The Swipe Volume 2 Chapter 37
Pity the December baby. Born in the darkest month, doomed to have their birthday forever superseded by all that Christmas nonsense. It’s impossible to book anywhere for a nice meal out, you end up with a shared birthday/X-Day gift, and there’s the general feel that your special day just isn’t that—well, special. My extended clan of friends and family has many Sagittarians in its ranks, including a Christmas Day and a New Year’s Eve child. Honestly, it sucks. This festive season, spare a thought and a little love for the December babies in your life. They didn’t choose to be born this way.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Pines by Blake Crouch. A fast, frantic bit of pulp nonsense which starts as a procedural mystery, goes a bit Twin Peaks then takes a wild SF-nal turn in the third act. A lot of fun, and Crouch knows how to put his hero through the wringer. Character and dialogue are functional and basic, but it’s a masterclass in how to plot. There’s a TV adaptation of the trilogy, Wayward Pines, if you fancy it.
Rob is watching…
Wolf Hall: The Mirror And The Light. Speaking of masterclasses, this is proper, premium BBC Sunday night viewing. Everyone involved is on their A-game. It’s brilliantly written, fantastically acted (Damian Lewis as the psychopathic Henry VIII is deliciously villainous) and looks gorgeous. This is where your licence fee is going, folks. Worth every penny.
Rob is listening…
to The New York Dolls. The cross-point between glam, punk and 80s metal, the Dolls were and remain incredibly influential. The look. The sound. The hair. Years ahead of their time, still relevant, still loud, proud and out there.
Rob is eating…
Supermarket Christmas Sandwiches. It doesn’t matter where from, I love ‘em all. The brie and cranberry, the turkey and sausage, the pork and stuffing. My favourite bit of Christmas is the Boxing Day sarnie, and everything before that is buildup to that precious moment when I pile a big bap high with gleanings from the table (yes, there are roasties, yes there is gravy) and take that first bite.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
A great David Lebovitz post which instantly sets three new obsessions in place—the bizarre French way with numbers (seventy-five is soixante-quinze, literally sixty-fifteen), the notion of au pif and sauce gribiche, which I had over hake at my favourite new eating place, the refurbed, elegant and delightful Rising Sun in Reading). I plan to adopt two of the three into my daily doings in the future.
Let’s start with a self-care affirmation as we move into a period where we become really bad at looking after ourselves. It really is about attending to our simplest needs. The animals know best.
I was saddened to hear we’d lost James McMahon, a music journalist of rare passion, compassion and talent. I read his newsletter regularly, and was struck by his open, honest approach to the mental health struggles he faced on a daily basis. He went way too early, but still left a giant legacy.
It looks like folks are finally sick of Elmo Muskrat and his bullshit generator, and are flying away from the social media platform he bought and burnt down. I have a presence there and will keep it, but barely check in anymore. You should be able to easily find me on Threads, Mastodon and most frequently Bluesky, which has the most old-school Twitter vibe of the three—as well as the most robust moderation tools. I also recommend using Openvibe, which allows you to view and post to all three services in one big timeline, making the whole experience feel less fragmented.
The cheap, pulpy B-movie, shot for peanuts and not aiming for anything more than an entertaining night out, is rare on the ground nowadays. Terrifier 3 would be an example, except the extreme gore which seems to be its raison d’etre is off-putting to most people, I guess. There is nothing cheap about Gladiator 2, but I agree with the argument raised by Sophie at That Final Scene—it’s not pretending to be great art.
CNN forensically explore our fascination with the UK’s biggest pub chain—Wetherspoons. I’m a regular user, and can confirm you find all human life in Tim Martin’s joints. Students to pensioners, families and friends, all gather under one roof for cheap food and booze and a chance to get together without choking out the bank balance. Always interesting to see an outside view of a national obsession.
Before the smart-asses amongst you stoke up your righteous indignation and activate your ‘well, actually…’ projectors—yes, I’m aware there is an essential voice missing from this piece. But as that voice belongs to one of the most reclusive musicians on the planet, I think we can excuse The Quietus for being unable to tease an opinion for their listicle out of Beth Gibbons. That aside, the following really does give a strong sense of where Portishead’s sound came from.
Portishead’s 13 Favouite Albums
I want one of these. That’s it, that’s the post.
An excellent use of Ninth-art techniques in this exploration of baby-monitoring, and how the hurtful realisation that you can’t be with your darling child all the time is a terrible but essential part of parenthood.
It turns out The Wicker Man was based on a real event. Which makes the film even creepier…
And lastly, more useful resources for the upcoming month of madness. Make sure everything here is built into the schedule.
They’ve released the Christmas Discourse Schedule! Lots to look forward to this year.
— Angus Main (@angusmain.bsky.social) 2024-11-26T07:48:22.547Z
My Insatiable One has been banging around my head for the last fortnight, so it seemed like an obvious choice for the Outro. I found a great version performed by the boys on Jools Holland back in 1993 when it was still an essential music show. I was set and ready to go. Then I spotted this in the YouTube sidebar and, well, all bets were off. A stunning performance of an incredible song. The pomp, glory and battered romance of Suede distilled into a spine-tingling few minutes.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
