Rob Wickings's Blog, page 4
February 15, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 4
The first great retail opportunity since X-Day has landed, and on a Friday too, so let’s make a weekend of it. I treated us to an excellent meal deal from M&S which included coquille St. Jacques, prawn and salmon on croute with smashed basil potatoes and chocolate and caramel pots alongside a rather nice bottle of Italian rosé for £25 quid. Plenty of folks are hopefully out helping restaurants and card shops stay afloat over the next couple of days. C and I, as you know are quiet and retiring types. Not for us the crush and hustle of V-Day dining. Like the saintly George said, it’s cold out there but it’s warm in bed. Hope you get a chance to put a little love in your life, even if it’s just honouring yourself with a little treat.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Robert Aickman’s The Unsettled Dust. Strange subtle tales of dread from a lesser-known master of horror. Aickman’s stories have the atmosphere of a dream, one which gradually darkens until an understated conclusion arrives which slips into you like a knife in the ribs. Possibly not the best bedtime reading, mind.
Rob is watching…
Alien: Romulus. A major, crushing disappointment for this Alien fan. Fede Alverez’s take on the franchise is clearly informed by his love of it, but that love exhibits by shoehorning in as many references to the other films as possible, then hose-piping gore over the top. The characters are thin archetypes from a teen slasher, the script is full of clangers. The whole enterprise is a massive missed opportunity, although it made a ton of cash so who knows, maybe the next one will be an improvement. It looks gorgeous, so perhaps worth a look if you enjoy pretty spaceship stuff.
Rob is listening…
to Robert Fripp and David Sylvian’s The First Day. C moved a rampant trailing pothos from the record shelving, which means I can actually get to the S-Z section of the collection. I have gleefully reacquainted us with old friends, including this late 90s collab from two art-rock greats. A whirling, grinding dust storm of delicious noise and soft drones. Sheer shining atmosphere, the perfect soundtrack for an afternoon of pottering about.
Rob is eating…
Not this. Dear gods, not this.
Related. Don’t try this at home.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Oh, synth pop. Easy peasy, you just poke a few buttons on a keyboard and make a song. Nothing to it, not real music. Yeah? Watch this and be prepared to reset your biases. This is hardcore nerdery and I immersed myself.
My personal philosophy is a mishmash of Buddhist traits, Tao and a whiff of Stoicism. I believe people deserve a little respect and empathy, and that kindness is often rewarded. Nothing wrong with a bit of stubbornness and knowing the power of no, either. Build some of these and the hints below into your interactional toolkit and see what it does for you.
Ubuweb has returned. An astonishingly broad resource of art, music, film and writing from the lesser-trodden corners of the internet. One of those places where you wander until joyfully lost. You will find something you like here, if you amble in a mindfu manner.
Two contributors to the Am I The Asshole? subReddit explain their reasons for submitting, and what came next. AITA is a fascinating glimpse into the strange pathways of human behaviour and how one person’s reasonable position is another’s big red flag.
A Ninth Art essential. Denny O’Neill’s BatBible is the definitive text on how to write the Darknight Detective. The major players and supporting characters are all here. It’s forensic and precise, yet allows for all sorts of creative swerves and reinterpretations. Once you know the recipe, you can make the dish your own.
Some extremely practical screenwriting advice from Tony Tost with a clear-eyed understanding of that core tenet of Hollywood—unless you’re connected, getting your work is seen is incredibly tough. I worry about the potential of becoming whatever the writer’s equivalent of typecast is, but at least Tony’s tips will help you get past the receptionist.
Am I likely to host a cocktail party anytime soon? No, probably not. I refer you to the Valentine’s Day intro above. However, Richard Godwin is wise in all things booze. I am sure much of The Readership is much better at this peopling stuff than your humble author and will find this useful. Some good recipes here as well.
Finally, a moment from one of the most ubiquitous sitcoms around that hits harder than expected. The reason for its appearance took me by surprise. There’s more to comedy than a laugh a minute.
I will now take questions from the floor.
As is traditional at this time of year, a playlist for the weekend. If nothing else, crank up the Kelly Clarkson.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
February 8, 2025
An Excuse, A Blue Square and a Story
Art Stories at Reading Museum has been, after an admittedly bumpy start, a roaring success. A collaboration between that big red-brick building facing off against Queen Victoria on Market Place, artists like Cornelia Parker and Gerald Scarfe and local creative types, the exhibition has shown how visual and literary disciplines can interact, inform and enhance each other. The public have thoroughly embraced the experience, writing their own responses to the paintings, sculpture, textiles and photography on display.
All good things must, sadly come to an end. The John Majeski Gallery hosts an ever-changing feast of new exhibits. At the end of the month, this story will have to finish. But there’s one last chapter that’s worth talking about.
On February 2nd, the contributors who were able to attend were invited to an afternoon soirée. It was a chance to meet the other writers and artists who had helped make the show such a success, and to present their works to each other and any members of the public who happened to be passing. A thank you and a farewell.
My pals at Reading Writers and I were especially well represented at the show. Six of us (seven if you count the magnificently ubiquitous Claire Dyer, who shall forever remain one of our cohort) had writing on show, and all but one turned up on the day. Nerves were high. The group WhatsApp vibrated with jitters. Perhaps we could read each other’s pieces. Perhaps Rob could don a false moustache and recite Haro’s. Look, we’re mostly introverts. Performance does not come naturally.
Nevertheless we were there. Greeted by Elaine Blake from the museum and local writer Robin Thomas, the team who had cooked up the whole scheme, we were lured out of our huddle with the promise of affordable cava. A toast was raised. To art. To writing. To another glass of booze if you’re expecting me to read in front of actual people.
My piece had been inspired by a gouache painting by Palestinian artist Hadil Tamim, who fused the traditions and disciplines of Islamic art with depictions of British flowers. When I first saw Blue Square, I instantly thought of the kind of formal planting common in grand estate gardens which C and I see regularly on our trips around the country. It was instantly evocative, and a response came easily.
Too easily, it turned out. I presented 600 words, before being gently pointed to an email I’d missed during the acquisition stage of the process where a strict 200 word limit was in force. Yikes. Time to kill some darlings.
The swiftly trimmed version has been accompanying Blue Square since September. As I wandered around the space, cava in hand, I saw a slim woman in a hajib hovering around the painting. It couldn’t be—could it?
It could. Hadil Tamim was in attendance. After a slightly awkward introduction (pro tip: don’t start the conversation with ‘hello, you’re my artist which means I must be your writer’. It sounded better in my head. I could see the panic in her eyes before I clarified who I was) we got along swimmingly—we had plenty to talk about, after all.
After the dreaded and obligatory ‘networking opportunity’ we got down to business. The artists in the room went round first, introducing their work, talking about what inspired them and the routes they took creatively to bring them into the world. Everyone seemed erudite, practiced and professional, Hadil especially. My heart dropped a little. I’m terrible at public speaking and I hadn’t thought to bring notes. Oh well. Take a deep breath. Go slow.
After the artists, the writers had their turn. A couple of minutes to talk about the artwork and how we came up with our responses to it. Sounds suspiciously familiar to Manuscript Night at Reading Writers. We have to apportion time for reading and feedback with a firm hand.
Everyone obeyed the directive—if anything, a little too enthusiastically. All too quickly, I was up. All eyes, including Hadil’s, were upon me.
Deep breath. Go slow.
Readership, I did not stumble, stutter or fumble. I kept my chin up, my voice clear, my annunciation—annunciative. I even managed to sketch a half-bow to Hadil at the end of it. There was applause and everything. I’ll call that a win.
Suddenly it was quarter to five, and the tannoy was urging us to clutter up some other joint. Outside was cold and damp, but for a while we’d conjured up some sunshine in the heart of Reading. Down the road, the Blagrave Arms was about to open, unaware of the sudden afternoon rush as a roomful of thirsty scribes descended on them. Was there karaoke and dancing later?
Ah, that’s a story for another day.
The preamble above has all been an Excuse to post the original, long version of Blue Square. I think it’s a more honest response to Hadil’s beautiful work, and has never been seen in public before. You still have a chance to see our collaboration if you’re quick—Art Stories closes on February 22nd.
One last thing. Cora from the charity AFFECT, which helps families with a loved one in prison, reached out to ask if I would let her publish A Garden in their quarterly newsletter. I was happy to do so, and it was included in the January edition. You can read it here.
Blue Square by Hadil Tamim, gouache on paper, 2022.A Garden (Blue Square) There is a garden. It is a place of calm, where care and worry cannot root and grow. Perhaps it is somewhere you played as a child, running barefoot across a lawn, grass cool under your bare feet. Maybe it is the carefully tended space where your grandparents grew sweet-peas and roses. You may be thinking of a grand garden cared for by a staff of hundreds, a lavish display of colour and form, exquisitely manicured, around every corner a new source of wonder and delight. Or it is somewhere more humble, a simple square of concrete and gravel dotted with pots, fragrant with herbs for the kitchen, alive with splashes of paint-bright blooms.
There is a garden, and I cannot accurately describe it. For it lives within you, tucked into a warm corner of your heart, waiting in your mind for the moment when you need it the most. It may no longer exist. It may never have existed, living instead as a dream, an idea, a plan, a fantasy.
Think on your garden now, as you look at the picture in front of you. See the greens and blues of foliage and flower, the white and gold of the ox-eye daisy at the very centre of the composition. Perhaps it is sunny in your garden today, warm rays of low afternoon light setting leaf-edge and petal-heart glimmering. Perhaps it is raining, and the plant-life nods and dances under the deluge, grateful for the water, the tiny engines of life at their core refuelling, rekindling the energy they will use to push up towards the sky.
Your garden is a clock, a reflection of the seasons, bare and still as bone in the winter, trembling with new life in the spring. A firework display in the summer, a larder come autumn. An endless cycle, never ending, always changing.
Look at the picture again, notice how your eyes track around it. Although it is a square, you look at it in a circular manner, a sort of spiral, the way the hands of a clock move around the face. And, like a spiral, your gaze moves towards a central point—the daisy, the eye, the heart.
Leave a garden alone and it will still grow, although not in ways you expect. Tend to it, a little every day, and it will be a truer reflection of you, your hopes and dreams and passions. In that way, as you care for your garden it will care for you, blessing you with tiny rewards. A butterfly soft-landing on a flower next to you, the plant gently moving under the tiniest of pressures. Or the moment when you unearth the first potatoes of the season, each perfect oval warm against your palm, the promise of dinner fulfilled.
Perhaps it is an ox-eye daisy, peeking up through a crack in the concrete at your feet, a reminder that there is always beauty and hope in this world, if you only slow down and take the time to see it.
There is a garden, and it is yours to wander through as you choose. Here, in this quiet gallery, I hope you have found a doorway in which to reach it.
See you next Saturday, arthounds.
February 1, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 3
We got through it, Readership. The first 57 days of January 2025 are finally over and we can get ourselves in shape for the challenges of the next four years. Were you dry? Did you vegan? Is there an untouched gym membership somewhere in your everyday carry, which will glare accusingly at you until you finally give up on it sometime in June? I did none of those things—in fact you could describe my January activity as barely there. However, I have been busy in my head, thinking, mapping, planning. The dark days of January are perfect for preparatory actions, readying for the swing of the season, waiting for the times when I will be woken by the sunrise rather than the buzz of an alarm. Tananarive Due has some advice for these pre-spring days, which resonated with me for all sorts of reasons.
Featured image from Jeremy Deller. More here.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Wanderers by Richard Price. This vibrant, earthy portrait of a scruffy New York street gang in the 1950s is sad, funny, shocking and ultimately tragic. The characters jump off the page, the traps they twist themselves into obvious and horribly inevitable. Written in 1973, The Wanderers still rings all the bells and sets off the sirens. I gobbled this one down, a book-nook bargain that’s sitting with me weeks after I read the last page. Essential.
Rob is watching…
Inside The Factory. Now Gregggg Wallace has been replaced by eager and enthusiastic Paddy McGuinness, the show which reveals the secrets behind our favourite products has taken on a new lease of life. Its roots as an Open University production have been reasserted—I feel like I’m learning something about large-scale industrial production of mass-market materials, but with a light touch and a sense of wonder. If nothing else, please watch the episode on how 20,000 hardback copies of Pride And Prejudice can be printed in a little under four hours…
https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m0027f48
Rob is listening…
to Marianne Faithfull. What a voice. What a life. What a legacy.
Rob is eating…
Chicken Milanese. Simple as you like—a butterflied and pounded chicken breast, coated in breadcrumbs, fried until crisp outside and juicy within, served with a portion of spaghetti in tomato sauce and maybe a little salad. I marinade the protein in yoghurt and salt for extra tenderness, which also means I can skip the beaten egg which traditionally would be used to stick on the crumbs. The long-lost but never-forgotten New Piccadilly restaurant in Soho used to serve this with a side of chips for extra double-carb coma potential. Lord, I miss that place.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
I have a copper bracelet, a long-time gift from a beloved relative, which is a pain in the patootie to keep clean and shiny. I’ve tried all kinds of alleged solutions, from baking powder to that Pink Stuff. A week ago, I noticed a single bright spot on the metal, caused by a spill of ketchup. So I gave my bracelet a half-hour soak in a squirt of Heinz’s finest. It has never been shinier. I guess the thick consistency of the condiment clings to the surface allowing the vinegar in it to do the work. Who knew (awaits the response from smarty-pants members of The Readership that this is a common hack)? One thought—if this stuff is so great at taking tarnish off copper, then why are we eating it?
Let’s stick with ketchup to start February’s first chapter. Is there a platonic ideal of this ubiquitous condiment? Can it be improved upon, and if so, how can you get your perfect version into an already saturated market and onto people’s tables?
As the movie about the first episode of Saturday Night Live reaches the UK, here’s a great long read on the man who brought the show to air and still, fifty years later, steers the ship—Lorne Michaels. You can’t say the guy isn’t tenacious.
Meanwhile, let’s look at a different level of comedy. Maybe not as smart or well-written, but to my mind no less funny.
John Merrick shares some thoughts on one of our most beloved food celebs, the man who has featured in some form in every episode of Saturday Kitchen. I suppose Rick Stein is a bit old-fashioned, an unreconstructed hippy with an element of self-entitlement, but he remains a comfort, a constant, and a friend to my kitchen.
I loved this portrait of Forrest Tucker, one of the last true stick-up men and escape artists. It’s full of twists, turns and surprises. I like to think that Forrest, who never succeeded in selling the screenplay of his story in his lifetime, would have enjoyed the 2018 film of his exploits. He was played by Robert Redford. Now that’s Hollywood.
The Clock Of The Long Now in Nevada is finally up and running—although it’s a bit tricky to tell with a device designed to measure time on the millennial scale which ticks once a year. This article in Asterisk goes deeply into the notion of deep time, and what it means to consider the future on a very large scale.
Time Is A Ride And You’re On It
Worrying news this week on the future of the Prince Charles cinema, an indie with a great reputation, a huge fan base of film nerds and late-night movie maniacs and sadly, not enough money. An online petition to save the joint has blown up—I hope the love can be translated into an actual rescue plan.
In brighter news, the building in which my mum and dad saw the Beatles and I watched movies like Gremlins and Close Encounters Of The Third Kind in the 70s and 80s is coming back to life this May. The Walthamstow Granada, then ABC, then EMD, has had a torrid life. Closed for years after a failed attempt to turn it into a church, vandalised, turned into a bar for a time, now given a proper glow-up before its new incarnation as a live theatre, comedy and film venue. I’m so happy to see the old place looking this good. A road trip to my old stomping grounds could be in order.
Before we finish, and with a nod to this week’s intro, some advice on how to handle your online life in the face of a fracturing social media landscape. Remember, it’s good to close the lid on your laptop sometimes.
You Don’t Have To Be Their Audience
One last thing.
The Outro is a celebration of the good new tunes I come across and the old favourites which pop round for an unexpected visit. I love this Phosphorescent track, although it was only while looking for a YouTube link to post here I realised it was a cover of a Grateful Dead track. I much prefer this version of Sugaree—it has a flex and bounce which the plodding original lacks. Shake it.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
January 25, 2025
An Excuse and a bit of drama
This week has rinsed me out more than I thought. The Day Job has challenged my patience to extremes. House Beast Millie developed a case of conjunctivitis, which had us running around to vets and organising weekend cover to get someone in to give her eyedrops. Have you ever given a cat eyedrops? It’s dramatic and potentially scarring.
Meanwhile, a side effect of trying to stay away from the news this week means I have a paucity of links for to Swipe at you. Therefore, I offer apologies and a little something from the archives.
2025 marks the tenth birthday of an audio drama that pal Clive and I put out when we were podcasting regularly (links to both the Speakeasy and the A-Z OF SFF are in the sidebar if you want to explore a bit), an attempt to expand the remit and try something different.
For reasons lost in the mists of time we decided to make an episode of a fictional 1930s horse opera—a cowboy comic in audible form featuring a whip-bearing protector of the plains and his Native American sidekick. We corralled a few friends and performed a script what I had wrote, then wrangled it into crude shape in GarageBand.
It’s not the most polished bit of radio you’ll ever hear. Performances veer from barely there to scenery-chewing, the mix is a bit weird and let’s be honest, our enthusiasm for recreating the spirit of the times makes it a bit tin-eared towards the sensitivities of the present day. Approach with caution if you’re easily offended.
However. It was a thing that we spent time, love and energy on and I’m still pretty fond of Whip Crackaway, janky edits, wobbly sound levels and all. It was fun to make and features a wonderful moment where due to casting constraints forcing us to double up on some roles, Clive was forced to flirt with himself.
So settle in, pour a glass of something warming, light up a Caversham and let the Speakeasy Players perform for you.
The Adventures Of Whip Crackaway And Honcho The Indian Boy
See you next Saturday, cowpokes.
January 18, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 2
I shouldn’t be focussing on the fall from grace of a certain British fantasy writer given the events looming this coming Monday in Washington, but hey, any distraction from the imminent end of all things is welcome.
The report in this week’s New York magazine on his alleged coercive and abusive behaviour is, of course, pretty bloody horrible—I couldn’t finish the article. The inevitable half-hearted mea culpa and denial has been issued from the Tower Of Dreams, to general eye-rolling and declarations of boycotts.
However things happened, and even if events didn’t roll out as reported (gentle reminder to all that at Excuses And Half Truths we always believe the women), the writer in question has suffered pretty irreparable reputational damage. I’m sure His Nibs will take this whole things as a fine excuse to comfortably retire, crying himself to sleep on a mattress stuffed with cash.
But why should we be bothered? Artists have always been notoriously revolting. I don’t recall seeing the cancel notice on Lord Byron getting much traction, despite the crap he put his lovers through. Ted Hughes was a fucking monster. Francis Bacon? Don’t get me started. I believe in separating the art from the artist, but then I don’t have Sandman-themed sleeve tattoos that probably look a bit silly now.
As Annie Craton put it on Bluesky this week—
In further evidence of his utter arseholery, it seems that yer man lifted a lot of the inspiration for his best-known work from fellow British author Tanith Lee, as pointed out on Threads:
Look, it’s your call. Base your response to this whole sordid affair on which elements of reportage you choose to believe. If you feel you can’t read his books anymore, that’s completely fine. I’d offer a caveat—his comics are collaborative works, the product of hard graft from a cohort of incredibly talented people. And that universe continues, guided by other equally gifted writers who don’t deserve to be caught in the blowback.
In conclusion—read more Tanith Lee.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Close To Death by Anthony Horowitz. I thought I’d give it a go as I’d thoroughly enjoyed the TV adaptations of Magpie and Moonflower Murders. This one—not so much. Following a pair of murders in a gated community near Richmond, it has all the worst elements of the detective genre with none of the redeeming features. The solution is wildly implausible, the final twist utterly absurd. The worst crime—Horowitz tries to make up for a bland and uninteresting sleuth by inserting himself into the action. Deeply frustrating. Avoid.
Rob is watching…
A classic of British post-war animation. Strangely prescient, and I think anyone who’s been stuck on Reading’s IDR at rush hour will find it familiar.
Rob is listening…
to The Beaches. Girl-fuelled power pop is having a moment and it’s about dang time.
Rob is eating…
I made a (not quite) one-pot pasta dish this week which tried to avoid boiling a bathtub full of water for two plates of dinner. The trick—use a wide, flat sauté pan.
I started by cooking off mushrooms, tomatoes and garlic in a little butter and oil until fragrant. Once soft and golden I removed them to a bowl (hence the not-quite one pot advisory) and briefly toasted 160g of cavatappi in the leavings. A couple of minutes, then a half-litre of boiling water from the kettle went over. I added salt, cooked for ten minutes, checking for doneness. Pretty much all the water disappeared. I stayed vigilant—scorched pasta wouldn’t go down well with TLC. Once the pasta was cooked, I returned the veg to the pan to warm back through. I finished with a couple of teaspoons of pesto, the same of crème fraiche, a tin of tuna for heft and a flourish of parm. Creamy, decadent and highly satisfying.
You should be able to use any tubular pasta for this—rigatoni, penne, fusilli, whatever you fancy. You can try it with the spaghetti types, but you’ll need to be more vigilant about making sure the pasta stays underwater. Stick to the weight/water volume ratio and you should be fine.
Switch out the protein for chicken or maybe even crumbled tofu, swap the cream for passata if you like. This serves two amply, and I couldn’t tell you if it’ll scale up. If you do, let know how you get on. For a weeknight dinner with minimal clean-up it’s not bad at all.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Strong clicky ASMR vibes here. Headphones on, enjoy the nerdery.
It’s easy to be a writer as long as money is not the object. If you want to make a living out of it—aye, there’s the twist. Daniel Lavery offers advice on the hardest part of the discipline.
Some Useful Writing Advice Which Has Nothing To Do With Writing
Good food writing is never just about the recipe. Melek Erdal tucks a tale of community, family and identity into a history of a particular kind of Kurdish stuffed dumpling. You’ll need to subscribe to Vittles to get the recipe but honestly, that part is almost beside the point.
A work nickname of mine, which seems to have followed me from facility to facility, is Roberto. No idea where it came from or why it keeps occurring, but I bear it with grace. Turns out, it’s also the name for a soup, which pleases me more.
This is sheer joy from start to finish. Metal drummer Mike Portnoy has made a thing from creating new drum parts for songs he hasn’t heard before. He’s clearly having a blast and I hope Tay-Tay got to hear this sick beat.
Last week’s Outro might have confused younger members of The Readership, who may not have heard of a band called REM. They were, are and remain a great musical constant in my life. In retiring so gracefully and completely, they have almost completely disappeared from public view. In a way that saddens me, but it’s also kind of cool. Once, that quirky band from Athens, Georgia were my little secret. It looks like they will be again.
Life is tough, there’s lots going on and never enough time or mental energy to get it done. The trick, as writer Lena Norms confides is not to sweat the details, embrace the short-cuts and, well, look, shout out the link like Scary Spice.
In memoriam. Thanks for all the strangeness and charm, David. I hope the coffee is damn fine in The White Lodge.
Image by Javier Mayoral.Anyone peckish? Let’s talk cherry pie. Bracingly tart last line on this one.
One last thing.
It’s likely I’ve linked to the GA-20 version of this track before—it’s a solid bop. It popped up on the car feed on Monday and sent me off down the rabbit hole to track down the source. The riff has been putting the bounce in my stride ever since. Crank it up and shake whatcha got.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
January 11, 2025
The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 1
Here we are now. Welcome to Volume 3 of The Swipe, which to celebrate the new year features absolutely no changes to format, style or content. However, this first chapter is a bumper offering, as we always believe in value for money. Even more so as the sticker price on your Saturday Soaraway Swipe is bupkiss, nix, nada and niente. You lucky punters.
Before we get into it, I wanted to share Jason Chatfield’s take on the way cartoons serve as an early warning alert for incoming censorious regimes. Start with the funnies and see if anyone notices.
in an unrelated update, I have cancelled my Washington Post subscription.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
I’m not sure what’s going on in this piece and I really want to vehemently disagree in a ‘how dare you I is much more sophistimocated and unpredictable in my tastes’ but sadly I am way too honest and have to admit the chainsaw fight in Mandy turns me into a quivering mass of joy-jelly every time I watch it.
Rob is watching…
The things you can do with a 3D printer and an inventive mind these days.
Rob is listening…
Stop everything. Bob Mould is back.
Rob is eating…
Pork and veggie stew. Basically a cubed pork shoulder thrown into The Instant Pot with root veg, stock and seasoning, then pressure-cooked into submission. Bring it back up to temp and wilt some greens into the hot fragrant liquid, get some fresh crusty bread and dig in. There’s your cure for the woes of the season.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
I have a couple of people in mind is all I’ll say at this juncture.
I always like to open the first post of the year with a litmus test for newcomers. If you look at the following link with excitement and a warm feeling of anticipation in your tummy, then you have found a safe space here and I welcome you to The Readership. Weird old books are a big Swipe jam.
Same vibe here, skewing further in the pulp fiction arena. I aspire to have the touch-type skills and DGAF attitude to crank out trashy novels at scale.
The uncrowned king of the trash-writer aesthetic was Barry Maltzberg, who never met a deadline he couldn’t leave in the fumes of his fat exhaust, and once wrote a novel in 27 hours. Beat that, Michael Moorcock. He died just before Christmas, still fizzing with stories. Rest in power, you magnificent wordsmith.
Finally in this accidentally-themed section of the newsletter, lawyer David Allen Green tells the story of how a book he remembered fondly from his childhood finally came back into his life decades later.
Moving on to a more self-care/New Year, New You set of links (the usual random nature of the material seems to be less so than usual, the universe is being strangely helpful this week), let us consider the imminent collapse of all social media platforms. Elno has launched Xwitter into a death spiral. Suckerberg is closing moderation, which will turn all things Meta into an ugly, boiling swamp of misinformation and hate. Bluesky is fine but underpowered and frankly a little boring. The time has come, my sweetlings, to take control of your own destiny and build your own field of dreams.
For The Love Of God, Make Your Own Website
Meanwhile Ian Dunt, whose Substack is a righteous beacon of rage right now, has a little advice for you.
Paul Crenshaw reminds us that we have always believed in foolish things, and have somehow managed to grow out of it. Even in stupid times such as these, there is no reason to believe the process will not continue as before.
Stupid Shit People Used To Believe
Finally, activist, artist and vengeful goddess Molly Crabapple sets out her stand for 2025 and fires off a salvo of good examples to follow. When the going gets tough, the tough get weird.
I Intend To Get Hotter And Weirder
Yes, I know we’re well into the month, but it’s worth checking out all the goodies which entered the public domain on the first of January. Plenty of new fun arts available for your remixing pleasure and delight. Writing from Hemingway, Faulkner and Woolf. Some early Mickey Mouse, Tintin and Popeye. Singin’ In The Rain! Dig in, find something fun and use it as inspiration for something new.
Everyone apart from me seems to be foaming over The Traitors. Not my bag, I’m afraid, but you all go ahead and enjoy. I am fascinated, though, by this insight into one of the methods which makes the show so addictive. It’s all done in the edit.
A deep dive into one of the greatest pieces of anti-fascist art ever made. As a new version of the man in the cape arrives on big screens this year, let’s look into the enduring influence of a massively influential moment in cultural history. As ever, Comics Do It Best.
One last thing before The Outro.
Actor Michael Shannon and Bob Mould team-mate Jason Narducy are up to their REM-based mischief again. They’ll be touring a full run through Fables Of The Reconstruction across the States in the spring. I have one comment—come to the UK, godsdammit! It’s the perfect time for this most wintry of records to get an airing, and it was recorded here in the first place. Look, just do one night at The Purple Turtle. You can stay at mine and I’ll pay for the first round of beers.
See you in seven, groovers.
January 4, 2025
A Little Light Reading To Kick off 2025
I mentioned last week that my involvement in Dingtown’s longest-running writing group Reading Writers (other groups are available—we have no problem with competition) has deepened this year as I amble gently into the role of elder statesman. I’m prouder than ever of our merry band, and the quality of work I see in our monthly manuscript nights and competition entries fills me with warmth and pride.
I’m not a stand-back member by any means, regularly getting stuck into presentations, event management and entries for our twice-yearly themed competitions. But, my friends, there is a complication, one which I couldn’t really vouchsafe for any other aspect of my life.
I think I’m getting too good at this. I have regularly been a prize winner, but in 2024 I won top billing for both the spring and summer contests.
Immediate clarifications required. RW competitions are overseen by a judge from outside the group, and submitted anonymously. There’s never been any accusation of rigging or undue influence—what would be the point? It’s about the work, not the glittering prizes on offer. I’m not desperate enough for a £20 Amazon voucher to risk my integrity and reputation.
This puts me in a bit of a difficult position. The sporting thing to do, surely, would be to withdraw, at least temporarily. If I do, then I can already hear the derisive jeers of ‘gee thanks for giving us mere mortals a chance, oh mighty wordsmith!’ Damned if I do etc etc. I’ve got until March to figure out what to do. I guess I could write a story and hold it in reserve in case we need an entry to make up the numbers—actually, that might be worse.
Here are the two prize-winning stories what I wrote in 2024. I’m very proud of both. For context, the prompt for The Interstice was a set of photos ‘found’ on an old SD card by judge Damon Wakes of the abandoned Childs Hall at Reading University. Rotting urban infrastructure, which informed the mood of the piece. Hercule came from Julie Cohen’s theme of ‘talking parrots’. I don’t think I need to elaborate further.
I hope you enjoy them. Heads up: The Interstice is a horror story, which includes imagery some readers may find disturbing. Hercule was performed by yr humble etc as part of the 2024 Reading Writers Autumn Competition evening with sub-‘Allo ‘Allo French accents, which those present may have found offensive.
One last thing, which I’ll shout about again closer to the time. Reading Museum is currently running an exhibition called Art Stories in the John Majeski Gallery, which teams recent acquisitions to the collection with short pieces from local authors. Reading Writers is very strongly represented, and I’m in the mix too.
On February 1st, some of the writers and artists involved in the project will be meeting each other and anyone who fancies coming along. There will be readings. There may be emotions. It should be a fun afternoon. 2 till 4 pm. Say you’ll come.
I’ll Outro with one of my most-played tracks of 2024, which also serves as a reminder of new Swipery next week. Yep, we’re right back to it.
See you next Saturday, thrill-seekers.
December 28, 2024
The Excuses And Half Truths Annual Yearly Report 2024
I take my responsibility to the stakeholders of Excuses And Half Truths very seriously. Whether a long time member of The Readership, a recipient of the email newsletter or one of the pleasing influx of new folk wandering in for a snoop and a sniff around, you are always welcome. But you also, I understand, have a certain level of expectation. I would fail in my duties as owner/operator if I were not as open and transparent about the goods and services we offer as possible.
Therefore, I am delighted to open proceedings on the 2024 Excuses And Half Truths Annual Yearly Report—a review of the last 365 days in Rob And Clare, and a long-standing tradition since (check notes) 2023. We hope you will find, on close study of the following extensive overview, that Excuses And Half Truths continues to offer the most comprehensive insight into the life and world of Rob Wickings on the entire interwub. Other alternatives are available, but I am confident in judging them poorly. They just don’t have the inside sources and exclusive information that I do.
We should start with the two major events of 2024 as far and TLC and I are concerned. April marked both our twentieth year in The Town They Call Ding and the conclusion of a fairly hefty financial obligation. Yes, we paid off the mortgage. The giddy sense of relief at our added monetary headroom was, however rapidly quashed as house-related issues which had been politely waiting in the wings for just such a moment rolled on stage to deliver their opening monologue. Re-lining a hundred-year-old drain outlet ain’t cheap, kiddies. When the scratching in the walls turned out to be evidence of unwanted visitors, well—the bloom came off the rose pretty damn quickly. We’re still rebuilding the savings.
However, we did treat ourselves, and welcomed our new member of the household, Harvette, into our lives in April. I am delighted to report she has been doing sterling duty, pulling over two hundred miles a week in daily driving while also whisking us around the country for expeditions and adventures to Suffolk and our beloved Coniston. She is calm, reliable but gently stylish—much like her owners.
In July, she took us to the Peak District, where C and I celebrated our second major event—our thirtieth wedding anniversary. This phrase still spins my wheels to write. We met in 1986, became a couple a year later, and bound ourselves in a legal fashion in 1994–although it could be said the major commitment had already been signed when we moved into our first house in Walthamstow, East London earlier that year. The photos of our wedding on our parent’s wall have faded almost to monochrome. My memories of that day are blurry (boy, we got through a lot of fizz that day) but highly coloured. A lot of things have changed since then, but Clare remains my constant, my always, my forever. We move on, together.
Let’s shift gears before things get too soppy. A few hard datapoints on the site’s performance should chill the atmosphere down a bit. I have deliberately tried to offset the balance between The Swipe and other writings through the year. I’m happy that people respond so well to the ‘ten links and a song’ format. But I don’t just want to be that guy. Excuses And Half Truths remains a good old-fashioned hand-crafted blog like what they did back in the 1850s, offering variety and scale of content (I hate that word but sometimes you gotta lean into the lingo). The floor is also always open to guest writers and contributors. If, like pal Ryan Morris, you’d like to showcase your work to literally dozens of people, just reach out.
The site is up on reader numbers since this time last year, with the inevitable spike in interest on Saturday morning. Viewing figures drop slightly, with certain core posts generating eyeballs daily. I’m not sure why a review of slightly dodgy post-apocalyptic movie The Divide or a ‘recipe’ for Sorbet Colonel should prove so popular, but hey, clicks is clicks, amirite?
Future plans? Well, not sure, although I’m still considering further outreach in terms of my fiction. You may have noticed I’ve been looking at short-run short-form ideas, and as I seem to be banging out sub-2000 word stories at scale, it makes sense to look into getting those out to people in some form. A lot of this is still in the ‘thoughtful face while gazing into the middle distance’ stage of development, so don’t expect 2025 to start with a bang.
The fracturing of social media following the enshittification of whatever Twitter is now has led to a few challenges in promotional strategy. I’m now on Mastodon, Threads and Bluesky, with a non-Excuses photography-only feed on Instagram. Perhaps I should start using it for blog duties, using the Threads cross-link. I’m never going to be a like-and-subscribe type, but I get regular telling-offs from people whose opinions I respect that I should be louder about myself. UGH, fine, OK, I’m great, love me.
Creatively, I have aligned even more heavily with Reading Writers, who had a pretty good year. I’ve been a member of the group for over a decade, and am now one of the longest-standing regular attendees. Suggestions that I take up the chairman role have been flinched away from. I’m happy to contribute and support, but me in charge of Reading’s longest-running writing group would lead to a rapid tailspin and crash. I’m just not that guy. I am, however interested in helping get the word out about our little family to a wider group, an initiative I hope to talk more about soon.
All of which speaks to the general mood of 2024 as a whole. TLC and I freely admit we have engaged hermit mode this year. We’ve barely been to the cinema (I suspect the Deadpool/Wolverine movie may have been our last trip) and live music has been a bust. We’ve made significant progress at the contentious top end of the garden, but it currently looks like a plastic-covered crime scene, on pause until the spring. We have been reading and cooking and eating and well—you know, being. We end this year with lots of good intentions, work to do, and hopefully the energy to do it. No hard numbers, no solid metrics. Just a feeling, unlike the prevailing fog of gloom which seems to have settled around the world, that we are on the cusp of something better. We shouldn’t be feeling so positive but somehow, honestly, we do.
Put it like this. I read an editorial about positive negativity in New Scientist yesterday. You’ll know the basic tenet—things are always darkest before the dawn. I’ll mention no names, but the ugly rise of some very ugly people doesn’t mean they’ve won. It means their venal incompetence is on display and ready to be pushed back against. If we do that with love, positivity and a sense of humour then there’s every chance of a happier ending than we’re all currently catastrophising. Keep positive, keep making and creating, find joy in every small thing you can. Don’t let the bastards get you down is a phrase which has never seemed more important.
Or, to paraphrase a point made in this wise and insightful review of Mike Leigh’s 2008 movie Happy-Go-Lucky (via Ian Dunt, whose work has become a favourite this year):
Optimism is not a solution for the problems of the world. It’s a choice made in the face of the problems of the world.
The call for a quiet revolution seems like a big swerve from the initial intent of the Annual Yearly Report, so we’ll just park it for now as a potential positive gain for 2025. I believe in keeping our options open. I can’t say glitterbombing the battlements isn’t on the agenda for next year, but double negatives send their own message. Like Matilda from the Roald Dahl book says, you can make a right from two wrongs.
Anyway. Let’s summarise and conclude. Excuses And Half Truths remains a creative outlet which continues to engage and amuse me, keeping the batteries charged and the brain-meats tender. I’m always delighted to hear people enjoy the newsletter and blog. I guess that’s partly why I keep going. I guess that’s partly why I keep trying to make it better.
I therefore close the 2024 Annual Yearly Report on a positive note. We have progressed, have exciting if ill-defined plans for 2025 and look forward to new challenges and adventures. Next week, pending the first Swipe of the new year, a brief announcement and a bit of storytelling.
Your Outro comes from Annelise Emerick, with a song which popped up on the folky end of the algorithm and frankly floored us. Let this one take you into the next twelve-month with love, warmth and good feeling from TLC and I.
See you in 2025, stakeholders.
December 21, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 39
By the time you read this, my work year will be done, and the first of our Christmas Pilgramages will be be underway. Between Essex and Warwickshire, with a pit stop back in the Ding, it’s hardly going to be the most restful of breaks. But a break it shall be, which is the most important thing. A chance to focus on the core life elements—family, friends, food and oh go on then let’s try that Christmas Negroni recipe.
Next week, we are delighted to offer up the 2024 Yearly Annual Report, which as stakeholders in this enterprise I trust you’ll find of interest. I hope you will agree that Excuses And Half Truths continues to offer value, service and an agreeable user experience. As ever, our Complaints Warthog is available to receive any negative comments and deliver a robust and tusk-heavy response.
This week: how to make a living as a creative, how the internet is no longer fit for purpose and the strange tale of the little king.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Iris Murdoch’s A Message To The Planet, a National Trust book-nook snag. It’s an odd one—clunky, drawn-out, slow-moving with the sort of ‘as you know, inspector…’ style dialogue I’d wince at if presented at Reading Writers, let alone from a literary giant like Dame Iris. I had to double-check when it was written, as it felt as if it was written in the fifties, until a reference to AIDS brought me up short. It came out in 1989. And yet I can’t stop reading. Maybe that’s Dame Iris’ skill—you carry on, hoping it’ll get good.
In lighter reading, I’ve explored Al Ewing and Lee Garbett’s Loki: Agent Of Asgard, available as a complete edition for cheap on the Amazon. Along with Kieron Gillen’s tour of duty on Journey Into Mystery, Loki’s current incarnation—or at least the Hiddleston-portrayed version we find so popular—is born from this early-noughts run of books. Ewing is especially good at playing with the trickster-god as an avatar of story above all else, leaning hard into that notion at the end of the series. It’s well worth a look, especially if you’re intrigued by the fluidity of Loki’s aspects.
Rob is watching…
An awful lot of archive Christmas Top Of The Pops—thank you, BBC4. Yep, the time of the season is all about nostalgia, and watching the shows I clearly remember from my 80s heyday gives me a warm glow.
Rob is listening…
to Easy AM 66. Smooth, baby, smooth.
From the archives of Programme 4, who I also jive with.
Rob is eating…
None of this stuff. It’s not real, and for the most part that is a very, very good thing.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Can You Take A Photo Of Us? This will not, I guarantee you, go where you expect. Hold tight, stay with it.
Still struggling for present ideas to fire at your nemesis? If you feel the need to go beyond the flaming-turd parcel or the subscription to an offal-of-the-month service, fear not! We got you covered.
I have very fond memories of After Dark, a chat show which, by sticking to a few simple guidelines, teased out some truly jaw-dropping TV moments. When you get someone to let their guard down, then you can tease out the really juicy stuff. Hey, they’ll usually offer it up without asking…
There is a subtextual LOL throughout this piece by Sophie White, who is one of the very rare folks to make a modest living from the written word. Spoiler which isn’t really a spoiler—you’re going to need a supportive partner or an independent source of income. The cliche of the penniless writer is no less true for being a stereotype.
How I make a living as a full-time writer
In a related subject, comics writer Rob Williams talks about the highs and lows of what happens when a comic gets optioned for movies or streaming. Spoiler which isn’t really a spoiler—don’t buy the yacht until the cheque comes in.
How To Get Your Comic Optioned for Film or TV
Ed Zitron is an angry voice I’ve featured here before, but his final piece for 2024 is his masterpiece. A righteously furious sermon on how the promise of the internet has been despoiled and left in tatters. It’s worth spending time with the whole article, as he answers a lot of the obvious rebuttals with piecing, icy clarity. Does the push-back start now? Well, I’ve been a lot more picky about my permission settings recently.
You Deserve Better Than They’ve Given You
Jason Chatfield’s newsletter Process Junkie is full of useful advice on how to navigate the creative life, and this new bit spoke clearly to me. I find I have to write in silence to be able to hear myself dictate the words. Maybe we should pay more attention to the lessons Ed Z is offering and shut down the chatter, even just for a little while.
There are, tellingly, no links to the music in this celebration of Elvis Presley’s worst soundtrack tunes. I prefer it that way. It’s a lot funnier letting your imagination play out the songs without the inevitable disappointment which comes with having to listen to the darned things.
This new service, which hashes together the modern and old-school version of the newsletter, interests me an awful lot. I have been considering trying out something in print for a while. Who knows, maybe 2025 could be the year. What do you think, Readership? Would you like a missive from me plopping through your letterbox alongside the pizza menus and catalogues?
On a related subject, I’m also fascinated by small-run, small press science fiction. I have always been an advocate of fiction which can fit in a pocket. After all, this year’s Booker Prize winner is only 150-odd pages long. Orbital is the perfect example of a venture which is starting to set in my brain-meats.
Related thoughts on the same subject from Warren Ellis, who has form with shorter fiction forms.
I spent a lot of time in Sam Smiths pubs when I worked in Soho—there was a little knot of them around Broadwick St, Brewer St and the immediate locality. They boasted the cheapest pints in the area, and were a charming, unpretentious location for boozy lunches or languorous endings to the working day. Over time, they became stranger, more uncomfortable to spend time in. The ban on mobile devices put a stop to my solitary afternoons writing or reading, and changes to the interior decor made the pubs gloomy and unwelcoming. This brilliant long read on the chain and its highly eccentric owner is well worth a look, with the hope that the 150 closed pubs can be brought back to profitable life.
Reading’s own DAPmaster, Damien A. Passmore, has put together an excellent advent calendar of unusual festive tunes. I share it with you now alongside best wishes and a lifted glass to a jolly holly Christmas.
See you in seven, my Santa babies.
December 14, 2024
Another Friday the 13th
At the Reading Writers Winter Social this week, a conclusion was reached – we are in the December doldrums. Consider: it’s been nothing but Christmas since the first of November. You can see the pinched tension in the eyes of every retail worker following six solid weeks of Now That’s What I Call Christmas playing at heavy rotation level on the store stereo. This week is peak works do, making it nearly impossible to pop out for an impromptu bite to eat or quick pint without a crush and a twenty minute wait at the bar. And we’re still two weeks away from the main event. It’s not surprising we’re all suffering from shell shock.
Of course, as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, this is old news for us December babies. We are sadly doomed to play second fiddle to everyone else’s good time. That’s if we’re even considered at all. I have dark memories of birthday drinks where a tiny minority (and on one particularly bleak occasion, no-one) showed up. So much for your special day. And folks wonder why I get grumpy at this time of year.
And this is just the background to the sad truth about every birthday, which becomes ever more apparent once you hit your half-century. You start to hear the clock ticking in lockstep with the creak of your bones and the twangs and clunks coming out of your muscles. One step closer to the grave. Here’s a card and a ten pound TK Maxx voucher. Happy bloody merry.
Oh look, this makes me sound like Scrooge on steroids. I know I’m not the only one who struggles at this time of the season for whatever reason, and melancholy in December is hard-wired into us as the weather turns and the nights overtake the days. But I have to be honest, forced jollity never sits well with me. I don’t look good in a Santa hat and have a low tolerance for carols.
But I am also happy to let others get their jingle on. I internalise my humbug. And of course there are brighter spots. After all, I love Cheeselets and Christmas Pud and day-drinking. Seasonal survival tactics mean leaning into the stuff I enjoy, and away from Whamageddon and dreadful jumpers and the tired argument about whether Die Hard is a Yuletide movie. No thanks. Pour me another port, pass the Celebrations and put Bad Santa on.
Would I feel differently about the whole situation if I was a June baby? I don’t think so. Although I enjoy the excuse to cocoon (I still have yet to receive a reasonable explanation for why winter hibernation is not an option) I prefer warmth and sunshine and greenery. When TLC and I were first married, we’d regularly go on winter sun holidays to the Canary Islands and Ibiza. I miss that. Gintonics on a sunny balcony overlooking the sea in February? Dozing by the pool with a good book while the storms lash at jolly old England hundreds of miles away? Come on, what’s not to love?
But you have to play with the hand you’re dealt, and mine is a hard thirteen. So I’m refusing to mope or gloom this year. Plans are in place. We’re spending the birthday night in a hotel, enjoying a nice meal, and seeing the lights in That London. Cocktails will be ordered. Sure, it’ll be busy. Yes, it’ll be expensive. But it’ll be me and my very love, finding the joy in our own quiet way. And what could be more Christmassy than that? Look, it could be worse. I could be like my sis-in-law Sarah or pal Kate – a Christmas Day or New Year’s Eve baby. Now that really would suck.
Sorry, both. But I will be there for your celebrations. We children of the dark times have to stick together.
To finish, let’s play the only Christmas song which accurately portrays my feelings about this time of year. It’s become traditional to have it as the Outro for the last post before X-Day, but let’s move things forward a week or so. .
See you next Saturday for the last Swipe of the year!
