulsion to write. There are times when I kinda wish I had a hint of it. I have no background in psychiatry, but feel that maybe Tox, Britain’s most prolific graffiti writer, has the urge. Interviewed by That Actual Banksy, Tox’s story is one which reads tragically in one light and triumphantly in another. One man refusing everything but his muse. Probably the must-read of the week.
Now, I think The Readership is aware of my feelings towards organised religion (they’re aligned with my feelings on organised crime, for clarity). This is not to say good things cannot happen within the operational field. I spent more time than was likely this week poking around Lectio, Mark Bertrand’s blog on Bible design. What became immediately clear to me was how the core text of the Christian religion exists in all sorts of forms and specifications and how it is used on a daily basis as both a working document and a source of comfort. A bit outside my remit but fascinating, nonetheless.
I bang on about genre like a bloke—mostly ignoring the most-read one of them all. Romance is a huge part of the publishing landscape, voraciously consumed by its millions of fans. As author Elisabeth Wheatley smartly points out in this Instagram piece, Romance is a clear mirror to the social mores and cultural norms of the times in which any given text was written. It’s therefore subject to quite sudden changes in tone, and can serve as a snapshot of those times. Elisabeth is worth a follow—clever, funny and not afraid to cosplay as a goblin for promotional purposes.
View this post on InstagramA post shared by Elisabeth Wheatley (@elisabethwheatley)
One last thing. So long, Val.
As Outro, a recommendation from music writer Pete Paphides’ Substack, well worth a punt if you fancy a peek into the mind of a journalist who really knows his beat. Speaking of which, Buddy Miles, who played with Jimi Hendrix in The Band Of Gypsies, understood maximalism and exhibited it with a pure and gleeful intent. The sweat on Buddy’s brow is earned, yo.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
March 29, 2025
Where There’s Smoke
I fought the fire and the fire won.
I smell as smoky as a slab of Texas brisket, smudged and sooty as a chimney sweep. Nothing is more important to me than airflow, fuel and the all-encompassing flame. If I was left alone in a wintery forest with a box of matches I’d freeze to death. It’s just as well I’m a 21st Century boy and other methods of getting warm are available.
Let’s set the scene. Greetings from Allowenshay, a tiny village in Somerset halfway between Bridgwater and Bridport. To finesse the location—a shepherd’s hut on a sheep farm set in beautiful rolling countryside. We’re not roughing it, naturally. C and I like our creature comforts too much. The hut has a big bed, underfloor heating and wi-fi. All the essentials.
The big attraction, though, are the wood-fired accoutrements on offer—a barbecue, a chiminea and a stove. A pizza oven. A hot tub. Luxury with a slightly rough edge. I could do the manly stuff while C relaxed and enjoyed a pampering on her birthday weekend.
Afternoon activitiesNow, I can light a fire. The stove in the cottage at Coniston practically starts itself these days. A hot tub and pizza oven were a step up from my usual skillset. But hey, how hard can it be? The visitor book at the hut is full of glowing testimonials to both items. I go in, bright-eyed and excited, with a cliplock box full of 48-hour fermented pizza dough and a dream of hot-tubbing under the stars.
Ah, Readership. You know what’s coming, right? Fermented pizza dough is incredibly fragile. You really need to build it on a very heavily floured peel, and go easy with the toppings. It also takes a lot of experience, a confident hand and maaaaaybe one less negroni than the brace I had in me when I started to get the whole delicate construct cleanly in and out of the oven.
Preeeezenting pizza a la Allowenshay.
YUMMY.I couldn’t get the darn thing off the peel, and the oven was nowhere near hot enough when I did manage to scrape it into place. It was half-raw, half-burnt, although the flavour of the dough on the tiny bits that were properly cooked was good.
We had a baked potato for dinner instead.
Regarding wood-fired hot tubs. They are wonderful things. On the first afternoon, as we’d politely asked for it to be lit on our arrival, a deeply pleasurable hour was spent lolling about with a beer, all the stresses of the journey ebbing away as we bobbed in the warm water.
Following Pizzagate, I’d been able to get the tub warm enough to sit in for a while—not the soup-making temperature C was after but fine for me. That was as good as it got. On our last night, after nearly three hours of burn, the tub still wasn’t at blood temperature. Oh well, learning curve.
This is starting to sound as if we had a complete disaster of a break, which couldn’t be further from the truth. We were perfectly content, warm and cosy in our little hut. We were on a working sheep farm which gave us the opportunity to watch our hosts cajole a stubborn flock down into pasture—ultimately bullying them off the hillside before the nose of the family HiLux.
Base camp was perfectly positioned for adventures. We forayed into Devon, Dorset and Wiltshire, enjoying seafood in Lyme Regis (sadly slightly too early to eat at the newest Rockfish, which opens there on April 1st) and an amble round three National Trust places—Montecute House, Lytes Cary Manor and the magnificent gardens and house at Stourhead. The latter, if nowhere else, is well worth the visit if you’re in the area, a wild confection of mythological fictions in grounds you could spend all day wandering through. And of course, there’s a great plant shop and secondhand book nook if you have any questions about why C and I are such NT enthusiasts. The whole organisation has laser-focussed itself onto our interests.
In conclusion, we had a thoroughly indulgent time, as befits C’s birthday excursions.
It was our last night, after we’d finally given up on the hot tub. We were sitting instead around the chiminea, watching the spent gases from a SpaceX launch form a glowing halo in a night sky blazing with stars. We weren’t really talking. We didn’t need to. The moment, broken only by the occasional chirp of a night-bird or baa from a sheep, was near to perfect.
Would it have been better in wood-warmed water? Perhaps. But we had wine, the moment and each other. And you know what? That’s enough.
To conclude, a track from Marc Ribot’s new album. Don’t depend on me if you want to set the world on fire.
See you next Saturday.
March 22, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 8
Lots to see and do this week, so let’s crack on. C and I are away for a few days for to celebrate her birthing-time anniversary (they should really come up with a better term for that) so I honestly have no idea what foolishness you’ll get in the next chapter. I’ll try to resist a gardening update but so much is growing right now, youse guys.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Nebula Awards Finalists. Well, not all of them because that would take all my available time, but a lot of the shorts and novelettes are available online for your reading pleasure. You can depend on high quality—more so I think than for the Hugos which has been buffeted by controversy and poor judging decisions over the past few years.
Rob is watching…
Daredevil: Born Again. I’m intrigued to see how different this will be to the classic Miller/Mazzucchelli comic run with which it shares a name. But I have faith in the creative team and the cast. I remain a big fan of the original show, and so far I’m enjoying the dive back into Hell’s Kitchen.
Rob is listening…
A rather groovy long playlist that Aphex Twin chap put together as part of his sellout to sneaker-money. I feel no personal urge to wear an overpriced t-shirt with the Windowlicker girl on it, but I’ve seen the queues outside Supreme in Soho when a limited edition drops so, hey, obviously not my area of expertise.
Rob is eating…
Pork. Loin stuffed with waaay too much garlic and rosemary, slow-roasted to succulence in a tight-fitting pot with cider bubbling at the base. I cannot get crackling right no matter how I try, but then if it’s not chicaronne-style light and puffy I’m not really that bothered. I was never a fan of pork scratchings. Too much chewing around bristles for my liking.
Also: shoulder, pressure-cooked in the Instant Pot over onions and peppers, with a little stock and again, some cider. This lasted us for three meals—over rice with spicy beans, on top of jacket potatoes with cheese and sour cream, and finally mixed with noodles in a soy-heavy sauce.
Both came out of a freezer dive—Costco do a big slab of shoulder which I break into bagged portions, and the loin was a half-price deal at Morrisons just after Christmas which was sitting patiently for an excuse to be used. Under a fiver and it fed four people with room for leftovers.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Wood-fired hot tubs. I’ll elaborate next week.
I feel I need to get my mitts on Scarlett’s cookbook. The joie de vivre in this whole article is bubbling over, and I found myself cackling with glee all the way through.
All the lovely things about fandom in one gloriously effusive piece. Reece Connolly nails the joy and positivity of Doctor Who. Screw the haters and gatekeepers. This show really is for everyone.
Some extremely creative parenting from Séamas O’Reilly. The original bit in The Guardian is worth the read, but stick with the Bluesky thread for all the updates.
Stay For The Clickable Tooth Map
I have mithered on about my old Soho stamping grounds for a very long time, so I won’t add any other context to this excellent meander round what’s left of the drinking scene there.
Except. Dammit. Alright, two things. The Old Coffee House is still my favourite and well worth the visit. David Beckham was a bottle boy there, you know. And describing anywhere north of Oxford Street as Soho is stretching this reader’s credulity to breaking point. The Ship is lovely, but there’s a perfectly nice Fuller’s joint of the same name on Wardour Street. No mention of that, I notice.
Sorry, but boundaries matter.
Cat Valente drops the second part of her great state-of-the-psyche examination of what happened to humanity over the past decade, and why we are the lesser for it. It’s a depressing read but delivered with verve and humour, so we can all feel a little better about the imminent collapse of our status as the dominant species on the planet.
Move Fast And Break People Part 2
I remember the magnificent, multi-award winning Sony Bravia ad when it first dropped. It was on cinema screens for a while and let me tell you, those colours pop on the big screen. I’d always assumed it was achieved with ahead-of-the-curve CGI. Nope.
There are times when I get back from work, think about doing some writing, then realise what I really need to do is sit quietly for half an hour and let my brain spin down. This lovely piece by Brendan Leonard is kind of about that, with the added wisdom that sometimes it’s important to just walk away.
It’ll Never Be Enough Until You Decide It’s Enough
This Sunday, March 23rd, marks five years since lockdown was announced in the UK. We live in a world haunted by what happened next, which has changed us in ways we still struggle to understand. Five years is no time at all, yet somehow the Covid years seem impossibly distant, fever dreams from a twisted alternity. We need to steer away from that comforting fantasy. Covid continues to influence the 2020s, terrible as it is to admit.
I can’t finish on that much of a downer. Let’s explore a happier dreamland, a more joyful otherness. Come on, let’s take an amble through the imagination of Tove Jansson.
A World In Which Dreaming Is Essential
One last thing.
Meanwhile, back in 2001 Zero 7 exude some lushness which has yet to be out smoothed. Yes, that’s Sia’s actual face. Who knows what she looks like now.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
March 15, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 7
The Ides Of March are upon us. Death to all tyrants! Rise, citizens, like the flood of Biblical times, and wash away the corruption spreading over our land. Let those who think themselves untouchable understand, at the last, that true power comes from unity of the righteous against oppression!
Also this week: owls, gherkins and a sufficiency of prog.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Left Hand Of Darkness. Ursula K. LeGuin’s masterpiece has just been re-released in a new volume and boy howdy, is it ever a book for these uncertain times. Set on a planet where the population move easily between genders, it is fearsome, unrelenting, beautiful and haunting. A story for all of us, a tale that doesn’t get stale. Massively recommended.
Rob is watching…
Seeds growing. Shut up and look at my gherkins. They were seeds in a packet 2 weeks ago.
Rob is listening…
to this gorgeous restoration of a full Genesis gig, filmed in 1973 at Shepperton Studios. A prog performance of glorious silliness, pomposity and yes, magnificence. I love this stuff—it transcends the inherent absurdity of the wild costumes and overwrought theatrics to find a place where beauty lives in madness.
Rob is eating…
Fish pie. I gave one of my signature dishes a tweak this week. Rather than the usual creamy sauce, I used a fish fumet stock which had been hiding at the back of the cupboard for ages. The finish was a little looser than I’d normally allow but filled with robust, smoky flavour. Started with lots of fennel and onion, topped with riced potato for a lighter finish, it was one of those dishes which makes me glad I have a bit of time once I come off shift in the afternoons to play around in the kitchen. Not quite as comforting as the usual béchamel sauce, I’ll admit, but perfectly delicious nevertheless.
I have half the bottle of stock left, which I’ll use in a tomato sauce with a bunch of past-date basil I picked up in the Co-op for next to nowt, the remains of last night’s bottle of cheap Merlot and some butter and onions. Dunno what I’ll do with it yet. Perhaps the base note of a fishy pizza. Hmmmm.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Owls In Towels. Angry Ruru is my favourite.
I was delighted to find this history of Bob Burden’s Flaming Carrot, which sent me straight down a nostalgia-hole. The Deadline era of British comics, when a swathe of new compilation titles like Revolver haunted newsagent’s shelves, were a great place to find reprints of strange and terrifying strips. Flaming Carrot has a wild energy and skew-whiff vibe unlike any other. Worth tracking down a copy or two if you can. As a sidebar, Burden’s other major creation, The Mystery Men, would become one of the greatest superhero movies of all time, an unfairly forgotten gem.
The surreal and upsetting world of Flaming Carrot
A character study of rare charm and sweetness. We could all use a neighbour like Alfi (although I get the feeling he would probably become incredibly annoying over time).
Aah, rum. I’ve developed a taste for the sweet stuff over the last few years, I suspect as part of my love for the flavour profile of bourbon. A good spiced rum adds a delicious complexity to a Kingston Negroni. I’ve found some great ones up in Northumbria, whose inhabitants clearly know the value of a warming nip on a cold night. The history of the sailor’s favourite is one filled with adventure, violence and exploitation. Pour yourself a glass and dive in, me hearties.
I don’t quite have the legs of the real old-school bloggers, counting myself as second generation. It’s pleasing to see some of the names I subscribed to still cranking out the posts. Darren at Link Machine Go has been at it for 25 years, and he’s still on my RSS feed today. At one point in the past I think my original blog, The Ugly Truth, was on his sidebar. Well done, sir, keep the flame burning.
Speaking of anniversaries which make me want to bury my head in my hands and wail, The Sisters Of Mercy’s iconic first album has forty candles on its birthday cake this year. It’s a record of dark atmospheric power, a soundtrack to my skinnier, hairier days. I still have the original record in the vinyl collection here at Swipe Towers. It will be played loud this weekend while I flounce around in black.
There seems to be an uptick in interest in R.E.M., I guess a by-product of their most famous records hitting big birthdays. I really enjoyed this collection of pieces about a select handful of their songs. Perfect Circle, by the way, was the tune played as TLC and I’s first dance on our wedding day.
Just in case you were wondering how important this band is to me.
Daniel Lavery’s Substack, The Chatner, is everything I want from a modern blog. Funny, elegant and smoothly confident, he trucks along while I trip and stumble. It’s so good it makes me angry.
Don’t Try And Tell My That My Backpack’s Open, Buddy.
In a week when Sam Altman announced a new version of ChatGPT which is ‘good at creative writing’ (there’s a phrase which makes my teeth itch) it’s worth reading Oisin McGann’s thread which absolutely nails the disparity between what we think AI is doing and what actually happens. There’s nothing intelligent here.
Finally—I think I want chickens now.
One last thought from Michael Kuppermann.
Let’s Outro with a call-back to the Genesis gig at the top of the chapter. Father-daughter duo Léane and Antoine Baril perform a lovely take on the epic Supper’s Ready. Too much prog for you this week? You fools! There is no such thing as too much! There is only ever barely enough! We demand more complication, another five-minute solo, an even more ridiculous costume change!
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
March 8, 2025
The Hopeful Month
You have to take the bright moments when you can find them. It has been an especially dark start to 2025, and I for one am ready for a dose of sunshine.
Warmth, though, that’s still a big ask. Even though the skies have cleared to a shining, sapphire blue, it’s still scrape-the-windshield weather in the morning. I have never been happier to embrace one of car technology’s greatest innovations— heated front seats. One button push and a toasty tush is yours in a minute flat. After twelve years of shivering while the old Note’s AC coughed out lukewarm air on a frosty morning, Harvette’s little trick on the morning commute feels like sorcery.
That half-hour drive into work has its own quiet magic now I’m on the road at sunrise. The bridge at Sonning, cloaked in mist from the Thames, has an otherworldly feel. The treeline flattens into two-dimensional planes, hovering like ghost-giants in the soft luminescence. Crossing the bridge feels like slipping into another realm, a place of fog and mystery.
As I hit the M4 the light changes again. The horizon is washed in rose gold, peach and tangerine, while the sky brightens to the clean denim blue of a country singer’s jeans. There’s still a diffusion to the light. The morning traffic is haloed, glimmering, sparks striking the chrome. In another week or so the sun will be in my eyeline, and I’ll need to wear shades to get into work.
TLC and I have been spending every weekend in the garden, making the most of the lighter days to get some heavy lifting done. This is the latest episode in our ongoing struggle with the bottom section of our property, Copse End. Over the years it has been home to raised beds, a lawn and summerhouse, and always, always the unstoppable infiltration on three sides from ivy, bramble, nettles and bindweed. In the summer of 2020 the situation reached a low point, as the spiny invaders almost took over. I spent a lot of lockdown in pitched battle with Copse End, a bruising, slashing conflict which helped take my mind off other more pressing issues, even if it did leave thorn-scars behind.
Anyhow. Copse End Mk. 3 is a complete restart. Last November we had the ground rotorvated, tearing up the last of the lawn and long-standing weeds. The ensuing swamp overwintered under cardboard and plastic while TLC made drawings and began to portion out the ground plan. We’re opening up the whole area, moving away from the notion of a two-thirds split down the long runway of the garden, revealing the full 130m airstrip right down to Gwen’s Den, the huge pergola that marks the far boundary of our property.
It’s hard work, don’t get me wrong. We didn’t need to waste money on a gym membership in January—swinging a lump hammer and digging up heavy clay soil is all the exercise we need, thank you very much. It feels like a very long haul, and at times, aching and frozen, we fervently wished we’d left well alone.
But no. Copse End is where the sun lands in the afternoon. It’s where we want to be come 5pm on a weekday evening, soaking up rays alongside a well-deserved glass of boozy. It’s where we want to eat as the sun hits the tree line, with the smoky tang of barbecue drifting up from the kamado. It’s our escape plan, our refuge. In Copse End, you hear nothing but birdsong and the drone of an occasional plane. Traffic noise is over there somewhere, out of earshot. If we put the work in now, the rewards come June could be magnificent.
Filling C’s planned beds with plants is going to be a big job too, and could prove expensive, so we’re indulging with another of the gardener’s winter pleasures—getting seed trays on the go. The window sills are crowded with propagators, dewy with condensation, warm beds for our new potential haul. I’ve started thinking about veg as well—there is a raised bed planned for me to grow squashes, chard and fennel. I have a couple of types of cucumber under glass, and garlic is already poking out questing green shoots from the buckets I split two heads into a couple of weeks back. There will be tomatoes and chilis too, herbs by the armful, and salad for days. I may not be the gardener that C has become, but I have my moments.
Sure, we spend our weekend evenings in a woozed-out blur as the endorphins of exercise wear off and our joints and muscles noisily remind us we are in our fifties. Ordinarily, any reminder of my mortality would give me a bad case of sads. But we pack away the tools at the end of the day with a glow. Every week we’re a little further along, a little closer to the goal. There’s no real deadline as such—after all, a garden is never finished. But that’s part of the fun of it. We do this because we choose to, because it’s good for us to put in the work (mostly) by ourselves. Because come the summer we will have a place of peace and comfort carved out of cold earth and old stone and warm seedlings.
I can’t think of anything more hopeful than that.
March 1, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 6
One of those weeks where celebrity deaths come in threes. Questions are beginning to be raised as to the suspicious ends of Gene Hackman, his wife and dog, while Roberta Flack’s onward transition was met with universal sadness and the inevitable BBC4 documentary. Meanwhile the Oscars staff are no doubt scrambling to update their In Memorium section before tomorrow.
For me, though, the passing of Henry Kelly hit hardest. I was interviewed by him for BBC Berkshire back when I was collaborating on zombie anthologies—the newsworthy connection came from my pal Rob generating a preparedness plan should Z-Day hit Reading. Henry was slightly baffled by the whole thing but charming and funny throughout. As a fan of Going For Gold when I was a student, it was a wildly weird but entirely cool moment for me to chat to him about prepping The Oracle against an incursion from the living dead.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
City Of Ruins by Don Winslow. The last in his Danny Ryan trilogy, this sees the titular Rhode Island gangster running casinos in Las Vegas, while his past creeps up with a flaming torch and petrol in hand. Winslow’s books are dense, tight and brutal. This one starts a little more gently but I can feel the screws beginning to squeeze on Danny and everything he holds dear. Great stuff.
Rob is watching…
Reacher S3. Or, as some bright sparks have described it, Large Man Meets Larger Man. The Amazon versions of Lee Child’s books are absolute crack to TLC and I, and we really enjoy the casting, the stories and the inevitable bursts of bone-crunching action. There are no surprises here, of course, but that’s not the point. Reacher is a comfort watch, and the fun is in watching the plot pieces snick satisfyingly into place.
Rob is listening…
To this from Michael Penn. Love the Adam Curtis/Eisenstein montage work going on in this promo, where words and images are juxtaposed in different and intriguing ways. A song for the times.
Rob is eating…
Noodles. Nothing complex, this is Friday night we’re talking about. I just want something quick, tasty and sustaining. Blue Dragon do a good ramen kit which can be simply customized. I tend to ignore the packet instructions, start with veg and a garlic/ginger paste, and let the broth simmer for longer than directed to boost flavour and texture. A thinly-sliced tuna steak and prawns for protein, a handful of spinach wilted in last minute. Lots of lime and coriander. Hearty, warming, comforting.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
You wouldn’t want to read a book printed under these principles but this is nerdy, fonty food for thought. The point where typography and cryptography meet, perhaps. The video included one moment which made me snort with glee. A great dry tone on the voiceover, too.
Let’s start with a story—a cautionary tale of corporate over-reach by Scott Smitelli which reads as satire but only just. Not a quick read but well worth the time. Hey, it’s cold out, what else are you gonna do?
The regular complaint from certain gobshitey types whenever a Black or Asian face appears in historical dramas set in England is neatly and elegantly skewered by Sarah Elizabeth Cox, consultant on Steven Knight’s new boxing drama A Thousand Blows. This is delicious.
The live music scene in the UK is, I think we can agree, not in a good way. Venues are closing hence bands find it more difficult to find places to play while ticket agencies screw us every which way. A new survey from a swathe of local authorities and music industry types aims to help change that, and you can get involved. Fill out the survey and let’s get Britain playing again.
Ros Barber provides a cautionary tale of how you should always read the contract and know your rights. The ending is honestly glorious.
I didn’t think I could be so engaged by a simple overview of hot sauces. But the artwork is lovely and the vast range of tingly treats available is quite astonishing. This definitely feels like a work in progress—there are very few British hot sauces shown for example.
Back to Gene Hackman for a moment, whose loss is a sadness. Max Read gives us a great example of the big man’s talent by showing how he rolled into a nineties action techno-thriller an hour into the film and basically made it his own. I feel the urge to watch Enemy Of The State again, it’s a proper ride.
One man’s porn is another man’s art, and no-one understood that better than Samuel Roth. Censorship is a state-backed crime, empowered by people who have a vested interest in keeping the populace poorly educated. The fact that there is no clear, precise definition of obscenity tells me everything I need to know about book-banning. It’s not about the content, it’s about the context.
Stack stuff until it falls over. Be warned, though. Once you start it’s hard to stop.
Sometimes you just need to build a tower of junk
I hesitated to include Elisabeth Sandifer’s magisterial overview of the Sandman comics in this week’s chapter because of—you know, him. But there is no viable argument to be made that the title’s sixty-eight issue run is one of the great achievements of The Ninth Art, and it deserves this kind of forensic examination. I sometimes use the argument about separating the art from the artist—Sandifer dismantles this while accepting the sheer quality of the work. Warnings, obviously, for the discussions of the author’s unpleasant proclivities, but also for length. This is almost 50,000 words long so maybe don’t engage unless you’re prepared to see it through. Not for everyone, but I thought it was incredibly good.
One last thought.
Oh sod it, it’s been a bit of a dark week. Let’s have a dance, shall we?
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
February 22, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 5
I keep coming back to this Bon Appetit clip featuring the boss of Una Pizza in New York, Anthony Mangieri. His process, his insistence on ferocious control of ingredients and technique when it comes to a meal of very humble origins fascinate me. Seriously, dude, get another dough chef on the line.
Pizza is turning into a bit of an obsession, with it landing for dinner in our house more and more regularly. Specifically, a seafood pizza, which seems to be tricky to get if you go out. Tuna, prawns and mussels is a favourite. It’s all about the dough, though, and I’ve been playing around. Nothing like Anthony’s careful tweaks with different flours and hydration ratios. I use the pizza setting on my 30-year old Panasonic bread maker to make a simple dough with type-00 flour, and let it sit in the fridge overnight. That slow ferment means it comes out lively, bubbly and flavoursome, ready to blast in a hot oven under cheese and a homemade tomato sauce (more below). It’s a good way to decompress and eat something good on a Friday night.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Featured image by Dominic Wade.
Rob is reading…
Sea Of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel. One of those time-shifting novels which attach seemingly unconnected events over centuries together like pearls on a chain, before pulling a rather excellent rug pull which reframes everything. This is clever, confident and arresting SF, and gives me a reason to revisit her Station Eleven, which I started a few years ago and found I wasn’t in the mood for. I am now.
Rob is watching…
Rivals. Blimey, this is a thing. An exercise in revisiting the excesses of 80s soaps with extra swearing and sexy-times. The scenery-chewing is off the scale, the over-saturated colour-grade screaming out of the screen. I hate it, and hate that I can’t stop watching.
Rob is listening…
to James Hatfield off the Metallica’s new guitar. I read a lot of guitar mags. The conversation about tonewoods and how they can affect a git-box’s sound is one that never goes away, especially when talking about rare examples which are subject to worries over deforestation. This, built from wood salvaged from the garage where Metallica first honed their sounds, is an example of how blinkered that argument is. The axe sounds good and looks magnificent.
Rob is eating…
Roasted roots and tomato sauce. As a subscriber to a veg box scheme, I know all about gluts, at this year particularly carrots, parsnips and beetroot. In order to ease the pressure on the fridge this week I roasted a tray full of said veggies before blitzing to a thick paste. Some of this will be used to make soup. Some went into a simple pressure-cooker tomato sauce to thicken and add interest. I confess, mostly I’m just dicking around in the kitchen, but I’ll always end up with something that adds value to dinner.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
This Thread on world-building. Really useful, and a great way to focus on what matters in your story. TL:DR—don’t sweat the details.
We’re starting with Ninth Art shenanigans, but fear not, there are lots of pretty pictures to look at. The ligne claire look of continental comic books of a certain lineage features cartoony characters working in front of exquisitely rendered back-drops. The settings, though, exist in a never-time, a post-war fantasy which gives the tales a particular glamour of their own. My uncle owned a full set of Tintins which I pored over as a kid. I cannot help but think that experience was formative in my present comic-geek self.
Edward D. Wood is notorious as one of the world’s worst film-makers, but as ever there is more to the story. He was also a prolific and talented novelist—although his adherence to a certain style and subject matter never really changed…
The Prose Of Edward D. Wood, Jr.
In order to write, you need to be alive. In order to be alive, you need to eat. Some writers seem to forget this and treat the second part of the equation as an annoyance. A suggestion from Olivia Laing—treat your calorific intake as part of the process and engage in food rituals to help you stay focussed and on target.
Related:
Like all the great cities, London exists in the collective imagination as much as an actual working, living location. As such it can easily be parodied or caricatured. The chimes of Big Ben or a shot of St. Paul’s are an instant signifier of a visit to the Big Smoke. But if a film-maker can’t get out on to the actual streets, they can always build their own versions.
A sad reminder that Neil Kulkarni’s passing robbed us of a necessary corrective to the agreed history of British popular music. I’m old enough to remember the Select years, and in fact still have back copies up in the loft somewhere. There was a lot more going on in the nineties than just Britpop and grunge. As a member of the Suede Nation and an attendant at Pulp’s transcendent Finsbury Park gig in ‘98, I can confirm things were a lot more interesting than certain strident voices would have you believe.
I don’t often include ongoing news stories in The Swipe, but the Delta airlines plane which landed upside down last week grabbed my attention. Especially when the Toronto Star snagged an interview with one of the passengers.
While We’re On The Subject – no it’s not more dangerous to fly at the moment and diversity employment programs have nothing to do with the situation.
Font nerd alert. I offer no apologies.
We will lose a tranche of recent history unless we urgently start an extensive archival project. Tape-based media like VHS and even professional-quality cassette formats are degrading at a disturbingly rapid rate. That box of tapes in the basement may already be unplayable as the magnetic oxide on which the signal is carried corrodes away, the glue on the base layer fusing everything into a solid lump of useless plastic. This is vital work, without which we could lose decades of ephemeral records of our recent past.
A long read to finish up. Catherine M. Valente is one of the greats, a writer of rare skill and insight. She’s focussing her attention on how we have, through our embrace of one of the greatest innovations on human history, quietly and willingly broken ourselves. Take time for this one, it’s important stuff.
One last thing.
I’ve been on a George Harrison splurge this week following the rerelease of his needlessly forgotten 1973 album Living In The Material World. However, I’m posting a cover of All Things Must Pass by the artist also known as Jim James of My Morning Jacket. Just because. My gaff, my rules.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
