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Book Launch: Brown Bread Boys, A Tragedy

The time has come to let this particular manuscript into the wild! I’m very fond of this one (I’m fond of all my books, but don’t tell anyone – I hear that kind of thing comes off as arrogance in the wrong circles), and it was pretty much incredibly good fun to write from start to finish.

Hopefully it’ll be good fun to read from start to finish, too: a contemporary take on Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar without the politics but with a chilling, ancient blood magic and feuding London gangs, replete with a diverse cast of characters and familiar places.

Cover photo by J Reilly

The King is dead: long live the King. Or so the echoes suggest. But Craig Williamson has barely murdered his way to total dominance of his London crime family when already his lieutenants are plotting against him: not greedy, just concerned. Or so they say.

One thing is for sure: whoever wins, it’s bad news for the police, who still don’t know how to prosecute or even properly investigate the gruesome, ancient blood magic used by the gun…

…even the gang themselves don’t fully understand it.

Brown Bread, Boys is available to buy in print from Amazon or Lulu, as a variety of eBook formats from Lulu (and a few other places), and as a Kindle .mobi from Amazon (UK | US) – there’s almost no end of ways you can pick up and devour this story. Except by literally picking it up and eating it, because that is a bad way to read a book.


Other books I’ve written are listed here.

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As busy as a bee

Still rather too snowed under with work to have much in the way of flashy projects to show off, or indeed time to turn idle musings into fully-fledged blog posts (for reference: a documentary about Elgar declaiming that he “wasn’t all Edwardian bombast” and the indignant questioning of “bombast” as an inherently undesirable element in classical music; a chipper documentary about the endocrine system and the history of transplants leading to the question “if you can transplant a testicle into the body of someone who’s had one removed, and it grows its own blood supply and gets back to making testosterone, what’s stopping you from putting a testicle into the body of someone who never grew one?” … apart I suppose from medical ethics; the idea that all modern epidemics and pandemics must be viewed not only as matters of microbiology and advancement of vaccines and cures but also as issues of public health and prejudice; and rather more pertinently to my life, at what point does avarice become overshadowed by indolence – i.e. does being paid for overtime necessarily reimburse the loss of hours of my life?). Also too busy to talk about the avalanche of pleasant cultural experiences I’ve managed to squeeze into the rest of my life: no time to talk about the National Theatre Live Cast of Coriolanus and challenges of watching live theatre from a cinema about ten miles away from it; no time to talk about investigating the BFI’s mediateque and watching Beautiful Thing (apparently all 20th Century queer-contemporary British films with positive endings and “Beautiful” in the title feel that beauty occurs in South East London: Beautiful Thing is set in Thamesmead, while My Beautiful Laundrette takes place largely in Lewisham), with its familiarly mid-nineties trappings and familiar landscape provoking a sense of strange, fairytale nostalgia for someone else’s adolescence; no time to talk about the progression of watching Derek Jarman’s Sebastiane, from DVD screening in 2002 to ICA in 2005/6-ish on a screen marginally larger than a big-screen TV, to February’s floor-to-ceiling screen at the BFI NFT3 (and the fact that somewhere, without intending to, I have learnt to identify Lindsay Kemp by his gait, regardless of how much make-up and how little clothing he is wearing); no time to talk about Only Lovers Left Alive, a slow and beautiful shaggy-dog story about gorgeous, disaffected vampires, that pokes gentle fun at itself and showcases the decaying beauty of Detroit and the livelier attractions of Tangier, along with my inaugural visit to the exhausting palace of staircases that is the Hackey Picturehouse; no time to mention a fantastic dinner at The Frontline Club in Paddington or their adorably-named cocktails (“That Gentleman Is Wearing Pink”); no time to mention an earlier visit to the Whisky Society and a fabulous afternoon being pretentious about spirits; no time to discuss the curious biopic of William Burroughs I accidentally bought at the ICA and blundered through in a kind of fascinated delirium; no time to talk of dragging a confused friend around London in pursuit of cocktails and finding as well badge-making kits at the Wellcome Collection, t-shirts in Soho that cost nearly £300, and that Balans Cafe will happily put the liquor of your choice in your hot chocolate without batting an eyelid… it’s a busy spring, so far, and there’s more ahead (tea parties, Edward II by the celebrated Jarman once more at the BFI, Titus Andronicus at the Globe in the summer).

I do promise that at some point in this whirlwind of actually leaving my house there will be some proper content here.

In recompense for being very dull until about, oh, April at least, here is a clipping my boyfriend took out of (possibly) The Economist, which I thought was rather cute:

bee music

Enjoy your Sunday.

 

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For Some Reason the London Tourism Board Still Don’t Pay Me: Places To Eat, Drink, and Better Yourself in London

As you might expect from someone who has an entire book case full of books about London, and has written so far two novels (one available, the other wobbling around agencies like a lost lamb) and one poetry collection (also available) about the city, I have a lot of time for the various attractions of the lands within the M25 (and usually very little time for anything that happens outside of it, my apologies to Cambridge, Oxford, Brighton, and Edinburgh, which I quite like, and absolutely no apologies to the post-apocalyptic hell-hole of Plymouth, where I grew up).

Tragically impoverished by my own decision to be an occasional data jockey and full-time fiction-pusher rather than, oh, a stock-broker or a corporate lawyer or even a nanny (I hear £32k plus living expenses is not unheard-of for baby-wranglers), I can’t always haul myself to the wonders of my city and let the glorious jewel of the South East rain down its entertainments on me, making reading Londonist.com a nightmare of temptation.

But I do leave my lair occasionally, and I like to share, so: Eat, Drink, and Better Yourself with me.

Just three recommendations, one from each category, but hopefully I’ll be able to come back and make more posts on this theme.

EAT

Have you just hurtled into Kings Cross with a moderately empty wallet and are you absolutely starving and do you definitely not want to walk ten million miles and do you like tapas? If you can fulfil the criteria “I like tapas”, you will like Camino. If you cannot for definite fulfil that criteria, Camino is probably a good place to find out if you like tapas.

I have been to the Kings Cross branch twice, and both times spent my time sheltering from the rain (welcome to England, this is our speciality) and enjoying pleasant morsels of serious flavours under a sodding big glass dome, getting friendly service, and not coming away wishing that I had some sort of private banking collective backing me for lunch.

There are however bead curtains across the toilet doors which are possibly designed to trap you in there forever.

DRINK

Have you been indulging in the weird mixture of architectural styles in the vicinity of Barbican? Do you now desperately need to sit down and have a drink and wait for your brain to process 20th Century visions of the vanished future butting up against medieval churches? Do you like gin? Most important: do you like gin?

You do like gin. Fantastic! I fucking love gin, and the Gin Joint in the Barbican Centre likes to provide gin. It has a range of exciting cocktails, most of which I hadn’t tried before, a huge array of gins, a slightly frightening price list that’s not too unusual for Central London, and unfortunately quite frosty service. If you, however, do not show up with about 20 people and a face full of piercings, the staff may be a little more forthcoming.

As an added bonus, it’s about thirty seconds away from a panoply of plays and exhibitions in the rest of the Barbican Centre, so if you feel yourself overcome with the sudden need to enjoy the arts, they’re right there.

BETTER YOURSELF

How dare you, you’re thinking. I am already a completely flawless member of the human race. You may well be an excellent specimen of Homo sapiens, but do you know anything about the history of Haringey? Do you know about the inventors, the war heroes, the artists? What about the vast organ and Prisoner of War camp at Alexandra Palace? The construction of the New River (which is neither new, nor strictly speaking a river)? Do you know about the history of Roman occupation?

If you already do then still visit Bruce Castle Museum, because it’s free, in a very sweet little building, and jammed with tiny rooms full of sudden surprises and fragments of the borough’s past that might take you very much by surprise. Worth it entirely for the hellish racket of the Jazz Bagpipe Organ alone.

Bruce Castle Museum is also right next to Tottenham Cemetery, which contains a broad slew of different mortuary styles from different eras, and a rather nice lake.

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Expectations Falling

It does my heart no good to have to give a bad review of a book, especially a book which has annoyed me by having profoundly decent ideas to go alongside its unsatisfactory execution. It does it even less good to have to compare it to books by another writer, especially when that writer is a friend of the book’s author and quoted on the cover of the book I am reviewing, praising it. However, it would be utterly short-sighted not to draw a parallel between the London-based supernatural crime drama of Doctor Who writer Paul Cornell and the London-based supernatural crime drama of Doctor Who writer Ben Aaronovitch. And I have to deal with the frustration of this book which had so much in it so poorly-presented, when it could have been brilliant.

Available from all good bookstores and several bad ones.

Indeed, in description London Falling (currently a respectable 59p on the Kindle store) sounds like exactly the sort of thing I profess to enjoy, which just goes to show that trying to describe what one enjoys reading by means of characteristics is no more useful than saying “I like steak” when one means one likes grass-fed, correctly-aged steak of a particular cut and probably only served in the right way in about five restaurants overall. The difference is, I suppose, that while one can handle mediocre steak, because it is so common, this is rather more like finding a rare dish of a specific recipe and having it made by someone whose tastebuds aren’t aligned the way yours are.

For further disclosure, I found Paul Cornell’s two-parter on Doctor Who - Human Nature and The Family of Blood – almost the strongest of that season and certainly some of the better stories told since the return of that show to British screens in 2005. But he is out of kilter with my reading preferences, and I am about to explain why, with a certain number of spoilers, and comparisons to Ben Aaronovitch and Neil Gaiman which the author (who shouldn’t be reading this anyway) and his fans may find annoying and/or insulting.

The book follows the progression of a case through a series of established policemen, beginning in media res. That is to say, there’s no jumping-in point, no hand-holding, and no introduction, which I normally quite enjoy. There is, however, also no handle to be got on any of the protagonists, which makes it a little harder to like.

James Quill, the head of the operation, has a series of characteristics apparently pulled from the “honest copper” bin of clichés and nothing that differentiates him as a person, even after he gains “the Sight” and an unexplained and frequently dangerous insight into the malignant, magical city that lies below/beyond/through the physical one. Lisa Ross, the data analyst and eventual sacrificial hero, driven by a fairly standard-issue need for vengeance for her father (you will note no heroic woman ever wants to avenge her mother), has no other characteristics, no other desires, and like Quill no personality. They barely even have voices: with the attributions removed, I can’t tell one character from another for most of the book.

Tony Costain, the requisite reluctant hero/bad boy, similarly has no real personality aside from a desire for self-preservation and an ego which apparently vanish for most of the book in order to further the plot; Kev Sefton, the knight in shining armour and token nod to the existence of queer characters, goes on the hero’s quest for enlightenment, dumps a lot of exposition, and gets into a relationship in which he confides almost immediately every feature of his case in a dude he picked up in a bar. Sefton is described as having a posh accent that he slips into, of which there is no actual sign in the text.

I read stories for their characters first and foremost. A strong set of character voices is imperative in forming an emotional connection with the characters and in London Falling it is almost entirely absent. This is frustrating as all hell because there are some excellent ideas and some very solid world-building in here, but the overall tone of the book is cold. By comparison, the Rivers of London series provides a human warmth, set of weaknesses, and easy handle on all the human characters, and even the strange and esoteric creatures which pass through the world have glitches and points of interest.

There are other problems with the book, which ordinarily would have been nagging problems but not major ones: combined with the lack of character warmth and connectivity they became gaping. For example: in the Rivers of London books and Neverwhere, the fantastical London which lies within and through the London in which most people dwell is primarily neutral. It has its own laws, it can be extremely dangerous to those ignorant of them, but it is not malignant. In London Falling, the world which lies across ours is not fairyland, but Hell. The adversary of the overall arc of the Rivers of London books – and this is one of the things that really connected for me – is not a demon, not The Devil, but a human being who has become greedy for power. Something mundane, a form of evil with which we are all familiar, and which instead of excusing the greed and evil of mortal men by providing something bigger only underscores how rotten it is.

However, I can take fiction where the adversary is not mortal: in Neverwhere, Door and Richard Mayhew face a fallen angel, which is a pretty clear code for The Adversary in anyone’s eyes. In another of my favourite and not-exactly-well-written supernatural detective series, John Connolly’s Charlie Parker books, the adversary is again the lord of Hell: but the humanity of all its characters – including the grotesques – and the broadness and mundanity of the world, are preserved.

London Falling takes elements of traditional London storytelling: old Hob, a wicked witch, football legends, ghost stories, the power of the city, a hero’s vision quest, and the eternal copper. It lines them up together in a plot which makes good narrative sense and which hits all the major points at the right pace: but it feels both slow and rushed at the same time. The characters don’t speak from the heart, but are vehicles for the story, rather than driving it. There are times in which the narrative appears to be trying too hard to elicit a feeling that it doesn’t have the emotional vocabulary to instil; moments in which the reader feels more like the jaded coppers standing outside the horror with no connection than perhaps they ought.

Most of all, this doesn’t seem to have any love for the city in it. Rivers of London and Neverwhere, Memoirs of a Master Forger (William Heaney), among others, fairly throb with affection for the metropolis in which they’re set. The story has been coalesced from the sense of unreality and history and Something Bigger which I think affects almost anyone who spends much time here, looking at the past poking through the present in unexpected places and in incongruous ways. It is natural as breathing for any writer to look at London and think of the mystical past affecting the rational present. But Paul Cornell’s writing doesn’t betray any kind of love for his subject matter, and that I think is what really affects the tone of the book more than anything else.

The alternative London captured in his pages is Hell; the London Sefton enters via a number 7 with a London Charon is empty; the Londoners of our reality are aggressive and stupid and moved only by tabloid thinking; there is nothing but contempt and anger, and if that’s real sum of London I’d be surprised.

There are other ways to make a horrific story boil out of a city than by failing to appreciate the picture that its uglinesses and beauties give rise to, and I don’t think I’ll be expending money or energy on the sequels to this book.

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What happens to this book is up to you

I now have a complete/final draft of my most recent finished novel, Brown Bread, Boys. It’s a retelling of Julius Caesar, with some fairly major alterations: it’s set in contemporary London, in the power struggle of an organised crime family seeking to control, among other things, the gory trigger sites of a poorly-understood form of powerful magic.

There are three options for this manuscript.

  1. The usual: I make it available for purchase on Lulu.com (and therefore eventually Amazon, the iBook store, etc) and the various Amazon Kindle sites. Very few people find out about it this way, because word-of-mouth marketing doesn’t work for me; I risk nothing, but gain a small amount.
  2. The print run: I do a subscriber run, and if fifty people put money up front they get special editions of the book. I then have a few over to put into shops who take books from independent publishers, and hopefully a few more people get to see the book. (I also put it up on Lulu etc some time later, but it will cost more than the print run copies will).
  3. The traditional: I write a query letter and start shopping the book to publishers. This means no one will be able to buy it for a while (until it either gets publisher or I get sick of it and go for option 1 or 2), but, as with any real gamble, stands a very very very slim chance that someone will see potential in what I think is a pretty good book, and then lots of people will hopefully get to read it.

So, what do you think? Which option should I gravitate towards? How much potential does the book I’ve just described have?

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More Reports From My Favourite Book Genre

Because of medical service interaction making me into a singularity of unnecessary stress (I am the kind of person who can worry themselves into a black hole-level panic over a GP’s appointment, and this one was the next stop along the line), I abandoned anything remotely responsibility-like over the weekend and following two days, and proceeded to plough through a newly-purchased (and signed!) copy of “Broken Homes” by Ben Aaronovitch in a single afternoon.

It was a return to form, hovering somewhere around the first book in the series (“Rivers of London”) and the third (“Whispers Underground”) in terms of quality, and chasing the major plot arc that was introduced in the second (“Moon Over Soho”). The series has a genuinely engaging selection of regular characters and treats the one-offs as potential returnees, so everything feels solid, real, and well-constructed. This unremitting attention to the dimensions of characters extends to the landscape – it’s a cliche to say that the city is a major character in any given book, but when the book is set in London that’s almost a requirement. Ours is a city with a great deal of character, and to neglect that would be borderline criminal.

Happily Ben Aaronovitch has not at any point in this series been in the habit of neglecting the character, shape, or foundations of my beloved home. He’s also given such seamless attention to two fictional locations (Skygarden and the Stromberg House) that until the aftermatter I was convinced that both of them were real, and was even plotting to see if my Art Fund card would get me into the Stromberg house (a National Trust property in the book) for free! I’m not sure whether this is a testament to my gullibility or to Aaronovitch’s well-painted landscapes, but it made for an amused feeling after finishing the book.

The copy I got, from the Covent Garden Waterstones, also contains a short story concerning a genius loci of that very bookshop, which was charming and pleasant and reminded me strongly of Neil Gaiman in ways that occasionally make me shake my head when Neil Gaiman does it. That, I suspect, is a case of familiarity breeding contempt: when you read a lot of someone’s work, you start to see the strings and hear their voice and see their preoccupations in their text.

Granted, if the someone is China Mieville it’s one book and half-way through it that you see the preoccupations and favoured word of the month…

Having finished “Broken Homes” one day, I decided to make good my sudden surge of desire to read fiction again and ate up “Dodger” by Terry Pratchett in less than an afternoon.

My only reason for choosing it was that I’d been loaned the book a while back and it had proceeded to sit on my “read this sooner or later because you’ve borrowed it you dickhead” pile for an egregious amount of time, but it’s thematically appropriate. After “Broken Homes”, a book about dodgy geezers in London, I read “Dodger”, a book about dodgy geezers in (Victorian) London.

As I have been a fan of Pratchet since I was roughly 11, and am 30 now, it’s probably no surprise that I had a wonderful time, as one tends to while reading Pratchett. There were no alarms and no surprises, and that, too, was an entirely pleasant process given that I was straining my intestines in fear over going to a hospital appointment in two days time.

Pratchett brought all of the humanity and wryness and gentle combination of affection and unflinching acknowledgement of the darker sides of mankind and specifically poverty-stricken mankind that he usually brought to the Discworld novels, and applied it to early-Victorian London. I appreciate that as I appreciate Aaronovitch’s witty, familiar poetics about the modern city; they are both writers who have poured a deluge of research into their cities – Pratchett drawing a great deal on the history of London for the unshakeable and distinctive foundations of Ankh-Morpork. I was in love with AM from very early in my life, and I suppose one can credit that for the delight with which I now absorb London’s seedier parts.

My favourite part of “Dodger” is the ease and joy with which Pratchett picked up the most unpleasant failing of “Oliver Twist” – the anti-semitic caricature of Fagin – and gracefully inverted it, making Solomon Cohen a genius, a fugitive, a kind man, and a man full of wit and sarcasm and references that fly over the narrator’s head but land with a satisfying plop in the mind of the reader. Again, “affection” is probably the word I’d use to describe the process; Solomon Cohen is a character written with a great deal of love.

Two books about dodgy geezers in London down, I merely picked up the largest book on the “you’ve borrowed this, hurry up and ever read it” pile, and it, too, turned out to be – so far – about a dodgy geezer, in London. It even references toshers, the profession attached to the titular character in the Pratchett book.

This third book, Nick Harkaway’s “Angelmaker”, is much denser than the Aaronovitch or the Pratchett. Harkaway relies on cramming in every possible detail and thought of the characters to illustrate both the individuals and the landscape, which makes for slower going than the well-timed touches of Aaronovitch and Pratchett, but it is still a highly enjoyable read: Harkaway’s “show AND tell” approach to storytelling is not too off-putting. Also, so far there have been clockwork bees, and I am easily sold on gimmicks like that.


(for those keeping track, I am also sporadically reading “Seven Pillars of Wisdom” on the Kindle and have reached the 90% mark; Lawrence is nearing Damascus and I am distressed by what will surely follow; for non-fiction I am ploughing through “Hiding the Elephant” and taking copious notes).

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A Pigeon That Doesn’t Home

I’ve been splitting my time recently between sewing projects and a sort of combined brain/body stimulation of research and brisk perambulations which has happened largely by accident.

On the sewing front I’ve turned an old duvet cover into a somewhat 70s-looking shirt and paired it with some mocha-coloured brushed cotton breeches, turned an old bedsheet into a zip-up shirt, made a pair of striped loose-fit leggings (which the observant will note are made from leftover fabric from that dress I made), used leftover lining fabric and bits of old curtain to make a red maxi dress and a bustle belt to hold it in with, lined and transformed a skirt that no longer fits into an overskirt, and in the process figured out how to use the buttonholing function on my sewing machine which I hadn’t previously been aware existed, and also grudgingly accepted that it’s easier to make things if you don’t skip large portions of the pattern instructions and actually iron things in between and also don’t lose important pieces and forget that you’ve lost them.

Sewing in this respect does provide a useful metaphor for how I live my life: I’m not wholly sure what I’m doing, I don’t understand the instructions, I don’t understand how the machine (my brain, I guess) works, everyone else seems to have more resources, I am making bits of it up as I go along, there is a lot of trial and error, most of it feels like wrestling with a very large and very angry cat (complete with bloodshed), but as long as I can produce something that looks like it was intentional most people don’t care how much I’m winging the process. I don’t even think the metaphor needed to be stretched that much, which is frankly disturbing.

The brain/body stimulation comes from a near-perfect balance of time and distance: I spend roughly half an hour/one cup of tea (which is a good measurement of time) underlining things in and making the odd note on the first of many books on stage magic, Edwardian history and suchlike, which I am going to have to read in order to make this next book of mine worth reading (I’ve yet to find anything pertaining specifically to King’s College Cambridge in the 1899-1903-ish period – particularly rules, practices, and syllabuses – so if anyone has any suggestions I’d welcome them). Then I walk from King’s Cross to either Covent Garden, Trafalgar Square, or Oxford Circus, depending, under the pretext of looking at/for things. It’s not a preposterously huge distance – a couple of miles at most – and the ever-changing landscape and challenge of finding the most direct or tourist-free route is entertaining. Walking also gives the brain time to digest everything it’s just read, and hopefully incorporate it into a revised/tightened plot.

The specific idea with walking to Trafalgar Square is of course that I could go into the Peyton & Byrne at the National Gallery and do another half hour of tea and research, but so far that’s failed to happen in the face of me not having enough change left for tea – which is fifty pence more expensive at the National Gallery branch than it is at the British Library branch. TUT, PEYTON & BYRNE, THIS WILL NOT STAND.

Slowly mastering the North-to-South routes for walking is very entertaining, but I think next I shall try the East-to-West. Is there a Peyton and Byrne in Paddington and if there is, how much is the tea? Important questions need resolving.

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Photos from the Cutty Sark & A Trip Up the Thames

Holidaying in my own city continues to provide me with excellent entertainment but it does mean I forget all my anecdotes by the time I get home.

   

   

i took this photo of the officer’s kitchen on the cutty sark in a mild rage because IT IS BIGGER THAN THE KITCHEN IN MY FLAT

Worth note: it was been a very beautiful day, the Cutty Sark has become much more education-and-activity oriented since I visited when I was 8, and CityCruise have an unofficial but quite funny commentary on the sights you can see on the way up form Greenwich to Westminster.

an “Old Fashioned” at the BFI Bar

Also I had one of these recently. I got it because I demanded that I be given a cocktail that the bartender thought I should have, and this was what he thought. Previously the same bartender has invented a black cherry daiquiri for me due to a lack of strawberries. The BFI Riverfront Bar is one of my favourite places to cocktail for a reason!

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The Profane and the Divine: Art In London

Still a little sporadic in my updating, and my current excuse is that I still have a guest staying with me and making sure she is entertained at all times means no time for blogs, Dr Jones.

Today we visited the National Portrait Gallery, which I have not been in very often, and I had a high old time finding out what various British historical figures (Walsingham, Drake*, Sarah Siddons, Blake, Dalton, Castlereagh, Johnson, Boswell, etc, etc.) actually looked like, or how they were willing to let people see them, which is not always the same thing. We pondered the interactive stations which allow you to examine the collection in context, putting paintings in a timeline and relevant to each other, giving you an opportunity to look at the archive documents related to this painter during this period of his life or that sitter and so on. It’s a bit like falling down a WikiHole, but with art and in the middle of a gallery.

As a consequence of which the Australian now knows a lot more about the abolition of slavery in the British Empire than she previously did, and I feel a lot more informed on the subjects of: Lord Castlereagh, the 1801 Act of Union which involved lopping off what little executive power the parliament in Dublin had at the time, and how delighted the artist Thomas Lawrence was by basically everything in Vienna. I read a nine-page letter by the latter in which he was effusive about his patrons and about the high society of Vienna and frankly nauseating in his sucking-up. I can’t imagine receiving a letter like that from someone I liked.

Later I had to explain to the Australian who Nye Bevan was (there was a bust of him in the gallery for the first half of the 20th century), and used the phrase “father of the NHS”, to which she replied:

“I imagine he’s doing a lot of turning in his grave at the moment.”
“That… that observation has been made a few times, yes.”

The latter half of the 20th century yielded, at least in the portraits, an unremitting stream of “no I don’t like it”, except for the large portrait of Thatcher which produced the same leap sideways of revulsion that images of the architect of my childhood starvation always has. On the other hand, being able to contrast a self-portrait of Lucian Freud with the photograph we’d seen in the earlier gallery was an interesting experience.

Before we went to the National, though, there was a much smaller gallery and the actual purpose of our visit.

At 15 Bateman Street in Soho, until the 14th of June, Pertwee Anderson & Gold are collaborating with the Museum of Curiosity on an exhibition called Memento Mori. I was sent a link to their site by a friend who is well-informed about my morbid taste in art, and we took it upon ourselves to pay a visit.

There were some marvels, like photographs of morbidity rendered in three dimensions, and a concept called painting which was peculiarly destructive and under other circumstances might have annoyed me – but under these seemed entirely right. My favourite pieces, excluding the obvious appeal of the Chapman skull, were probably a black, sparkling skull in the apparent process of detonating; a gold skull whose teeth had been replaced by dangling beaded tendrils, and the magnificent stuffed peacock in the window. The Australian professed a great love for Saira Hunjan’s work (the attendant at the gallery informed us it had been snapped up at the opening night), and a skull covered in a distressing carpet of varying sizes of pearl, until it looked as if it had some sort of very expensive illness.

As the cheapest work of art (a design for a carton of “death cigarettes”) would have set me back £50, I neglected to become a patron of the arts today. I did buy a postcard of Wilfred Owen from the National Portrait Gallery, however, so I’m going to claim that I have kept my hand in and am still supporting the frivolous and beautiful. For more on the Memento Mori exhibition and biographies of the artists, go here.

 

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The City and the City and the Church and the Church

Today I sat through Fast & Furious 6 for someone else, and now I am posting her photos from our trip into East central London as if they were mine, because I demand compensation for not falling asleep at any point while experiencing a selection of clichés stapled together with car chases.

Yesterday we walked around the London Museum, the Guildhall Art Gallery, and the Barbican Centre, but in between absorbing so much culture that my feet started to bleed (that’s how education works, right?) we also popped into a variety of churches: St Mary le Bow, for example, where there is currently a small exhibition of paintings, and – because the sky decided to piss water onto us – St Lawrence on Jewry, just by the Guildhall Buildings. It was entirely deserted when we went in, and we were only disturbed briefly by a cleaning lady in inspecting a certain amount of bling and passing our judgement on the saints.

This was our favourite:

 

St Mary Magdalene

St Mary Magdalene

We reserved our opprobrium for St Paul (“bit heavy on the homophobia”) and the Arch-Angel Michael (“boring hero dude”), and our praise for Mary Magdalene, who featured for some reason in a dream I had recently: where an imprisoned woman was giving someone a stern lecture about how Jesus loved and protected lepers and sex workers and that anyone who said prostitutes “deserved it” (the context was, unsurprisingly considering I’ve gone shitnuts for Hannibal on NBC at the moment, a serial killer who focussed as many do, on women who provide sexual relief in exchange for money) had no business calling themselves a Christian. Not a bad little lecture from my subconscious!

St Lawrence on Jewry

St Lawrence on Jewry

The church is in terms of architecture quite a modest little building, neither the gothic splendour of the cathedrals I love nor the sturdy little stone boxes I had to sing hymns in as a kid, but there are some lovely stained glass windows and some nice wood carvings and the organ pipes are BLINGY AS FUCK.

Stay tuned for further adventures in a city I have been living in for eleven years, in which I reduce centuries of art and culture and technological progress to phrases like “blingy as fuck”.

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