Time to Cry

The moment after I clicked on 'Publish Post' on my Shirley Hazzard piece, I felt a distinct pang of regret. It wasn't quite strong enough to make me rewrite and it certainly fell far short of the suicidal, middle-of-the-night, pillow-clutching, ohmygoddidIreallysaythat? moments that have dogged my career. But it was real enough. The pang-causing words were 'sobbed copiously'. Now, of course, I am a New Man and I must be seen to weep once in a while. But, for a moment, this felt, in this context, a little too much. In response, Johnny asked if I often 'blub over books' and I am afraid the answer is, 'Yes, often.' But I only blub over good books. When it comes to films, I'll tear up over any old crap. Odd that. Either way, I cry a lot, though more often about fiction than fact. This probably makes me some kind of psycho, it certainly makes me an embarrassment. Anyway, I'm a crier. I have come out and I feel better for it.  Join the club, guys. I suggest you start with Andrei Tarkovsky's film The Sacrifice. This produced my best ever sob, a real gem, a desperate, shuddering inhalation accompanied by a weird, high-pitched yelp. It was late at night in St Martin's Lane and I'm sure I heard applause.

Hamilton Does Blears Better Than Blears Does Blears

A 'Hazel Blears' for the purposes of my argument is the evasion of a question, typically on television or radio news. All politicians do this; normally one simply pays no attention. But a Blears evasion, for some reason, always catches my attention. Given that the whole point of evading a question is not to appear to be doing so, we are left with a curious paradox - Hazel Blears is really bad at doing a 'Hazel Blears'. Now, obviously, this brings me to the appearance of Lewis Hamilton on Top Gear. Clarko - nobody calls him that, but I do now - asked Hamilton about the season-long attempt by his team mate Fernando Alonso to destroy his career. Hamilton, naturally, did a 'Hazel Blears' and, here's the thing, he did it really well. In fact, he did it in the manner of Tony 'Come back, all is forgiven' Blair - a denial accompanied by a little laugh to indicate the denial was meaningless. Noticing this, I suddenly realised that this Hamilton boy is a player. Formula 1 drivers are usually as inhibited as business cards - and for the same reasons - but Hamilton was amazingly self-possessed. And then he did something that raised him in my estimation yet further. Clarko asked him what car he drove and he said some rather boring Mercedes diesel because it's all you need 'on the road'. That 'on the road' was a killer. It undermined at least 70 per cent of what Top Gear does by indicating that, to Hamilton, 'car' means a Formula 1 car, everything else is just a mode of transport. The abyss that opened up was deepened in the same show when Renault let Richard Hammond - Hammo? Not quite. - drive their F1 machine. He couldn't do it, in spite of the fact that he now has a haircut that makes him six inches taller. Anyway, Lewis Hamilton - I won't hear a word said against him.

Breaking News

Talking of politics, it's good to hear that the Sudanese government - having firmly declared it couldn't possibly intervene in a religious matter - has suddenly discovered new powers than enable it to issue an immediate pardon to the unfortunate teacher Gillian Gibbons and release her. It's almost as if they weren't being entirely straight with us, isn't it...

Shirley Hazzard

I wrote on 27th November that a short novel  - The Bay of Noon - I had read by Shirley Hazzard 'bears comparison with the sublime Marilynne'.  I have just finished The Great Fire. I say 'finished' rather too calmly - so overpowering was the book that it actually seemed possible I might not be able to read the last three pages. But I did and sobbed copiously. It left me with the absolute certainty that I am not good enough in almost every imaginable way. This is a good thing. I have advised Nige to take a couple of days off after completing it. Shirley Hazzard - the real thing.

A Lesson in Political Science for Gordon

Loyal readers of Thought Experiments will know that I saw it coming. Gordon Brown, I kept saying, is a Bad Thing. As, in power, his shortcomings became apparent, I noted how his supporters remained in denial.  Everybody had gone into counselling mode - 'Look, Gordon, this is what you must do to get over this.' This phase persists but is now rapidly being superseded by the 'face it, the guy's a write-off'  posture. People are beginning to think about Brown in the past tense and columnists who normally hedge their bets are simply tearing chunks out of the man - see Matthew d'Ancona and Andrew Rawnsley. The Rawnsley revelation about a Brown-Blair meeting is downright disturbing. In one version Brown stormed out saying, 'I'll get you over the peerages.' Blair was so shocked by his behaviour that he informed Gus O'Donnell, the cabinet secretary - whether to get it on the record or to beef up his own security and move his family to a secure location is not clear. But still there are people who persist in believing Brown can be remade into the man they thought he was. For these people I offer a brief lesson in political science. Most humans have spent their lives in political systems like that of Sudan or Syria - corrupt, tribal but, with luck, sufficiently incompetent to allow people to construct tolerable lives, though always at risk of the violent deaths of themselves and their families. Occasional outbreaks of a more civilised way of life - like ours now - are rare and cherishable.  Such idylls may appear to have some rational ideological content, like the foundational narrative of the US, but, in truth, they are the product of luck combined with the insights of a few good people. (Whether artists of genius are also required is an open question, though I hope so.) These people do not come up with theories, ideas or initiatives, they do not suffer from the illusion that they can improve things even further with bright ideas. They simply take the view that the important things is not to make matters worse - in a civilised society the downside is always a much greater risk than the upside because the downside is the default condition, the human norm. Modern politics requires that such people pretend to have bright ideas - 'I won't make things worse,' is not much of a slogan, though I'd vote for it. The important thing is that, once in power, they do as little as possible. Brown is not one of these people. He believes in bright ideas cooked up in rooms with his Little Sods. His supporters, meanwhile, persist in telling him to do more, in spite of the clear evidence that the more he does the worse he gets. He is, in short, dangerous, but, happily, he'll never now be elected.

Cravat News

Some while back, I posed the question: The Cravat - is it too late? As far as I recall, responses were desultory and negative. The cravat was going the way of spats and there was no saving it now. Well, it seems that judgment might have been premature. Watching Strictly Come Dancing last night (as everybody does - don't deny it), there was that fine young fellow Matt Di Angelo - a bit of a razor-dodger, but the glass of fashion and the mould of form - dancing a splendid tango while wearing... a cravat! Early days yet, but I think we are seeing the green shoots of a cravat recovery. You read it here first.

Young Carers

Full-time misanthrope though I am, it is, as they say, Christmas. So, under the seasonal circumstances, I feel I must insist that all readers of this blog donate thousands to The Sunday Times Young Carers Appeal. Caroline Scott's article explains why. The stories are suffocating and unbearable.

Sci-Fi and Me

In The Sunday Times - my defence of science fiction.

Evel Lives

So Evel Knievel is dead. The world is a smaller place. He was one of the world's great coma patients whose one fear, I seem to recall, was water. There are, as Dave Barry has taught us, few things more consoling than a guy willing to do futile, dangerous things. But, dry your tears, Evel's spirit lives on.

Smell Ads

Nicole Kidman advertises Chanel No 5, primarily on one of the most expensive TV ads ever made. This ad, made by Baz Luhrmann, is also, as I once pointed out at some length, one of the worst ever made. Now Kidman is suing the Telegraph over a claim in its diary that No 5 was not her favourite smell - the diarist claimed it was Jo Malone's White Jasmine and Mint. Odd that, I'd have had her down as a Guerlaine girl, but there you go. Smell ads are one of the more curious symptoms of Christmas. They are all, basically, exactly the same, whether flogging Stench by Calvin Armani or Emetic by Dolci & Boss. One always assumes that, come January, the entire population will be emitting exotic odours, but they never do. Perhaps they're saving them for a special occasion, like next Christmas. Personally, I find being given a smell offensive - my natural odour is so very fine and, anyway, I never know how much to put on. There's nothing worse than getting into a lift and realising you smell like an unwanted Christmas present that's been smashed with a hammer.