Monday, 24 February 2020

A Small Stuff Influence-ee...

The author, Val McDermid, was once interviewed by Graham Norton on his Saturday morning radio show. He asked whether, as a full-time writer, she could still read at the same time. The implication being that when working on her own writing, it might be hard to keep her own style distinct from the authors that she read at the same time. Her answer was clear.

'Some writers say, 'Oh I can’t read when I’m writing, I’m worried about it infecting my style'. But I’ve never felt that insecure about my own voice. I hear my voice, my characters clearly enough in my head and I don’t think I get influenced unduly by the voices of other writers that I’m reading.'

I heard it at the time and remember it well. The reason it stuck with me, is that I wish I had her clarity. She is so confident that her own voice is firmly embedded, that other author’s words can fill her head and not affect her. I love that. I hope to feel the same way one day. Right now, however, it’s hard. 

Would reverse psychology
 work on Val McDermid?
It all depends on whose books I read. There are plenty that I can immerse myself in, that don’t have any effect. But these are the books that I can take or leave. They’ll pass a rainy day and might keep me interested to the end, but two days later I’ll have no memory of the plot. These are not the books I’m worried about.

Instead, it’s the work of my favourite authors - the ones whose language and imagery is a real hook – that I need to avoid when I’m writing. Caitlin Moran is up there. Last time I read one of her books, I was in a pub and had to keep getting my phone out to snap actual sentences. They were works of art, in the same way I might photo the sunset or my nephew being cute. I can’t read Caitlin Moran at the moment. With the best will in the world, my head would turn by her turn of phrase. I need to keep hold of my own style. Or continue to struggle to find it, without undue influence.

My current dilemma is Marian Keyes’ latest book, Grown Ups. It came out last week and I’m desperate to read it. But because I’m at the tweaking, and rewriting stage with my own stuff, I know it’ll seep in. Her voice is really strong. It has an informal quality to it, and the dialogue is always spot on. I feel like it would absolutely find its way into my writing if I began to read it now. Avoiding it is sensible even though I’m missing out.

I’m ridiculously susceptible to influence. I’ve known this for some time. On the one hand, I’m strong-minded and determined. I know what I think about all the big issues. But on the other hand, I can be swayed really easily on smaller things. As the saying goes, I’m an advertiser’s wet dream. (It’s a saying. Defo.)

So, while I battle to keep Marian Keyes’ latest book at bay (for now) here are some examples of my blatant lack of free will when it comes to other choices.

This popped up on my Instagram last year. I was on holiday and craved it every single night until I was home. 
As soon as I was back in my own kitchen, I recreated it. Here is my piss-poor attempt at imitation being a form of flattery. It tasted great even if it failed to look the part. 
When Queer as Folk was broadcast in 1999, I LOVED Stewart Jones’ car.
 Nine years later, when I was able, I got the same one. Black Jeeps for the win!

A few weeks ago I realised that Roisin Conaty has great taste in clothes. I like her short black skirt, thick black tights, and ankle boots combo. (Not technically pictured above, although I do own the slippers she's wearing here.)
I spent an evening on eBay and found two skirts similar to the ones she wears on Taskmaster. I now own them, even though I don’t wear skirts. They’ll stay in my wardrobe until I fill the next charity bag. Thanks Roisin.
Finally, an influence that makes me drool just by typing. In Birds of Prey, Harley Quinn orders an egg sandwich. That sounds simple and dull. The reality is a porny, lingering sequence of eggs being fried, bacon being crisped, cheese being melted and rolls being brushed with melted butter. Is your mouth watering yet or is it just me? 
I saw it on a Friday night and by the Saturday morning I had recreated my own. It was nowhere near as good as the one in the film (I had no bacon or hot sauce) but I had to attempt it or it'd have never left my mind.

Being susceptible to low-level influence is not that bad. When it takes the form of buying secondhand skirts, or recreating food that someone else has made look inviting, it’s not that unhealthy at all. I can handle that amount of suggestion in my life. I suppose the challenge is when unhealthy influence presents itself. I’ve made a personal Twitter policy of unfollowing or blocking anyone that’s rude and bigoted. In recent weeks, I’ve got rid of a couple more TV journalists and politicians, blocked another newspaper, and deliberately sought out people that are trying to make the world a better place. I don’t want to be in an echo chamber surrounded by my own views. But then I don’t want to scroll through abusive content and misinformation that masquerades as news. When the bloke in the pub has a different opinion than I do, that’s fine. When the bloke in the pub has a different opinion than I do, but repeatedly screams it in my face whilst spouting insults and lies, then it’s time for that bloke to leave. The block button is the landlady, throwing him out on his ear. 

Influence. If you have it, use it wisely. Make me like a TV character’s car enough to buy it. Tell me that fried egg on toast is the only thing I want to eat. But don’t spout lies and bigotry all over my timeline. It only makes you look bad. And if you're a brilliant author creating magic with your books, keep going! Crack on! I will get to you ASAP, just as soon as I'm no longer susceptible to your wily ways.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Monday, 17 February 2020

The Name's Bond. Nicky Bond...

Twitter trends come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they're celebratory, sometimes they represent a shared television experience, other times, they're properly tragic. The death of someone far too young has dominated Weekend Twitter, and a variety of hashtags showing support, grief, and outrage have been listed. This post isn't about that. It was written before that particular news broke. But as it references Twitter trends, it seemed random to upload it without referencing how quickly they change. How one day it's frivolous nonsense, and the next it's really sad stuff. I wrote this on Friday, and felt upbeat as a result. Upbeat feels like a decent vibe to put out there.

Do you remember where you were when you heard the exciting news? What you were doing, who you were with, how you felt? Sorry, haven't I said? My bad. It's the new Bond theme, of course. Did you hear it? Did you catch it when it dropped? Were you able to give it your full attention or did it enter your consciousness gradually over several plays as you went about your weekend?

Fair play to Billie Eilish. She did a cracking
job singing at the Oscars last week.
I'll be totally honest from the start. I haven't heard it. Yeah, I know. I don't care and I never really have. Sorry to Billy Eilish who I'm sure is marvellous. Sorry to Adele, Sam, Garbage, Aha, Dame Shirley, and anyone else who ever gave their best Bond effort. This is not about you. I promise. The issue is all mine. 

Don't take it personally, Sean.
You've plenty of fans without me.
I've never fully worked out why the Bond films leave me cold. It's possibly because their blokey-aesthetic doesn't float my boat. If my head is taken out of the plot by the need to rail against the sexism and sexual transgressions of the hero, then it's going to stop me enjoying what's supposed to be escapist fun. I'll leave it for others to watch instead. The other issue of course is that it's my name. When I hear the name Bond, I have a dozen or so other people who immediately come to mind before the fictional spy man. Who's James? No one I know.

Growing up with the name Bond is quite nice. It has a cache of cool about it, presumably based on those very films I don't enjoy. Upon hearing my name for the first time, there's always a similar response from strangers. It's changed slightly over time, but it's fundamentally the same. When I was younger, it was, 'Ha, is your Dad called James?' LOLZ. As I got older, it was, 'Ha, is your boyfriend called James?' More LOLZ. I've yet to reach the 'son' or 'grandson,' stage but I'm sure it will happen*. The circle of life and all that. It still doesn't make it witty though.

Friday morning's
 trending topics.
In spite of that, I love my name. It's mine so I have to. It would be sad if I didn't. But it also means that I see it on film posters and headlines every so often. It was trending on Twitter on Friday, which caused me a small amount of glee before I realised it was because of the new Bond theme. (I imagine seeing your name trend unexpectedly for those in the public eye is an entirely negative and stressful event.) But all this got me thinking. If I'm going to ignore the official Bond theme that the world is talking about, what's MY Bond theme? Or themes? What songs would I have in the story of Bond, Nicky Bond, 009**. Well, worry not because the wait is over. Here are my Bond themes. The songs that soundtrack the themes of MY life. The songs I turn up and belt out as soon as I hear them. Click the links and enjoy them all, it's my gift to you. And as an act of reconciliation, I'd be happy for Aha, or Dame Shirls, or Billy E to cover any of them, any time.

Yep, Gloria covered it too.
Image taken from this website.
I first heard this as a disco version on the Queer as Folk soundtrack in 1999. I decided I wanted it played at my funeral. Since then I've seen it performed in its original guise a couple of times - slowed down and powerfully emotive - ending the first act of La Cage Aux Folles. It demands to be played loud and proud. It's brilliant. It's my fave. Click on both links to enjoy the different versions yourself. And I still want it at my funeral. Disco or musical theatre, I don't care which.

The song is taken from a 1884 film
of the same name. I've never seen it,
never wanted to see it, and know
very little about it. But this GIF is
from that film so please enjoy.
When anyone asks me about my favourite song, this is the answer I give. (The only other response is True Colours by Cyndi Lauper but it's too slow and mellow to be a Nicky Bond Theme. Soz.) It's from my childhood, it takes me back, and it's upbeat enough to raise a mood. It was out a few years before but I became aware of it on a caravan holiday in Weymouth in 1987. It was played every night in the family club, along with Rick Astley and Mel and Kim. I don't remember dancing to it as such. I was way too cool for that, obvs, but I really liked it. See what you think all on your own and click the title. It'll definitely perk you right up.

I first heard it from a big screen in a Copenhagen market square, during the Eurovision Semi of 2014. I heard for a second time, two nights later, in the auditorium for the final. Rise Like a Phoenix romped home, got all the love in the world from the crowd and became my favourite Eurovision entry of all time. (Sorry to Sweden's own Herreys, who had that honour until Conchita came along. Diggiloo Diggiley will ALWAYS be in my heart.) It soars, it swells, it's empowering and powerful. It was also compared to a Bassey Bond theme at the time. See what you think. And then, just for fun, listen to Diggiloo as well. Both classics. Both worth a listen.

Timeless
Before The Killers came into my life, this was the only song that would get me up on a dance floor without being dragged. The second it comes on, I want to dance. That's not a feeling I'm used to, and happens at no other point in my life. (Mr Brightside is the only recent exception.) It immediately reminds me of a school trip to Germany although there's now a second memory. This was my brother and sister-in-law's first dance at their wedding last year. Their music choice had been a closely guarded secret. When it came on, I was - luckily for them - embroiled in an in depth conversation about whiskey with my uncle. If he hadn't been taking all my attention, I'd have bounded over to their marital dance space and joined right in. (The quote, 'There were three of us in this marriage,' would have been entirely apt. For the length of the song, at least.) I think we all owe my uncle a great debt of gratitude for his timely intervention.

My US based GIF finder has
been unable to source a
Grace Petrie GIF. Booo.
But here's me aged seven,
who would have loved
to have heard Black Tie
around about then.
My most recent theme song. My sister heard this on Radio 2 last year and told me I'd love it. She was right. The lyrics are perfect. The tone is spot on. It breezily shoots through all the issues I get wound up about, with an upbeat tempo and cheery melody. It's also got a massive emotional punch. I've learnt it off by heart, so if I am ever called on for an impromptu karaoke performance, I've got this under my belt. I love it so much. It's everything. It also has the best rhyme in the chorus.*** 

So, either I've given you the best start to your day, with excellently curated song choices that make you want to sing along and work out your own theme tunes, or, I've bored you senseless with pointless riffing on my life and derided a much loved film franchise along the way. Hey, I am what I am. You need to have a little respect. Erm... something about electric dreams of a black tie... and we'll rise like a phoenix from the ashes next time. Or something. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Obvs I am blatantly old enough to have a son. But I'm also at the age where strangers worry about referring to possible children if they do not see them with me. They worry it could highlight a loss they perceive in me, or set me off on an emotional rant about not assuming things about my life. I see this a lot. It's just how it is. There is no loss and I love my childfree status. But to then explain that to strangers at a cash till only comes off as over-compensatory and defensive. Sigh. 

**Not even joking. 009 was my reference number for my GCSEs. I had to write it on the front of every exam paper. If there had been two less people before me in the alphabet, 007 would have been all mine.

***The rhyme I love is...

And the images that fucked ya
Were a patriarchal structure...

It never fails to both cheer me up and embolden me in one fell swoop.

Monday, 10 February 2020

The Irony of Forgetting the Hippocampus...

The Bond family's WhatsApp group is an interesting place to hang out. A hotch-potch of info, gossip, and news. (It's arguable there are no distinctions between each.) It combines videos of the nieces and neph, weekly pub quiz rankings, football bantz, and important news. It's literally the only way I communicate with several members of my family, and when I've had reason to keep my phone in my bag for a couple of hours, there's always 30+ messages waiting for me. Often with no real purpose. 


Dr Karl of Neighbours
fame, snapped by me in
2011. Inexplicably, the
actor Alan Fletcher, signed
my autograph as Dr. KK.
Last week, amidst news of Dr. Karl Kennedy's UK tour, and the fact that Izzi from Gogglebox had had a baby (no, me neither) there was a nugget of equally important info shared with the group. Apparently it's been twenty years since Coldplay's Parachutes album was released. Yep. That's what I was told on WhatsApp. Then, to confound any surprise that this news may have brought, it was pointed out that 2050 is as far away from now as 1990 is. I know. Like I said, hotch potch. This factoid then started some chat about whether 1990 feels a long time ago or not. The jury's out depending on which WhatsApp group member you chat to.

I have a weird relationship with the nineties, in that I don't really think about it much at all. Obviously during that time, lots of things happened that are now classed as happy memories. But as a period of time in its own right, I let it pass me by when I'm in a reminiscing mood. This makes no sense considering my age. I was twelve in 1990, and twenty-one at the end of the decade. Everything of interest happened to me during that period, and yet when I think of my favourite decade, it's always the one before. The one that saw me go from two to twelve. The eighties were my era. At least in the way I view things, they were. The reality might be less clear cut.


My wish came true! It's just
a shame it was a fancy
 dress party in 2013.
When I think back to 'the past' and feel any sort of nostalgia, it's always eighties-based. The music, the clothes, the TV, the fact that I couldn't wait to grow up and leave the house like Madonna from Desperately Seeking Susan. Sadly my fashion plans didn't pan out. When I was old enough to dress like an 'adult' and fill my arm with bangles to the elbow, clothes had changed. It was all gothy black tights and DM boots. It was baggy jumpers over short A-line skirts. My dreams of multiple studded belts, black lace gloves, and a fluroescent headscarf holding back my perm, were dashed. It's the same with the news of the day too. When I think of world events in my youth, it's always the earlier ones I gravitate towards. The miners' strike, the Brighton bomb, Live Aid, AIDS, the Challenger disaster and the toppling of Thatcher. When I cast a historical news eye over the ten years that followed, I've got Cool Britannia, Blair, and not much else.*

What's that? Oh yeah. Excuse me, but it's just me forgetting how the brain works. It's just me and my dust-covered Psychology A Level being thick about memory and retention. It's just me forgetting all about the basic function of the hippocampus. You know, the bit that's concerned with memory and recall. Because, when I put my brain into gear and think about my brain for a second, I know that the reason I don't remember the nineties stuff quite so well is that I don't rehearse it. If I don't watch programmes like I Love the 90s every time they're broadcast then I don't rehearse what I remember from the time. If I don't play Oasis and Blur every minute of the day, then I'm not making links between that music and the events that were taking place when they were in the charts.  If I don't rehearse it, it's not in the conscious part of my brain. It's still there, but somewhere deep down. It takes more work to unearth.


Nineties Nicky
Last week, out of the blue, some unearthing took place. BBC2 started to repeat This Life, the house share drama about young lawyers that first aired in 1996. I watched it at the time, loved it, then forgot about it. More or less. I'd remember every so often. When Jason Hughes showed up as John Nettles' side kick in Midsomer years later, it took me a few episodes to stop calling him Warren. And whenever Andrew Lincoln appears in anything, I can only refer to him as Egg. But that's about it. As a show, I tend not to reminisce too much. I was lucky I had time to watch at all. I was busy in the nineties. It was all going off. There was high school and boys and the pub and periods and mates and men and jobs and Uni and house hunting. It was the eighties when I had all the time in the world to ingest and reflect on the events that would provide future nostalgia. In the nineties my time was taken up with all the living.

I'd really enjoyed This Life in 1996, though, so I set my planner. I figured it would be nice to revisit when I had a bit of spare time. I was in no rush. It was well over and we'd all moved on. I thought it might be worth a quick look though, when there was nothing else on. Wrong much? Absolutely. From the second I started to watch last week, it was like being on a rollercoaster. The emotional, gut-twisty, kind. The kind that makes your knuckles white and your stomach jump into your your month. All it took was the opening notes. The immediately familiar guitar riff burst through the screen and I was dragged back to being eighteen, irrespective of whether I wanted to be. The blatant nineties sound, coupled with the look of the whole thing was just so visceral. Everything was relatable. It was exactly like now but from the past. Everyone smoked. Everyone talked about sex. There was no Internet and no mobile phones. Not like now, anyway. Only one character had one - the drug-addicted Delilah, who was the obnoxious girlfriend of Miles. Her phone was like a historical exhibit from a telecoms museum.** Anna was still an utter legend (many reviews noted her influence on the character of Fleabag) and Miles was still a tit. Egg was still dreaming of wanting more and Milly was still uptight and hard to warm to. (IMHO). And then there was Warren. He was always my favourite deep down. I desperately wanted to be Anna but I was much more likely to go for a pint with Warren. Decades later, it was still the same. I felt old but I also felt like me. I had changed but I hadn't. I felt alive and raw as well as smug that I no longer had to hear flatmates shagging when I'm trying to sleep. Getting older isn't all bad, folks. Especially when you realise you've become the authentic older version of your younger self. It's reassuring even when it's weird to comprehend.


From Clockwise from left.
Warren, Miles, Anna, Egg, and Milly.
Click here for photo source.
I still love the eighties. But during the past week, thanks to This Life, I've allowed myself to dig deeper and do more unearthing. So, for anyone that is of a similar age or inclination, here's what comes to mind when I think of the nineties now...TFI Friday, the Brit Awards, Our Friends in the North, Madchester, Reef, The Big Breakfast, Brass Eye, Princess Diana, 'It's Coming Home', Friends, Alcopops, Dawson's Creek, Toploader... I could go on. The chances are, I will once you've stopped reading this. I'll find a shared playlist on Apple Music or I'll get Alexa on the case of finding an Greatest Hits of the Nineties album that can soundtrack the rest of my day.

1990. It's as far away from now as 2050. My brother said it felt like yesterday. My brother-in-law said it felt ages ago. I have mixed feelings. It did feel like ages ago, I think. Until I watched This Life again. Then I was confronted with my old self. My old self that feels like my current self except with no achy knee. I think that's the only difference. That and all the experience, wisdom and cynicism I've picked up along the way. So with that profound thought, I'll leave you to unearth your own stuff. I've got an album to listen to.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Obviously when I think for more than five minutes, I'm sure I can come up with loads more news from the nineties. Already I've remembered Italia '90 and the Euro '96. My point is that it trips off my tongue far easier when I'm thinking of my early years. 

** Yes, I said that as a joke, but it exists. If you're ever in the Milton Keynes area, pop in for all your historic telephonic needs.

Monday, 3 February 2020

Oops. My Inner-Reader's a Dick...

It's only Eurovision keeping
our continent together now.
Let's not take that for granted, FTLOG.
So much happened last Friday, didn't it. January 31st 2020. Cast your mind back, if you can even bear it. Did you wave your cheap Union Jacks with the worst of them, or did you force yourself away from the racist hole of social media? Were you bulk-buying your celebratory tea towels or instead compiling the pro-EU charities to whom you'll donate your Oxford comma-less 50ps. Either way, it was an odd day. Not all odd though. It was also the day that my newsletter dropped into subscribers inboxes. How marvellously fortuitous for those discerning people. A drop of fun-filled nonsense in a sea of political turmoil and worry. 

My newsletter is free for all; just subscribe in the box at the top of this blog. It contains several rounds-ups of the month just gone, including one where I list three things I've read. Originally I meant 'three books' but it soon became clear that three books a month was never going to happen. Instead, over time, I've included Guardian long-reads, interesting Twitter threads, or - as happened in December when my reading time was squeezed to the bare minimum - Nigella's recipe for 24-hour ham. Reading. It takes many forms.


Sign up if you're keen. The box looks
like this one but is further up. You get a
monthly newsletter and a weekly blog.
 HOW CAN YOU NOT?
But then I got my Kindle. I've talked about my previous misgivings of the device before, and by clicking here you can read all about them again. Lucky you! My main issue - that I don't want bricks and mortar bookshops to lose the sale I would have otherwise made - still stands. I decided to only download books I would not have ordinarily bought. That means, when the long-awaited Marian Keyes book, Grown Ups, hits the shops this week, I'll buy it from a real building. Most likely Waterstones in Liverpool. When LC Rosen's Camp is released later in the year, I'll be emailing Gay's the Word in London and ordering a copy from their actual shop. If I still purchase the books I'd have made the effort to buy in the past, from the real life places I'd have got them from, then I can sleep easy. Sleep easy with my Kindle next to my head as I explore all the books I would have let pass me by, without it. It seems a fair deal. 


With these rules in place, I was good to go. I had the whole of January and a Kindle at my disposal. Was I going to manage three whole books this month? Was my newsletter going to be fleshed out with literature rather than recipes and articles? Reader, let me tell you. Over the course of January 2020, I read seven novels, one play, and a screenplay to boot. I know. I surprised myself.

Just for public record, here's what my January reading looked like. In case you were wondering what constitutes 'books I would have let pass me by'.


It's an eclectic mix. Ignoring my own inclusion right off the bat (I know it's self-indulgent but it took a day to read and therefore takes a rightful place in my reading list) there are some interesting points to note.

Firstly, I don't think I've read a play in years. Probably not since Uni. Yet in one month, I've not only branched out into plays, but screenplays too. KAPOW. What's that? Oh, just my reading world exploding in technicolour all around me. It's so colourful.* Then there's the mix of fiction and non-fiction. Lengthy tomes alongside the short and sweet. The humorous tale of a middle-aged women's gangster gang is listed with a screenplay about life in Nazi Germany. An investigative reporter's book on the building of the case against Harvey Weinstein features next to an outline of the ways the US government is removing the expertise at the heart of its core. Eclectic mix is bang on. Or is it?


Messy but tangible.
More overtly feminist and gay
friendly than my digital choices.
The last observation that jumps out is less positive. Taking my own name (me and my pesky ego) and Agatha's out if it, it's all a bit bloke-heavy. I have no problem with any of the individual male writers I've listed. Many of their books blew me away and made me realise I'd have missed out if I hadn't given them a go. (Ronan Farrow's Catch and Kill feels particularly important right now, and John Niven's filth-laden tweets always skewer the aspects of society that are most abhorrent. These are the good guys and they're writing good things.) But as a reading list, it's a bit short on the ladies. It's also mostly white and straight. Bugger. Is my inner-reader a racist, misogynist, homophobe? I really hope not.

As I delve deep to find my unconscious biases (of which there are many because that's society, folks) I'm feeling quite touchy about my reading choices. Is this simply the power of the patriarchy once again? When I open up my reading sensibilities to a wider audience, do I only notice the mens? I'm not sure. When I look at the paperbacks that fill my bookshelves, the straight, white, men are less visible. Basically I read straight women and gay men. That's the trend amongst my tangible books. The ones I can pick up and flick through. The ones that I make the effort for and that I've refused to let pass me by. I suppose it stands to reason that when I open my reading-self up to the books that come a rung lower on my personal pecking order, then it's a whole other demographic. It's just a bit galling that it's the mainstream instead of the less represented, that I've chosen.

So, where does this leave me? Well, it's been an interesting thought exercise. It's made me realise no matter what format my reading material comes in, it's still quite narrow. My Kindle might have made powering through books much easier, but that doesn't benefit me if I'm reading stuff from the same viewpoint all the time. But look, this is early days. It's been one month. And in that month, I've noticed a few things. Now it's February, I get to build a whole new reading list. This time, however, I'm going to do it with a bit more consciousness.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Not literally, obviously. The black and white screen tends to reduce judging the book by its cover, somewhat.