The Public Image Is Unlimited.

Oh my giddy aunt, what a mad old world we live in. Have you heard that John Lydon and his Public Image are in the running for Eurovision? No? You have not heard? Well, why on Earth would you. You lead far too busy and engaging a life to take notice of such trivial things. I, on the other hand, am drowning in trivialites. John Lydon has written a quite lovely song called Hawaii and he is inclined towards representing Ireland for that world wide telly success. Er, I presume it is anyway. I have never watched it so I am not sure if he is a fit for such a show. Or indeed, if it is a fit for him. The song itself was something of a surprise for me. The tone and the performance displaying a vulnerability I was not expecting. But thats John Lydon in a nutshell, is it not. Aloha, Well Hello There...

Covid Angel Visits.

                                                              (From my sketch book.)

from my sketchbook.

Susan Hill And The Midnight Hour.

 Picked up a couple of Susan Hill books on a recent book trawl. They were sitting on a cobwebby Halloween themed shelf in the Oxfam book Shop in Ann Street. They were both such lovely wee editions I could not walk away from them so I bought them with the intention of a late night autumnal feast. Then found myself reading them almost immediately. They just looked and felt so right for the time of year 

            Although the work feels reminiscent of some other stuff I have read recently , it was in an altogether pleasing way rather than a tumble of familiar tropes. She has her own voice and does her own thing. I was reminded of some of the genuinely unpleasant manifestations which occur in MR James stories. His ghosts are never benign and it is difficult to to think of a more unpleasant spirit than that of the vengeful, wicked and unrelenting Woman In Black, Susan Hill's most notorious creation. Similar fiends stalk the pages of these wee collections. There are no jump scares nor Tales From The Crypt full stops and violent ends. Sometimes years pass without resolution and wisdom always comes too late.

            Which you must admit is a tempting concoction to taste, much less swallow. Why not pick them up, uncork a bottle and retire to your Edwardian study to sup with panthers, or at least listen for their soft padding feet, circling in search of an ending.

Moondust. In Search Of The Men Who Fell To Earth.

 Who were the men who fell to earth? you might well ask. Well, Andrew Smith has the answers to that question. Lots and lots of answers, to questions from the foreground of the brain and questions best motivated by the most human of curiousites, that fear of the unknown, driven by the urge to jump and see. And by heaven for a few years we jumped and saw. Here is the account by an author in search of nine astronauts who along the way details the history of the Space Race and beyond, to paraphrase Buzz. Buzz Lightyear that is, not Buzz Aldrin.

               Whata question these men must have had to ask themselves.; What do you do once you return from walking on the moon? When you have stood on the surface of our nearest cosmic neighbour, trampled in the printless soil, possibly even blotted out the Earth with no more than a raised thickly gloved thumb? That tiny spot in space we occupy where everything that has ever happened, everything that is happening and everything that will ever happen is just a thumbs width from vanishing. Talk about seeing things from a certain perspective. Is one ever able to unsee? Would one even want to?

              Moondust; In Search Of The Men Who Fell To Earth is a truly fantastic mix of history, reporting and personal memoir. In this multi-media age, people descriptions are reduced to user friendly sound-bites, everything must be easily explained, lazily described. In doing so the modern era can diminish the worth of heroism, not so much standing on the shoulders of giants, more like going through their personal mail to find out what they are really like. Not so with Andrew Smith. As the title suggests  he is on a journey, a pilgrimage into the heart of Americanna, an age of marvels. And he does so with dignity and great insight. Along the way he registers many cultural bullet points or rather the points of cultural impacts. impacts shaped in the wake of a group of individuals who were, undoubtebly, lucky enough to reach the zenith of a professionalism that allowed each in their own way to literally blaze a trail to the stars.  From all points of America , the children of the men and women who built America became pioneers at the very start of the next big trek, the trek to the stars ( Ugh, I know. I could not resist it.) Every piece of the hugely complex jigsaw of NASA's history is in place and the picture and the picture revealed is a staggering behometh of ingenuity and scientific hubris. A swaggering new kid on the block with Babel-like potential. It is the culmination of a thousand ambitions and dreams of traveling to space, to the moon, doing what you gotta do and returning safely home. Not quite mad, all truly glad and dangerous to know, the first and last of a dying breed. And for a brief moment in our shared history it truly felt as though mankind were singing from the same aspirational hymn sheet, a prayer to the ages, Wonderful.

             This book is not just a book about the men who traveled to The Moon and back. It is also a book about what sort of man does that, who they were before and who they became afterwards. if it can be believed that any of us can really change who we are. Well, it tries to. Andrew Smith freely admits some of the personalities involved defy introspection, pre or post lunar dander. Stoicism is a word that rarely springs to mind in the modern era but this group of individuals are as steadfast as it is possible to imagine, as if such mental discipline can be programmed, which I suppose it must. To panic in any situation outside the bubble of the blue world is to invite disaster. 

              A fantastic read. A fantastic book.

              Sprinkle a little Moondust on your book shelf.

The London Monster.

Oh My Giddy Aunt! When I lifted this book, on a recent visit to Oxfam Books Ann Street Belfast, I thought I had come across a sequel to The Phantom Raspberry Blower Of Old London Town by Ronny Barker and Spike Milligan (It also being a harrowing true story!)but t'was not the case. This is a bonkers true yarn that stands completely on its own. What a mad old place London was...er, is.

If you can imagine it then it has probably occurred at some time in the history of this ancient city.

Let The Tribe Increase.

Found a copy of The Mob album Let The Tribe Increase. Well, I say found but I really just dug it out from a mountain of old vinyl leaning against the wall.My home is increasingly looking like the set of Steptoe And Son.It crackles in the way well played, well listened too vinyl,does. First discovered The Mob with the single Unexpected Guest.They were a very political band but that was nothing to someone whos ma used to play The Men Behind The Wire all the time.I really got the feelung they meant every word they sang and it was not posturing or posing.I never really thought that way about music, I sort off treated all genres as if they were the same. In fact, i still feel awkward when people wax knowingly about music or film. I always feel as if everyone is aware of a rule book I have not seen. Thankfully, The Mob performed as though there were no rules. Back in the day I had a copy of this magazine and the pages ,including the cover, ended up cellotaped to my bedroom wall. Let the tribe increase,indeed.

Ghostly Double-Bill.

I really cannot recommend these two ghostly treats for Christmas highly enough. Created while the BBC were on topof their game when it came to period drama and these stories definitely feel as though they are off a very different era. Despite the poverty and hardship, the yolk of class and a genuine belief in an immaterial world. I do not believe that MR James , for all his learning and erudation, could have concieved that within two generations God himself might die. They are two beautifully crafted meditations on hubris and greed, seen through a prism of cranky scholarlship. Do your imagination a favour this Christmas and set aside a couple of evenings to enjoy these visions of a lost England, or at least an England that sleeps, its slumber restless and touched by gossamer threads.