A few words from Oscar Wilde

I was reading an interview with Rupert Everett (whose two auto-biographies are quite remarkable) and he is playing Oscar Wilde in the West End and it got me thinking about the pair of them, the richness of London theatre and of course the one-liners of Mr Wilde:

A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.

A man is very apt to complain of the ingratitude of those who have risen far above him.

Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.

America had often been discovered before Columbus, but it had always been hushed up.

America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.

Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.

Arguments are to be avoided; they are always vulgar and often convincing.

At twilight, nature is not without loveliness, though perhaps its chief use is to illustrate quotations from the poets.

Biography lends to death a new terror.

Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative.

Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.

Genius is born--not paid.

I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones.

I am not young enough to know everything.

I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.

Illusion is the first of all pleasures. 

It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information.

Music makes one feel so romantic - at least it always gets on one's nerves - which is the same thing nowadays.

One can survive everything, nowadays, except death, and live down everything except a good reputation.

One should always play fairly when one has the winning cards.

Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious.

Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.

Funeral Blues (aka Muffle all the bells, monitor the internet)

Muffle all the bells, monitor the internet

Prevent the people from protesting with a juicy threat

Silence the Sound-Systems with un-holstered guns

Bring out the corpse, let the celebrities come.

Let police choppers circle observing overhead

Pepper spray protesters with the cry She is dead

Put a quarter mile exclusion zone round the streets of St Pauls,

Let the coppers wear black DM’s for that kick in the balls

 

She was Finchley via Grantham, a bullet-proof vest

Her twenty hour mantra there is no time to rest

The long days, dark nights, her screech and bitter song

I thought her brutal siege would last forever: I was wrong

The Polling booths are not wanted now: shut down everyone

Close the mines that survived not dismantled by The Sun;

Pour away the whiskey and sweep up the barricades

For nothing good will ever come until her legacy fades.

 A. Franks 17th April 2013

After W.H.Auden ‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’

 

And so it came to pass...

Margaret Thatcher is dead.

From Black Cats to Black Shirts?

Standing up to Fascists

A consistent world view of England is one of profound conservatism, whether it be in the kitchen (Sausage, Egg & Chips please love), in the bedroom (I’m not taking my socks off for anyone, especially you Ms Von Teese), on the playing field (England will line up in their traditional 4-4-2 formation tonight) or even in the parallel political realm of the ghastly Daily Mail (I’m not letting Johnny Foreigner tell me how long my Cucumber should be). This view, along with hundreds of other examples to support it suggests that the traditional English psyche leans so far to the right that an acceptance of some of the ‘more palatable aspects*’ of extreme right wing ideology might be comfortably absorbed without murmur into everyday English life.

That, thankfully, is invariably not the case. From the Battle of Cable Street, which saw Moseley’s Blackshirts roundly dispatched and the more recent Battle of Barking, through the numerous counter fascist actions of the ANL and Rock Against Racism, the ‘Kick it out’ Campaign in football and the equally admirable ‘Hit racism for Six’ Campaign in cricket. Time and time again the English people have taken affirmative action against those hiding behind the blustering cowardly façade of fascist doctrine. The most recent action has been in response to the appointment by Sunderland AFC of self-confessed fascist sympathizer/supporter/apologist/football manager Paulo Di Canio.

Di Canio, when interviewed in 2005 offered a bizarre take on the by now worryingly traditional “I’m not Racist, but…” statement, by following it up with “…I am a Fascist”. As if by denying a racist element to his persona he was somehow justified in his extreme political position. However, a collective hotchpotch of the Dean of Durham, David Milliband (not a renowned notorious Trotskyite firebrand) and various local Unions (including the Wearmouth Miners) with a long tradition of fighting fascism in all its various guises (even Prada suited ones) have come out and vociferously challenged Di Canio to state his position, clearly and unequivocally. However, the most refreshing challenge to Benito (sic) Di Canio has come from unaligned Englishmen and Englishwomen who have expressed their contempt for his political position.

Of course, it isn’t all good news. A number of Sunderland fans have expressed the view that politics has no place in football or even worse that it is (with a deep sigh) “Political correctness gone mad”. Political correctness!! To be seen not to support somebody whose views directly supported that of one of the 20^th century’s biggest mass murderers?

As John Arlott, the great cricket commentator and poet so rightly said; “Politics governs everything we do - the games we play, the way we play them, who we play.”
He also said that; “Say that cricket has nothing to do with politics and you say that cricket has nothing to do with life”. A different sport but without doubt the same principle.

Unfortunately such a view isn’t held by all and rather surprisingly amongst them is renowned anti-racist activist, style icon and past his sell by date centre back Rio Ferdinand (Manchester Utd & Al-Jazeera FC) comes down on the side of DI Canio. Ferdinand tweeted: “why has a paper brought out a quote from years ago to try + derail Di Canio?? Lazy journalism again. I wish him good luck in the PL. Simple.” Lazy journalism? To pinpoint that someone in a leading role in English football has expressed fascist sympathies? Obviously Ferdinand has got very high standards when it comes to journalism. I can imagine him tweeting something equally pithy about John Terry in years to come. 

Anyway, moving on… To my mind another question the whole episode raises is why was it somehow acceptable for him to be the Fascist manager of Swindon Town but not acceptable to be the Fascist Manager of Sunderland? Swindon could by no means be regarded as the hotbed of leftist revolution (despite it being a railway town and having a large post WW2 ex-pat Polish community – who more than most would be aware of the impact of Fascism) but surely the anger Di Canio’s appointment has given rise to, should have grown much louder before he became head honcho of a Premier League club…

Oh hang on! Did you see what happened there? The scales just dropped from my eyes. It would seem that being a Fascist Manager of a Div 1 club is acceptable but when the spectre of sponsors looms large then it is time to ‘fess up Il Duce and renounce your squalid political past for a slice of the honey soaked loveliness of the Premier League. Mind you if Di Canio took over as a manager in some other European leagues he’d most probably be denounced as a namby-pamby liberal wet and would receive a fine from UEFA for not clicking his heels at the same time as saluting the Ultras!

And so, once again football takes another step further into the wilderness. The World Game™ it may well be but perhaps it is no longer a world I care for. Until Di Canio properly denounces his fascist past and actively works against the creeping influence it has in the local community he should be roundly and repeatedly challenged and criticized for his stance. And until he does that Sunderland FC should be equally challenged for appointing a man with such abhorrent views.

What if he does just that? Should he be forgiven? Well, yes he should. But it should never be forgotten. We have seen many examples of the re-writing of history (by no means just a fascist trait) and the lessons of life lost therein. But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself once again. Let him take the first positive step and let him renounce his past stated position unequivocally before getting on with the matter in hand – namely telling eleven professional footballers where to stand and where and when to kick the ball!

 

*By the way there is no such thing as a palatable aspect of fascism.

Strings of desire - #7

Wilko Johnson's Fender Telecaster

Decked out in the colours of Anarchy, Wilko's famous Black & Red ("so the men won't see the blood") Telecaster is one of the most iconic guitars in British musical history. The Tele allied to Wilko's unique stab attack attack attack style is responsible for one of the most vibrant and urgent sounds ever committed to vinyl. So, it is fantastic to hear that Fender are looking to issue Wilko signature version in the near future.

Here's hoping that Fender can get it into production sooner rather later for rather sad but obvious reasons.

A fitting tribute to the King of Canvey and a true RnB guitar legend! 

Saturday mornings at Max Records

In the distant days, whilst waiting for what seemed like an interminably long lull between the football and cricket season to disappear, there was a thing called Saturday mornings.

Saturday mornings were spent in town, having caught the no. 1 or 11 to the station. It was then straight into Max Records (or briefly into Silver Disc) and start to flick through the new release section. I can still recall the box fresh tang of the whole shop, the bright yellow & green bags and most importantly the records. 79p was a lot of money to spend on a single, so the choice had to be right. Would it be; Patrick Fitzgerald - 'Safety pin stuck in my heart' EP, Wire - 'I am the Fly', Gang of Four 'Damaged Goods' EP or something more chart/mainstream like The Stranglers (whose drummer Jet Black was ancient even then) or heaven forbid the wretched The Police (goodness knows how they were ever regarded as a good reggae band).

Once a choice was made (Gof4), it was hand over the cash and then head on to a cafe to meet up with the assorted massed ranks of the record buying youth of Eastbourne. The venue was forever changing; Upstairs at Bobbys, The Cappucino (or Kampuchea as it was known), The Golden Egg, Macari's, Notarianni's and finally the ever faithful Spartan in Grove Road. Once ensconced at a table with either a coffee or usually a more time consuming pot of tea, the records would be passed around, praised, dismissed, pored over and generally completely dissected for the best part of three hours. All the while with Tony or George trying to hurry us along or at least get one person in the group of 14 youths to buy a bloody cup of coffee.

Occasionally we'd sit round and read articles from the NME but by Saturday all the news had already been out on the street for four days and at that time a band could be discovered, release a single, sign to a major, release a disappointing debut LP, split and reform within the space of an afternoon, so 4 days was a lifetime. Some youth cults didn't even make it past breakfast on a Wednesday let alone through to the weekend.

And when finally we couldn't make the pot of tea stretch any further we'd spill out onto Grove Road, tumble down by the Central Library, passing the station and get onto separate buses and wend our way back to the distant suburbs and estates of Roselands, Cavendish, Langney, Ringmere, Langney Point and beyond. All of us sitting at the back of our respective rides, staring at the 7" single in our hands and hoping and praying that we'd made the right choice but promising at the same time that "next week I'm definitely going to buy the Wire single.... Or perhaps the new John Cooper Clarke one... Or maybe The Jam will bring forward their new release... Or... Or... And so it went on.

 The eternal joyous circle of Saturday morning suburban life.

The early 70's - AKA When Gandalf was just a boy!

One band fought against all the Tolkien quoting, loon pant wearing and ludicrous looking nonsense that swamped the album charts.

Ladies and Gentlemen, from Canvey Island. I give you...

Dr Feelgood

Check out the fantastic documentary 'Oil City Confidential' for the full SP. You will not regret it.

Never buy The Sun

Someone's hiding in the bushes with a telephoto lens

While their editor assures them, the means justify the ends

Because we only hunt celebrities and it's all a bit of fun

But the Scousers never buy the Sun

And the parents of the missing girl cling desperately to hope

While a copper takes improper payments in a big brown envelope

And nobody in the newsroom asks where this information's from

But the Scousers never buy the Sun

Tabloids make their money betting bullshit baffles brains

And they cynically hold up their hands if anyone complains

And they say "Well, we're just giving the people what they 

Well they're crying out for justice, people crying out for justice 

And the man they call "The Digger" casts a proprietary

Over what goes on in the gutter and what happens in the Sky

And he claims he's fit and proper and the watchdog sings his

But the Scousers never buy the Sun

International executives they hang their heads in shame

Tell us with their hands on hearts that the paperboy's to blame

But everyone who loves that kiss'n'tell, you must share the

But the Scousers never buy the Sun

Tabloids make their money betting bullshit baffles brains

And they cynically hold up their hands if anyone complains

And they say "Well, we're just giving the people what they

Well they're crying out for justice, people crying out for justice

In the corridors of power they all sit down to sup

with the devil and his minions and they for his opinions

But the politicians wring their hands and say "What's to be

But the Scousers never buy the Sun

Well no-one comes out well when all is said and done

But the Scousers never buy the Sun