The Actual Power of Books...

Boris Johnson was trolled by a library worker, or so the story ran last week. During his speech to some unimpressed school children, the books displayed behind his head told their own story. Betrayed, Resistance, Fahrenheit 451, and most memorably, The Twits. It later transpired that the librarian in question had left months before the speech. The perfectly curated book arrangement was aimed at her employers, not the PM after all. 

The Twits
This was read to me
 in Reception class.

It doesn't really matter who it was aimed at. It's still a protest, and one that was eventually seen by the people it was meant for. For me, this is the best kind of rebellion. Sure, it might not bring down governments or change policy. It might not be initially noticed by the school leaders it was directed at, but its passive aggression is beautiful. So casually done, so perfectly acceptable. It can be described as a coincidence from the start. ‘What? Don’t be silly. They’re just books on the shelf. You’re reading too much into it.’ *walks away with a smug smile, knowing this can never be truly pinned on them.*

The whole incident has caused me to plan ahead. If, in the future, someone I hugely dislike comes to my house and stands in front of my bookshelves, I need a go-to list. I need the perfect books to arrange behind their head. I need to send out the right message. I’ve got time to work it out. I can be prepared. If I look at the list of people I have blocked on Twitter - the people whose views I can't stomach sullying my lovely timeline - then I've got a few names to begin with. They will not catch me out. Oh no. Not on my watch. Let's break it down for the group.

In Limbo
 Worth a read 
for everyone.

Nigel F****e

It’s all quiet on his personal political front, so NF has spent the summer loitering around the coast, counting refugees for no good reason. Wouldn’t it be boss if he'd taken food, water, and first aid supplies and focused on welcoming desperate people with a kind word and some practical support? Instead, he’s gone another way. So, if he were to stand in front of a book shelf of which I were in charge, there'd be some non-fiction in his area of interest. First up, Gulwali Passarlay’s The Lightless Sky. It’s the first hand account of Gulwali’s journey from Afghanistan as a child, and the resilience it took to survive it. Nige should give it a look and have a bash at some empathy. Or, how about In Limbo? A collection of stories from EU migrants that have settled in the UK. Maybe seeing his Brexit obsession from the perspective of some of the people it has shafted, might encourage a smidge of remorse. Perhaps. If he digs deep. Maybe not. To be fair, I wouldn’t want to baffle him with anything too tricky. Maybe Alexandra Penfold’s All Are Welcome - a book that teaches the importance of inclusion and the variety of experience - is a better place to start, with it being aimed at children of 4-8 years. Something that speaks to any hidden specks of humanity he might still possess. Somewhere deep inside. Hidden from view. Possibly. 

Not That Bad.
A collection of essays
 that cover aspects of
rape culture.

Donald T***p

There are many groups of people that DT has treated badly, some might argue criminally. People of Colour, the LGBTQIA community, and women amongst others. My first temptation is to represent the sisterhood. I’d fill the bookshelves with a mix of historical and modern feminist texts, to piss him off and blow his tiny mind. From Mary Wollstonecraft to Betty Friedan, from Caitlin Moran to Margaret Atwood. But then my initial instinct is kicked into touch by my intersectional awareness. I’m aware my default settings favour white authors, so I'd address that. I’d add some Roxane Gay, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and – just to mess with his sexist, racist mind, Kamala Harris’ book. Although perhaps I should include her kids’ book, Superheroes too. It’s less wordy but just as important. Finally, if in some parallel universe I let him into my house, I’d be missing a trick if I didn’t add Hillary Clinton’s and Barack Obama’s books to the shelf behind his head. Not that I’d let him through my front door in real life. Not for a second.

 

Airhead
Maitlis can do no wrong
after that spectacular
royal interview.

Piers M****n

I blocked him a long time ago. Every so often someone tells me that the current opinions he’s broadcasting are not completely abhorrent. Sometimes his angle on a story is the same as mine. This is not enough to get unblocked I’m afraid. Consistency is important. Otherwise it might come across that his outrage is manufactured for clicked links, viewers, or being labelled a contrarian. That’s just dull. So, if – and I can’t repeat the fact this would be happening over my dead body, enough – if Morgan did a speech in front of my book shelf, I’d find the journalists with integrity. I’d look for gravitas and heft. I would ignore all the ‘paid to have an opinion’ hacks that he’d fit in with, and focus on the ones that are always impressive. Emily Maitlis’s book, Airhead,  Emma Barnett’s book, Period, and then the books by Kirsty Wark. She writes fiction, but I’d make sure her name was at his eyelevel too. Just to highlight how accomplished she is, aside from being a steady journalistic grasp on the Newsnight reins all these years.

Hillsborough: The Truth
The systemic corruption
is still mind-blowing. 

Gutter Press

My final blocked accounts can be dealt with as a pair. And it’s not a pair of individuals either. Welcome The S*n and The Daily E*****s to the table. I’ve blocked them both on the grounds of shite journalism, but it makes me wonder why I haven’t blocked The Daily M**l. Perhaps it’s because the chance of seeing it retweeted in my timeline is unlikely. Even Wikipedia won’t accept a M**l article as a source, so its legitimacy is stunted anyway. But back to the newspapers I have blocked. If their editors were to talk in front of my bookshelves in this weird fantasy hell I seem to have created, what would I strategically place behind them? Well, let’s get back to the spirit of the librarian that started this whole thing. Let's make it blatantly obvious. I’d place centre-stage Tom Phillips’ Truth: A Brief History of Total Bullshit. Then, if the point needed ramming home with a little less subtlety, I’d add Phil Scranton’s Hillsborough: The Truth, just to make it clear where we are. I suppose I should throw the E*****s a bone and offer them something about Diana; but it must be a factually accurate text rather than gossipy, salacious, tawdry speculation. Sadly, my quick search of any such publication has drawn a blank. Perhaps I’d troll the Express by NOT including books on Diana, Madelaine McCann and immigrants. Without those topics for their front pages, they’ve got nothing. Maybe that’s the way to make my point. 

 

I don’t have many more names on my block list. I did have Katie H*****s but she’s officially gone now. And other than pornbots that have popped up from time to time, it’s more or less covered here. The upshot from this ramble is that the librarian in question did us all a favour. Not only for reminding us that rebellion can take many forms, but for showing how effective an excellent book choice can be. Reading may be important, but punching up, speaking truth to power, and trolling via book title is an equally valid use of your time.

 

Have a lovely week, folks.

NB. I never type the current US president's name in full on here. Firstly because I don't want his inclusion on my bit of Internet, and also because I don't want his base to search his name and come here. This is not a place for them. But I've asterisked out all the blocked names this time. They are a negative presence and don't need a name check from me. Rebellion takes many forms. This is another teeny tiny version of it.

My Book is Better Than Your Pot...

My spokesperson, Doctor Who, will 
apologise on my behalf.

Looking back, it seems every time I've done a book update over the past few months, it's been full of doom and gloom. If it wasn't lockdown brain fog, it was STUPID EDITING. And if it wasn't STUPID EDITING, it was my inability to land on a title. All in all, I've vented far too much on the readers of my weekly nonsense, and I can only apologise. 

This update will be far more upbeat. Cross my heart, pinkie promise, and all that stuff. The good news is, I don't need to force an upturn in my mood. It's here for realises, and is almost unsettling in its about-turn from the previous months. Somewhere along the way, my Work In Progress has stopped pissing me off quite so much. I knew it would at some point. It always does. And I wish I knew the science behind when or why it happens. Except there is no science. It's mysterious, magical trickery. One day, every page you read is shite. You wonder how you ever convinced yourself this was a good use of your time. And you physically sit on your hands to stop yourself throwing the 150 page document in the air and screaming into the void. Then, for literally no reason whatsoever, the day comes when you have a spring in your step after re-reading a section. You feel excited at the thought of asking your beta-readers if they're happy to have a look. You start to think seriously about the timeline to publication. In the past couple of weeks, the tide has turned. I've stopped writing off every written word as bollocks, and I've decided that it's coming together nicely.

I am almost there. Not quite, but almost.

Now, let's not be hasty. I'm still in the middle of STUPID EDITING. That period lasts forever. (It feels like forever, anyway.) But after doing all sorts of rewriting, tinkering, and deleting since January, Book Three's manuscript is in far better shape. Why? Well let me tell you!

1. I now have a title. After moaning to your good selves about the difficulties in stumbling upon the perfect name, I stewed a while longer and let the creative juices bubble away. In the end, a version of something I'd mooted on the blogpost, stood out as being the one. That was confirmed when I floated it past a writer-mate and she agreed. (Derisive scorn was all I got from my brother, but I let that go over my head.) So now there's a title, there's a clearer sense of the completeness of it all. The Untitled Nicky Bond Project file has a proper name. It's still the same manuscript, but psychologically, things are advancing.

2. I have now settled on the opening. First of all I had a Prologue, followed by Chapter One and Chapter Two. Then I ditched the Prologue and went straight into Chapter One and Chapter Two. Then I decided that Chapter Two was a better opener, so I switched Chapter One and Chapter Two around. Then I realised a version of the Prologue would be good to foreshadow later drama, so I brought back a revamped version. Right now, I have the New Prologue, The Old Chapter Two, then the Old Chapter One to lead the reader into the action. And I'm happy that this is the way to go. Finding the best version of the opening, doesn't mean the rest of the book follows perfectly, but at least I'm confident it piques the readers' interest from the off. (In theory. Hopefully. Fingers crossed.)

3. I now know what isn't working. At first, everything isn't working. Everything is silly, inconsequential faff, and I can only wonder at the depths of boredom any future reader will experience. Then, the more I rewrite paragraphs, and the more I delete waffle, the more the good stuff emerges. It's gradual. There's no sudden 'WOW, THIS IS NOW A BRILLIANT BOOK' moment. Course there's not. I'll never think that. But I can see the parts of the story that I'm happy with. This, in turn, leaves the other bits standing out more clearly - the bits that I find myself skipping over when I reread. If I do that, then so will others. It shows me there's something unsatisfactory with those bits. Over the weeks, those rubbishy parts have become clearer, and as such, so has my To Do List. I can tackle them one at at time, systematically, like weeding a garden. One by one, they'll get sorted, and the percentage of the story I'm happy with will increase. There's still lots to change, but I know where and what it is. (It's about 37% instead of 99.99999%.)

My book is better, so there!
(Image taken from here.)

So there we have it. The STUPID EDITING continues, but with less angst and self-loathing. At some point over the next month or so, I'll badger my beta-readers to give up their time along with any anxiety about being critical, and ask them to give it to me straight. Then there'll be the editor, the front cover to sort, and a bunch of social media posts where I plead and beg for sales. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're still taking baby steps. For now, the fact I don't hate every one of the 89,000 words I've typed since this time last year, is an absolute miracle. The formless slab of clay now has curves, angles, shadow and detail. It's still not Michelangelo's David - nor will it ever be - but it's definitely more advanced than a thumb pot made by a kid in Nursery. Sorry to any Nursery kids with excellent clay skills, but my book is well better than your pot. Nah nah nah-nah nah. A few months ago, I could not have made this bold claim. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Normality of Hope...

The word normal means 'conforming to the standard or the common type.' Thank you, Ms Dictionary. But this is a subjective and changing standard. It doesn't explain how that standard is reached, or to whom it applies. A more user-friendly definition could be something like, normal is what you know. It's what is standard for you personally. My experience of normal is very different from yours, just as yours is from mine. And when an aspect of your life isn't the average, the mainstream, the standard, then the word normal is proved utterly pointless time and time again. Whether it's being a woman in a world that defaults to male terminology, or being left-handed and walking into a college computer suite to find every mouse plugged in on the right side, (true story!) or being a Person of Colour, LGBTQIA, disabled in an ableist world, secular in a religious family, religious in a secular world; whatever reality a person experiences on a day to day basis, normal is a word that helps no one. There is no baseline for normal, no control group. Like I said, normal is what you know.

Yet despite all that, yesterday I found myself uttering the phrase, 'Last week felt like it was back to normal.' I didn't even do air quotes. I meant it for realsies. I used the word normal to describe my week, when A) we've already decided that normal is a pointless word, and B) last week was random and weird, and totally unlike the way my life used to be. But still. I said it. Last week felt like it was back to normal. 

Costa: Always there to
break up the monotony.

In the olden times, my week was fairly set. Let me outline my timetable!

Monday - Work from home. 

Tuesday - Work in the office. 

Wednesday - Go to WW, (that’s Weight Watchers in old money) do some food shopping, and then spend the afternoon batch cooking. 

Thursday - Work in the office.

Friday  - Work from home. 

It sounds as dull as it probably was, had I stuck to it like glue. To liven things up, I’d throw in an hour or two at Costa for their WiFi, or I’d go for a walk after a few hours with my laptop. It was a productive, run of the mill, and pleasant enough working week before throwing into the mix, a weekend of alcohol, food, people, more walks, and, of course, roast potatoes. Simple pleasures.

 

Here’s my confusion. When I said last week felt normal, none of these things happened. Not like that, anyway. There was nothing standard, usual, or run of the mill about it. As weeks go, it wasn’t even productive. I didn’t get as much work done as I’d planned, and I definitely didn't batch cook on one of the hottest days of the year. So what happened? How was my week ‘normal’?

Two sets of siblings,
living it large in Knowsley.

Monday was kinda standard. Or at least, it was what I have come to regard as standard since March. A Zoom call with my goddaughter, her brother and sister, then some work and a food shop. It was lovely to have my weekly natter to my little mates, and then do a bit of work, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. But Tuesday? That was very different. I went to Knowsley Safari Park with my niece, nephew and brother. I saw lions and tigers and bears, oh my! (It was more like lions and buffalo and meerkats, oh my!) An action-packed day that involved my first participation in fairground rides since I was twelve, and resulted in a massive gin that night. Gin! On a Tuesday! Just call me a bohemian strumpet and be done with it. Wednesday saw the return of WW. Except it was a quick in-and-out affair (#sorrynotsorry) so myself and a few mates sat on garden chairs on the grass verge of the otherwise concrete carpark and caught up with five months of news. Then I went to the cinema, for aircon and a film. In that order. On Thursday, I went to Costa to work. After my early morning visit to one branch, I returned home for ten minutes before realising my furnace of a house wasn't a viable option, and so went back out to another. Two Costas in one day. I believe in the nineties, Crowded House sang about something similar. And then Friday was spent on my laptop, on a garden chair, in the outdoor shade, mostly drinking water and swatting flies, counting the hours to beer o’clock with each look at my phone. 

 

Now, are you still there or have I bored you silly? I do apologise. My point – one I concede was made in a rambling, waffle of a way – is that last week was not normal in the slightest. It involved crazy heat, far more animals than you’d expect, fairground rides, impromptu cinema trips, and WW in a carpark. It was a highly unusual turn of events. And yet my overriding feeling at the end of all that was that normality had returned to my existence. I was both relieved and confused by the sentiment. 

 

Obviously I had a stew on this. I spent the weekend working out what was going on, and I came to some conclusions. You want to hear them? Ready? Course you are. You were BORN ready.

The day I got my car was
 the last time it was this clean. 

First off, I used my car loads. It’s the first time since March that I reached my usual mileage. (About 200 miles a week, if you’re interested.) This obviously has knock-on consequences for the planet, and I appreciate that upping my driving miles helps no one in the long term. But it helped me and my head last week. It meant I was out and about, away from the same four walls; travelling, transiting, touring, passing through places I hadn’t been near for months. Getting in my car to go places, made things seem ‘normal’. For a bit.

I've missed people-watching randoms.

Next up. I am convinced being around strangers provided a massive boost. I’m not really a people person. I was always on top form with my own company in the before times. But an enforced break from seeing randoms is quite strange. I think I started to crave background dickheads, for nothing more than a distraction from my own thoughts. In Knowsley Safari Park - a day we have already established was as far from my norm as possible – the very presence of socially distanced others was a beautiful novelty. I’ll go as far to say that seeing shouty parents give their boundary-pushing kiddies an audible bollocking – which would usually make me laugh, cringe or both – was reassuringly heartwarming. The real world is re-emerging. Along with the rise in pollution, comes the rise of watching public family kick-offs. Happy times. Normal times.

 

I intend to channel her for the rest of my life.

Finally, something a bit more global than my car usage and some strangers in a safari park. On Tuesday evening UK time, Joe Biden announced Kamala Harris as his running mate for the US election in November. Now, I’ve got some skin in the game that needs declaring. No, I’m not a US citizen, I’m not a student of US politics (anymore, and I can’t remember much anyway) and I cannot break down, in detail, her policy positions on every single thing. But I love her. There are many reasons for this, but mostly because she comes across as compassionate, considered, and experienced as hell. With her inclusion on the ticket, there are finally some grown-ups in the room. There are some politicians ready to take on the far-right horror show that’s systematically wrecked everything over the past four years. Her first speech with Biden after the announcement, felt hopeful. You know, like politics used to feel? With the Biden-Harris bid for the presidency, things feel normal. It feels like accomplished, liberal, problem-solving people that would have my back, are going to give their all to something worth doing. I have no idea how T***p will deal with that. Whether it will be verbal attacks, more whipping up of the false fear about postal-vote fraud, or whether he will win because he genuinely gets more votes, (!?!) who knows? I simply have more reason to be hopeful than I did. And as we all know, what happens in the US eventually filters across to the UK five years later. (Based on the parts of American Studies I can remember, which were rock and roll, the rise of feminism, and the concept of ‘the teenager’, we're always five years behind the US on societal change.) It might take some time. It might take five years, maybe more, but perhaps normality (INSERT AIR QUOTES HERE) will return sooner rather than later. Fingers crossed. My week depends on it.

 

Have a lovely week, folks.

Has TV Peaked Too Soon?...

Not quite, but nearly

We're coming to that time of year. When, despite it being full-on Summer outdoors, the winds of change are in the air. If you sniff hard enough and dream with all your might, you can just smell the hint of a crisp Autumn morning. September is a-coming, folks! And you KNOW how happy that makes me. I'm not going to rehash that same old, same old blog again. I think you know my seasonal feelings by now. But things do feel different this year. Like everything in 2020, I wonder if the joys of September (cooler weather, cosier clothes, chunky soup instead of limp salads) will still feel like the lovely change it usually does. When things are still 'all over the bloody show' in terms of school-opening prep, will the thrill of September have its usual kick? I honestly don't know. And then there's the other big worry. (Besides school safety, public health, and staying sane, that is.) The telly!

September heralds the start of NEW TV PROGRAMMES. I gave that capital letters because it's all part of the tingles of the season. September scheduling is exciting. It's fresh, it's engaging, it draws you in and gives you a glittering roadmap to festive December. It's the best. But will it be the best this year? The TV has done some heavy lifting over the past months. With no leisure activities of any description, (apart from bloody walks. I'm yawning at bloody walks as I type this) all our jollies have been found in TV.

You said it, Ted.

This has brought its own problems. Many programmes that were supposed to have aired, had their productions shut down. The new Line of Duty should have been on by now. As should the third series of Succession, the new Stranger Things, and The Great British Bake Off. Instead we've been given the nostalgic repeats of Italia 90 and Euro 96. We've been given classic tennis matches and a rerun of The Durrells from the beginning. Alan Bennet's Talking Heads, has been refreshed and refilmed - a thirty minute monologue to camera is ideal lockdown filming - whilst David Tennent and Michael Sheen gave us Staged. The two actors played David Tennent and Michael Sheen. Two actors whose play had locked down and were using their time to rehearse from home. It was funny, and sweet, and as meta as all get out, showing just how creative some people were being in March and April. (It was announced at the end of May, so writer and director Simon Evans must have got his writing skates on as soon as lockdown kicked in.) This was the same time I was solely focused on getting dressed and being (more or less) clean. I can only be impressed. And it isn't just the actors and directors that had to be creative in all the madness. Creativity has been as required from the TV planners and schedulers as it has from the artists. So far, I haven't noticed a blank screen from 10pm onwards. I've not seen the testcard for the two weeks that Wimbledon would have dominated. The people that have been in charge of that sort of stuff, have done pretty well under the circumstances.

But that still doesn't explain if there'll be the usual September viewing launch in a few weeks. I don't see how it's possible. My lack of cinema trips and conversations with humans, in recent months, have meant my small-screen viewing hours are through the roof. I've filled the space that Line of Duty et al would have filled by being more openminded with what was already available. I've watched all kinds of excellent things that I wouldn't have usually associated with summer frivolity. With everything thrown up in the air since March, we can't rely on the usual TV routines. It's time to source our own quality, September-standard series, where we can. The schedulers and planners have given it their all, since Spring. They'll now be empty husks, sobbing in a corner, just when they usually kick into action.*

Here are my suggestions. On a spectrum that ranges from the truly escapist to highbrow art, there's lots of space in-between. I have done my best, in these very trying times, to give you some options to consider. So what's been on my telly? What am I recommending to the world? An eclectic mix of fabulous, that's what.

You said, it Ruby. 

Good Girls (Netflix)

This one would never have crossed my radar, had my brother not alerted me to its existence. Clearly, my Netflix viewing preferences don't cover suburban moms entangled in gangland crime for the benefit of their families. (I don't know what I'm doing wrong.) I decided to humour my brother, and give Episode One a look. It was fine but I wasn't gripped. I carried on and let the second one start. Again, it was entertaining but I could take it or leave it. I let the next one start, and then the next, and then the next. Somewhere along the way, something changed. I went from being mildly interested, to bingeing it every spare moment. I've just started Series Three, and not a day has passed in the last week where I haven't had it playing as I've done my makeup, made my lunch, or fallen asleep. I think this means I love it.

Canada Drag Race (BBC3) 

Drag Race All Starts 5 (Netflix) 

There's nothing to add here. Eleven years on, we all know what we're getting. If you're up for it, it's comforting and familiar. If you're not, give it a miss. Nothing I say can convince you now. The fact that All Stars 5 has recently finished, and Canada's first season is currently being broadcast, shows how much of a machine the whole Drag Race system is. In related news, my seven year old niece explained to her dad (in some detail) about baking the other day. That would not have happened without this show.**

The Shtisel family (with Elisheva from the bank, in the background.)

Shtisel (Netflix)

This is something I had scrolled past repeatedly without being tempted. Filling the gaps in my social life, however, meant I opened my mind a fraction, and I'm really glad I did. It's the story of the Shtisel family - a recently widowed father, and his three grown-up children - dealing with their relationships, work problems, and family commitments. The fact that they are Haredi Jews and live in an orthodox community in Israel makes the story all the more compelling. The writing is subtle; there are sub-titles, although the non-verbal expression and naturalistic acting from the cast breakthrough the language barrier with ease. The phrase 'we are more alike than we are different' springs to mind. Akiva fancies a woman who works in the bank. Giti has a husband who has left her and she's ashamed. Their father doesn't want to retire. Older brother, Zvie Arye, thinks he knows best. It's a varied set of human stories, and I am on board for them all. 

Mrs America (BBC iPlayer)

I mentioned this a few weeks ago, in relation to the current sexism of the lockdown easing priorities. But it bears repeating. This series was spectacular. I have no idea about the money behind it but it looked like a glossy, big-budget, pull-out-all-the-stops kind of shebang. Names like Cate Blanchett, Rose Byrne, Uzo Aduba, John Slattery and Elizabeth Banks tell the story of the clash between the Women's Liberation Movement of the 1970s and the activism of Phyllis Schlafly, who was convinced a woman's place was in the home. Whereas this sounds like a clear case of right and wrong, the story is told well enough for the audience to sympathise with Schlafly, even when she's being illogical. We see each character in enough detail to get a real sense of the tensions of both battles - the Conservative v Progressive women on one hand, then the fight within the feminist movement for recognition of intersectionality, on the other. In any other year, this would be exactly the kind of thing that would be announced for Autumn.

Technically not from Virgin
River, but it's that sort of vibe. 

Virgin River (Netflix)

Speaking of algorithms, this was suggested to me the second I watched Falling Inn Love - a Netflix movie about a woman that wins an inn in New Zealand and moves there to restore it. She also falls for the hunky builder who helps her. Look, I'm not fussy. I'll take  vicarious trip abroad any way I can. Falling Inn Love is the only way I'll get to New Zealand right now, but I digress. After that, Netflix wouldn't let up. If I liked Falling Inn Love, I would also like Virgin River. They told me this every time I logged on for weeks. In the end, I succumbed to their pressure and gave it a go. Now, let's agree that when I mentioned the spectrum earlier, this falls at the polar opposite of highbrow art. This really is a member of the Truly Escapist Club. By far. Yet it still ticks my boxes. A stranger with a secretive backstory. TICK. A small country town. TICK. Beautiful scenery. TICK.  A local man that is hot.  TICK. It's all there. Look, I explained it wasn't high art, stop judging me. Virgin River is a ten-part series that passed the time for me recently. It's filmed in Canada I think, so if you're not turned on by a rugged Martin Henderson in a jumper, you'll be charmed by the rugged outdoors in a jumper. (Not really.)

There are more shows I could shout about, but I feel like I'm exhausting everyone's attention span now. Let me just scream I May Destroy You for a bit, and then I'll be done. And FTLOG will you cadge someone's Disney Plus deets and watch Hamilton? Please. Besides that, we can only wait with held breath and crossed fingers to see how our Autumn screen time will shape up. It's anyone's guess how the rest of this year pans out. Let's hope, in all the uncertainty, there's still something good on the telly.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Clearly I have no idea how TV is scheduled, nor how the people who do that are feeling. Don't @ me.

**For anyone concerned, I am pretty sure she has not seen Drag Race. But the language of drag has filtered through to the world of makeup tutorials on You Tube. 

What's For Christmas Now?...

By the April of 2016 there had been more than enough hints that the year needed writing off and starting again. We'd lost Bowie, Wogan, Wood, and Prince. Brexit had split the country into ideologically opposed camps, and T***p and F****e were aberrations with too much screen time. It couldn't get any worse. 

Hahahahahahahahaha *Rolls around on the floor, laughing hysterically before convulsing into loud sobs* How innocent we were! How little we knew! What a rose-tinted time to be alive! Fast-forward four years and three months, and here we are. Those halcyon days of Obama's final months along with Cameron's dull mediocrity, would be a soothing balm by today's standards. So far this year we've witnessed government lies-turned-into-policy, we've experienced a global pandemic that still has us in its grip, and now the latest bombshell has dropped. Just when you think that 2020 can't plummet any more depths, it was announced last week that Argos catalogues would no longer be printed.

 

I know. Take a moment. Acknowledge the pain. And - even though I'm being semi-facetious and a little bit whimsical - understand that I'm not. When everything has changed, when our lives have adapted in ways we never imagined, when we're clinging to any semblance of routine and familiarity, hearing that Argos catalogues have gone, is harder to shake than you'd imagine. 

It's probably a generational thing. My mum remembers being stopped for market research in Liverpool years ago, and being asked about high street shops. The only one she hadn't heard of was Argos. It can't have been too long before she had, though. By the mid-eighties, not a Christmas went by without a hefty percentage of the family gifts entering our lives from a descending conveyor belt. It's quite the ta-da moment for any self-respecting purchase. Having no money of my own, it was always a thrill to walk past the doorway of the Argos and take a catalogue. They were free! No one would expect payment. It was a scrap of independence that I badly craved. (At the age of 8, or whatever I was at the time.) As a teenager, with some cash of my own, I worked my way through the jewellery section and regularly bought from their selection of silver rings. (A look I continue with today, although Elizabeth Duke is no longer the source of my bling.) It's been written many times since last week, but the joy of circling the Argos catalogue when compiling a birthday wishlist, made people's childhood. Amazon might have taken over as the provider of any product you could ever want, but there's zero fun in WhatsApping a link to a family member. It's much more pleasurable to circle a longlist of items, narrow it down to a shortlist, flick through the pages as you weigh up which item would bring you the most joy, and then settle on the final choice. Those are life skills right there.

I get that the Internet has made purchasing goods more convenient. Of course it has. And all those trees that would have sourced future years of catalogues, will now be left to grow and help up breathe. And it's not like the shops are going anywhere. The products are still available. We can't moan too much. But there's something comforting about the Argos catalogue. Like new pyjamas, and a milky drink at bedtime, it's fully of cosy childhood memories. Even if I rarely had new pyjamas, and there were no drinks at bed time in case I wet myself, it's the idea of the memory, rather than the memory itself. It's the story we tell ourselves to make us feel better. Right now it's the Argos catalogue. In years to come it will be 'Remember the family zoom calls that were so much fun. Happy memories.' This will directly contradict the worry and angst that existed with them, when illness, financial worries, and doom-laded news bulletins, filled every day. We'll only remember the good stuff. And feeling sad at losing the Argos catalogue is only remembering the good stuff. What is forgotten is that most circled items remained at the top of the conveyor belt. The catalogue contained far more things you didn't own, than things you did. Looking through the catalogue was a lesson in delayed gratification at best. I'm sure it was all very character-building. 

LOLZZZZZZ

Since the announcement, the Internet - the very source of its demise - has eulogised the Argos catalogue many times. Bill Bailey, who coined the phrase 'the laminated book of dreams' proudly shared a photo of his own personalised catalogue. Many people tweeted along the lines of, 'Is it bad that I am so bothered by this?' It seems when such horrors have befallen the planet this year, feeling a pang of sadness at the loss of something outdated, causes guilt. But guilt is pointless. People are allowed to feel sadness at a change in society. It's perfectly acceptable. It's also no great leap to suggest that our sadness and anger at the way 2020 has shaped up, may also affect our views of a high street catalogue. I don't want to come over Sigmund Freud, no really I don't. But that may be the crux of the matter. For now, let's wipe away our tears and remember with fondness, all the tat we once circled. The pocket translator. The ab cruncher. The suitcase. The candlesticks. The...

Here's a peek behind the wizard's curtain for you. About ten minutes ago, I sent out a message to the family WhatsApp group. 

I thought I should use real examples from everyone instead of making up a bunch of products. Well. The replies are still coming in. Everyone's got involved. My brother remembers his first leather football. He also remembers buying everyone presents for the first time when he was 13 (paper round!) and choosing cutlery on a carousel for my mum. My sister got a Polly Pocket Dreamworld, which she has just messaged along with a screenshot of the thing. My brother - same one with the football and the cutlery - remembers picking up his 12th birthday present (a data bank?) and then going to Burger King for lunch. The phone is still pinging with replies and memories. I, or rather Argos, have hit nostalgia gold. But enough of this aside. Back to the paragraph.

...football. The cutlery carousel. The Polly Pocket Dreamworld. The bathroom scales. The coffee table. The bed. The bedding. The tetrus game. The alarm clock. The tool master. The Micro machines. The rev-up plastic motorbike. The bounce-back goal game. The TV stand. The walkie talkies. I could go on forever.

Polly Pocket. How little we knew you.

So now we're all nicely reflective here's a treat to leave you with. I know it's not the same as the laminated version, but it's all we have now. Click this link to look through the Argos catalogue of your choice. Scroll through the memories. Enjoy the flashbacks to long gone times. Wallow. And if you're wearing new pyjamas and drinking a mug of cocoa, you really will be living the eighties consumerist's dream.

Have a lovely week, folks.