The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 15
A real Jeckll-and-Hyde week. On Saturday I started feeling unwell—a killer combo of aches, shivers and hot flushes which rendered me horizontal and housebound until Wednesday. Once I was back on my feet, I had to negociate three days of social activity, including a trip to Oxford to see The Waterboys—of which much more next week. It would have been very easy to cry off on the extrovert duties—I had a great excuse, after all. I’m pretty sure I was no longer a carrier for whatever hit me at that point, but folks would have understood. For once, though, I felt I needed to be out and amongst friends. And you know what, I think it really helped in the recovery process. My hermit tendencies are strong. I need to not let them take over.
Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.
Rob is reading…
Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel—a second attempt at reading after Sea Of Tranquility persuaded me I should give her best known work another go. And it’s fine so far. The tale of a post-collapse world and a group of theatre folk in a travelling show who act as our guides, it’s beautifully written and uses a couple of carefully crafted details to connect the dots of the story. I’m kinda done with apocalyptic SF—the tropes and symbols are desperately overdone. Station Eleven, however, seems to be sneaking past my defences. Maybe the virus which hit me this week has rewired my brain a bit.
Rob is watching…
Tucci In Italy. When I grow up I want to be Stanley Tucci with his incredible life and cool easy demeanour and charm. His new show, for National Geographic, is glorious eye-candy, all swooping drone shots of sun-drenched crumbling architecture and markets heaving with perfect produce. It is, I’m sure, as far from the life of the average Italian as I am from Stanley Tucci. But hey, a boy can watch—and dream.
Rob is listening…
Pharrell Williams released an album of smooth yacht rock as a birthday present to all of us. It’s free to download as you wish. It’s the ideal soundtrack for a sunny weekend. Mix that Tucci-approved Negroni and go be beautiful.
Rob is eating…
Food I haven’t cooked, an inevitable by-product of the giddy life of a socialite like what I has become. Burgers, nachos and a very passable version of pollo Milanese, which I am happy to see start to reappear on chain restaurant menus. Yes, OK, it’s fried chicken and chips. No, nothing can ever match up to the exemplar of the form, my regular lunch at the long-gone Soho hangout The New Piccadilly, and yes I am aware of what a ridiculous ould gobshite that makes me sound—‘it was the perfect meal, you can never taste it and I am sustained only by my fading memories of the flavour boo hoo oh sweet tragedy of passing time’ and all that bollox. This seems to have gone off the rails. Perhaps I should eat a salad.
Rob’s Low-Key Obsession Of The Week…
Richard Godwin makes the case for a frosty creamy beverage to enjoy as part the long weekend and I for one am here for it.
Kendra Dawsey talks to Bad Environmentalist about the comedy of climate change. There’s nothing funny about what we’re doing the planet. But our reactions to it and excuses for our behaviour—lotsa laffs.
Laughing While The World Burns
George Orwell was very precise about what constitutes a nice cup of tea. He leans hard into the ritualistic aspect. This is as it should be. You may find the whole rigmarole of using a pot and measuring out the loose-leaf to be a bit much. At least try and leave the bag in the mug for a couple of minutes rather than just stir and squeeze. You’ll get a far superior cuppa. Use the steeping time to track down some biscuits.
Some notes from Octavia Butler, which can be boiled down to the three words no writer wants to hear—write every day. It’s as easy and as horrible as that. Then it’s all about waiting for the good stuff to start emerging.
How do you like your eggs in the morning?
https://www.tumblr.com/famouspainterwombat/780157482080288768Frances Wilson on parties in history and literature. I firmly believe any party is greatly enhanced by organising your exit strategy before accepting a drink. Then I can relax and enjoy the vibes, knowing once the time comes I can exfil in seconds.
Dr. Kate Lister makes a very solid point about the inherent inequality of the housing market using a clever pop-cultural example. I won’t spoil it any further. I think anyone who says millennials just need to save a bit harder to afford a house could do with being shown this. C and I could never have afforded Swipe Towers at its current market valuation. As for our first house, a humble two-up two-down in the unfashionable reaches of East London? Forget it.
A fun interactive tect game which could just end with you as the new Vicar Of Christ. The concept of Conclave fascinates me now. The back-biting and machinations. The subtle and suddenly brutal power plays. The gorgeous frocks!
Finally, as a taster towards next week, here’s John Higgs taking to Mike Scott, head Waterboy about forty-odd years of The Big Music and the stories behind the latest album, an ambitious concept album on the mad whirlwind at the centre of the counter-culture.
One last thing.
The Waterboys’ support last night, a rather excellent combo called Sugarfoot, romped through a cover of this early Fairport Convention track. Just my cup of tea. Assam, please. Fetch the pot. I’ll grab the Hob-Nobs.
See you in seven, fellow travellers.
