Drunk Children

Thanks to all of you who trekked out to the wilds of ’Ackney on Saturday evening (we’re nothing if not edgy) to enjoy the fun and games that was Wise Children. Those of you who didn’t bother missed a virtuoso performance from Mr Tim Wells taking in West London (booo!), Gilbert, George and black pudding smiles (yay!) and the porn-free newsagent (??), plus the occasionally acoustic talents of Yo Zushi (see above) and band with the lovely Ana Silvera on xylophone, Tom Rogerson, jazz pianist extraordinaire and various others whose names were rudely jostled out of my head by gin. A good night was had by all, particularly the 7,000 of you who claimed to be on the guest list.

A wee dram o criticism

This week I have mainly been in Scotland, nosing whisky for a less zealously highbrow publication than Pen Pusher. While I like whisky, (not so long ago, I didn't, really, but in truth that was because I had only tried it half a dozen times in unwisely large gulps, so I was about as justified in my dislike as someone who claims not to like literature after trying to start with Conrad), I don't, however, know very much about it, so in a desperate attempt to fake this, I borrowed my intended's copy of Andrew Jefford's Peat, Smoke and Spirit, which told me a little more about whisky, and an awful lot more about Islay. Then, at Helen's excellent Schmooze and Booze event on Tuesday evening (www.schmoozeandbooze.co.uk, if your interest is piqued by either part of the name), I schmoozed my way to another recommendation: Iain Bank's Raw Spirit, which I managed to grab at the airport the next day.

I was once in love with Banks, briefly in about 1997. I started with The Wasp Factory, as we all do, and devoured a whole raft of black and white paperbacks, until I came to one about a cello player, which I was unable to finish. Since then, I have never felt the need to moon over this short lived, yet blazing affair, and when that same delightful Helen told me she was writing a piece on Banks for the latest Pen Pusher, I felt nery a twinge. Reading Raw Spirit, I can see why. It's as if Jeremy Clarkson (coincidentally enough, another of Helen's favourite men) had learned to write. Banks writes very competently indeed, and (surprisingly enough as far as I'm concerned, almost lyrically in places), but the subject matter so far - and to be honest, I'm only 60 pages in - is himself, cars, his friends and family, Scotland, and whisky, in that order. Perhaps, like that other great Jeremy, Jezza Kyle, you either love him or hate him. Now if HE wrote a book about his origins (Reading? South Croydon? hell?), then I'd be interested.

An enjoyable rant

This weekend I have been mostly fuming over the creeping glorification of ignorance in this country. Although, given how long this particular beast has been creeping, it ought not to have reduced me to a seething fury, two things happened to bring the subject to my swift-to-chide attention. Firstly, there was Giles Foden wondering in the Guardian Review why ‘literary’ has become a dirty word for the country’s most influential book club. The representative of Richard and Judy’s Book Club quoted explained the term might “put [the readers] off.” But what really annoyed me was her seemingly proud admission, apropos of Martin Amis’ appointment as a professor of creative writing at Manchester University, that she wouldn’t know if he were Britain’s greatest living author because she has “never read one of his books”. Now, while it’s true that there are an awful lot of books in this world, and she can’t be expected to have read them all, it surprises me that someone in such a powerful position has never even dipped into Amis. Perhaps she was too busy ploughing through Feel, a biography of Robbie Williams that seems to have pipped London Fields to the post in the race to be deemed worthy of careful consideration by R&J's millions of devotees.

The second happened this morning, in the gym. Running along, I happened upon a truly inane Sunday morning filler programme which I think was called (nudge nudge), ‘Something For the Weekend’. In an attempt to fill the minutes cheaply, they showed a long extract from an irritating series in which ‘car nut’ James May mocked Oz Clarke around France, dismissing any attempt at informed, interesting commentary with a piercing, childish whistle and a demand for a drink. I think he was meant to represent the ordinary viewer, who, of course has no interest in history, or culture. After the clip finished, the presenter leaned back on his sofa, and drawled, only barely comprehensibly, (and I paraphrase through gritted teeth): “yeah, we had that Oz on last year. Mad! Didn’t understand a thing he said, all about wine and stuff, but top bloke, yeah.” Then he laughed. A lot. Had I had the facility to turn the speed up on the treadmill sufficiently to allow me to run into the screen and punch his grinning face, I would have done.