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Some time, (I think?) after midnight, last night, I finally finished volume three of Shelby Foote’s whopping great three volume The Civil War.

Wow! What an epic read. But, as he says at the end. All things must and indeed do pass. Rather like reading Delderfield, I feel almost obliged to note that Foote is – or was, before this twenty year work – primarily an author of fiction.

He’s also been criticised for romanticising the South. Personally I don’t have a beef with him on that. He is, after all, a Southerner himself. Considering that is so, he’s remarkably balanced about things.

But it does mean you have to bear that in mind a bit. In terms of a bias, or a tendency to romanticise things – he has a definite thing for the ‘ghostly halloo’ of the legendary ‘Rebel Yell’ – you can definitely feel it.

For example, he ends the book with what amounts to – or can easily be construed as – a slightly hagiographic defence of Jeff Davis.

But I don’t mind that. History will always have multitudes of voices, saying slightly (sometimes wildly) differing things. I’m not a big fan of Napoleon’s alleged remark that history is merely lies agreed upon. One hopes there are truths of sorts that can and should be ‘dug up’.

But the main thing is, this is dramatic, exciting and compelling. The kind of history that might inspire a lifetime’s dedication to the subject. And as long as one has the critical faculties to detect and discern bias, and treat it appropriately, then in itself it’s not a deal-breaker.

I have really enjoyed reading this monumental work. And I’m almost sad it’s finally ended. It’s like travelling to another time and place. A holiday for the mind/soul. Beneficial even to the body: reading this has been both calming, generally, and has helped me sleep without the chemical crutch of zopiclone.*

But I’m also happy. I’ve travelled far and wide, from knee deeps muds, sloggng along ‘bottomless’ rain-drenched roses, across rivers with magical American names – from the Appomattox to the Yazoo – with shot and shell whistling around my ears. From the reduction to rubble of Fort Sumter, and elsewhere, to re transutions into defensive trench warfare on land, and the birth of the ironclads on river and at sea, it’s been truly epochal.

Utterly absorbing. I honestly can’t recommend this enough.

* And not by boring me to sleep. Far from it.

My mum’s currently recovering from a second hip replacement surgery, in a local hospital. She just messaged to say that after a very rough first night, she’s had a better second night, ‘in spite of [the] noisy ward.’

I replied that I was glad of the former (the better nights sleep, of course!). I didn’t respond to the latter, as she’d most probably be ‘brought down’ by my ‘negativity’!

So I’ll share my thoughts on that second part of her message here.

I think there’s a pretty major problem in our modern hospitals, re noise vs calm. And I say this based entirely on personal experience. Not just of my own time in hospitals, but when visiting others (family).

My own last/most recent visit to a hospital A&E – excluding the numerous routine blood tests I’m obliged to undergo – was, frankly, appalling, from the point of view of ‘healing’.

The levels of noise – bleeping electronics in partic’ (never mind groaning or screaming fellow patients*) – meant it was more torture chamber than place of healing. The irony!

* On several occasions my father’s been admitted to hospital in recent years. And it’s often been the case that the proximity to other patients, expressing their suffering in distressingly unchecked manners, has likewise been more conducive to furthering ill health, as opposed to recovery.

Perhaps this especially true of mental health? As factories for the return to purely physical or mechanical health? Well, modern hospitals are more about that, it seems to me. Keep the drones sufficiently functional for society at large to tick over.

And to my mind that’s a very fundamental flaw in the system, proceeding from political and moral sources. I attribute it to Toryism, or under-investment in public health and wellbeing.

Hospitals should be like the best private sanatoriums. The sort you glimpse a little of in classic old black movies. In which wealthy patients have access to private rooms, and plenty of attentive staff!

But I fear that with the relentless pursuit of private profit for the few, over the common good, let alone any visions of well-being for the many, things are destined just to get worse.

As author Kurt Vonnegut (I think?) laments, with his usual world-weary and acerbic insight, modern humanity might well self-annihilate on the basis that to take a more long term or morally sound view simply isn’t ‘cost effective’.*

NB – The non-movie screenshots that ‘illustrate’ this post were culled from the top few google results returned by the search terms ‘noisy hospitals’. Unsurprisingly a large topic. But one which, like the godawful beeping devices’ is being steadfastly ignored by those in a position to address it. To the detriment of the majority.

* I’ve seen this quote being attributed to Kurt online:

‘We’ll go down in history as the first society that wouldn’t save itself because it wasn’t cost-effective’

I’m re-writing this review from memory, for the present. Hopefully I’ll find the review I wrote at the time of reading?

But for now, a very simple and slight synopsis: I concur completely, with the author, inasmuch as he contends that whilst a rational contemporary mind may rightly baulk at full on religious belief, or ‘faith’, we have much to learn from the worlds religions. To simply abandon them wholesale is to throw the baby out with the bath water.

But what ought we learn from religion, and how might we keep what’s best whilst discarding what’s worst? Like Marx on Capitalism, non-religious folk like de Botton are often surgically exact in dissecting the ills of religion. But when it comes to what to put in its place?

Like almost all failed Utopian forms of Socialism, which all too often follow the road to Hell, whether paved with good intent or not, that’s also where I feel this book fails.

I have memories that are simultaneously clear and yet woefully dull, of attending Humanist meetings (amongst many other types, from Buddhist to Green, to… whatever), hoping to find a vibrant compelling alternative to the religion(s) I was brought up in.

That’s not to say that the latter are necessarily vibrant or compelling. But, despite (or is that because of?) the vacuum where rational thought might’ve been, these varied forms of Christian faith cohered. Not by dint of truth. More by sleight of mind.

And de Botton is quite good here, on that aspect of how religion has proven useful to humanity. The real rub is how to transfer that irrational utility into rational living. And in that area I’m less than convinced.

The other thing about all of de Botton’s books that I’ve read, is that whilst they’re well enough written, obviously well informed, and bespeak a clear thinking mind – what one hopes for in a professed/professional philosopher – for me they lack a certain zest. Ultimately that means I find them worthy but a trifle dull.

I’m prob’ being too harsh here. But having just finished the humungous and epic three volume Shelby Foote series, The Civil War, the compelling romantic excitement that reading that was, is a marked contrast to de Botton’s cool, calm, possibly slightly neutered style.

Just like the subject he’s addressing, there’s something slightly awry at the heart of this dilemma. Anyway, I’m going to leave it there for now. Until I either unearth my original more detailed review, or (this is less likely!) return to re-read the book.

To summarise: a good and worthy book, about a subject that needs addressing. But, just like most attempts to do what the title suggests – reap the benefits of faith without actually abandoning reason – it kind of doesn’t quite work. So both book and subject remain an unresolved and slightly dis-satisfying conundrum.

It’s maddening that faith in flawed fairy tales should prove more robust and utilitarian as an ‘answer’ to life’s riddles than evidence based reasoning. But that’s the rub. The latter, rather than providing pat answers, or even much solace (de Botton attempts to address this in another work The Consolations of Philosophy), simply leads to more questions.

Thanks, Tim, for giving me a lift to check out the above car. You’re a gentleman!

I bought the car. I trusted both my intuition – I just had a good feeling about it – and my senses (and Tim’s!) when we took it out for a short local test drive.

It looks terrific. It’s got FSH, from both previous owners. And it’s clearly been well looked after. It even has cruise control!

I drove it home like a little ol’ Granny! Very gently and conservatively. Observing speed limits religiously. And with oodles of due care and attention.

The recent accident has changed me as a driver. I don’t want to risk death or injury. Mine or anybody else’s. Not that I ever did, obviously. But experience teaches that I need to do more to make those things less likely.

Being an Amazon delivery driver – which I’m now going back to doing – has the potential risk of making one more accident prone. Even if only by dint of being on the roads so much.

If one then zips around, well… it’s obvious what might happen. I guess the irony in my case was that I wasn’t delivering. I was just on a short local run, picking up the mrs from the station.

For now, what with getting home in the dark, the pics of the new wheels aren’t great. I’ll take some in the daylight, tomorrow…

I love this guy’s guitar projects. And I’ve watched lots of them. But I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that here on the blog?

So, the point of this post is really very simple: celebrating his excellent work; sharing it with anyone who might visit my blog; and putting a few of my favourite of his videos in one place

Our contemporary era of solipsistic self-regard has got me too. Cataloguing the minutiae of my life, for nobody much besides myself. So far, so whatever. But will it all just fizzle out? Of course it will, eventually.

Meanwhile, bacon butty lunch, whilst watching snooker, with Chester over-grooming the base his tale into baldness.

The snooker is a marathon 35 framer, from 2011, ‘twixt John Higgins and a very young Judd Trump. Trump’s hair is a bit Indie/Emo! I doubt I’ll watch it all. Certainly not in one go! But it is relaxing. Hence the viewing.

Admiral paid out, finally, yesterday, on my car crash claim. I need to find ways of getting about to buy a new car. Got my eye on a Nissan Qashqai. Just need wheels to go look at wheels!

After my butties, and the nice hot cuppa I’m nursing now, that’s my primary task: get a new car! After, or as well as that… more selling of music gear; getting back out working; looking into money-saving schemes.

This is fun.

I’m glad, ‘cause finding anything else to watch makes my paying subs to the Evil Apple Empire – which I took out primarily for Masters Of The Air – that little bit more palatable.

It’s very silly, but quite a lot of fun. And I’m a big fan of fun right now. As I try to claw my way out of the tar pitch slough of despond.

Noel Fielding does indeed have ‘(?) charisma’ (I forget which brand of charisma it is he specifies; I’ll find out at some later juncture). And I really like Mark Heap (who also plays Robert Greene, Master of Revels and over-enunciating villain, in Upstart Crow), as Turpin’s butcher dad.

Apart from anything else, there might even be a local connection, something I always enjoy.

Aaargh!!! More stuff I want. And yet I know just accumulating stuff isn’t the way to happiness. Plus I’m totally broke. But I have to say, this looks worth having.

It’s the same team and the same publisher as the Bossa book I recently reviewed. I can foresee a similar potential issue. Inasmuch as there are few areas in music that pack the same kind of lunch as say Blue Note.

Some of the stuff coming out of this scene I love. Much of it I’m indifferent to, or don’t like. Some I loathe! But with such diverse music, that’s bound to be the case. And the same goes for the album cover design and artwork.

Watching this, on Amazon Prime. It’s quite interesting. One of the first notable quotes, from this record-breaking winner, is… ‘You can’t win’!

I’m interested not only because I love snooker, which of course I do. But because, like Ronnie, I’ve battled – am battling – depression, and other issues, such as addictions.

As an aside, the documentary was made by David Beckham’s production company, Studio 99 (or something like that?).

One very endearing moment is when a young Ronnie is asked ‘How big do you want to be?’ ‘Five ten’ he responds. Bless him!

It’s also interesting because not only do we hear about Ronnie’s highs and lows. We also hear about his family life. Although, whilst we see his young family, the modern versions are – at least so far – disembodied voices. I wonder why?

At about 25 minutes in, we hear more about Ronnie’s father. And how he wound up in prison as a convicted murderer. I’ve got a court appearance coming up. And I’m terrified. ‘Nothing can prepare you for that’, Ronnie says, of his experience. Ok, I haven’t killed anyone. But I still understand something of where he’s talking from.

As I’m typing this, Ronnie’s talking about how, when his dad was being sent down, he said ‘tell my boy to win’. It’s clear that the father/son bond here was incredibly strong.

I’ve tried to find info’ about his dad’s crime, and subsequent punishment. But it’s apparently near non-existent. I’m very surprised.

His dad had worked in the London Sex Shop industry. And was ultimately very successful. Meaning he could treat his family and kids very well, as far as money was concerned.

As Ronnie Sr. has it, when telling of the events that precipitated his downfall, he was just defending himself, from a two man attack. But who really knows? Esp’ with so little info readily available.

I struggled mightily, for example, to find any pictures of Bruce Bryan, the man who Ronnie sr killed, during a fracas at a nightclub in Chelsea. Bryan, a father of two, is alleged to have been Charlie Kray’s driver. Charlie was the elder brother of Reggie n’ Ronnie Kray.

The above newspaper clipping throws a bit more (and rather) different light on Ronnie Sr’s role in the events that lead to the death of Bruce Bryan. As Ronnie Sr tells it in the documentary, it sounds as he was set upon and outnumbered. Whereas the events as described in the newspaper portray him and his drinking buddy as the aggressors.

Ronnie Sr’s accomplice in the pub was one Edward O’Brien. Is this the same Edward O’Brien, an IRA terrorist known as ‘the Quiet Man, who blew himself up. (unintentionally), on a #171 Bus (a bus I was taking regularly around that time!)?

But, let’s get back to Ronnie Jr’s story… as well as the famous talking heads you might expect (eg fellow snooker players, his celeb mates, like Damien Hirst, and The Stones), there’s also some footage of him with his current partner, and his ‘talk therapist’ (Dr/Prof Steve Peters).

This documentary is nicely filmed, and well directed. Using imagery and sound to effectively convey moods. Sometimes dramatic, but often quite mundane. Such as the one above, with Ronnie in bottom-lit repose. Or Ronnie and Jimmy White having breakfast in a hotel!

About an hour in, we see him leaning out of a window, having a fag! I didn’t even know he smoked! This is also an oddly jarring moment, to me at least, relative to his other side – the healthy mind/healthy body Ronnie – the one goes jogging, overcame his addictions, and can be almost Zen, at times.

But let’s return to a more dramatic theme: the stuff about his relationship with his father. It’s fascinating. Ronnie Jr. was clearly indoctrinated for success, from early on. His dad epitomising both the encouraging and the ‘competitive dad’ (‘c’mon son’, vs. ‘you can’t beat me’!).

Ronnie Jr was really quite shy. An introvert. Prone to laziness. ‘I didn’t want to do the hard work. I still don’t want to…’ he says, rather revealingly, during a gym workout.

Whist we don’t see Maria (mum) or dad, but only hear them – at least this far (and I’m a long way in) – we do see a whole panoply of folk, from his fellow snookerists, to his aforementioned celebrity pals, Hirst, Ronnie Wood, etc. Damien Hirst has a few good insights. As one might hope and expect from an artist.

I have to be honest, I’m not taken with the ‘cockney geezer’ ‘ard man stuff. Unlike Guy Ritchie, I’m appalled, no enthralled, by the accent, the constant swearing, even the deliberate coarseness (belching!), etc.

One of the best parts of the entire thing comes near the end, when he bears Judd Trump in the final of the World Championship. That legendary man-hug, which in the official channels was inaudible, well… they were on mic for the making of this film.

And what one hears is quite interesting. It’s simultaneously a surprise, and – esp’ given what’s preceded it – exactly what you’d expect. It’s a weird combination of exalted highs and desperate lows. And – now this is a surprise – it reaches an apotheosis when he tearfully says, directly after the extended man-hug, to his partner and kids, ‘I can’t do this any more.’

The most revealing thing he says to Judd, I think, given the huge amounts of money involved in modern sports, and agreeing with Damien Hirst (who observes that whilst players might chase perfection – or the highs of success – what everyone else wants is drama) is ‘don’t let them burn you out… pick n’ choose; you’re too good to let these fuckers own you…’

I think Judd was getting a terrific life lesson in that moment. And Ronnie was letting it all out. ‘It’s fucking killing me’, he says, as he momentarily melts down. Phew! Talk about drama.

After all this, Ronnie Sr. finally appears onscreen, during the presentation scene. He’s saying to Ronnie ‘That’s it now, innit? You’re done now aren’t ya?’ But Ronnie’s recovered from his ‘can’t do this any more’ moment. Is that his main addiction?

‘You can’t win. There’s no end to it…’

Well, maybe that’s the nature of life. He reveals a ‘me against the world thing’ (‘I dunno where that come from’, he says, half-embarrassed. But he also seems to have found a way to be happy in himself. A large part of which – in the words of his final little outburst – consists in. It giving a fuck!

Amongst the torrent of raw sewage that Crapitalism not only allows but actively encourages the worse elements of our sick society to spew forth, in such grotesque abundance, I was vomited upon, via my email inbox, by the above.

A Trumpinator Bobblehead, no less. Aimed at so-called ‘US Patriots’. Or, in less Orwellian double-speak and more dictionary definition correct terms, racist amoral brainless right wing reactionary bigots. And/or fans of mind-boggling kitsch.

The idea of marrying the bloated Crapitalist’s head to an already extant Arnie Bobblehead is pure Crapitalist marketing heaven; thinks of the cost savings?

And there’s that wonderful tie-in: ‘I’ll be back’ is clearly the perfect slogan with which this amoral crypto-fascist can smarm his way back into the Whitehouse, despite clearly being both criminal, political insurgent, and utter moron.

I love how the above image – and I use the word love here in the same way Michael Jackson used the word Bad – ties in The Trumpinator’s preferred m.o. (shoot first, ask questions later NEVER) with the cosier, gentler plant loving, sensitive musical side of modern American fascism.

I’d like to suggest to the purveyors of this abomination – ok, it’s amusing considered as an efflorescence of kitsch; but, in truth, it’s terrifying for what it says about modern day humanity – that the images immediately above and below, culled (and I use that word very deliberately; it’s the kind of word lovely right wing types use to refer to the unfortunate and ‘unavoidable’ deaths of those they choose to murder by neglect*) from the first Terminator movie, might be better and more realistic settings for their cutesy Bobblehead death-machine.

* UK media grandee – formerly of The Independent, now propagandising for the openly Tory Telegraph – Jeremy Warner chose to use the word ‘culling’ in relation to excessively high death rates amongst older folk.

And this wasn’t an accidental faux-pas.

He also not only used the term ‘elderly dependents’ – a neo-liberal/neo-fascist euphemism for what Hitler and co, more honestly and more forthrightly, called ‘useless eaters’ – but prefaced his remarks with the ‘Not to put too fine a point upon it’ fig leaf.

Here’s exactly what he said, whilst comparing Covid with the early 20th C. outbreak of so-called ‘Spanish Flu’:

“Not to put too fine a point on it, from an entirely disinterested economic perspective, the Covid-19 might even prove mildly beneficial in the long term by disproportionately culling elderly dependents.” 

Jeremy Warner Daily Telegraph, March 3, 2020

Michael Rosen picked this as his ‘Horrific quote of the year.’ And I concur entirely.