Rob Wickings's Blog, page 6
September 28, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 30
Slightly twitchy, slightly nervous. Today I am presenting a seminar on horror as part of Reading Writers’ 2024 Writers Day. Yes, I know I am amongst friends, in a safe space, talking on a subject i know intimately.
Even so, I know when I stand up there will be a rock on my chest and a bone in my throat. I know I’ll rush it, there will be a weird quaver in my voice throughout. I will be breathless and at some point halfway through I will have to give myself an abrupt mental warning to clam the heck down. Why do I put myself through this? Because, ultimately, it’s good for you. Talking in front of people teaches you, if you’re as terrible at extemporisation as I am, to prepare as well as you possibly can.
People keep telling me I’m good at this. Boy, they have no idea. Come tomorrow afternoon, the Negroni Of Victory will be very well deserved.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Secret Hours by Mick Herron. The novel is touted on the cover blurb as a standalone story from his Slough Housiverse. It really isn’t. Put it like this: it’s that moment when your favourite band are playing live and they start noodling around on an intro you don’t recognise, and suddenly add a couple of chords or change the key and a song you really love jumps out.
The Secret Hours starts off as one thing, starts dropping characters you recognise into the mix, and suddenly pulls a handbrake turn halfway through which makes the informed reader go ‘ah, I know where we are now,’ and feel instantly comforted. Herron is too good a writer to make even a side-quest (or possibly an origin story) feel anything but compelling, but this is not the place to start if you want to get into the oeuvre. One for the fans.
Rob is watching…
Agatha After All. I think we can all agree the blush is off the rose on the Marvel Moving Picture FranchiseVerse, but it’s good to see there’s still room for some humour and inventiveness in the TV side of things. Based loosely on the Scarlett Witch stories written by James Robinson (Prime Reading is, as previously mentioned, your source to get some great comics as part of your Amazon subscription), the focus shifts cheekily onto Agatha Harkness, wrenching her way free of the trap Wanda Maximoff snared her in at the end of WandaVision. Some nice nods to the metatextuality of that show. And look. It’s Kathryn Hahn bouncing off Aubrey Plaza in every sense of the word. I’m hooked on the promise of the casting.
Rob is listening…
to Jon Anderson And The Band Geeks. Writing pal Nigel extolled the virtues of this new venture for the former Yes frontman and—oh, yeah, OK. I’m in. True is very much an album for the faithful, ringing in hooks and nods from decades of progtastic history, but somehow this feels truer, brighter, more honest than the recent David Gilmore album. Again, one for the fans but I count myself amongst that number and I’m very happy. The album cover is terrible, though. Was Roger Dean not available?
Rob is eating…
Potentially carbonara. That is, I have eggs and Parmesan and, courtesy of a trip to a well-appointed farm shop, a fist-sized lump of guanciale which is according to my sources, the key ingredient. I just need to pluck up the courage to apply myself to a dish which has no wiggle room for error…
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Nick Cave celebrated the 300th edition of his Red Hand Files newsletter by asking the readership to define joy. They responded in their hundreds. He published the lot. Bask in this, it’s lovely.
It seems possible that the world of pliable truth and untruth we live in now, where we’re never sure what the real story is, was birthed from the psy-op operations carried out in the 60s by American military intelligence. Manipulation, induced paranoia, a sense of loss of control—any of this sound familiar? Let’s talk a little about McGruder’s Principle…
Living Under McGruder’s Principle
A fascinating look at temporary structures, designed to look after hundreds of thousands of people for a short period of time and then disappear. Think of the arenas that pop up in major cities during the Olympics. Think of Glastonbury.
The light is changing, the air is cooling. The change of the seasons is upon us. So, alongside the warm sweaters and solid boots, let’s dig this beloved possession out of the back of the wardrobe and give it a moment to shine.
Moves are afoot, or at least conversations have started to be had, about losing the last stubborn holdover from the era of imperial measurements—the pint of beer. The focus seems to be on offering a two-thirds measure. I’m in agreement with the chief of the Metric society, who wrote recently in the Guardian that surely the logical move would be to offer half-litre measures instead, shrinking the volume of liquid by a whole 68ml. 500ml is entirely familiar to the British public as the standard measure of a big bottle of beer. I’d have no problem with that. Let’s not forget that a lot of the craft brewers only offer their stronger ales in two-thirds serves already. I think the drinking public is more ready for the change than you might think.
This is utterly inspired. Very pleased to see the visuals are from one of my favourite episodes of the original series.
I have raved in the past about the Locked Tomb novels of Tamsin Muir, whose exemplary blend of goth space opera horniness hooked me in from the first sentence of her first book, Harrow The Ninth. In an interview with This American Life, she talks about her background, the online communities where she found a home and a voice—and how, tragically but fittingly, she can never go back there again.
I’ve seen a lot of clips recently (I guess due to The Bear’s recent Emmy success) of the Season 2 episode Forks, Cousin Richie’s redemption story. It’s probably my favourite one of the show, showing how learning to take pride in a job well done can bring rewards you’re not expecting. This thoughtful Thread from Fred Chung Rutherford explains why I found the episode so affecting.
Headline of the week. You get no more context than that.
Lastly, a treatise on creativity for its own sake. I identified very strongly with this. There is no fame or money in making the newsletter every week. I do it because it’s fun and it makes me happy. What other reason could I need?
Be Your Own Artist-In-Residence
There is a new Cure song. There is a new Cure album out bang slap in the middle of Spooky Season. The goth and the prog fan in me is celebrating very hard this week.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
September 21, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 29
I’ll begin, if you’ll indulge me, with an extract from the Introduction to William Wordsworth’s The Prelude, which speaks strongly to the reason TLC and I find ourselves up in the Lakes time and again. Willie was from around these parts, of course—educated in Hawkshead, lived and worked in Grasmere—so he understands the draw of this wild and beautiful place.
The earth is all before me. With a heartJoyous, nor scared at its own liberty,
I look about; and should the chosen guide
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!
That’s as highbrow as you’ll get this week.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
More Rivals Of Sherlock Holmes by Hugh Green. An excellent 1973 anthology featuring a plethora of Edwardian detectives and thieves, who popped up in magazines and cheap novels following the success of that guy from Baker Street. There’s a lot of fun to be had here—these tales are as much puzzles as stories, and a lot of the pleasure comes from seeing if you can solve the case before the end of the story. There’s also some lurid character work—you can see hints of future comic tropes in personalities like Professor S.F.X. Van Dusen, The Thinking Machine; the shape-shifting Colonel Clay; and of course, the irrepressible Arsène Lupin. This is a sure way to get those little grey cells working, mes amis…
Rob is watching…
The sun glowing on the hills across the beck from the cottage. Prettier than Strictly, more spellbinding than Agatha.
Yes, this is the view from the front of the cottage, taken at around 5pm on Thursday.Rob is listening…
To the hush of the wind through the trees, the plush of clean cool water running in rivulets down from the hills to the torrents at the head of the beck, to the sweet song of grey wagtails as they flit past… you get the idea.
Rob is drinking…
Look, I didn’t plan to be on holiday during a week celebrating my very favourite cocktail. Sheer luck, I assure you. Yes, we brought Campari, sweet vermouth and gin up the track to the cottage. It’s practically everyday carry at this point. If you haven’t indulged yet, you still have time, or better yet take yer old pal Rob’s advice—every week is Negroni Week.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Throwing luncheon meat onto a Cybertruck
I’ll be honest, I’m working on the creation of an army of corvids to do my bidding and aid in my final goal of planetary conquest. But you have to start somewhere, so this advice from Sierra Godfrey seems useful. Baby steps. Soon my empire will rise.
How To Make Friends With Crows
Who said time travel is hard? If you think about it, we’re all chrononauts, moving into the future at the rate of one second per second. But if you want to move a little faster, there are ways and means. Here’s a basic primer.
I managed to miss Star Trek Day on September 8th (please note my advice regarding Negroni Week above). But we can all strive to make a better universe, building a Federation one good deed at a time. It seems sad that we have to use a science-fiction franchise as a framework for good social behaviour but hey, if it works it works. Make it so.
I have never really got martinis. All the fancy glass wear and performance simply mask the fact that you’re paying primo prices for a large glass of neat gin. Time to refine the process, and bring back a drink with a little more class. Don’t listen to Winston Churchill—that man was a raging alcoholic.
Just—just read the headline. If you’re not yanked into the story after that then you have no business reading this newsletter.
I have been made aware that the time and effort spent in delivering The Swipe to you every week is not reflected in any sort of financial renumeration. I have been advised this needs to change. With regret, but in the sure and certain knowledge we will henceforth bring to market a product which will deliver a significantly improved end user experience, I present a framework for the forward direction of The Swipe. Please be sure to read to the bottom.
Hope You Like Our New Direction.
The story of Ray Bradbury’s struggles with the screenplay to Moby Dick is as dramatic as the film itself. It features an Ahab and a white whale in one person—the cinematic giant, director and massive pain in the tuckuss John Huston.
Modern finance is almost impossible to understand. You think the global economy is based in the simple exchange of money for goods and services? Oh, my sweet summer child. Please, take the time to read John Lanchester’s review of two books on the situation, which will—kinda—clarify the situation while terrifying you utterly. Oh, and Gary Stephenson is worth checking out on Insta and/or TikTok. He will shut down any muddle-headed notions of how the markets work with brutal efficiency.
So. Sigh. The whole pet-eating thing. I’m lucky to have a degree which gives me the tools to instantly see bullshit in the media when the hosepipe is pointed in my direction. For everyone else—start here.
Eating Cats In Ohio: A Journalist Reports
Last up, as Armando Ianucci’s latest show comes to air, here’s a look behind the scenes on how modern franchise films, and particularly the Marvel and DC Cinematic Movieverse, have developed production techniques which allow chronic indecision and micro-management to take the place of proper story-telling. A very worrying but somehow unsurprising state of affairs.
I need a song to sum up the week—days spent under a big sky, in sacred ground with a power flowing through. I need The Big Music. Luckily, I know the man to turn to. Turn it up, Mike.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
September 14, 2024
Tarot Poetry as an excuse.
By the time you read this, TLC, Harvette and I will be heading north, up to a real happy place for us—Coniston. As such, normal service has been interrupted for the week. However, as I hate to leave you all hanging, a bit of a free form infodump to keep you all up to date.
To start, and for background, here’s a primer on what we’ll be up to this week, based on our last visit to the Lakes two years ago.
Meanwhile, the Autumn/Winter term at Reading Writers kicked off on Wednesday with a session on the craft and publication of poetry. Which sure yes OK, sounds a little dry. In practice, with the expert guidance of actual poet Katherine Meehan, the evening was a warm and joyful experience. Geeky, yes. It’s a room full of writers talking about writing, after all. Another one of my happy places.
Anyway. There was a prompt writing exercise at the end of the night. Katherine passed out tarot cards and over the course of three exercises, teased us into writing some pomes.
Here’s my card.
And here’s what I came up with.
My father told a storyOf a garden constellation
That he found one golden autumn
In a corner of his field
Seven stars all in a cluster
Scattered all across the spinach
And he stood and contemplated
His bizarre celestial yield.
So he hung them in a garland
Up above the farmhouse lintel
And they shone there till the skies fell
And the heavens brought them home
So we toil and work and suffer
But the memory keeps us shining
Of the stars my father brought us
From the great celestial dome.
So. Yeah. that happened. I’m a poet now.
A few life notes.
The best thing we ate this week was a sneaky little weeknight gnocchi hack from the New York Times. Do not, for the love of all things holy, use brussel sprouts. Broccoli works brilliantly. Take the time to get the gnocchi crispy. It’s well worth it.
We’re watching season 2 of Colin From Accounts and season 375 of Taskmaster. TLC has got into the Aimee Lee Wood and David Morrisey comedy Daddy Issues, which is utterly hilarious. I’ve been notified that the Apple+ show Bad Monkey is showrun by the guy behind Ted Lasso from a novel by Carl Hiassen, so that will need watching. The weather is closing in. It’s telly time.
Prime Reading continues to be a source of useful comics goodness. I’ve just found out that all ten volumes of Jason Aaron and R. M. Guéra’s Scalped is up on the service. A black-hearted, blood-red noir set on a Native American reservation, it’s tight, sharp, twisty and nasty—you know, in a good way. Brilliantly written and illustrated, moves like a truck, kicks like a mule oh look you get the idea. If you enjoyed Justified, you’ll frickin love this.
Oh, and I have a low-key obsession to share.
This is apparently a thing on the TubeGrams…
Which naturally brought me here. Delicious.
And we Outro on a high. An utter gem of British variety programming from the 70s, please enjoy Marti Caine tearing the room up with her disco version of a folk rock classic. You won’t be feelin’ low after this.
View this post on InstagramA post shared by Teigan Reamsbottom (@teiganish)
See you next Saturday.
September 7, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 28
The Paralympics have been a complete lock on our telly screen this week, for good reason. Drama, tension, comedy, tragedy, triumph and defeat, all played out across the stadia of Paris thanks to Channel Four’s exemplary stewardship. It has been an incredible week, with Team GB blasting past their previous medal total. It’s been fascinating to see how the old guard, legends like David Weir and Laura Muir, have fallen back while exciting new names have stepped up to the podium. The banner has been passed. It is being held high. What a week. What a show. What a tournament.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
This. Again. The Onion have published the same article, with very minor contextual changes, 37 times since 2014. J.D. Vance., the prospective Republican vice-presidential candidate, stated that mass shootings are ‘a fact of life’. The two words missing from that phrase? ‘In America’.
Rob is watching…
The Paralympics, still. Not even Quizzy Monday could lure us to change channel.
Rob is listening…
I’m really quite excited about the new David Gilmore album, Luck And Strange. The old prog rocker in me is bouncing up and down at the prospect, which isn’t helping my digestion one bit. Still, based on this rehearsal footage, we could be in for something very special.
Rob is eating…
The best tuna melt in the world, possibly.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
I think I need to sit quietly in a dark room for a bit.
Comics and food come together in one delicious melding of cultures. I have to be honest—by he time I finished reading this review of the manga Superman Vs. Meshi I was ready for a snack.
In a week where the folks behind Nanowrimo spectacularly failed to read the room, tacitly endorsing AI then doubling down by claiming criticism of said tools was both ableist and classist, I think it’s worth reading Ted Chiang’s take on the situation. Out of curiosity, I’ve tried using the occasional AI assistant—even WordPress have one built into the dashboard now. The results are inevitably lumpen, pedestrian and underwhelming. Ultimately, what’s the point? I write because I need to, because I want to, because it makes me happy. Pressing a button and publishing a low-rent version of myself utterly defeats the object of Excuses And Half Truths.
Moving on, to one of my happy places—Costco. Membership has its privileges, and we inevitably fill the car up on every trip we take to the big warehouse behind the SCL Stadium. It’s not a regular visit—when it’s just the two of you there’s only so much slabs of loo roll and big boxes of dishwasher tabs you can buy. I have an addiction to the Kirkland-brand Extra Fancy Nuts. Sure, we know we’re being manipulated into spending more than we should but it’s always fun to wander the aisles and contemplate that 95’ TV.
The Most Wonderful Place In The World
Should we ever make it back to New York, I worry I’ll be spending most of my time looking out for our next meal or snack. This NYT listicle on the city’s most iconic sandwiches is utterly drool-worthy of course, but better yet—it’s a great source for lunchtime ideas. Even if some of the treats on offer look like they’d collapse as soon as you take that first bite.
Any answers you have regarding this video will be answered by watching this video. And you really should watch this video.
I have no idea how accurate this colour test is, and the usual caveats about the type and calibration of the monitor on which you take it certainly apply. But it’s surprisingly consistent. TLC and I had markedly different results. Perception is a very personal phenomenon.
What happens to seemingly normal sensible people when they go on holiday? Why do they become such entitled idiots? Drew Magary for Outside Magazine has no easy answers but plenty of compelling evidence—including his own behaviour at Yellowstone National Park.
No Such Thing As A Good Tourist
Any set of rules claiming to hold the secret to a better life should be treated with a spoonful of suspicion. The writer’s life experiences are not yours. However, I thought Oliver Burkeman’s advice in The Guardian to be broad and open-ended enough to have some value. Just look on them as guidelines rather than rules.
I see the Oasis ticket sales went as well as expected—crashy websites, hours in queues and the blunt evil of late-stage capitalism in full effect as punters saw the price for their long-awaited purchases double at the checkout. Anyone bleating about how this sort of exploitation is simply market forces at work should be treated as a corporate shill and class traitor. It’s shocking that it’s taken so long for the government to get involved. I hope the whole corrupt practice is legislated out of existence and the Gallagher brothers viewed as greedy monsters who have no problem fleecing their fans for every last penny they can squeeze out of them. A deeply sleazy affair.
Last up, I hate to toot my own horn like Doctor Doom—
Ok, fine, my gaff, my rules. Art Stories starts at the John Majeski Gallery at Reading Musuem today until February next year. It’s an exhibition where local writers offer responses to items from the museum’s extensive collection. Look out for a picture called Blue Square, and enjoy the short piece alongside. You may recognise the name of the author.
Sod it, I always preferred Blur anyway.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
August 31, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 27
The crushing inevitability of next year’s Oasis reunion finally dropped with a clang this week. Once Blur did Wembley Stadium it was only a matter of time, a poker game of bluff, hold and raise until all interested parties came up with a number they could live with. This is a nostalgia-fuelled cash grab, whatever you think of the band and their music. I’m not going to snark, though. Oasis are beloved by millions, and I’d be every colour of cunt if I judged anyone by the tunes that bring them joy. If you’ve been going through the hoops of trying to get tickets this morning, I hope you got the venue and seats you wanted. Me? I’m waiting for the World Of Twist reunion.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
I snagged a Humble Bundle of comics from the dynamic duo of Matt Fraction and Chip Zdarsky, who together crafted a remarkable, filthy and hilarious series, Sex Criminals. They are both fantastic writers, hugely influential in the modern funny book scene, blasting out award-winning runs on all the big-name capes you can think of. But their indie work is where the good stuff can be found. I especially like Zdarsky’s Newburn, with Jacob Phillips on art, a down-and-dirty noir featuring a PI who works as a fixer/investigator for every crime family in New York. If you’re quick (as in, do it today) you can snag the bundle here. If not, hunt down Newburn and Sex Criminals. They’re bound to be on a deal somewhere.
Rob is watching…
The Paralympics, natch. The 2012 London Games were a massive deal for TLC and I, sparking a love for the whole bonkers carnival. But our heart lies with the Paras, a true celebration of will to power, the indomitability of the human spirit and the sheer, transcendent joy of sport as a force for good. Of course the weather was gorgeous for Wednesday’s amazing opening ceremony. God smiles on the righteous. I think we’re in for an incredible week of endeavour, skill, and triumph. Raise the torch high!
Rob is listening…
to Aerosmith. The news they were retiring from live performance saddened me more than it should, bearing in mind the band are in their 70s, multi-millionaires and absolutely don’t have to drag their scrawny asses around the globe anymore. Brutal honesty: I never really thought they were that good* until the holy trifecta of late 80s/early 90s albums (Permanent Vacation, Pump and Get A Grip) revealed a band who discovered a new widescreen pop sensibility alongside the rock chops and started having fun with it. OK, we’ll probably never see Steven Tyler holler and howl in the flesh again but hey, the old guy’s earned a breather.
And we’ll always have Alicia Silverstone in the video for Cryin’.
*apart from Sweet Emotion because, well, Sweet Emotion.
Rob is eating…
Hotdish. Yes, this has come out of the new fascination with mid-Western cuisine sparked by a certain vice-presidential candidate. I’ve always been fascinated by the kind of American cuisine whose methodology is ‘dump the contents of several cans into a casserole, top with cheese and cook until bubbling.’ Don’t call it a casserole, though. Hotdish is, apparently, a whole different thing. I feel the need to make some and report back.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Being Done For The Day. This spoke very strongly to the reason why I rarely finish an episode of The Swipe before Saturday morning. That feeling of hitting the Publish button gives me such a deep sense of satisfaction, a warm glow which really sets me up for the weekend.
The 2024 Bulyer-Lytton Awrds for worst opening sentance were released last week. As ever, there are some gems on display. Maaaaybe some folks are trying to hard, forcing a pun into what should simply be an exercise in absurdity. But then I’m probably overthinking it. Let’s just enjoy the ride.
I may have posted about Benedictine before. If so, it was back in the mists of time when this newsletter was called The Cut. Hopefully, even if you’ve read it before, it’s worth a refresher. Richard Godwin tells the story of how the biggest consumer in the world of a herbal French liquor is a working men’s club in Burnley.
The latter years of Douglas Adams were marked with abortive and abandoned projects, and failed attempts to get a movie of Hitch-Hikers off the ground. His notorious dislike of sitting down and writing anything didn’t exactly help, but it’s interesting to see just how much he tried to do before another distraction arrived. It seems like such a waste, somehow and honestly quite sad.
In politics, language is the greatest weapon of all. How you deliver your policies, debate your stance or even present yourself is a battle won or lost by the right turn of phrase. It’s not just politicians, of course. Bad actors also have a part to play in muddying the field of discourse. Erika Alpert digs into the problem, as America grinds into election season.
I’m probably skewing a little nerdy in this week’s ep, in order to offset the Aerosmith. I was instantly immersed in this long read as to how Gothic cathedrals were built in the Middle Ages, without access to modern techniques and tools. Turns out, as long as you accept it’s going to take an awfully long time, methods used by the Romans and Egyptians to build their long-lasting monuments will work just fine.
Modern writers don’t get to squirrel themselves away in splendid isolation, sending out their perfect creations into the world with a wave of their hand before vanishing again. No, these days you have to engage with your audience, have a social media presence, be open and transparent about what you’re doing and when. A popular author with a big audience desperate for the next book is likely to find themselves on the ugly end of an internet pile-on if they don’t deliver as expected.
It’s worrying enough that the internet runs through undersea cables which regularly break or fail. The entire computational structure on which it’s built is fragile, based on legacy software run by aging sysadmins—or worse, from notes left behind by retired sysadmins. Imagine the moment in a game of Jenga when you’re really not sure about breathing too close to the teetering tower. That’s modern internet infrastructure.
You know how much I love comics. However, I much prefer reading digitally, on a tablet. This is, of course, a failure on my part. Comics are essentially a construction of paper and ink, ephemeral, disposable. That’s part of the joy of the medium. The comics market has changed radically since I started reading in the 70s, and the newsagents which were my regular haunt no longer have a spinner rack from which I could browse and buy. The direct market of the 80s saw a huge boom in specialist comic shops. Here’s a great chat with Joe Field of Flying Colours Comics in Concord, Connecticut. He’s the creator of Free Comic Book Day and talks with warmth and honesty about the growth, collapse and re-invention of the not-so humble comic shop. Fair warning, it’s very Ninth-Art nerdy.
I should make the point to the Reading Readership that if you want to support comics retail, your first stop should be Crunch Comics in Harris Arcade. They’re good people and will see you right.
Oh lord, further geekery. I love the books published by Penguin in all their guises. The size, formatting and art all bring me comfort and joy. The cover design aesthetic is a modern classic. Come join me as we take a very deep dive into the grid…
Lastly, here’s an eye-opening look into Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Specifically how the film as shot and initially presented is not the film we know and love. All power to the editor.
I tried to find something else for the Outro, I did, really, honest. But it’s been Aerosmith Week here at Swipe Tower and this ridiculous, irredeemable chunk of cheeseburger simply would not let me go. I know what you’re going to say. I absolutely agree. Love In An Elevator is Are You Being Served in spandex. It’s all the rock cliches banged into a blender with half a bottle of Jack, whizzed up into a bright pink slurry, served in a pint glass with a cocktail umbrella and a pork pie on a stick. It snogs the face off the rules of songwriting, choosing instead to floor it over six minutes of chorus solo chorus build solo chorus chorus, trumpet, exquisite five part harmony and collapse in a spent dripping heap.
It goes big, it goes hard, it’s living it up as it’s going down.
I promise to be a bit more civilised next week. For now, crank this and strut like Tyler.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
August 24, 2024
Twenty Good Things About The ‘Ding
Over the August Bank Holiday in 2004, TLC and I packed up everything we’d somehow squeezed into a little end-terrace Victorian two-bed house in East London, and lit out for the sticks. The decision to move was partly to do with work—C’s job was relocating out of London and we needed to find a place within shooting distance of the Oxfordshire science zone near Harwell.
The main reason? We were done with the Big Smoke. Too crowded, too noisy, too dirty too—much. We needed a reset. It was time to go west, where the air is clean. We needed to breathe again.
So we looked at a map, drew some lines and circles, figured out the perfect midpoint between where C and I needed to be for work.
Slough.
We reconfigured.
A bit more research and we settled on a big town with a big heart twenty miles west of Betjemen’s bete noire, straddling a river and a canal. A couple of visits and one very fortuitous twist of real-estate fate led, six months after we started looking, to a bulging-at-the-seams Nissan Micra pulling away from Woodville Road in Walthamstow for the very last time, as R.E.M’s Leaving New York synchronistically rolled up on the car radio.
That was twenty years ago, and we’ve never looked back. Reading is our home now, in a way London somehow never was. We have built a life for ourselves here, and although it doesn’t have all the facilities that a big city can offer, Dingtown has a big double handful of gems which give it a bit of a hometown advantage. In honour of two decades in a town called Ding, here are twenty reasons we like it so much.
Dig in. Here we go.
The RiverLet’s start with a little chat about geography. Reading is famously well-located for transport links, to the point where it’s mythologised by Aussie and Kiwi travellers as the one place you can get to everywhere from. This was the case well before the arrival of the internal combustion engine or even steam. Reading sits on the crossroads of the Kennet and Avon Canal and Old Father Thames, making it a lot more water-bound than casual observers realise. There’s a river festival every year, and of course the Oracle, Reading’s lovely shopping mall, sits astride it. I love being a short walk from a riverside amble, and honestly believe a cross-point like this gives the place a certain magical vibe. A character who’s appeared in a couple of my short stories, Redstone Ray, takes much of his power from his connection to the meeting point of two great river routes.
Reading Abbey/GaolReading wears its history lightly. New developments are springing up all over the town as it leans into a reputation as a tech and transport hub. The rocket-sled chute of The Blade dominates the skyline, and the train station (of which more later) looks like a space port. The SF fan in me loves all that shit.
But Reading has a long and storied past, which it is finally starting to properly embrace. Although the efforts to retask Reading Gaol, Oscar Wilde’s place of confinement, as an arts centre break down as regularly as Elizabeth Line trains (even Banksy’s contribution couldn’t persuade the DoJ to sell it back to the community), the ruins of Reading Abbey next door should be part of any history buff’s visit. Consider: this was where the first pop song, Sumer is Ycomin In, was written. There’s a good chance that it is the burial site of Henry I, who ordered the Abbey’s construction as an attempt to do right by his God after all the evil he had wrought on earth. The restoration work on the site is sensitively done, letting you see the bones of the place while creating a space which offers a moment of timeless peace right in the heart of town. It has a very different feel to the grand Victorian formality of Forbury Gardens which abuts onto it, but the contrast is part of the charm. Even if you can see The Blade swooping up overhead.
The Reading BanksyReading MuseumLooking up is a sensible move if you want to get a sense of Dingtown’s past. Cast your eyes above awning level on Queen Victoria Street and you’ll get an eyeful of the Victorian red-brick frontages which so defined the look of the place in the 19th century. The best example of this architectural style is on Blagrave Street. Reading Town Hall is a imposing sight, a grand confection of spires, arches and intricate mouldings, glowing in shades of copper and dove-grey. It’s glorious at sunset.
The Town Hall is home to Reading Museum, which has a truly eclectic collection of exhibits. There’s something for every taste, from a full-sized replica of the Bayeaux tapestry to a collection of biscuity ephemera from the time when Huntley and Palmer made Reading their home. It’s a slightly surreal delight, with new wonders around every corner of the tightly packed floor plan. It’s well worth checking the smaller galleries for contemporary exhibits or clever re-hangs of works from the extensive archive. Look, Reading has been around since the 8th century as a Saxon settlement. There’s a lot to see.
The MERLReading punches above its weight in the great tournament of odd little museums, but the champ has to be the Museum of English Rural life. If you want to see a huge collection of hay wagons laid out in proud order like the sportscars in Tony Stark’s garage, this is the place. If you want to admire vintage tractors and get a whiff of the social history of cheese, look no further. And yes, MERL’s social media chap created the ‘absolute unit’ meme, beloved by millions. One of the only good things Elon Musk ever did was to retweet it.
The Food SceneThere’s a case to be made that Glen Dinning gave Reading the street food scene it needed. The twice-weekly gathering of food trucks he organised at Market Place brought some much-needed lunch options to hungry workers, but the launch of Blue Collar Corner in 2022 has put a party in the middle of town every weekend. Reading is now a regular base for the British Street Food Awards, and vendors like Fink Street and Sarv’s Slice have used the exposure to bounce onto a brighter future. And this is before we look at the regular events in Forbury Gardens like Cheesefeast, Meatfest and the lockdown feast Glen and his team put on in the car park at the Rivermead,
Eurovision at CheeseFeast featuring Reading’s own DAP King, Damian A. Passmore.There’s more to dinner than street food, of course. I’m intrigued but delighted to note to how Dingtown has become the base of so many cool smaller restaurant brands like ZeroDegrees and Honest Burger (both personal favourites) and a launchpad for big overseas franchises like Wingstop, Popeyes and the triumphant return of Wendy’s. We don’t talk about Chick-Fil-A. I would be beaten around the head and shoulders by some members of The Readership if I didn’t raise a flag for Kung Fu Kitchen, now expanding into a second location a good fifty yards from the first. The Reading institution that is Sweeney & Todd has been cranking out proper pies to the masses for, oh Lordy, decades. And it would be remiss of me not to mention the two powerhouses fuelling Coffee Corner – Picnic and Munchees. Top-notch designer salads or the cheapest full English in town, fifty yards from each other. It’s a little slice of paradise, I tell ya.
I know I’m missing lots of places—shout them out in the comments.
Shed/MilkThe best/worst kept foodie secret in Reading is tucked away down Merchant’s Place, an unassuming alleyway off Friar Street. It is a place of two halves, both delightful, housed in a rickety old barn which seems a little out of place amidst the 80s architectural brutalism it neighbours. Shed is a breakfast and lunch place par excellence—it does nothing complicated or over-fancy, but everything it serves is executed to perfection. Their use of beautiful sourdough elevates the sandwich offerings. The breakfast bacon sarnie is stuffed with a dense layer of streaky, cooked to just the right level of chewy crispiness. For lunch, you’d mug yourself off if you didn’t have a Tuna Turner. I’m a stern critic of the tuna melts you get in most joints. I have no notes on the TT. It’s bang on—melty, gooey, savoury, entirely satisfying.
You know you want it.As the sun goes down the upstairs seating area becomes Milk, in my opinion Reading’s best cocktail bar. It’s firmly rum-centric, with which I have no problem as their Kingston Negronis are on point. Regular DJ sets, distillery takeovers and an overall mellow groove of an atmosphere make it a place where the edge can well and truly be scrubbed off. Truly, the place is a night-time Reading highlight.
Clay’sBut if you really want the peak of what our town has to offer for food and drink, all you need is Clay’s. Originally a tiny ten-table place on London Street serving authentic, inventive Indian food, the relaunch a couple of years back into the big cheerful space they now occupy over the bridge in Caversham was fraught, drawn-out but ultimately a major victory. The grub, atmosphere and welcome are a delight—you will leave feeling soul-nurtured, glowing and very, very full. Nods from national food critics Jay Rayner, Grace Dent and Tom Parker-Bowles put the place on the map, and I hope and pray the attention keeps Clay’s running for a very long time. I like it so much my name (along with plenty of other Kickstarter patrons) is on the wall. Nandana and Sharat have brought us a very special place, which we should treasure, nurture and support.
Reciepts. Not often I share a wall with a former mayor of Reading…CavershamI should mention our home territory, the part of Dingtown where TLC and I settled. A lot of Redigensians will roll their eyes at the very mention of the settlement on the north side of the Thames. Not really Reading. Too posh for their own good. And well, yes, OK, there are points to be made—Caversham was part of the Henley district of Oxfordshire until 1911. The county line is a 60 second drive from our front door. And yes, there is a lot of money in the area, especially when you head up the hill to the soaring views of Caversham Heights.
You could point the accusation of monied bubble equally at the University district, and not-really-Reading is a bit gatekeepery, don’t you think? Instead of griping, I choose to cheer the benefits Cav brings to the table. There’s Clay’s, of course, and nearly opposite, Papa Gee’s, Reading’s best pizza place. Two brilliant pubs, The Fox and Hounds and The Last Crumb (the latter another example of Reading’s attraction for small chain eateries). There’s a small but nicely-curated farmer’s market every Sunday. A yearly arts trail. Indie coffee places? We got ‘em. The Collective and GeoCafe (who also moonlight as one of Dingtown’s best bakeries)—I was sorry to see the passing of The Flowers Of Caversham, but I guess if your floor caves in on you it’s a bit tricky to keep doling out the lattes. Alto Lounge, the prime spot for Sunday brunch!
Culturally, Caversham is home to Rabble Theatre (of which more later) and Two Rivers Press (of which more later), as well as FourBears, a vibrant, welcoming book shop. History? Caversham was mentioned in the Domesday Book. St. Anne’s Well is the site of a shrine which was founded in the tenth century. Caversham Court, on the Thames just west of Caversham Bridge, was home to William Marshall, England’s Greatest Knight and regent during Henry III’s minority. If you want greenery, head to Clayfield Copse, Bugs Bottom or up to Balmore Walk, for views over the whole area—and oh look, there’s The Blade. I said it dominated the skyline.
I could go on. But honestly, when we decided to move to Reading, we came at it with the open mind which comes with complete ignorance. We knew nothing. But, over the weekends we spent here, a spiral path gradually drew us towards our current location, out from the centre of Reading to the house which, as soon as we walked into it, was clearly destined to be our home. Caversham is very cool. It suits us. It has an unfussy, relaxed and welcoming feel. I really don’t get the spite. Perhaps it’s jealousy. Don’t believe the haters.
The Theatre SceneLet’s talk a bit more about theatre. Reading has a nicely eclectic range of theatre companies and venues offering a bit of what you fancy, as long as what you fancy is live spoken word entertainment. I’ve already mentioned Rabble, but banners high please for Progress and Reading Rep, both within easy walking distance of each other. They also take their shows outside the theatre space—Rabble have put on shows in the grounds of Reading Abbey for the last couple of years, and Progress regularly stage open-air performances at Caversham Court.
Rabble at Reading Abbey for their presentation of Henry I.South Street and the Rising Sun Arts Centre have a solid rep for smaller-scale productions alongside comedy and music. The Hexagon is, of course, the biggest (and some would say ugliest, although I dig that crazy 80s brutalist vibe) live venue in town, although the focus on cover bands and Strictly alumni speak to a slightly unadventurous booking strategy. Again, it’s great for comedy though and most of the big names stop off here—we’ve seen Jon Richardson, The Horne Section and Bill Bailey. It’ll be interesting to see what acts are lured to the new Studio when it opens in the next couple of years. We should not sniff at the dinner theatre offerings over in Sonning at The Mill, either. OK, the repertoire of classic Noel Coward, farces and the occasional musical might not be cutting edge, but it has a cosy charm—and the venue is lovely.
The FestivalThe music scene in Reading is a little less vibrant than I’d like. Howevs, both Sub89 and the Purple Turtle have hosted some memorable nights for me—Wolf Alice, PiL, Ride and the astonishing, mind-blasting Swans. It’s sinful that I’ve yet to make it out to The Face Bar for a Club Velocity night, and I offer no apologies but my own laziness.
For most people, though, Reading is about the August Bank Holiday gathering on Richfield Avenue, going on this very weekend. It’s a rare privilege to be within walking distance of a world-class music festival, and a treat to be able to enjoy a weekend of musical madness with the benefit of a hot shower and your own bed at the end of it. I’ve let my attendance slide over the past few years, as the lineup has skewed to cater towards the tastes of the post-exam kids who use Reading and Leeds as a last-chance blowout before college and uni. It has not been the Reading Rock Festival for a very long time. I’ve seen some amazing bands there though, and cherished the opportunity of Access All Areas passes in 2012. The best bit of that year? Clean and quiet toilets.
The Other FestivalsWhy settle for the one festival, though? I grumble mildly about Reading’s live music scene, but disingenuously—there’s plenty of local bands who would cheerfully grab the chance to play to the whole town. Are You Listening? is a great way to roll a pub crawl and a one-day fest into one dizzy-making Saturday. I’m sorry to see Down At The Abbey, which makes brilliant use of the Reading Abbey ruins, has had to cancel this year—hopefully back, loud and proud in ‘25! Here Comes The Sun is a cheerfully wonky and artsy day at The Rising Sun (not to be confused with the recently re-opened Rising Sun pub just off St. Mary’s Butts or indeed the in-progress refurb of the Rising Sun near the station). And I would not be a proud Caverite without cheering the virtues of Readipop, a regular fixture in July across Christchurch Meadows. A crowd-pleasing mix of 90s dance and indie stalwarts (Ash! Sleeper! Echobelly! Fabio & Grooverider!) mixes deliciously with local talent to make for a jolly fine weekend.
Readipop. Yes, that is a giant mechanical dinosaur.The Brewing SceneAt all the local festivals, you’ll find an offering or two from one of our local breweries. Hear the screams of over-stretched narrative tyres under stress as I execute a topical hand-brake turn? Let’s talk about Reading’s brilliant beer scene, which over the past twenty years has blasted away from the lights like a boy racer in a tricked-out 205 and yes I think I’ve overdone the car metaphors. Less driving, more drinking.
Where do we start? Well, Tilehurst’s finest, Double-Barrelled, are everywhere, from the ten lines at Blue Collar Corner to almost every pub in Reading worthy of the name. How can you not love a perky lager named Ding? It is a sadness (of which more later) that it’s not offered as the official lager of Reading FC. I advocate their IPA, Parka, a golden, citrussy delight.
Alongside Ding you’ll probably find something from Loddon, just up the road from me in Dunstan Green. I love this brewery. The beer is uniformally great (especially for my old-geezer tastes—look, I like a brown beer, ok?) but Loddon have really pushed forward since Covid. There’s a fantastic tap yard, a perky lil farm shop, a food partnership with Proper Kitchen and yes, even their own one-day music festival. Loddon are doing it right.
If you want to stay central, Phantom offer a similar vibe in their huge warehouse space near the station. They’ve partnered with 7Bone Burgers for grub, and the beer and vibes are all on point (am I saying that right?). Then there’s the good folk at Dolphin with their wildly experimental sours, and I would be failing in my duty if I didn’t shout about the beer coming out of ZeroDegrees. It’s not just a pizza place! Try the black IPA if it’s on and tell me I’m lying.
And right, I’m claiming Siren as a Reading brewery. OK, technically they’re based in Finchamstead, but the sexy new tap house and restaurant on Friar Street is an instant hit with all who’ve stepped in. You can find a Siren beer in most Reading pubs. If they have Soundwave on draught—fill yer boots.
I should also flag the pubs who are true brew heroes in Dingtown. I’ve already blown trumpets about The Fox And Hounds who do regular collabs with cool producers. Get thee to The Alehouse (especially if you can snag a snug, it’s the most hobbity pub in Reading and a perfect place for conspiracising) or The Nag’s Head off the Oxford Road, where a lost weekend is ready and waiting. Check the boards for what’s on and what’s coming, and settle in. Grab a book or a board game. You’ll be there for a while.
Don’t mind if I do.Two Rivers PressI find it enormously cool that Reading has a dedicated art and poetry publisher, quietly pushing out beautifully designed volumes to local outlets like Reading Museum and FourBears in Caversham (if you must, I suppose you could order directly from them online). Part of Reading’s arts scene since 1994, Two Rivers are discerningly eclectic. It is an ambition of mine to have a book published by them.
Reading WritersOne of Two Rivers’ standout authors is Claire Dyer, whose poetry is personal, emotional and beautiful. She was the chair of local writers group Reading Writers when, after two years of trying, I was finally allowed to join. Reading Writers has been around since the 1940s in one form or another, and we’re still active, still open to new members and still supporting writers however they choose to express themselves. Local authors like Claire, Julie Cohen, Vera Morris, Julie Roberts, Becci Fearnley and John Froy have all spent time in Meeting Room 3 at the RISC every second and fourth Wednesday of the month. RW is a big part of my life. I have made close and enduring friendships thanks to it. As Comms and Membership Secretary, I’m happy to confirm you won’t have to wait as long as I did if you fancy trying us out. Other writing groups are available, but in my humble and completely unbiased opinion, we are the best. Thank you for having the faith in me to let me join, Claire. I’ll always be grateful.
Reading Biscuit FactoryLook, I’m not going to pretend I’m any kind of prime mover in Reading’s cultural and food scene, despite my Reading Writers committee seat and name on the wall at Clay’s. But if you factor in my founder membership at Reading’s finest independent cinema and bar, the Biscuit Factory, then you have to admit I’m not just sitting on my hands when it comes to getting involved in my home town. RBF is another sweet spot I’m proud to support. Three comfortable screens show everything from the latest blockbusters to cult and art house classics, while the big bright bar area hosts drag bingo, quiz nights, Heavy Pop music events and much, much more. Gamers regularly congregate for board game evenings, a local knitting circle hold weekly gatherings—look, it’s just a really nice central location to meet up and chill out. Whether you start, end or base your evening there, you’re onto a winner. Take a founder’s word for it.
Reading FCI’ve told you over and over again that football is not my thing—the ugly tribal aspect, the weird mix of boredom, misery and masochism which seem to be a major part of the whole experience. However, I do like a bit of drama, which is something the Royals provide in spades. Our team are a rollercoaster ride of emotion, with massive highs (the two seasons in the Premiere League following the still unmatched 106 season) and crashing lows (the 2022 slump out of the Championship as it became clear just how badly owner Dai Yongge had screwed over the club). With a new ownership round the corner, a young and vibrant first team and a manager who actually seems to give a fuck, matters could be about to turn. But that’s the whole reason I follow them. You just never know what’s going to happen next.
The whole town thingOne source of frustration for Reading Council is they don’t run a city. We have been passed over for the nod many, many times. The conspiracy theory that Queen Victoria’s statue in Market Place faces angrily away from the town is seen as evidence that we will never get royal assent. It doesn’t bother me a bit. I like how we can call ourselves the biggest town in the country. It feeds into our spirit, our character, the quirky independent vibe which might not be so visible on Broad Street on a Saturday night but is thrumming through the streets like wild electricity once you get to know the place a little. We should make more of a virtue of our status as England’s Crazytown. Come, my lady.
Red brick, blue sky.John LewisThere is a local writer of whom I shall not speak, whose spectre looms over this piece by dint of its baggy, over-written nature. He too once wrote on the things he liked about Reading, and on one element I begrudgingly, tooth-grindingly have to agree. The John Lewis standing proudly at the junction of Broad and Queen Vic Street is a jewel in Reading’s crown. It adds a certain cachet. The building itself is part of Reading history—once the department store Heelas, whose name is still carved deeply into the brick of the back entrance. John Lewis stands as a kind of litmus test of the health of our town. As long as it still stands open, we must be doing alright. There’s a reason I chose to make my character Redstone Ray’s home up in the roof space. He, and the store, are guardians of Reading.
Reading BusesWe’ll finish, almost, as we started—back with transport. Reading is not a great town to drive in (the execrable IDR is one thing I hate about our town) and frankly scary to cycle through. But the buses are great. Clean, modern, easily trackable using the excellent app, regular and efficient. Why? Well, Reading Buses is not run privately—it’s a council concern. As such, oversight is strong and profits are plowed back into the business. It’s an exemplar of how public transport services should be run and other, bigger cities, notably Andy Burnham’s Greater Manchester, have taken notice. We even have an iconic route in the Purple Chariot, the number 17. Best buses in the country? I don’t think there’s an argument against.
HomeThank you for sticking with me, this is the last bit. I would say we’re almost home, but the fact is I am home. This town, you people, the green spaces, the red stone, the punchy, artsy, quirky vibe of the crossing on two rivers has comforted and welcomed Clare and I since we parked our overloaded Micra on the drive at All Hallows Road for the first time, twenty years ago this weekend. So much has changed since then, but the important things remain, shining and warm. Reading is our home. Frankly, I can’t see that ever changing.
One last point. This is not an encyclopaedic guide to Reading. It was never supposed to be. We are a pretty lazy pair, and rarely head east of Castle Street. So I’m fully aware I’ve missed out a lot. Let me know about the bits of Reading you love, and we’ll be sure to make them a part of our next twenty years, living and thriving in the town we call both Ding and home.
August 17, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 26
It’s sunflower season. Well, actually, it’s everything season, as the garden reacts to the hot wet weather with an explosion of fecundity. My cucumber plants, grown late from seed and slow to start, have filled the greenhouse in the space of a week. Our trug, which I planted with two tiny squash plants, is invisible under a ramble of greenery and fruit. The brambles from next door which I’ve somehow managed to keep in check this year have rewarded my patience with great heaped handfuls of sweet, finger-staining blackberries.
And of course, the sunflowers, high and proud, shining in late summer sunshine, some taller than me. In February they were seeds in a packet. Now they are a spectacular show. A little time, a tiny bit of effort and here we are, nodding along to each other, shoulders back and chins high.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The Witches Of Vardö by Anya Bergman.
Why is it that one half of the world’s humans seem so intent on making life difficult for the other half? Slapping down diktats on body autonomy, on how they should behave, how they should speak. If, gods forbid, they step outside their lane, then the punishments can be—well, cruel and unusual doesn’t quite fit the bill.
Anya Bergman’s novel is set in Norway in the 1660s, when having a knowledge of herbs, being a midwife or even dancing could get you accused of witchcraft and then—well, cruel and unusual. It’s a dark tale but beautifully put together, describing how three women, accused and abandoned to the brutal inquisition of the state, tread the narrow and treacherous path to salvation. It’s pulpy, horror-tinged but utterly compelling.
Rob is watching…
TLC and I choose to fill the yawning gap in our televisual lives between the Olympics and the Paralympics by picking up the thread on some favourite shows we’ve let drop for no good reason apart from laziness. Hence, we’re watching Lupin S3 on Netflix. A twisty turny crime caper with a deep soul and a big heart, set in gorgeous night-time Paris? Don’t mind if we do! The first two seasons of Lupin were an absolute lock and the latest (I’m guessing the last in which case BOO GIVE US MORE) has the same propulsive energy, wit and charm. If you have not then you should is all I’m saying.
Rob is listening…
I will never fully understand the urge to procreate. There. I said it. I’m too selfish, too much in love with a solid eight hours sleep a night. The world does not need a l’il Wickings barrelling around telling bad jokes and ranting about low-quality science fiction. However, songs like Alana Wilkinson’s With A Boob Out at least allow me to see some of the reasons in the pro column. It helps that she’s come up with a brilliantly ear-wormy tune and a hilarious video to pin it all to.
Rob is eating…
At The Moderation. An excellent pub on the southern approach to Caversham Bridge, Reading Writers chose it as the venue for our last summer social. It has a reputation for good South East Asian food and boy, did the kitchen deliver. A big menu of Thai, Malaysian and Singaporean grub could be a warning flag, but all the food came out brilliantly. The spice level was on point, the flavours full and vibrant. Service was crisp and brusque, which I had no problem with—with food this good you son’s need to over-compensate with gushy waitresses. We had a big table and everyone left full and happy after an evening chatting about Douglas Adams. I can’t recommend it more highly.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
The time finally came to retire my old Quechua day bag and trade up to something a little more befitting of my standing in society. C and I have lusted after Roka London’s colourful offerings for a while. I gifted her one in a lovely teal for the anniversary. She nearly didn’t get it. So pretty the nice bag, stay with Robbie.
After that, the inevitable was just around the corner. Mine is in mustard, has pockets and secret zips for days and is a delight to tote about. If you’re a believer in the mobile creative life, a good day bag is essential. The sort of delightful object you can grab and go and look great while you’re doing it. The Roka is perfect for my needs and rugged enough to last for a very long time.
Which is just as well, cos it cost enough.
Daniel Lavery, The Chatner, talks through one of the big problems around pet and baby ownership. His two dogs have become lead characters in his writing and their fussy mannerisms are portrayed hilariously. This episode is a revolting highlight.
Trainer and film nerdery clash in one deliciously indulgent listicle. There are so many iconic sneakers out there in film land, and this GQ piece will probably inspire a rewatch or two.
Meanwhile, the release this week of Alien Romulus has brought out some inspired merch opportunities. If you’re on a budget, Siren Craft’s Something In The Water is a berry-fruited sour in a nicely designed tie-in can. I’m sure they’re flying out the door of the new Reading tap room. But for real-deal bragging rights, you need to get in line for the limited edition Reebok BB400 Mids. These, paired with a patch-covered boiler suit would raise your Ripley cosplay to the next level.
I’ve treated TLC to a couple of different adult Lego sets over the past year—a collection of tiny succulents and a wild-flower bouquet. The new Polaroid build is high on our must-have list. The story of how it clicked together is a fascinating insight into how Lego devise and create their products. Clever and inspiring.
A new edition of Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles Cookbook is being released in time for its twentieth anniversary. Gabrielle Hamilton, late of Prune, has written a new foreword celebrating her friend, which absolutely nails the man’s spirit, verve and philosophy of life. The world seems slightly sadder and smaller after his passing.
An article on Japanese methods of counting, which rapidly spirals into some very odd places. I love how language has accidentally evolved and continues to do so, leading to a situation where, given the right circumstances, a rabbit is considered to be a pigeon.
Writing sex scenes—the biggest fear and stumbling block for many writers. I try to avoid them whenever necessary or, like David Nichols, fade to black as the temperature rises. I salute those who choose to draw back the curtain and show us all how the dirty deed is done.
The conspiracy theory around chemicals being seeded from aircraft to keep us docile is stubborn, annoying and of course, entirely inaccurate. To anyone who points at a funny-looking cloud as evidence of nefarious government activity, there is only one response—clouds really are just that strange.
Finally, I’m delighted to announce long-time X&HTeam-mate Clive is re-releasing his film archive in sparkling new restorations. First up, his 1999 superhero comedy The Diabolical Revenge Of Dr. Snake explores many of the tropes which are now commonplace in cape fiction. But he was doing it back before the beginning of the millennium. I’m part of the team which brought this back to life, and I hope you enjoy it.
The Diabolical Revenge of Dr. Snake (1999) – New restoration from Clive Ashenden on Vimeo.
Slate’s reader-driven list of Summer Struts is a great playlist to stick on this weekend. I mean all weekend—it’s 49 hours long. I’ve embedded a Spotify link below so go ahead and dig in.
I couldn’t resist Outroing with this banger when it popped up, though. Another fine example of a song which becomes even better with a strong video attached. Enjoy Annie Lennox and all her avatars crowding a stage which isn’t quite big enough for all those egos.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
August 11, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 24
After last week’s adventures, my poor old brain has insisted on a reset. Consequentially, it’s a short chapter this week. I’ll regroup next week with a less scattershot offering.
This week: early rising, a Frasier murder mystery and the greatest Emmy acceptance speech ever.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The 2000AD Summer Special, with some especially ripe mashups of classic characters. Johnny Alpha, the Strontium Dog, makes a strong showing, appearing as both Dredd and Rogue Trooper. It all gets a bit overly meta at the end but hey, drokk it, it’s still quality entertainment for less than three of your Earth pounds. Zarjaz!
For other audiences, there’s a new Misty annual out in time for Spooky Season.
Rob is watching…
Rob & Rylan’s Grand Tour, a pickup from the iPlayer. What starts off as a typical meet-cute travel show with an odd-couple cast (He’s an uptight guy who loves classical music and art! He’s a streak-of-piss Essex loudmouth with Strictly credentials!) turns into a show with a valuable lesson—it’s never too late to learn, to teach and to discover. The chemistry between Rylan and Rob is utterly delightful as they tease, challenge and support each other through an emotional rollercoaster in some beautiful settings. Unequivocally recommended.
Quote of the series:
‘Three days in Venice and I’ve turned you into a poet.’
‘Three days in Venice and I’ve turned you into a drag queen.’
Rob is listening to…
25 Songs About Horses Ranked By How Much I Think You Should Play Them For Your Horse
Of course there’s a Spotify playlist.
Rob is eating…
at Pierre Victoire in Oxford, especially good if you need a quiet bistro to swerve the overall everything for a bit. Three courses for £35. Absurdly good value and hence wildly popular. If you haven’t booked, go early. Try the chicken farci, it’s godly.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
This lil bit of public service.
The quiet and determined life of Steve Ditko, one of the creators who Marvel have not treated with the respect their characters deserve. Or indeed paid them a respectable percentage of the annual turnover of merch and IP. Ditko DGAF, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Yes, I am a member of the club which includes the few, the proud, the partially sleepless. Yes, I am usually in bed before 10pm. Rob DGAF. I’m happy this way. How do you think this newsletter gets cranked out week on week?
I am amazed, no, astonished, that this brilliant idea has not been played with up till now. And doesn’t Colombo look adorable?
An interview with Beck, who has soundtracked some very meaningful moments in my life. Morning Phase is a simple, quiet joy to me, but there’s also Mellow Gold, Midnite Vultures…
Actually, let’s come back to this in the Outro.
Pixar-style renditions of the Bear crew. Some are better than others (Neil and Tina ain’t right) but Carmy and Nat? Bang on.
Script-writers could do a lot worse than check some of these pick-up lines out. I was moved in a very discombobulating way.
We do not, to my knowledge, have a character like Mr. Rogers in the UK. That is to our detriment. Look at how he reduces an audience of Hollywood A-listers to tears with a simple request to shut the fuck up for ten seconds and think about the people who got them there in the first place.
OK, he didn’t quite put it like that but you get the gist.
We could all do with taking a quiet moment to remember the loved ones who helped us on our path every now and then. Thank you, Fred.
Ok, I’m out. One, two, you know what to do.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
August 10, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 25
These are the strange times. The dog days. Summer is in full swing, yet at the time of writing (Thursday afternoon, a quiet time after work, TLC working away upstairs, Millie in the conservatory snoozing while pretzeling herself into increasingly impossible contortions) it is wet and windy and—well, a bit blah, frankly. Post-anniversary blues, I suppose, with our next break a whole (checks diary) SIX WEEKS AWAY! How are we to cope? When shall we breathe fresh Northern air again?
Oh well, at least the roads are quiet.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Winchelsea by Alex Preston. Described on the back cover blurb as ‘Daphne duMaurier meets Quentin Tarantino’, the story of the feisty Goody Brown and her adventures amongst the smugglers of the Kent coast in the 1760s is a heady rush, based in part on real thugs and villains who haunted the area. It’s a lot of improbable, violent fun, with some insane heel-turns in tone and plot. A proper holiday read—with a glass of rum to hand, of course.
Rob is watching…
The Olympics, naturally. We’ve taken a subscription to Discovery Plus out at a discounted rate to keep up with the action. A very pleasing way to spend summer evenings, even if events are just noodling away in the background while we get on with other tasks (with the occasional break to whoop and holler at an especially thrilling race result). Can’t wait to see what the Breaking looks like…
Rob is listening…
To a new musical genre which came to its inventor in a dream. I’m having a play myself in Logic Pro. It’s surprising how much you can do with a tune in 5/4 time at 212bpm.
Rob is eating…
I made a chili for the first time this year on Wednesday—I guess the changeable weather put me in the mood for a warming spicy stew.. Highly inauthentic, my method would be frowned at from San Jacinto to Salamanca. Don’t care. Chile ingles has its place. Pork and beef mince, chorizo, a pepper, beans, cumin, chilli and coriander and passata. With tortillas, cheese, salsa and avocado, it brought the sunshine to a damp evening. More importantly, I made a vat full, so there’s plenty for when the cooler weather really shows up.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
My new writing chair, which we’re calling TLC’s anniversary gift to me. Comfy, stylish, and an excellent reason to sit at my desk and bang out wordcount instead of doomscrolling in an armchair once I get in from work. Money well spent. Don’t ever underspend on furniture you plan to spend a lot of time in. Trust me, your back and bum will thank you.
I dunno if anyone is still grumbling about LED lightbulbs. If anyone in your circle is, show them this article. We were victims of a huge scam for decades.
Yes, alright, another huge scam.
Pete Wells, the food critic of the New York Times, is hanging up his pad and pen this summer. In tribute, the NYT has put together a list of his best reviews. I don’t think you can do any better than Pete’s joyful paean to a joint I certainly plan to visit should I make it to the Big Apple again anytime soon. Yes, I will be ordering the Chester. Always go for the patty melt if it’s on offer.
We shouldn’t say goodbye to Pete without taking a look at his last ever column for the NYT, in which he explores how restaurants have changed in his 12 years in the game. Spoiler alert, he’s not a fan of QR codes or online booking. I can’t say he’s wrong.
There will be another version of the Dracula story out this Christmas (the Nosferatu name was nothing more than an attempt to swerve copyright demands from the Stoker estate, don’t assume there’s any movement off the rails of the well-worn plot track) and to be honest I’m a little bored with the whole thing. Yeah yeah plague metaphor yeah yeah fear of the unknown blah blah xenophobia yes fine I get it. Francis Ford Coppola made the definitive version. There’s nothing more to be said.
Frankenstein, however, somehow stays fresh and relevant. The OG SF tale of artificial life still speaks to us today, reflecting our inner turmoil and need to belong, to be loved, to be recognised as our own person, transcending our creator and other people’s perceptions of what we should be.
It Is True, We Shall be Monsters
The purest of pure animations, a glorious dance of colour, form and music made in the most direct way possible. The technique Norman McLaren pioneered is exacting and challenging , and it’s crazy hard to get the results you expect. Witness a wild kind of magic, ignoring everything written in stone about film production and giving the scene a little bit of jazz, baby.
I have been an acolyte of Gillian Anderson since she strode into our lives as the earnest, truth-seeking Dana Scully, and she is one of the lucky actresses with a spot in my Crush Files. She continues to amaze, delight and inspire and oh stop it you know what I mean. Was I conflicted with her portrayal of Margaret Thatcher in season four of The Queen? Yes, I was. Did I find a way to resolve it? Yes, I did and let’s move on.
My fascination with The Bear continues unabated, as I raise a quizzical eyebrow to the critics decrying season three and wonder if they were watching the same show I was. In particular, I loved the way the show talks about service, and how in the context of fine dining it’s almost more important than the food. I’ve eaten at two Michelin two-starred restaurants in my time, and I still think more about the front-of-house action than the food. Yes, everything we ate on those two occasions was extraordinary, delicious, palate-educating. But it was enjoyed in an atmosphere where we were instantly made to feel welcome, at home, appreciated.
This is something Will Guidara knows all about.
While we’re on the subject, allow me to recommend a Netflix doco on a pair of sibling eateries, which is properly vocal in celebrating the staff who make both joints so successful. A gentle nudge to watch if you’ve been distressed by events regarding immigration ‘protests’ this week—we need these folk, and it’s about time their hard work, heart and tenacity were not just recognised but applauded.
I bought a bottle of Fernet-Branca earlier in the year, and I’m too scared to open it. Similarly, I can see me putting down cash on a bottle of Massachusetts’ favourite poison and have it glowering from the back of the drinks cabinet a year later. The evil version feels like a step too far. And yet, you know, in the right place at the right time—who knows?
One last thing. You may have noticed that Banksy has been throwing up works in a frenzy this week all over London. I am delighted to note that the most recent, in my beloved Walthamstow, is above the chippy C and I regularly frequented for the ten years we lived at the top of the High Street. That’s two Banksy works in my former and present home town. People will start to talk…
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c20l71yyxp1o
C and I used to be big Maria McKee fans, her first solo album on almost constant rotation. As is the way with obsessions, Maria slipped away a bit, only to slide back into our lives this month. For once, the Spotify algorithm did a good thing.
I was instantly reminded how much I loved her difficult, abrasive and bone-china brittle third album, Life Is Sweet. Absolutely Barking Stars is the highlight, built to holler in floods of tears while cranked guitars rage and squall behind her. I love this live version, raw and bloody as a skinned knee. It’s alright. We know what we are.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
August 3, 2024
The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 24
After last week’s adventures, my poor old brain has insisted on a reset. Consequentially, it’s a short chapter this week. I’ll regroup next week with a less scattershot offering.
This week: early rising, a Frasier murder mystery and the greatest Emmy acceptance speech ever.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
The 2000AD Summer Special, with some especially ripe mashups of classic characters. Johnny Alpha, the Strontium Dog, makes a strong showing, appearing as both Dredd and Rogue Trooper. It all gets a bit overly meta at the end but hey, drokk it, it’s still quality entertainment for less than three of your Earth pounds. Zarjaz!
For other audiences, there’s a new Misty annual out in time for Spooky Season.
Rob is watching…
Rob & Rylan’s Grand Tour. What starts off as a typical meet-cute travel show with an odd-couple cast (He’s an uptight guy who loves classical music and art! He’s a streak-of-piss Essex loudmouth with Strictly credentials!) turns into a show with a valuable lesson—it’s never too late to learn, to teach and to discover. The chemistry between Rylan and Rob is utterly delightful as they tease, challenge and support each other through an emotional rollercoaster in some beautiful settings. Unequivocally recommended.
Quote of the series:
‘Three days in Venice and I’ve turned you into a poet.’
‘Three days in Venice and I’ve turned you into a drag queen.’
Rob is listening to…
25 Songs About Horses Ranked By How Much I Think You Should Play Them For Your Horse
Of course there’s a Spotify playlist.
Rob is eating…
at Pierre Victoire in Oxford, especially good if you need a quiet bistro to swerve the overall craziness for a bit. Three courses for £35. Absurdly good value and hence wildly popular. If you haven’t booked, go early. Try the chicken farci, it’s godly.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
This lil bit of public service.
Here’s a look at the quiet and determined life of Steve Ditko, one of the creators who Marvel have not treated with the respect their characters deserve. Or indeed paid them and their estate a respectable percentage of the annual turnover of merch and IP. Ditko DGAF, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Yes, I am a member of the club which includes the few, the proud, the partially sleepless. Yes, I am usually in bed before 10pm. Rob DGAF. I’m happy this way. How do you think this newsletter gets cranked out week on week?
I am amazed, no, astonished, that this brilliant idea has not been played with up till now. And doesn’t Colombo look adorable?
An interview with Beck, who has soundtracked some very meaningful moments in my life. Morning Phase is a simple, quiet joy to me, but there’s also Mellow Gold, Midnite Vultures…
Actually, let’s come back to this in the Outro.
Pixar-style renditions of the Bear crew. Some are better than others (Neil and Tina ain’t right) but Carmy and Nat? Bang on.
Script-writers in need of a way into a meet-cute should check some of these pick-up lines out. I was moved in a very discombobulating way.
We do not, to my knowledge, have a character like Mr. Rogers in the UK. That is to our detriment. Look at how he reduces an audience of Hollywood A-listers to tears with a simple request to shut the fuck up for ten seconds and think about the people who got them there in the first place.
OK, he didn’t quite put it like that but you get the gist.
We should all take a quiet moment to remember the loved ones who helped us on our path every now and then. Thank you, Fred.
Ok, I’m out. One, two, you know what to do.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
