K.P. Webster's Blog, page 24

Pre-Production :: Digging

Thursday 17th May, 2013

You know, if I’d never met Cyrus and Ruby, it’s very possible that I might never have realised that I was born to go WWOOFing. I met them in July 2010 and we drank firewater and I had a little weep. Then Ruby set me up with her friend Heidi and that was fun for a short while. Then when Ruby was having a baby in the autumn of last year, I looked after the other three kids when things got complicated and both Cyrus and Ruby needed to be at the hospital. So we have become close over the years.

And it was after spending time with them, and working with them on their old house – particularly a few days taking down and building from scratch an old barn roof (see above) – that I realised how good I feel when I spend time outdoors, working with other people on whatever needs doing. And then I remembered that WWOOFing exists. And now here I am, back at Cyrus and Ruby’s, warming up for the off.

The house here is great. Cyrus and Ruby had the brilliant, and as far as I know, completely original idea of turning an old house and a bunch of barns into a gite, which they can then rent out to holiday-hungry Francophiles. They saw a gap in the market and they went for it. When the gite is ready to rent, they intend to go travelling with their kids (and piano and drums) in a huge Mercedes bus, which is currently sitting in a barn, waiting its turn.

They’ve got another year before its ready to rent out.

In the meantime, all kinds of stuff is going on. Poultry. Flowers. Bulldozers. Diggers. All kinds. And for the past few days I’ve been digging too. Under the patio there’s a space filled with rocks and roots, and it needs to be turned into a chilling-out-after-a-bathe area when the pool’s finished. Unfortunately, there’s insufficient access for a mechanical digger, so it all needs to be done by hand. It’s a great job though. The earth is wicked. I’m with Alice Walker on that.

Pick-axe, wheelbarrow, shovel and hoe. These are my tools. My John, Paul, George and Ringo. I am Brian Epstein, making them sing. I am also George Martin. And Mal, the roadie. I do most of the work to be honest, but I’d be nothing without them.

Obviously, no amount of photographs – even better photographs – could really give you any idea of the arduousness of the task, but here’s a little taster…

Now, later, as I sit here, aching brilliantly in one of the lovingly refurbished bedrooms, lying propped by a large pillow on a lovingly made bed, I am wearing a clean shirt on a smelly body and my stomach sits in front of me like a prize tripe-mound. It looks huge to me, partly because it’s pushed up by a tight belt, partly because it is actually fucking huge. Relatively. I grew it deliberately while I was in Mansfield. I cultivated it. I did very little exercise – a fair bit of walking but nothing else – and I ate Hob Nobs and Magnum Minis and bacon and sausages and single serving fruit cocktail trifles from Morrison’s.

And it was good.

I ate with gleeful abandon, happy to put on a stone or two, knowing that I’d be working it off come the summer.

And in the meantime, here I am, digging.

And it is good.

 

Pre-Production :: Chop Wood, Carry Water, Paint Walls

If the Karate Kid taught us anything – and I feel certain that he did – he taught us that it is essential to recognise the significance and the potential benefits of performing seemingly tedious, repetitive tasks.

The Shack needed painting. Sixteen walls and no ceilings. Most of them a couple of coats each. So I took all of the wisdom from the famous car-waxing and fence-painting scenes in The Karate Kid and I applied it to walls.

‘All in wrist. Up. Down. Long stroke. Don’t forget to breathe.’

I am now one of the most dangerous men in France.

And The Shack is looking good.

The electricity is all done. The decorating is about half-done. The Shack will soon be properly habitable – by which I mean fit for normal people with normal requirements, not merely for hermits and hillbillies.

Soon.

But there’s still plenty to do, as there always will be.

“Before Enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.

After Enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”

- Zen Proverb (Mr Miyagi)

Now eggs and beans.

 

Wax image from here: http://thekaratekidblog.blogspot.com

Last Day :: Pre-Production Checklist (Plus Thoughts)

Wednesday 8th May, 2013

I memorise everything. The plates on the walls. The stopped clock. The perfect paper leaves. The rickety lamp with the heavily taped cable. I load it all on to the griddle of my brain. Along with this photograph.

My parents. Probably as close as I ever saw them. Bless them.

Do I mean ‘griddle’?

I have no idea.

The word ‘griddle’ has been nudged out of my brain by all the new stuff.

I shall struggle on without it.

The smell of the wheat-bag, hot from the microwave. The muffled cacophony of tone-deaf Don singing through the night and bellowing, guffawing at the moon. Thankful fingers, bleached, scrubbing soiled carpets at 4am. The One Show. The crystal. The vinyl. The tea.

Today is my last full day in England till the autumn. I’m doing lots of things for the last time. I look out for them. The last passing conversation with the Dobermans downstairs. The last walk to my sister’s house for a bath. The last stretch of wet road and wayward worms. The last bath.

My mum has recovered from her operation. I am leaving home again. Just like the first time, 25 years ago.

My journey to September begins tomorrow at 9. My clothes are all over settee like piles of messy promises. I’m making a list.

Camera. Laptop. Dictaphone. Flip.

Check. Check. Check. Check.

Passport. Notebook. Kindle. Cash.

Check. Check. Check … Ah.

But not to worry.

The last time I launched myself into a project that required travelling around and writing about my adventures, I had a whopping £400 left of a two-grand overdraft. This time I’m not so fortunate. But this time I don’t really need money. It would be good, just in case something goes wrong and I need to bribe a corrupt official, or just in case something goes right and I need to purchase an ice cream for Monica Bellucci. It would be great, in fact, to have the extra choices that money allows. But I’m not going to let its absence oppress me. On the contrary, I am intent on embracing it. After all, it’s not as if I’ll be going hungry. And I won’t be freezing to death. And I’ll be hitching from one place to another like a beautiful hobo. So I really don’t need money. If it wants to come with me, it only has to ask, but in the meantime, I’m travelling light. Lighter than air. Carefree like a kaftan.

Mellow like a muumuu.

The Kindle was an early birthday present from my wonderful mother. I have around 180 books loaded onto it. They are all improving books. They are all improving books because all books are improving books, if you read them right. I have Arabian Nights and Japanese Fairy Tales, William Blake and Friedrich Nietzsche. I have Dostoyevsky’s Notes from the Underground, Masanobu Fukuoka’s One-Straw Revolution and Raoul Vaneigm’s The Revolution of Everyday Life. I also have Roald Dahl, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, James Ellroy, David Sedaris, Franz Kafka and Stephen King. And heaps and heaps more. More books than I could read in two years. In the top pocket of my rucksack. Imagine that.

…

It’s later now, and I’ve had a last conversation with my mum and sisters in Scotland. We’ve grown a lot closer since all the men died. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve caught up a bit, since being around.

I’ve decided to write my mum a weekly letter. Like a proper good son.

It’s suddenly nearly midnight. 

Capo. Harmonica. Skipping rope. Tent.

Check. Check. Check. There’s one in France. Hopefully it’ll be serviceable. 

I’ve got to go to sleep now. Tomorrow deserves my best.

 

Until soon.

x

Feedback Friday :: Oh, the Places I’ll Go!

bulk :: 13st (woo hoo! I am getting fat before I get fit. It’s going well. And it’s fun. Good old cheese. Good old chocolate. Good old pies.)

days late with this blog post :: 2

days till I go back to France :: 11

weeks till I go WWOOFing in Italy :: 5

Look at this hand:

Isn’t it great? I love that photograph. It’s from a massively splendid series of photographs which can be found here. I’ll be going there at some stage, to La Dimora Dell’Essere, to live and work with the people who own the place, for a couple of weeks. Isn’t that amazing? I mean, just the fact that this opportunity exists at all. I’m still kind of blown away by it. I can’t really understand why more people don’t do it.

Anyway, I’m not sure when I’ll be going yet as I’m still working out the last half of the trip. The first half is in place though. First of all I’ll be visiting a small farm in Parma. I’ll be staying there for a week. Then I’ll be going to this place in Lecce. When I saw these words on their website…

“Don’t wonder about the needs of the world; instead,

ask yourself what makes your heart sing and do it, because

what the world needs the most is people whose hearts sing”

…I thought that I really had to go to there. Then I saw some of the other stuff they get up to and I knew I had to go there. Unfortunately, they ask for a minimum commitment of two months, whereas I was planning to spend a maximum of two weeks at each place. So I wrote to the lady who runs it and we compromised. I’ll be staying there for a month.

Because I’ll be trying to do the whole trip without spending any money (on account of not having any money), I’ll be hitching from one destination to the next. Because of this, what I was aiming to do was to keep the distance between one destination and the next to an absolute minimum. In theory, I saw myself working my way around the country in short bursts. Because of various factors, however (and not entirely the fault of my poor organisational skills) the distance between the first two destinations is around one thousand kilometres. It looks like this…

I have allowed myself two days to do it. I will take a tent.

At the moment the whole trip – pending a couple of confirmations – looks like this:

How exciting is that? For me it is very exciting. I am very excited. Now, if I can get someone to pay me to write about it as I go, I’ll be even more excited. But that’s the tricky part.

Keep hope alive.

And in the meantime, just marvel at these hands…

Feedback Friday :: Lacklustre Weblog Performance Apparent Result of Intense Preparations for Exciting, Delicious, Intensely Satisfying Future

bulk :: 12st 13 (oops)

days away :: 13

books sold :: none. Get stewed: Books are a load of crap

plans :: heaps

days till I go back to France :: 27

weeks till I give up and go farming :: 7

songs written :: 1

what-have-you :: lots and lots and lots and lots

Right. What? I don’t know, I don’t know. Lots of plans, lots of lists. Plans, lists and hankerings. I’ve spent the last couple of days compiling the definitive list of farms and what-have-you that I want to visit in Italy between June and September. That’s the plan. June to September and then see where I am, who I am and whatever I happen to be made of. An awful lot can happen in three months. I start sending out the emails and arranging the visits just as soon as I’ve finished this here lacklustre blog post.

I’ve given up on the book. Well, not given up exactly. It’s still there – it will always be there – but I’m done trying to sell it. Lots of people read it and liked it. A few people loved it and that was very heartening. Lots of other people, however, didn’t. Well, I’m imagining they didn’t, as I never heard from them again.

It doesn’t matter.

I’ll write some more. And when they don’t sell in vast numbers either, I’ll write some more again. So it goes.

I had a very good time in France. I had a good time with old friends and new friends and ducks and dogs, and I had a good time on my own, back in The Shack, which now has electricity.

Imagine that.

Electric light. Refrigerated cheese. Hot water. Power tools.

I have nothing much to say today and too much to do. Suffice to say, everything is going in the right direction.

Here – for posterity – am I, up a roof about six months ago.

Time eh?

And space.

Have a wonderful weekend.

I love you.

Ducks in a Row

I am in France. My fingernails are black. My finances are in tatters but the music is loud and the future is dancing ahead of me, seductively. My future has tremendously agile and perfectly fluid hips. They are hypnotic. There will be cake by the way. In my future’s infinite picnic basket, there will be cake and sunshine and swimming, plus a ceaseless supply of genuine revels. And the occasional Hob-Nob. My plans are in place. My foundations are laid. The laughter of God can go hang.  

Thus far in France there has been wine. There has been livestock. There has been friendship, music, dancing and yogic flying. There has not been yogic flying. I just invented that. Like a wizard. I am a wizard! We are all wizards! But still, there has been no yogic flying.

There has, however, been duckhusbandry.

We went to a market. The one at Les Hérolles. It’s quite famous. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It’s called ‘The Market of Les Hérolles’.

It’s quite famous because it’s one of those places where you can buy just about anything. Sausages. Lychees. Baby mice. Brie. Grebe. Mahogany grasshoppers. Treeotards. Mooncups. Guatemalan Penis Lamps. Suede Hats. Shit Monkeys.

There was even a man who was able to summon fire gods from giant dishcloths…

And this bird, which has as yet undistilled magical powers…

And this man, livestock specialist and accidental inventor of the market’s first rabbit-powered time machine,’The Epoch Shifter’ (sounds better in French)…

But we were there for chickens. All of us. We all went. And we were there for the chickens. The chickens. However, when The Universe tells you to source ducks, you do not quibble over permissions or prices or ponds – not if you’ve got your balls about you: you source ducks.

And that’s what happened. The Universe told me to source and purchase two ducks.

The first ducks we looked at were not right, however…

Turns out they were from a distant planet and had to be pumped full of uranium to survive our earth atmosphere. They were actually being sold as lamps. And the universe wasn’t telling me to source lamps. If it was, it would have sent me to Exciting Lighting in Mansfield Woodhouse.

The next ducks we looked at were African Featherbills…

But they were too expensive.

The next ones were ruled out because they had been genetically modified to grow their own toupees…

But these – these were the ones. Watch them huddle. Understand.

I want that one…

Back at Cyrus and Ruby’s place, we had already half-constructed a fowl enclosure in the wild flower field with the old hen houses in the corner. Here it is…

So we finished that and installed the birds. Here are the ducks – Raymond and Raclette – in their new home.

It was just a little gloomy at first, as you can see.

And even when they came outside, something wasn’t right. They were like ducks out of water. It was like there was something missing. But what?

So it just happened that there was an old tin bath lying around. All that needed to be done was a) dig a hole b) bury bath and c) fill bath with water, and Raymond and Raclette would be the happiest ducks this side of Peking.

So that’s what we did. Here:

a) dig a hole

b) bury bath

c) fill bath

Now there’s only one thing missing. Two things in fact. Here they are, cowering in their dungeon…

Come on, Raymond! Come on, Raclette! Get quacking! Your life is just beginning!

I love ducks, don’t you?

 

Holiday

The Night I Forgot Who I Was

It was November 5th, or thereabouts, must have been 1989? Think so. I forgot who I was. A friend of mine wrote everything I needed to know on a piece of paper. I kept it. A couple of nights ago I found it. I thought I’d better bequeath it to you, before one of us dies….

Cheers, Paul.

 

 

Self-Publishing Masterclass :: Cover Design :: CL Smith

In the wake of any revolution there is always a slew of new opportunities. And, naturally, where there are opportunities, there are opportunists. The self-publishing revolution – and there definitely is one – is no different. Everywhere you look at the moment, there are professional services being offered to the hordes of ordinary people who always knew they had a book in them, or even a series of books. These services promise to guarantee self-published authors the best possible chance of success. They range from the benevolent and honourable, such as the free publishing platform Smashwords, to the execrable and parasitic, such as the vanity publishing behemoth Author Solutions - recently purchased by Pearson for $116m, yet widely despised, denigrated and unapologetically likened to syphilis.

Then there are designers who offer pre-made covers for self-published authors. There are a lot of these and the majority of them – like the majority of the writers who pay them – are not very good. In fact, a great many of them are peddling covers that would not appear out of place in the pantheon of grotesques that is Lousy Book Covers. For example, feast your peepers on these, taken from a number of apparently reputable sites and costing between $25 and $140 a pop…

So when I recently followed a link to a depository of pre-made book covers entitled Go On Write, I didn’t do so with any degree of expectation. Actually, that’s not true. What I expected was to be appalled, as per usual.

Instead, I was – not to put to fine a point on it – gobsmacked. For once, the pre-made covers on display looked like proper books. More impressive still, as well as clean, sharp images accompanied by striking fonts and colours that didn’t clash violently, they were all finished off with believable fake titles and authors. So rather than the usual ‘Your title here’ and ‘Author name’ nonsense, here was someone who’d gone to the trouble to exercise a little imagination. Here is a small selection of my favourites, some of the reasons I felt the need to get in touch…

So I did a little background reading and sent an email to CL Smith – the CL stands for Cheap Literature; his real name is James – to see if he’d consent to an email interview.

A couple of hours later I received a reply. ‘You loon!’ it began. ‘Google talk is what you need to be using. Now is an extremely good time. I am a man who works hard and plays hard. I am an animal. Barely human! I still think I am a little drunk from last night. Bring cigarettes and coffee. Contrary to belief, coffee does not sober you up. The caffeine actually accelerates the heart beat. You do the math. A good journalist / writer catches their subject unguarded. So we’re good to go, baby. Expect typos – leave them in edit them out – either way’s good for me.’

I take them out, because I’m super-anal.

So, for the next couple of hours, having been caught unguarded, I am subject to the weirdest interview I’ve ever conducted. Actually I didn’t conduct it at all, and it felt less like an interview and more like being trapped at a party by a slightly manic artist who’s read rather a lot of books and has quite possibly taken drugs.

I start by asking him which of the titles he’s made up are his favourites. He points me at these…

On the back of the Tim Roth title, via Made in Britain and Meantime, we chat for a while about Mike Leigh films.

‘I really really loved Another Year,’ he says. ‘That’s a shockingly brilliant character study, and really really sad. But that’s the way people are. They say they have friends and try and help people out but they do not give a fuck. It’s almost Ronnie Laing in it’s psychological acerbity.’

“You rarely see taste done badly because taste comes from intelligence, and it’s a joy”

I do a quick search for Ronnie Laing and realise with something of a surprise that he means RD Laing, the noted psychiatrist. Calling him Ronnie seems audacious to me.

‘That’s a Will Self quote,’ he says. ‘He calls him Ronnie, so it’s good enough for me.’

I mention around now that James seems very affable, if a little unhinged.

‘I’m not unhinged,’ he tells me. ‘I’m real … I’m honest. I do not have a front … You want to know my theory?’

I tell him I do.

‘You see what you have these days is a lot of people living their lives out on Twitter and Facebook. Or at least a good chunk of it. Now, you can’t be honest on those things because you’ll get shot down in flames, so everything tends towards a middle, a really horrid, inane middle, and people don’t know how to be any other way. I am a little too old to do that [social media] thing … I’m more of a conversation in a pub kinda guy.’

James is not quite 40.

He works as a designer of book covers. For the pre-made stuff, he buys up the images from stock websites, makes up the covers and posts them to his website. I read somewhere that he writes as well. I ask for confirmation.

‘I do write as well, yes. Not that get much time for it what with all the covers and such. I have one story on Kindle. It is a quietly revolutionary tale. Not that most people would get it. So there’s the icing of a nice funny little tale on top … which amuses people. I have other stuff under way as well … about 10 other things I’m working on … I should work on one really and get that finished. The main one at the moment is about a shed that disappears. By the way, Umbrella by Will Self is utterly unreadable. And after The Butt I thought he was calming down.’

I’ve been drinking a lot of Bloody Marys recently, perfecting my recipe, and early on in our conversation, probably because I’m attempting to bond with James in a predictably male but winningly sophisticated way, I ask him how he takes his Mary. ‘Most people use lemon,’ he says, ‘I’m more of a lime kinda guy.’ Then he nips out to the shops for cigarettes and when he returns, he sends me a photo. ‘An image to break up your article,’ he says…

It’s not quite 3pm but I feel an irresistible urge to join him. I put sherry in mine. I’m a sherry kinda guy.

‘”Makes me feel blank like I missed!”‘ he writes. ‘”GET HELP!” Bloody Mary by the Jesus Lizard. What a song!’

He sends me a link.

‘Anything by the Jesus Lizard.’

I ask him to stop sending me videos to watch as I can’t watch them because of a weak-ass dongle, so it’s a little frustrating.

‘Yes, but you can publish them if you’re publishing this interview online and other people might enjoy them. Don’t be so god damned selfish! … While we’re at it, here’s Boiler Plate as well by the Jesus Lizard. The best rock and roll song ever written. Boiler Plate. Is that what I said? I meant Boilermaker…

I ask how I should refer to him in the article.

‘My name is James,’ he says. ‘My pen name is CL Smith, as in Cheap Literature Smith. It’s a facetious tip of the hat to mister Dickens. Charles that is. James (aka CL Smith, aka Humblenations, aka the GOON of GoOnWrite.com, aka JJ of drinking fame). I can keep this going for as long as you like. Refinement, nobility and constitution. Constitution being the most important factor. Stayability.’

“Some people will say ‘but I don’t like wine’. Tough shit. Drink it, motherfucker”

I ask him if he’s an alcoholic.

‘Yes, but a highly functioning one. I couldn’t have done 1,300 covers in the last four months any other way.’

We have a brief conversation about excess – ‘I  have these parties every six months with my friends, male friends, and it’s all about the best stuff: the best wine, the best food, the best music’ – which leads him to a quote by Chris Evans. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘That ginger twerp. I actually like the man.’

‘Life is in two acts,’ said Evans. ‘You’ve just got to survive the intermission.’

‘Brilliant quote,’ says James. ‘I’m all grown up now.’ Then: ‘Everyone reading this wants to know about those amazing tunes. So here’s one. Answer Phone by Green Velvet. Answer Phone?!?!?! Answering Machine.’

I ask him what he thinks of lousybookcovers.com.

‘I love it. Fuck that bullshit of everyone being nicey nice. Be honest. If something’s crap, someone should be allowed to say so.’

When I try to end the interview, he calls me a lightweight and says we haven’t even touched on taste yet. Then we touch on taste. In an attempt to be amusing, I posit the notion that taste is objective. ‘Taste is not objective!’ he exclaims. Then he proceeds to explain precisely why, in actual fact, it is.

‘Let me give you an example. 2004. 2004 was an excellent year for rioja. It just was. It’s not like I’m a wine snob and know loads but I do know that. The weather was favourable for the grape. Now in that year, any vineyard will make batches. Some are reserva. They charge more for that because it tastes better. Then up from that you have familia reserva, the shit they’re saying they’re keeping back from the family, but still sell the best of the batches. You pay more for that because it’s better. So for a nice 2004 familia reserva today, you’re looking at £30. But wow … it’s nice. And some people will say “but I don’t like wine”. Tough shit. Drink it, motherfucker. Now drink this 2007 five quid bottle. Which do you prefer?’

I suggest that some people might genuinely not be able to tell the difference.

‘Fucking liars,’ he replies. ‘That’s the difference between your “subjective” and my “objective”. Taste is objective. It’s not because it costs more. It’s because it’s better. Most people can’t afford to be objective about taste for one of two reasons: 1. They lack the tools to be objective – which is a euphemism for they’re not smart enough. Or, and more often than not, 2. They don’t have the time to be objective, they don’t want to put in the effort and time. I spend a lot of time with music. I like all genres. All of them, because there is the best of everything. But this takes time. A lot of time. But I search it out. Do you see where this conversation is going?’

“I’m what I like to call a Whore Designer. If the money is right, I open my legs”

But of course this is not really a conversation at all. This is a monologue. And a good one.

‘Book covers. No? People buy my covers because I spend a lot of time with my taste, to search out 1. the right images, 2. the right fonts – placed together they’re pretty nice covers. People think they’re paying for my skills, but in truth they’re paying for my taste in things.’

We move on to the relationship between taste and skill. He tells me I’m wrong about some things. And then…

‘You rarely see taste done badly. You want to know why? It’s because taste comes from intelligence, and it’s a joy. Taste is a joy in your own thoughts. You spend time on it and it makes you happy, like looking for the best country funk song from 1974 – and then you find it. It satisfies an intellectual desire.’

Do you not think that two intelligent tasteful people can have totally different tastes?

‘No. I have very clever friends. Most are cleverer than me. I have a Russian pure chemist friend. Pure chemistry is about theoretical ideas. It has no application. It’s about understanding. And a friend, Pete the Hat, he’s a statistician, a math head. Under that hat. He works in the medical research field. Do these two people have the same taste as me? Most of the time they do. Which is to say, that affirms my own brain in the most vain way. I understand that. But when I find the best 1974 country funk song and email them with it, they’re like, fuck James, that’s nice.’

I ask him if he’s really suggesting that anyone truly intelligent will like what he does.

He laughs, or at least he types that he laughs. ‘No. Some idiots like it too. That’s a joke by the way. All the swear words have been done. If you want to really insult someone - at least in the western world nowadays - you say they’re stupid.’

Because - I guess - I’m trying to see how far he’ll allow his ego to flourish, I ask him if his work is ever disliked by intelligent people.

‘I don’t know because they don’t buy from me, so how would I know?’ Then: ‘No one would have the honesty to do that. That’s the truth. Everyone is polite.’

I ask him to imagine it. In theory. Imagine someone saying ‘I don’t like your work. I find it a little … gauche. A little … obvious.’ Imagine it.

‘That would be fantastic. I’d love that. I would say … yes yes yes. My pre-made shit is totally obvious. That’s what sells. I can’t do myself out of paying my rent … Putting people on covers lacks imagination. I’ve said as much. But people on covers sell. So I do them.’

I ask him if he considers himself a great artist, irrespective of what he does to pay the rent. He sends me a link to an article on one of his websites, the ferociously ironic Humble Nations, an article entitled 14 Tips for Good Kindle Cover Design.

“I do stuff to amuse myself. I’m a troll, through and through. It’s

an honourable art form”

‘Published last year, way back. I am … what I like to call … a Whore Designer. If the money is right, I open my legs. And I am great artist. A piss artist! I enjoy designing immensely, and it pays the rent, and the taxman. I like telling stories, entertaining people. There’s a fantastic quote by Nietzsche. “Those who dance are considered insane by those who can’t hear the music.” But that’s not the one. “We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.” I hold that pretty strongly. Literally. That’s me.’

I agree that these are indeed words to live by and I’m thankful that though there are undanced days in my life, there aren’t that many.

‘People pay me to design covers, not necessarily because they’re stupid, but usually because they don’t have time … I am a gopher, a scout. And people pay me for my taste in things. Horrid when you put it that way, but hey, what’s a little bit of truth and honesty between writers?’

I come across the reference to Haruki Murakami in the aforementioned article and mention that I recently read much of his back catalogue in France. James did a similar thing, coming to Murakami via Max Richter, Robert Wyatt, Richard Brautigan and a clever, ambitious, beautiful but apparently unkind Bosnian scenographer, then reading one after another till he had to stop. I ask him about Norwegian Wood, which was his first, and my least favourite. He responds….

‘Fuck Murakami. Writes the same book over and over again. It’s dull if you’ve read them all … to be honest I can take it or leave it. Overdosed I guess. I like shit like Dan Rhodes. Nicola Barker. Alan Warner. Odd stuff. Odd with humanity is always what I savour. The precision of Japanese writing doesn’t appeal massively to my soul. I like things more sloppy. That’s the libertine in me.’

He goes on to mention a thread about romantic films he started on an online forum. He did it not because he had any interest in romantic films, but because he found it funny, to see how people would react.

‘It was a lightning rod for proving to myself they have no taste … I am such a cunt. I do stuff to amuse myself. I am a troll, through and through. It’s an honourable art form.’

I am reminded of self-confessed internet troll Limmy: ‘Why do I want to annoy people? Because annoying people is funny.’ And also of Jamie Catto, who puts it slightly less baldly when he writes: ‘I am a provoker and a disruptor, a wind-up merchant and a tail puller, a prodder and a poker. When I meet someone’s “appropriate” mask my first impulse is to want to dance with them to the edge of their “appropriate” version of themselves and see what illuminating fun can be had when the mask slips. Suddenly, then, there’s a chance of intimacy and often some well-needed oxygen.’

‘People love their own opinions,’ says Mr Smith, who clearly adores his. Then he’s back on RD Laing, Don Quixote and Jasper Carrott in Golden Balls. No, seriously. This is to prove that politeness is an act of pure selfishness. ‘Being good to other people is good. Helping a brother out is amazing. Shame you can’t watch this,’ he says. ‘It’s brilliant.’

‘That, my friend, is politeness. In truth, it’s game theory. It’s a wholly selfish self-preservation act. Now manners. That’s something different. Manners are good.’

At which point, I thank Cheap Literature Smith sincerely for his time and his passion, and our interview is concluded.

His book covers are here, and they are incredibly good value. As is he.

 

How to Be Outrageously Successful With Women (in 1976)

 

See?

Eight or nine years ago, I removed some dying lino from the bedroom floor of a house I was living in and found some old newspapers there underneath. The newspapers were from January, 1976. They were mostly copies of The Sun. Sadly, much of what remained was partially decomposed and quite unreadable. But enough remained to provide a telling snapshot of what life was like in the mid-70s.

1976 was of course an exciting new age in Great Britain, with everyone – not least tabloid journalists – coming to terms with the Sex Discrimination Act, passed in November of 1975.

In The Sun, this meant the appearance of Libby, a progressive female cartoon character who reflected the desire of modern women to be treated equally, or at the very least to be treated as more than mere flesh-chattels fit for cooking, cleaning, sexing and shopping. As you can see here…

Oh.

Well, at least the days when cartoons suggested that for men, women were really nothing more than a pair of breasts, were well and truly over.

Oh.

Well, at least when jobs were advertised now, they had to be offered to both men and women. Because they were equal now. Men. And women.

Oh.

Well, at least now – and I mean now, nearly 40 years later – things have certainly changed. Women are treated with respect in The Sun, which is, let us not forget, Britain’s top-selling newspaper. Not as second-class citizens whose bodies come first, whose house-making skills come second and, yeah, go on then, love, if you’re gonna rattle on about it all day, you can go out and get a job (just don’t expect to be paid the same).

So I just popped over to The Sun’s website, for the first time in a very long time, and on the front page today, to illustrate a story about an 8-year-old boy marrying a 61-year-old woman in South Africa (you can read it here if that kind of thing titillates you), they did this…

LOL! ROFL! See, he’s only 8, right, but he still knows what his wife’s good for.

I don’t know. Maybe that’s not such a great example. It just struck me as rather telling.

At least they don’t have Page Three anymore though. In the newspaper they do, yeah, of course. But not online. Nah. Now, it’s got its own site.

Heh. Voltaire. As if.

I have some friends – seemingly very intelligent friends – who can’t understand why the existence of Page Three might be seen to be damaging our society, or in the words of Bill Hicks, how it might be seen to be tainting our collective unconscious and making us pay a higher psychic price than we imagine. Because to me it’s obvious.

If it’s obvious to you too, the campaign to persuade Dominic Mohan and Rupert Murdoch to stop it and to finally fulfill the promises made in 1975 is still very much alive and kicking. Please support it by adding your signature here. It really is the very least you can do. As a human being. A decent human being who realises that we are all connected. And we all deserve basic respect.

But if all you really came here for was to find out how to be outrageously successful to women, here you go. This is for you…

Don’t mention it.

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