2011

FavouriteThings

Hello again my favourite Favouriteers,

Well done to you all for admitting that things haven’t been all bad this year.

Thank you to the many that have contributed for the second or third time in a row and thank you to those who are trying this for the first, but I trust not the last time.

I cast my usual curse upon those that have been invited to but failed to tell us about their favourite thing over the last 12 months; may their happy memories be lost down the back of the sofa for a month, along with the television clicker.

This is the third edition of FT and I feel that it is here to stay, thanks entirely to the good will and enjoyment in sharing of all the contributors. I hope putting something down on paper wasn’t too much of a chore and that with the receipt of this booklet you are glad you found the time, I know that I and all the other contributors are.

Happy Christmasand New Year,

Robert Brandt

Forward

1

Favourite ThingsPoem

Adrian BuntingPage 5

Hove Croquet Hut and Lawnshooping mad

Adam BeesonPage 6Wanda Newby

Peace and War

delayed gratification

Bianca FaricyPage 7

Sloe Gin

Jason HookPage 8Graham Greene

Brighton Rock

The High & Overa walk in the South Downs

John AshtonPage 9

A Coastal Adventurecanoeing

Luke HerriottPage 10

Peta TaylorPage 4

Juglans RegiaA nut in a nutshell

Mark KeeblePage 11

Summer vacationDenmark by bicycle

Christoffer JensenPage 12

A Sussex wedding James EvansPage 13

Hiorne TowerArundel Park

Nigel BrowningPage 14

Pizzaa vegetable?

Richard RobinsonPage 15

Rockabilly RavingPontins at Camber Sands

Peter ChrispPage 16

Edible Baggagethe weight of pasta

Wayne JackmanPage 18

Contents

2

Nothing doingidle idol

Sam DixonPage 19

A Land Down Under Pies

Mark WatkinsPage 20

And the Birds Fell from the Skyart and alternative reality

Sam HewittPage 22

Frank’s ‘ousean Englishman’s castle is his shed

Frankie FrancePage 24

The walk to workgetting off on the right foot

Tony SeddonPage 25

Satisfactiona chair without a board

Duncan HendersonPage 26

A new dawn in the land of the rising sunbicycles

Mark StevensPage 27

Midwivesspecial delivery

Charles FiniganPage 28

Action Man and theInternational Lighthouse Relay Do boys ever give up their toys?

Kelvin PawlseyPage 30

The Weihrauch HW45 a barrel of fun

Guy VenablesPage 32

A Disease of Language Aleister Crowley

David BramwellPage 34

One Man, Two Guvnors at the National Theatre

Nick QuirkPage 33

The Smile Nan

Natasha WilsonPage 36

Time and the Second Law of Thermodynamics

Robert BrandtPage 38

3

4

Peta TaylorBrighton

Backstreets and cat-creeps and ginnels and twittens,Old sheepskin slippers and new sheepskin mittens,Starting a lecture by daring to sing,These were a few of my favourite things.

Selling some drawings that started as doodles,New Lotus take-away Singapore noodles,Elm seeds and blossom, St Ann’s Well this spring,These were a few of my favourite things.

New friends I’ve made in a play I produced,Old friends who laughed that I’d just introduced.Couture in Oxfam, a square opal ring,These were a few of my favourite things.

Meeting a painter whose work I admired,Being in ‘Hangman’ (despite feeling tired),Secretly wearing my arm in a sling,These were a few of my favourite things.

When the car stopped. When the bag snappedWhen the flat was cold.I simply remember my favourite things,Then I didn’t feeeeeel soo old.

Poem

Favourite Things

Favourite Things Magazine does not condone indiscriminate joy in everything and will not be held responsible for happiness overdoses. -Ed.

5

Adrian BuntingHove

For a number of years, a few friends and I have been playing croquet of a summer’s evening on the old and unkept croquet lawn outside the Kingsway Bowling Club. Fun it was too, we had to, for ease of using the Bowling Club bar, become members and the bowlers looked on us as a bit of an oddity. Strange it was as well, that this particular piece of lawn, dandelion strewn and as if turfed over a ploughed field, would suit our purposes. A sense of history though, made up for all the deficiencies, this was the old croquet lawn used for decades before and it even had a decaying hut with a sign to prove it, used by the Bowling Club to store their unused BBQ. (Proximity to a bar obviously helped as well.)

Many times though whilst heaving the mallets, balls and hoops down to the lawn for a game we would look at the hut and ponder how much easier it would be if we could store our equipment there. Moreover we mused, how much more pleasurable would the games be if we could borrow a bowling lawn every now and then. Imagine if the balls went in a straight line. Maybe you could predict their trajectory? No, banish these fancies and carry on as normal.

Well not this time, Bunting. If you don’t ask, you won’t get. It was in fact remarkably easy. The council can be fair and sensible. A couple of phone-calls last winter led to Hove

Beach Croquet Club being born. Officially a member of the Croquet Association, and suddenly a bowling lawn is ours, and we get given the keys to the hut. Really, that easy? Help was required from a couple of croquet fanciers in the Bowling Club but it was a painless start.

We had everything. And glorious summer Sundays of battle commenced, on the croquet lawn, and off it. For bowlers are beasts who dislike change. Despite their falling membership and the fact the lawn was never played on, to them this was akin to taking a chain saw to a church organ. Hoops? “Hoops will destroy the lawn, you bastards,” was one of the less fruity comments the aged members would delivery in our direction. But Gandhily, we carried on. The hut was broken into, balls and mallets disappeared, blamed on a lunatic, we accepted the story and croqueted on. Could they not see we younger and had mallets in our hands? And over the summer the numbers increased, until there were more people playing croquet than bowling, the council had a new source of income and eventually even the bowlers saw, that the hoops were here to stay. Indeed, next year we are promised another lawn.

And we have been granted permission to put up a sign on the hut. Our sign over our hut. “Hove Beach Croquet Club, Sundays and Thursdays, All Welcome” it will read above the door to our home.

hooping mad

Hove Croquet Hut and Lawns

6

Adam BeesonHove

I read this year Peace and War, the autobiography of Wanda Newby – widow of the esteemed Eric. (You may know of her, she features in many of his books as his travelling companion.) They met in 1943 (this is rather astonishing) when she was a teenager in the Italian town where he was a prisoner of war. She helped him escape; they later married.

But Peace and War covers more than those events, it covers the whole of her childhood. And it is as good a book of childhood as those of Laurie Lee, Gerald Durrell or V S Prichett.

For Wanda Newby (now in her 90th year) is not an Italian but a Slovenian. She grew up in the Kras, the hills to the north of Trieste. Her father was the schoolmaster in a village where life had hardly changed for centuries.

It’s a profound little book – full of colour and drama and oddities:

The Gaspari [family] had two sons, Slavko and Max. Max was a tall, handsome, very dark boy who looked more as I imagined Albanians might, and was certainly nothing like a Slovene. He was three years older than me, and he hated school; his thoughts were on the world outside – the sky, the woods and their creatures – rather than on books and learning.

When I was five I was admitted to the lowest class of my father’s school. I received no favours: quite the reverse. Altogether there were five different grades in the school; my father, who taught Slovene, and another

teacher, who taught Italian, were responsible for all of them. It is difficult today to understand how they were able to cope with children of so many different ages.

Max was continually restless and succeeded in communicating his restlessness to others; as a result it was difficult for my father to keep the older boys in order (the girls were less trouble), especially if there was no real justification for punishment.

One very hot day, when nobody could really concentrate, a bluebottle came buzzing in through an open window. Every eye followed it and it became impossible for the lesson to continue. My father always kept in his drawer a number of objects which he had impounded from the pupils. Now he took out a catapult and challenged Max to kill the insect, offering a small round stone as ammunition. The suspense was almost unbearable. Max, in his element and happy to accept such a challenge, took the catapult and fired it at the bluebottle, which had momentarily settled on the wall. He missed.

Now it was my father’s turn. His honour was at stake. He loaded the catapult with a second stone, waited for what seemed an eternity while the bluebottle continued to buzz around in mid–air, and then, the moment it alighted on the ceiling, shot it dead. There was a moment of intense silence. Then suddenly everyone was cheering; Max was defeated but he was cheering too. The lesson continued without any more interruptions, and my father never mentioned the incident again.

He later became great friends with Max and used to take him hunting for frogs.

Wanda Newby

Peace and War

7

delayed gratification

Bianca FaricyBrighton

This winter I am making sloe gin. I say making it; I have been watching and turning bottles of gloopy purple liquid every day for the last 7 weeks in the hope that something magical will occur with such little effort. I have made it once before, but I am the queen of hotch potch and so haven’t exactly followed the recipe, or given it quite long enough to be ready by Christmas and there are suspicious ‘bits’ floating in the bottles, along with the swollen berries that are drained of colour and look like small eye balls. It’s not looking pretty.

Making sloe gin is best done with friends, my friend Jo and I are sharing this project. We went to Devil’s Dyke together and picked the sloes, enjoyed a pub lunch reward for our efforts and scratched arms, and then spent a couple of evenings pricking each sloe berry carefully with a pin, as instructed by Monsieur Slater (or bludgeoning the berries with blunt forks and forcing them through the small necks of empty water bottles with our fingers leaving remnants of a looked like horrible murder scene in Jo’s kitchen). We have searched for interesting bottles to dispense the gin into, made labels, discussed who is worthy of the purple nectar and supported each other through moments of weakness, i.e. when either of us has been on the brink of drinking the lot, bits and all. There are lots of different recipes about and some folk are terribly strict about ratios of

fruit / sugar / gin and how long it should ferment for. I say ‘stuff it!’ and have made perfectly sweet, syrupy and very drinkable sloe gin by making it up out of various pinched bits from different recipes, without the patience to leave it for an entire year.

Making anything for anyone is rewarding, especially at Christmas, and home made sloe gin is the stuff that warm cheeks and sticky, purple lipped, tipsy Christmases are made of.

My Hotch Potch Sloe Gin Recipe

Fill any size bottle with these proportions of sloes, sugar and gin:

1/3 bludgeoned sloes Top the bottle up to 1/2 full with sugarFill to the top with gin

Shake well and turn once a day for 8 - 12 weeks. The longer, the better - if you’re keeping it for a long time, you can stick it in a cupboard and leave it be. When you’re ready, sieve or strain through muslin to remove bits and eyeballs and then decant into pretty bottles.

Sloe Gin

8

Jason HookBrighton

Graham Greene

“Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him.” Hook knew, after he had been in Brighton eight years, that he was meant to read Brighton Rock. I was press-ganged into it by a request to talk at the Hurstpierpoint Village Read. The timing was such that I found myself reading the novel not in Brighton but against the clock in the USA. Where and when you read a book colours the way that you feel about it through and through. I bought a copy in a bookshop in Chelsea Village. I was alone on business and Brighton Rock became my travelling and dining companion in New York and Chicago. Back home, I discovered that I live in one of the book’s key locations. The Cosmopolitan (the “huge moneyed hotel”) is based on the magnificent 1835 Bedford Hotel. I tracked down a photograph of the original, which burnt to the ground on 1 April 1864 after its owners were denied permission to replace it with a 14-storey block. I now live in that 14-storey grey leviathan, opposite the burnt-out Zeppelin shell of the West Pier. Some things never change. If you live in Brighton, the lyrical historical descriptions of the city are reason enough to read the novel. But there are plenty of others. The Kolly Kibber conceit of journalist and victim having to leave his calling card at specific times and locations is one of the great crime fiction plots. The narrative is as dense and darkly comic as Conrad. Just consider, the

murder is never described; it’s hinted that the murder weapon is a stick of Brighton rock; and the inquest suggests that the victim died of natural causes, so it was a corpse that was murdered. The characters are worthy of Dickens (who used to frequent the Bedford Hotel), Pinkie is one of the great villains of fiction, and Greene’s meanings are as multi-layered as the rock at the book’s heart: “Look at me. I’ve never changed. It’s like those sticks of rock: bite it all the way down, you’ll still read Brighton. That’s human nature.”

The original Bedford Hotel.

Great info on it at:http://www.mybrightonandhove.org.uk/page_id__7856_path__0p115p193p829p.aspx

Brighton Rock

 

9 9

a walk in the South Downs

John AshtonKemp Town

I must have passed it dozens of times, yet it wasn’t until July that I learned of its existence. It sits just off the Alfriston to Seaford road, which is one of the county’s rare high level routes. At the summit there’s a car park and picnic area, but no hint of the marvels that lie beyond. Snake through the bushes for a hundred yards and the path opens out to the best view this side of Shangri La. And it has a wonderful name - the High and Over. In the distance are the famous looping meanders of Cuckmere Haven and below the Cuckmere river arcs

around the bottom of the alarmingly steep valley side. That gradient gives the illusion of being higher than you actually are; were it not for the absence of marmots, chamois and Konrad Bartelski, you’d think you were on the side of an alpine valley. On a still, sunny day, it’s the most sublime spot on which to sit, stare and put the brain in neutral. Alternatively, you could drink a few cans of strong cider and shout into your mobile phone (so much better than doing it on the train).

The High & Over

10

Canoeing

Luke HerriottHastings

Date - August 2011 Location -Newport, Pembrokshire, S WalesForecast - Moderate/goodTeam- Luke and Dylan Herriott

We checked the forecast, loaded our Kayak, put on our kit and were ready for our expedition. Taking head of our ‘be careful’ messages, we said our good buys and set off on the outgoing tide early one August morning, from the lovely Newport harbour.

The conditions were good. The sea beautifully calm and the sun shining. Father and son were off on an adventure.

Prepared for all eventualities and enough rations to last at least until tea time we navigated the harbour and set forth for the craggy peninsula of Dinas Head.

In unison we paddled, and drifted around the stunning cliff line. The scenery was spectacular, inaccessible by foot and thus hidden to anyone except by sea. Us intrepid adventurers discovered an outstanding, unspoiled coast. Beyond the reach of tourists and hikers was a landscape

of wonder. Sheer sided, slate cliffs, concealed deep water filled caves with secret pools. Rocky outcrops protected deserted, private beaches. Cormorants and gulls swooped and dived around us.

We disembarked on rocky outcrops to sit on our own islands. We picnicked on footprint less beaches, leaving behind only our own footprints, our proof of discovery. We snorkeled in icy secluded pools watching crabs stir the sandy bottom and sea weed wave with the tide.

After lunch the wind picked up slightly. The swell rose and Dinas looked just a little too far off. So after discussing our options, we turned around, dropped our mackerel lines, and ran shoreward with the ingoing tide, eating grannies’ chocolate brownies and waiting for a bite.

Excitement rose as we saw fish jumping but alas our lines failed on this occasion to provide our evening meal. Fortunately I thus avoided the uncomfortable euthanasing of any catch in front of Dylan.

We drifted, ate goodies and chatted, taking in the beauty and wildness of this wonderful coastline and the experience of being real explorers.

As the harbour came into view so did the waves from Granny and Grandad, Becky and Pearl, welcoming us safely home.

On land once again we packed our kit, wrapped up warm and headed for coke and crisps at the harbour bar.

A Coastal Adventure

Kit List

CanoePaddles x 2Wetsuits x 2Snorkels x2Masks x 2 Mackerel lines x 2Fish BucketKnifeWetbag

SandwichesEmergency ration Mars BarsGrannies Chocolate brownies.Buoyancy aids x 2Wetboots x 2Camera x 1sunhats x 2suncream x 1.

Water.

11

Mark KeebleBrighton

My parents have an impressive walnut tree in their back garden and every year, when I visit them in the autumn, I am always offered the chance to take away as many nuts as my car’s dodgy suspension will withstand. This I have dutifully done, chiefly because I love walnuts (more on this in a moment) but also because it is worth it to see the expression of relief on my mother’s face as another 3 buckets are removed from the interminable supply taunting her from the garden shed.

The nuts from this tree are smaller than the American ones generally available and are slightly sweeter with a bitter aftertaste. I can’t get enough of them and usually have single-handedly polished them off within weeks (other family members display a profound disinterest in the walnuts, although my cats do like to occasionally chase the spent shards across the floor).

I have always found the walnut to be truly a god amongst nuts. Complex, multi-fissured and keeper of faintly disturbing innards, it is a nut not to be messed with lightly. Even cracking it open requires foresight and dexterity (truly the Rubik’s Cube of the nut world) for an incorrect placing of the nutcracker results in multiple walnut pieces that paradoxically still hold their bounty in a vice-like grip, however much you keep on cracking the tiny pieces. I’ve also heard that they are good for you. They are an essential source of something or other and are really

good for the brain, which is handy because that is exactly what they look like. Walnuts are also rather special when pickled and make a perfect accompaniment to a cheeseboard, although bought jars of these can be expensive, so try and pickle your own if you know someone else with a tree.

Last year, I was back in my parent’s garden and in front of the tree again. As I idly contemplated the load limit of a modest family car, I had a wonderful idea. I had noticed that my stepfather, who has fantastically green fingers (next to my life sapping ones), had taken some cuttings from this impressive specimen and arranged them in pots on the patio. Not only that, they looked as if the larger ones might be robust enough to withstand the traumas of both a car journey to the South Coast and then more crucially, the relentless attentions of these untrained appendages.

Anyhow, a year on the tree now sits in a pot on my patio. It is still alive. It even looks healthy. I have not only raised it from a fragile cutting into a slightly sturdier, mini-tree ( who needs real horticultural terms) but it also seems quite happy where it is for the moment. It has become one of my favourite things since it is quite beautiful in its own right and because I sense that I’m only glimpsing a tiny fraction of its future potential if I treat it well and make sure it eventually ends up in a good home. Perhaps, when I have a more substantial garden and I have subjected it to one more upheaval, it will feel that it hadn’t necessarily lucked out when it was taken away to Brighton. Who knows, the walnuts might even get a shed of their own.

A nut in a nutshell

Juglans Regia

12

Christoffer JensenCopenhagen

Denmark on a bicycle

Summer vacation

Having done some exotic traveling over the last couple of years the four of us decided quite early that 2011 was to be dedicated for a route of reunion in our own country. Checking out the world atlas it all seemed pretty straightforward. Denmark did not even cover a full page so how hard could it be? We started route planning late 2010 hooked up with a blend of family, friends, youth hostels, B&Bs and hotels leaving a few blind spots for “camping sauvage” or alternatives. Ambition was to combine coast to coast with island hopping peaking at the northernmost part of Jutland where two seas are meeting.

To prevent saddle soars we had practiced a few times before heading off. Our three week vacation ran up in almost 1000 miles. It was deadly hard. We had by no means enough hard back skin to spend 6 hours in the saddle every day we soon experienced.

But still I’d say go for it; Denmark is to be experienced. Best by bicycle. My absolute highlight memory was the seven miles riding literally on the beach paved with crystal white sand limited by the blue Sea at our feet and an eternal horizon. This is a memory for life.

13

Take one beautiful bride, one gloriously sunny late summer’s day, one unique village church, one sixteenth-century country pub, and one gently quivering* groom, and you have the recipe for the perfect wedding. It was my good fortune to experience just such a day on September 2nd. Not just the best day of my year, but of my life – a cliché, I know, but true nonetheless.

The sight of one of my brothers sporting a paisley tie (a fashion statement that had distressingly little to do with irony) will live long in my memory, but not as long as

the heart-stopping, drain-the-blood-out-of-your-head moment of seeing Dominique walk through the church doors. Thirty seconds and the length of the aisle later, my bottom lip appeared to have developed a life of its own and was threatening to take the rest of my face with it. “Don’t you start,” she not so much said as commanded. The rest was a breeze.

*(tension, you understand, not nerves)

James EvansLewes

A Sussex wedding

14

Nigel BrowningArundel

In April this year, the South Downs National Park became ‘fully operational’. I expected a new sign to appear at the end of my street proclaiming ‘Welcome to the South Downs National Park’ – but it didn’t. To the best of my knowledge, no such signs exist anywhere in Sussex, certainly none can be seen on my daily commute up and over the Downs from Arundel to Hove. For reasons that remain unclear, my hometown of Arundel remains largely outside the boundary of the Park, but luckily, one of my favourite locations is well within the border and, even better, in its own 1200 acres of beautiful Arundel parkland. Hiorne Tower is a bewildering place and always looks a bit lost in its own landscape. It’s one of the most remote places on my weekend dog-walking route and whatever the weather, it never fails to surprise me. Built by the architect Francis Horne in 1787, it is reputed to be one of the finest follies in the country. It was built to demonstrate the construction ability of Mr Horne before he was allowed to renovate the main Castle in Arundel. Sadly, he died two years after completing the tower and so his skills were not put to the test, but his legacy is an amazingly intricate and beguiling piece of architecture. It’s not known if the triangular tower was ever inhabited or if it was just an elaborate hunting lodge. There is an oddly placed, large Greek plinth just to the west of the Tower which was brought back from the Crimean War as a spoil from the siege of Sevastopol in 1855.

Inevitably, there are many ghost sightings that have been recorded around the vicinity. The most frequent, is that of a young woman, dressed in white and wandering around the tower’s base, where she landed after throwing herself from the turrets following the death of her lover. Perhaps the best year for the Tower was 1988 when it was used as a film location for Silver Nemesis in the TV series Dr Who (when the rather lackluster Sylvester McCoy was playing the title role). Although I’m not a huge fan of the show, I have seen a video clip from the episode and it’s a little unnerving to see a troop of Cybermen marching up to the Tower. Today, the Park is known locally as the ‘Gallops’ because the race horses from the John Dunlop stables can frequently be seen on an early morning cantering around their polytrack circuit: A magnificent sight, especially on a crisp autumnal day and well worth getting up early for. So take a trip to this little known corner of Arundel Park and take in the sweeping views over the Downs and wander around Hiorne Tower, where a ghost, over 3,000 champion racehorses and a group of Cybermen have trod, not to mention one man and his two dogs on their weekend walk…

Arundel Park

Hiorne Tower

15

Richard RobinsonHove

Pizza

a vegetable?

Well, I think my favourite thing of the moment is pizza. I have just found that in the US schools they classify pizza as a vegetable. It must be true that pizza is a vegetable because ConAgra and Schwan have spent $5.6m of lobbying funds in Washington to make sure it is true. ConAgra and Schwan make millions of pizzas for American schools. They should know what’s healthy and what’s not. Their pizzas are topped with a red-coloured paste which they claim has tomato in it. Tomato is a vegetable, so obviously the whole sugar-loaded, fat-

pumped, salt-laced concoction is a vegetable and thus a healthy option. We shouldn’t stop there. Chips are healthy for the same reason. Doughnuts are made from wheat (a vegetable). Fat is obviously a vegetable, since cattle eat grass to manufacture it. Cardboard is a vegetable, since it is made from trees. Indeed it is probable that the cardboard of a pizza box is healthier to eat than the pizza inside it. And that might be true.

16

Peter ChrispBrighton

Pontins at Camber Sands

Rockabilly Raving

Travelling to Pontins Holiday Camp at Camber Sands is like taking a journey back to the 1950s. This makes Pontins the perfect place for the annual Rockabilly Rave, held every June, and now in its 15th year. It’s a four-day feast of rockabilly music which draws bands and fans from all over the world. The Rave demonstrates the unifying power of the love of the upright slapped bass and vintage gabardine. It’s an inspiring example of international harmony!

The first thing you see on arrival is a long line of Hot Rods and 50s classic cars, gleaming with chrome, parked in front of the main building. Behind are the chalets, which the ravers customise with flags, posters and fairy lights. Usually there are lots of chalet parties, with bands performing in the open air. This year, however, it poured with rain almost continuously, so we spent most of the Rave in the indoor public performance spaces – the main ballroom, the downstairs club and the small ‘Queen Vic Pub’.

There were at least 25 bands performing live. They were all worth seeing, because rockabilly is about showmanship and passion. One of my favourite acts was ‘the King Kong of Rockin’, Tony Estrada, with the Modern Don Juans, from Austin Texas. To get an idea of Tony’s amazing stage act, have a look at him singing ‘I’m Your Lover’ on Youtube. Tony looks like he’s about to undergo spontaneous combustion.

Another great wild performer was Iz Proulx, a French Canadian piano pounder whose playing style was described in the Rave programme as like that of ‘of a deranged octopus on speed’. Iz channels the spirit of Jerry Lee Lewis, though, unlike ‘the Killer’, he is also warm and funny. The final act of the weekend was a wonderful

Portuguese Honky Tonk band, complete with trumpet and steel guitar, called 49 Special. The ladies all swooned over their handsome and charismatic lead singer, Pedro Serra.

Between the live acts, DJs play records for the dancing, which takes three basic forms, each with its own tempo. The stroll is a slow female line-dance, first danced in 1957

Iz P

roul

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17

to black rhythm and blues records on the American Bandstand TV show. There are mid-tempo numbers for the couples who like jiving. Then there are the faster ‘boppers’. Bopping is solo self-expression, which might involve fancy footwork or, in my case, just happily bouncing about. The DJs have to be good, because they can clear the floor in seconds if they put on the wrong kind of record.

Around the sides of the ballroom, there are stalls selling rare records, Hot Rod parts, DVDs listed under such specialised categories as ‘1950s Juvenile Delinquent Films’, and vintage clothes. Clothes are a very important part of the rocking scene, as everyone dresses up. This year, I was impressed by the Neo-Edwardian Teds, who wear immaculate three-piece black and grey drape suits (the lurid coloured drapes we associate with Teddy Boys were a 1970s invention).

Around the Rave, you will always come across King Kukulele, an American uke player who wears a grass skirt, Hawaiian shirt and rattan crown, and sings 1920s and 30s novelty songs. As a party trick he likes to hurl his uke at startled passers-by, only for it to spring back on a length of elastic. At mid-day on Saturday, he sits in the back of the ‘Tiki Truck’, which leads the vintage car cruise down to Dungeness.

The one downside of spending a weekend in the 1950s is the food – you won’t see a fresh vegetable anywhere at Pontins. On the other hand, Lisa and I did have the Olympic size swimming pool all to ourselves on the Sunday morning – rockabillies don’t like to get their quiffs wet.

We had a really sociable time, as lots of Brighton friends were there too. One friend, Jerry, had an even more magical Rave – he didn’t see many of the bands, but he did meet, and fall in love with, the woman he would marry just a month later!

Japa

nese

love

lies

King

Kuk

ulel

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18

Wayne JackmanBrighton

I’m happy to reply to the call requesting a ‘favourite thing’ during 2011. But once again I have to say that there is no favourite thing for me about life. Life just happens and stuff impacts. Would it be alright with everyone if I talk about luggage? This won’t be a praise of ‘wheeled vinyl plus retractable carry-handle’ but rather a beef (my current ‘favourite thing’) about how heavy pasta is. Hang on.....just wiping my lips. Done it. Where was I? Oh yes...

Upon visiting my wife’s family in Rome, pre-Christmas, late November, we took, literally, almost 100 wrapped presents for my mother/brother/sister-in-law but mostly for our nephew/niece (both under 10 years old). These gifts filled our suitcases (we had to weigh them since we flew Easy J) and then we had to take further ‘hand luggage’ - any weight is allowed within ‘reason’. What’s ‘reason’? Could I take 400 kilos of scrap gold providing it fitted in the Easy J ‘sample’ basket? What about a Channel 4 cookery Christmas Cake - at least 20 kilos. Or the dwarf that Ricky Gervais currently employs - surely he could scrunch up into an Adidas Holdall and hold his breath?

Anyway, we got all the gifts to some suburb of Rome (6th Floor, no access to street, corner-shop or pub) and duly distributed them on the 2nd night when aforementioned family turfed up. It was a delightful evening. The Italian family were suitably (yeah thanks, it’s not bad) impressed. I received a black jumper which was actually really cool plus three Panatone Cakes

which weren’t. And that was just the start. After that, my wife’s and my luggage quickly filled up with cake, pasta, biscuits and....well more pasta actually. 45 kilos! More than we took over in ‘proper’, expensive gifts! What is it about an Italian family that doesn’t ‘twig’ that, thanks to the EC + International Trade, we can buy parmesan, prosciutto, Chianti, Panatone, and Albanian gypsies right here. In the UK. At the Seven Dials. Even in Tescos.

BUT the greatest sin of all is pasta! I don’t know whether you have ever actually weighed pasta (I hadn’t, it was just a packet of vaguely yellow stuff vacuum-packed) but let me tell you - it weighs a lot. Like, a lot! Read the small print. A packet of any, whatsoever any, Italian, supermarket-purchased, pasta weighs 1 Kg! When you are ‘gifted’ 10 packets of variously-shaped, but essentially the same, packets of pasta then you end up tossing your toothpaste into the bin because you don’t have any weight allowance left for the return flight. None. Niente. Zilch. All you come home with is a suitcase, pared to the bone, stripped of zips, wallet and luggage tags and solely consisting of ‘especially Roman’, hose-pipe width Rigatoni (apparently good for a sauce consisting of tomatoes and basil - or is it basil and tomatoes, or maybe tomatoes, onion & basil - gosh, they all taste so different I can never remember which I’m eating).

So, here I am, back in my office, at my computer, just about able to close the door to shut out the pasta that has taken a life of its own and is clambering from my suitcase in the next-door bedroom, ready to demand of me ‘We like travelling. Where are we going next? How about Brasil?’ If you don’t hear from me next year then bring sauce and fight off the fusilli.

the weight of pasta

Edible Baggage

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idle idol

Having shared the last 8 years of my life with twin boys, whilst being employed as a class music teacher, I’ve found that my time has been pretty occupied.

But even when I’m not obliged or needed to do things, I am the sort of person who needs to do creative stuff to feel a bit worthy; a bit ‘special’. So I’ve surrounded the day job with writing new songs and musicals for children and then spent any remaining time trying to let people know about them on my website (www.songchest.com).

However, it has become more and more clear to me that at the heart of my creativity lies the driving force of boredom. And the less space I have to be bored, the less creative I am. Teachers requesting songs about different subjects and creative pals suggesting joint projects are also good motivators, but somehow the stuff that comes out of boredom is the most treasured.

So I can honestly (and boringly) say that my best bits of 2011 are when I’ve managed to do nothing. The rare times when I’ve managed to stop distracting myself with the hoovering, the state of the kids bedroom, the job, the website, etc. and sit and watch shit on T.V until my brain is so numb, that it has space to come alive again.

I’m not sure to be honest that I’ve actually had any best bits yet. But here’s to a great big dollop of bugger all.

Sam DixonPortslade

Doing Nothing

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Mark WatkinsRoskilde, Denmark

Pies

A Land Down Under

Can a favourite thing be a place, or a people, or a feeling? If so, then, on all counts, my vote goes to Australia.

I was fortunate enough to visit the place three times during 2011, twice for work, and once for pleasure. My travels took in Adelaide, Sydney, Cairns and Darwin plus a fair bit of gadding about in between.Each time, and every time since my first visit, back in 1999, I am struck by the youth and optimism of a place once used as the dumping ground for many of the UK’s miscreants. Even as recently as the early 1980s, the Australian government was subsidising immigrants in an attempt to establish a sustainable population for the country.

These days, unless you are a brain surgeon, vet, or (oddly) a hairdresser, you can’t get a migration visa for love nor money. I know, I’ve tried.

So what are the various components that have carved the country its place in my affection?

For a start, there’s a marvellous literalism to the place. The pretentiousness that abounds in so many other places, seems to gain scant attention in Australia. Only there, could a sweeping vista of beach and sea be christened Blue Bay. Further along the coast, a similar

view, this time with a sinister grey fin breaking the surface of the ocean, is named Shark Bay. Then there’s Little Bay, Long Bay, Sandy Bay, and so on. This is a place where one of the most striking geological features in the southern hemisphere was dubbed Ayers Rock. Rock! The Aussies have turned understatement into an art form.

Then there’s the egalitarian feel to life there. Only in Australia would the Singapore Airlines business class lounge contain a pie rack for its guests. In Spain: exotic tapas. In France: canapés and petits-fours. But in Australia: pies. If it’s good enough for one, it’s good enough for all. I went for the premium pepper steak, in case you’re interested.

I just get the sense that the phrase ‘no worries’ has truly permeated the Aussie culture, meaning that there genuinely are very few things to worry about. Take my most recent trip down under. For all sorts of complicated reasons, it turned out I had no Australian visa in my passport. I was held at the check in desk in Singapore while an Australian immigration official tried to understand, and help me understand, how this had happened.

It was close to midnight on a Sunday night, and I began to fear that our family holiday would begin with a few days of purgatory

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while we attempted to fix the situation.After half an hour or so, the official returned. It turned out that my visa had been switched to my other passport when I last visited for a work trip. “No worries, I phoned Canberra and we’ve switched it back. Have a great trip.”

No worries. In some countries they’d have been preparing a holding cell and lathering up the rubber glove.

So there you have it. Honest, egalitarian, and keen to find a solution rather than disown the problem. You can see the attraction. And the pies, well that’s just a bonus.

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art and alternative reality

Sam HewittBrighton

It was the May Festival and as usual I was busy every weekend doing some arty nonsense and would miss all the highly accomplished, groundbreaking visual art that may or may not be emerging like steam from the great cultural porridge of Brighton and Hove. I would never know, I would hear tell at the after party of the amazing show and the courageous angle and the new aesthetic but would have to only nod and say wow.

This year however I did get to see something, its sheer proximity made it unmissable. My own artwork saw me installed in the Old Market in Hove and it was with great suspicion and envy that I discovered another company were also using the space each weekend to peddle their wares. They are called Il Pixel Rosso and, three weekends in, I got it together to accept their generous offer of a free ticket.

I was shown into a small waiting room which was carefully adorned with very little, a television showed a news story about birds falling from the sky, it was very unobtrusive. I spent my time reading a small town newsletter which had locals complaining about a Faruk encampment. There had been recent stuff in the news about Romany gypsies and the voice was familiar.

Then someone came into the room and told me to put on a pair of goggles and earphones.

Inside the goggles were two tiny screens on which I could see a film of a different room from the perspective of someone standing in it. The black out of extraneous light was excellent and the illusion of transportation compelling. A voice in the earphones told me to look to my right. As I did so I the view moved with an agreeable level of consistency with my own movement.

There was a dangerous looking clown standing there. He said “Here take this to Marco” (or something) and I (and the camera) looked down to see him handing me an envelope and I felt an envelope slide into my hand. I was then told to sit down and felt a wheelchair bump my calves. I sat and was wheeled through several scenes of Gypsy Clowns (Faruk I assumed) enjoying themselves and talking loudly in an Eastern European sounding language.

We stopped at a parked car and three Faruk climbed in as I was helped out of the wheelchair and into a car seat. We pulled away and the ensuing journey was fabulously immersive. By this time I was very accepting of the reality I was being presented with and these clowns were pretty raucous. The voice of direction still occasionally helped me look around, for example at the reflection in the passenger window which was of a serious looking middle-aged man

And the Birds Fell from the Sky

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Smells and textures from the physical world were included almost seamlessly by invisible stage crew (e.g. I could smell it when a match was lit) as the Faruk drank, smoked and laughed their way across a foreign-looking city, sometimes serious and threatening but never asking too much of me. They treated me like a friend but the language barrier kept me alert for any clues of intent. I spent a lot of the piece getting inspired and marvelling at the work that had been done. As a result many of the narrative details are hazy. Suffice it to say I ended up giving the envelope to Marco (or whatever) in the middle of a field and having a moment of understanding about the birds falling from the sky.

Removing the goggles and earphones I was left in a silent room with great lighting and a kind of altar with dozens of burnt matches at the base. The walls were adorned with many tiny ancient-looking photo portraits of the Faruk.

Like in a Mr Ben story, Marco had given me a gift to take back to the real world and I opened my hand to find a clump of rolled up Tarot cards, one of which has survived. (see photo)

I was left to make my own way out which I really like because it allowed me to readjust on my own terms. I felt moved and amazed.

Surely this kind of joyous use of new devices is the future of art. There was a feeling of

commitment to an alternative reality in the minds of the artists that happened to coincide with the interface rather than being driven by it. This was film, theatre, art installation and technology combining to do something very old in a very new way.

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Frankie FranceHove

Frank’s ‘ouse

an Englishman’s castle is his shed

oh my fav thing is my shed hole den shop cave retreat its my hood. its cold dampish and breezy but i know a man who can supply the materials cos im the man can knock it all together. my plan is afoot left one forward first skip skip skip. admittedly its behind schedule because my neighbour needed more clearance for his drains on his shed ,for planning permission you see. his sheds now dez rez man it sleeps three cost him a fat wedge of his pound clip.me im skip hunter city dump cadger streets of brighton doing it up for nearly free. mazzing what a recession gripped society chuck away.From here in my half insulated, part wallpapered mostly carpeted shed,reclining in my ‘would you like it Frank its looking a touch fatigued’ leather reclining settee, i intend to conquer in this new beginning. im gonna fill my shed with my head its favorite place to beAnyone else whos doing the same please do come round for tea. ‘Nothing wrong with this kettle madame’,wrong shade for my client you see.

ps. its called franks ‘ouse and i’ll be playing my other favorite thing in there guaranteed.

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getting off on the right foot

How could the walk to work possibly be considered as a candidate for Favourite Things? I mean, walking per se is the favourite past time of thousands of people all over the world, but the walk to work? As far as recreational walking goes, I still don’t understand why anyone would want to do it along with a large group of other people walking at breakneck speed along a pre-planned route whilst sweeping all and sundry from their path with a wave of their extendable pole, but someone has to ramble I suppose. Anyway, I digress. Many people may consider the walk to work the least enjoyable in their repertoire of routes because it’s a walk they have to do out of necessity rather than choice, but I’m fortunate to be able to say my circumstances are now a little different.

At the beginning of 2011 I embarked on a new career as a freelancer and I work from home now. Home is Alfriston, in the Cuckmere Valley, near the east coast between Brighton and Eastbourne (for the benefit of all you overseas readers). My walk to work obviously starts and finishes from the same place and meanders along one side of the Cuckmere river as far as Litlington, then back down the opposite bank. I’m joined every morning by my dogs Lily and Conor and we see herons most days, often cormorants too – it’s a great way to start the day. I could never do it in time when I had to fit in a journey to work, but now my walk is also my “commute” back to my desk. Maybe the walk itself isn’t my favourite thing, but rather the fact that I’m able to start my day in this way, so it symbolises this new way of life I’m lucky to be able to lead.

Tony SeddonAlfriston

The Walk to Work

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Duncan HendersonHove

a chair without a board

Satisfaction

Anyone who has ever done a bit of plumbing or perhaps just stared at the stuff may have shared with me the thought that copper pipe and copper fittings have a particular beauty. You might also, like me, have considered putting it together in ways other than straight along the skirting with occasional risers to a radiator or tap.

It was at some point early this year, as I prepared to embark upon a long and repetitive job in the workshop, that I decided to break up the monotony by spending perhaps an hour a day on a new piece made of pipe and plumber’s fittings.

My initial direction was a chair that connected to the central heating. I thought it might sit well in a hallway ready to toast a bum coming in from the cold. This line quite quickly went to the wall though, as I couldn’t get away from dull 90° corners. Dull corners and the thought of my massive bulk causing it to crack a joint and fire hot water up some loose fitting garment. Eventually, I managed to get myself off the customary rails of thought I usually travel and to the thing you see here.

After a fat slice of maths and geometry to work out how I was going to build it and knocking up a few jigs to help with the forming, I began to trial on test pieces. My biggest concern was how to solder such a

complex shape. The solution came in a handy bottle of Just for Copper, a resin you lightly wipe onto a surface to be linked and then simply ring the two parts together. There is then a rapid chemical reaction resulting in a strong hermetic bond, up to 500 psi for those who care. Not using heat also meant there would be no discolouration around the joints, which I thought favourable in this case.

The long and repetitive job I had originally looked to break up now lay dashed upon the rocks that surround an easily side tracked mind. I had become a copper fiend. Beautifully balanced between strong and pliable and always with that lustrous colour.

I suppose it must have taken about a week all told and I really like it, which is not easy for me to say, coming as I do from a long line of self-critical ham strung Britons. The plan is to keep it under wraps and then exhibit in a collection of other sticks, so, please, mum’s the word.

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Mark StevensCopenhagen

bicycles

A new dawn in the land of the rising sun

Two wheels good, two wheels plus an electric engine better. That’s what I learned on a recent trip to Kyoto. While Japan was disappointingly not the future we’re sold, it did have one Jetsons feature. Electric bikes.

Now I know it’s not cool – putting an electric engine on a bicycle. It’s a long way from the ‘fixie’ no frills culture. Come on say it, you think it’s for grannies. But here’s the deal: Once you try it, normal cycling just seems, well, kinda hard work.

Place yourself next to a spandex horror show racing cyclist, wait for the lights to change, and then accelerate past them while you remain in a fully upright position with your nose in the air. You’ll actually hear them swear as you zoom away.

Or glide past people as they try to get up a hill. Perhaps you’d like to slow and come alongside to have a chat while they puff their way up. You’ll find yourself looking forward to hills. In fact you’ll find yourself anticipating a bike ride generally. You’ll go further for a start. Places that previously caused you to wonder whether it was really worth getting to, suddenly come in range. Country pub? Sure. Late night beer on the other side of town? No problem.

Of course you’ll look like a goon. But you’ll look like a friendly goon because its impossible not to smile as you’re zooming around.

The girls in the hotel laughed their heads off as I returned with my battery pack in hand ready for a recharge. But making girls laugh is actually a rather nice thing to be doing. And while the spandex warriors or fixie fascists will not be so welcoming, what do you care? You’re from the future.

Like putting a pickup on a ukulele, electric bikes are the kind of anti puritan fun that we could all do with. Just keep your feet off the pedals at traffic lights or you’ll die.

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special delivery

Charles FiniganLondon

Midwives

Perhaps it’s the euphoria after the birth of our third child, but I’m really impressed by midwives. Remember as you read this that I’m talking about a role in a public healthcare system in an industrial society. What you’d expect is regimentation, impersonal service and bureaucracy, however, from my limited perspective as a father, what I see is strikingly different.

I’d been delighted during the birth of our second child, at home, at the variety of tasks midwives perform: monitoring mother and baby during labour, calming the mother, helping her breathe through contractions, keeping their heads when the baby’s pops out (does it ever get sucked back in again?), delivering the baby, checking baby and mother after delivery, cleaning and tidying up, keeping me out of the way and usefully involved at the same time, making the cocoa and toast, and even washing up the dishes in the kitchen. Then there’s dealing with a range of serious contingencies that have thankfully never arisen for us.

Though I was terribly pleased with all this during the birth of our second child, I didn’t think about it until our third was born, this time in a midwife-run birth-centre annexed to a hospital, when our midwife seemed to perform pretty much the same set of tasks, including taking and bringing the cocoa order. She was even sitting at Reception

when we came in at 1:45am, dealing with a more awkward customer. Add to these tasks during labour the ante and post-natal responsibilities of the midwife: checks, advice, sympathy, and generally being an all-round expert on things to do with mothers and babies. What I came to believe we had found was a rare exception to the principle of the division of labour.

Dividing tasks among a workforce generally tends to make its business more efficient. You probably know the economist Adam Smith’s example of the pin factory (actually a broach factory) from the Industrial Revolution. Smith observed that when employees specialise on distinct and limited tasks in the manufacture of broaches, more could be made in the same time than by the same number of craftsmen each making a whole broach. Yes, we all know how boring and alienating this specialisation can be for the worker, but Smith was impressed by the efficiency.

Coldly playing Adam Smith, I observed that many of a midwife’s tasks could be done by lower-paid nurses and ancillary staff, leaving her to hop between labouring mothers to deliver babies, and to call doctors, consultants and surgeons if needed. After delivery, assessment could be continued by other specialists, and toast and cocoa brought by waiters on minimum wages plus tips. Washing up would be done by ‘customers’ who didn’t say ‘thank you’. Remembering the birth of our first child on a standard maternity ward, I think there was more of this specialisation (we said ‘thank you’ so

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never found out entirely), and I understand that the birth centre is a deliberate move away from specialisation. So, my logic goes, if you’re either a specialist or a craftsperson, and I’m not sure that assumption holds but please, for the sake of my hypothesis, give me the licence customarily accorded to the intellectual, what we have discovered is a kind of craftswoman.

Perhaps I’m still warmed by the self-congratulatory and sentimental glow new fatherhood and of this apparent discovery of authenticity, but perhaps we also have here an exception that proves the rule. Perhaps, in some cases, craft is more efficient than specialisation, or perhaps I’m bumping into something about the limits of specialisation, involving the best grouping of tasks to be conducted by the same person. Over-specialisation sounds like something to be avoided, after all. Of course, the authenticity of craft carries a premium in some markets too, but not in the NHS, and what was really important for us was a healthy mother and baby, not an authentic experience.

I realised that we’d also enjoyed, if I can use that word for my wife’s experience, something that usually annoys me but I welcomed in these instances: highly attentive personal service. Usually, I find it awkward and slightly confusing when people offer to do things for me that I can do myself, like park my car, carry my bags, and leave flowers floating in the lavatory pan during my absence etc. Now I would not attempt many of a midwife’s tasks, but I can make cocoa, roll-up used linen, and clean floors. At these

births I was entirely glad not to have to worry about these simple things, and very grateful that somebody else did.

Lastly, as a man I felt rather pandered too, and it was not just the cocoa and washing up and the congratulations. Was there an attempt to shield my eyes from aspects of labour and delivery that might diminish my natural affections for my wife, to use the language of Adam Smith’s era? And there was something conspiratorial in a midwife’s sideways look at me when she advised my wife to put cabbage leaves in her bra cups to ease breast pain. ‘Afterwards, they will be cooked’ she told me. She knew me well, I thought, and, This is what it must be like to be a Frenchman. For a few days my wife was a tantalising Venus of the Allotments. The cabbage was done al dente.

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Kelvin PawlseyFolkstone

Do boys ever give up their toys?

Action Man and the International Lighthouse Relay

Well, I had little choice when my mother boxed up all my Action Men, took them next door and gave them to a boy several years my junior. At the time it felt like the natural order of things. I had a drum set and a shelf for my music cassette collection. I was grown up.

This year brought the Triennial to Folkestone and with it, its Fringe.I was invited to make a site-specific, visual sound piece to be installed in the South Foreland lighthouse.

A couple of years earlier little packages had been arriving at the house courtesy of a well known online auction room. All in various states of repair but the eyes were still like eagles and the hands (if fingers were present) still gripped! I was getting back an Action Man collection.

Why though?

After finishing my Fine Art degree in 1996 I continued to make woodcuts and paintings and still do. I also made curiosities for an annual sculpture show in a North London wood. Making things was good.

Moving back to the South Coast in 2001 allowed me to spend more time with an old school friend who had been through the art system and was now teaching. He

loved making stuff and still had his Star Wars figures. I loved making stuff and remembered my Action Man collection going next door with a renewed clarity.

The next thing you know, we had built a pub together. A pub for Action Man. 1/6th scale. Wooden floorboards, sash windows, furniture and a ‘stuffed pike’ in a case above a working wood burning stove. All made from balsa, fimo, aluminium sheet and lots of glue. What larks.

A seed was sown.

Recently I’ve been using my musical background to extend my art practice and involve myself with projects I would have overlooked.Collaborative pieces have included a lullaby for taxidermy birds and music for a sextet of ice cream vans.As a result of all that I was invited to make a piece of work for the 2011 International Lighthouse Relay. I quote:

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‘More than 40 artists have created site-specific sound and visual work for over 20 lighthouse sites around the UK and in Europe, Asia, South America and the Antipedes. Each artist began by creating a sound artwork in response to a lighthouse of their choice, with an accompanying visual component. The artists were also commissioned to collaborate on the Lighthouse Relay - the creation of a set of transitional sound pieces, via the exchange of site or concept related sound samples, that will be developed as the work moves from one lighthouse site to the next.’

The National Trust accepted my proposal and I began making.The music I had in mind was ready made so I had no need for my CasioTone, Pixiphone, snare drum or microphone. What I wanted the sound to come out of was not.

The installation consisted of a bearded Action Man in a sailor outfit, sitting on a stall with the shipping forecast sounding from a Roberts R600 radio and a half speed version of ‘Sailing By’ the music that precedes the shipping forecast, sounding from a pair of Wharfedale XP2 speakers.

In carrying on from last years article, all the fabric used was Harris Tweed and this was the stool top covering, grille for the wireless and the tweeter covers.

All of this was of course to scale.

This year was special. I got to play with Action Man again.

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Guy Venables (43)Hove

When, as we all end up doing at some point in our lives, we are forced to choose a high powered German air pistol, there is only one sensible choice. The Weihrauch HW45. This statement has drifted, over time, from opinion into fact. The first thing that puts it stratospherically so far above all the rest is that it has an interchangeable 170mm barrel, so one gun can be .177, .22, or the rarer.20 and .25. This offers a widened range of stopping power, range and accuracy. With a muzzle velocity of 426 foot per second the HW45 is also the most powerful spring loaded air pistol on the market. Still. After being in production for 16 years. This is due to an innovative design using the whole of the length of the gun as the compressed air chamber, underneath the barrel which is transferred to the barrel via a u-bend giving it that extra power. Acutely aware of this, the barrels are made with only a quarter twist in the rifling so the speed of the pellet doesn’t cause it to shred itself. The look of it is almost a replica of the navy issue colt 45 automatic, so it’s ominous enough for waving at people in traffic or heading into threatening circumstances simply to administer a pistol whipping. Any air pistol is fun when you’re drunk but I got it out at 3 in the morning at a black tie party in July and we made holes in nearly everything including the hem of the ball gown of a guest. I have a shoulder holster for mine (but that’s less about usefulness and more

about me being an arse). It’s a heavy, but well weighted gun and under-cupping with the other hand helps steady the shot. If you fancy spending your life on the internet, a shoulder stock is available but your chances of buying one are thinner than me finding a really good metaphor for this bit. In fact I realised how remote it was and just carved my own one. That’s also the thing. These guns are rare. Not because few were made but because when they are bought, they stay bought and nothing can prise them from the owners’ fingers. Asking for second hand ones in gun shops usually results in a scornful snort (as do, to be honest, most questions in gun shops). It is the only air pistol that is considered powerful and accurate enough to shoot live targets with. I can testify to this as, standing frozen still hiding behind an old rug, using a top mounted laser sight, shooting 16 rats in my parents chicken run, was three of my happiest hours this year.

a barrel of fun

The Weihrauch HW45

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Nick QuirkBrighton

The National Theatre

One Man, Two Guvnors

This year, if you don’t count the 16 open air performances of The Festival Shakespeare Company’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ I attended and watched, I have seen 48 plays at the theatre, in London, Brighton, Bristol, Guilford and Eastbourne, and all with varying degrees of amazement , excitement, disappointment, interest and always pleasure. Since I can remember, I have passionately enjoyed sitting in a darkened room, suspending my disbelief in this temporal world of the stage for a couple of hours. I have gone on my own, with my sons, with friends. I have seen luminaries such as Ellen Burstyn: Keira Knightly, Greta Scatcci, Ian Mcdarmid, Geraldine James, Zoe Wannamaker, Tim Piggot Smith, Penelope Wilton, Imelda Staunton and James Cordon; friends: Peta Taylor, Ian Shaw, Dave Mountfirld and Ross Gurney Randall and new faces Romola Gara, Andrew Scott, Lisa Dillon, Danny Webb and Tobias Menzies. There have been lost classics, adapted plays, new plays, Russian classics, American classics and even a whodunit classic now in its 60th year in the West End, and these have been all manner of productions: Open Air, School, professional, fringe, amateur, tours and revivals

I think in all honesty I can say that my favorite thing this year has been going to the theatre and of this favorite activity my most favorite experience, from this almost weekly treat, was ‘One Man, Two Guvnors’ at the National

which was in itself a happy accident. I had not expected to see this show as I had bought tickets for Clifford Odetts ‘Rocket to the Moon’ which was in its final performances and was mysteriously cancelled and replaced by the aforementioned, which was starting its run. I went to this production with my son Cole, both of us with fairly high expectations, though I did have ambivalent feelings about both the director, Nicholas Hytner and it’s star James Cordon. I was not however, prepared for the exhilarating and hilarious journey that we were taken on. From the moment we stepped into the theatre and were launched into the world of Sixties Brighton by a skiffle band, that not only punctuated the scene changes but also played host to each cast members unique, unexpected and in some cases dismal musical skills; I realised that this was going to be something special which would reach out into its audience and made full use of our presence. There was a succession of wonderful performances and moments of farce that kept us laughing from. James Corden truly flexed his hidden muscles to demonstrate what a gifted comedian and performer he is (who would have thought that moving a trunk could be so devastatingly funny). The highlight of the piece was an inspired hotel dining scene in which an almost non speaking role of a waiter stole the show. This was a production distinguished by its energy, comedy and its performances and one that I have treasured all year and indeed in years to come.

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David BramwellBrighton

Aleister Crowley

A Disease of Language

‘We have wandered too far from some ancient totem, something central to us that we have misplaced and must find our way back to...following some hair of meaning, guided by some ancient bloodstained chart.’ Alan Moore, The Birth Caul

I came to graphic novels relatively late in life. When the Wonderstuff released Never Loved Elvis back in the 80s, my equivalent could have been Never Loved Batman. Sure, as a kid I read 2000A.D and watched the Incredible Hulk on telly but I just couldn’t get that excited about Marvel Comics’ endless stream of dour musclemen in tights, each with their own novelty superpower (GASMAN: he emits gas!) Was it being a gangly, pale-skinned northerner that I couldn’t relate to these chaps? I wanted my heroes to smoke pipes, drink tea, wear tweed and have a sense of mischief. I plumbed for Doctor Who and Sherlock Holmes instead. And so for decades, comic books and the burgeoning graphic novel scene passed me by. A few years ago, thanks to my beloved book club (of which our esteemed editor Bob Brandt is one quarter) I was properly introduced to my first graphic novel: ‘From Hell’. Written by Alan Moore and illustrated by Eddie Campbell, this epic tome - ten years in the making and meticulously researched - turned out to be a treasure trove of psychogeography, occultism and Victoriana, all circling around the theme of the Ripper Murders and our relationship to these terrible events, something Moore describes as an ‘invisible curve rising through the centuries’. I was hooked. Graphic novels, I discovered, could

be profound, entertaining and mercifully free of square-jawed men in face masks and pink knee-high boots. Over the next few years I devoured Jason Lutes’ books on Berlin, I learned about the history of Iran in Persepolis, I followed a teenager’s first love in Blankets and was moved by Alison Bechdel’s oppressive family life in Fun House. But there was one graphic novel which, this year, became a proper obsession.

At the end of 2010 I met Hayley, daughter of Eddie Campbell. We appeared to share a mutual passion for all things weird, wonderful, creepy and stuffed. A friendship was born. Hayley had grown up around some the most famous men in the comic book world. She worked at Gosh! comic shop in London and was writing Neil Gaiman’s biography. Inevitably, over a pint one evening, I asked Hayley for a graphic novel recommendation. ‘Read a Disease of Language’ was her top tip. I did. And so began a love affair.

Like the Morecambe and Wise 1977 Christmas Show, A Disease of Language is the work of two great men at the peak of their powers. It comes in the form of two epic monologues: the Birth Caul and Snakes and Ladders, both greatly expanded by Eddie Campbell’s detailed, insightful (and at times de-mystifying) illustrations. In the first piece, Moore’s grandmother’s birth caul, discovered in a box after his mother’s death, becomes the catalyst for a flight of fancy and an autobiographical journey backwards through time, as he eloquently describes those teenage and childhood experiences that shape us: the half-forgotten desires of our younger selves. The writing is beautiful and profound, capturing the mercurial

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but powerful yearnings of youth. Elsewhere, like ‘Dylan Thomas’s Under Milkwood’, Moore plays with language, writing from the child’s perspective of ‘upstairs one kneed at a time, in bedstripe, clammy slipper without sock’. By the end, the birth caul: a ‘totem of kitchen voodoo’ is a reminder of all the possibilities of life that once lay before us. And still do. It’s powerful stuff and mercifully free of wishy-washy New Age sentiment. (Though let’s not forget that Alan did pronounce himself to be a wizard on his 40th birthday.)

In the second piece, Snakes and Ladders, Moore is flying with the angels. The themes are, perhaps, even grander: the nature of art, love and loss, the marriage of DNA and imagination in shaping the universe. It also centres on the tragic and true story of the mysterious Victorian author Arthur Machen, who plummets to the depths of despair after the death of his young wife but ‘somehow finds an exit’. Like Blake, Machen entered a world of visions and epiphanies which brought new meaning to his life. There is a line somewhere in the Bible: ‘it is through the cracks in our humanity that the light within often shines brightest’. For Alan Moore it’s not Jesus but our own imagination that has the power to help us transcend from the darkness. He’s also not afraid of slipping in the odd knob gag. He does still live in Northampton after all.

Like all the best albums, ‘A Disease of Language’ opens up by degrees. Within its pages are the sublime words of a man with fire in his heart, straddling two worlds and speaking in tongues. And alongside Moore is Campbell, a cipher, extracting meaning, breathing life and his own form of magic into the words. I never thought I’d turn into one of those poncy book types who say things like: ‘ I can’t go anywhere without a dear old copy of Ulysses in the bag’. Now, I confess, a battered copy of

Disease of Language often accompanies me on long trips.

But the story doesn’t quite end there. In autumn this year I received a gift in the post from Hayley: a thank you present for something. It was a piece of original artwork from A Disease of Language, signed by her father. I was thrilled. The illustration is of Arthur Machen, from near the end of Snakes and Ladders. Machen, having risen from the depths of despair, is smiling and holding a die, a reminder that life is a game of snakes and ladders and while we’re all at the mercy of the wrong throw, we still have the power of imagination to pull ourselves out of whatever crisis or despair we may find ourselves in.

Thank you Hayley, Alan Moore, Eddie Campbell, Rachel Blackman and the boys from book club for conspiring to bring a ‘Disease of Language’ into my life.

‘Magic: a disease of language’: Aleister Crowley

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Nan

The Smile

Natasha WilsonTowcester

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away. “ Hilary Cooper. This was the quote that came to mind when I tried to think of what to write about in regards to my ‘fav things’ for 2011. I grew up with two very different elders who were my female role models. My nan and my great aunt Sheila...two very important people in my life. Growing up with my nan, the words to describe her would be; sunshine, perfume, music, cakes, fashion, affection and she had a never ending knack of making me feel loved and special. My great aunt Sheila was; travel, wisdom, boldness, coffee cakes, photography, stories and she also had a never ending knack of making me feel loved and special. Sadly my great aunt Sheila passed away in February of this year, it was completely unexpected and a shock to the family as she was so full of life and energy. The loss of her struck me hard, like so many people, I am sure when a loved one passes, I was filled with some regrets for the things left unsaid or undone. Due to my own long term illness, I had not spent as much time with her as I would of liked. I realised that my elders, had given, so much through out their lives to me and I wish that I could have shown her how much she was loved. Losing

my aunt so suddenly was a wake up call to share more precious time with those that I loved. I guess you could say that it spurred me to action, to spend more quality time with my nan, who was pretty much the same age as her. I knew that I wanted to do something special for my nan, make the most of the time that I had left with her, for she is the grand age of 85. My nan is a big Daniel O’ Donnell fan, with great excitement I saw that he was going to be playing at the Royal Albert hall and I decided to surprise her with a ticket to go and see him. She has never seen him live and music is so very important to her. Through out her life her home was always overflowing with music. Now I’m going to be honest with you, I wasn’t sure how much I personally would enjoy the concert, as Daniel o Donnell is not really my cup of tea, but I knew that my nan would love it. She wore a sequin top that I had brought her for her 80Th birthday. “ I wore it for you.” she said with a smile. She looked elegant and beautiful, so much younger than her years. Her walking though was difficult, despite being supported, and that was hard to witness My nan does not really leave her flat these days, since losing her beloved husband Vic a few years ago, so going up to London from Folkestone was a big occasion.

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My mum and dad had also joined us and we ate in one of the Royal Albert hall restaurants before making our way...slowly...to the grand circle. We had a box room all to ourselves, this was quite by chance, as the other seats hadn’t sold in our room for some reason, despite the show being almost sold out. I could tell she felt like royalty sitting in her own private room to watch the concert. The show began and my nan and I sat on the edge of our velvet red seats. She held on to my arm, singing, swaying and tapping her hand on mine, to the beat of the song. I’m not sure if I can recall her ever being so happy and radiant. He sang one of her favourite Elvis songs - Wooden heart. At the end of the song she turned and faced me, her eyes glowing and her face looking so youthful and animated. “I will never forget this night. I cannot thank you enough for thinking of me and treating me this way.” It was her spirit alive in her face that took my breath away. That I was not expecting. It was something that no money can buy. Our eyes locked and so much was said with out words, a private moment between two people who have loved each other dearly through out their lives. It was as if she knew that this was my gesture of love, to let her know that I care. As if she knew that our time together on earth would not be for that much longer. She held my hand through out much of the concert, something that she has not really

done since I was a child. To others in the room, it may of been a fun night out, but to me it was a night, the memory of which, will stay with me forever. It was just a simple gesture, a night out with my nan, but I had no idea this night would fill me with so much emotion and gratefulness for the woman who has and continuous to be such a force of good in my life. I have had many moments in my life that have took my breath away, but on this cool spring night, in 2011, it was the radiant smile of my nan.......priceless.

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Robert BrandtBrighton

I spend so much time working on a computer that certain automatic gestures and actions that I repeat everyday at my desk try to creep out into the rest of my life. The most notable of them is Undo, a simple combination of two keys that I can depress with my left hand. Whatever I have done, drawn a line at the wrong angle or deleted a day’s work, can be instantly and easily undone. So when I was washing up the other day and broke a glass, my first reaction was tap the edge of the drainer with my left finger and thumb and for an instant I was shocked when the glass fragments failed to recombine.

This year I read a book by the physicist Sean Carroll called From Eternity to Here which has introduced me to a completely new way of looking at the universe. He explains that before the Big Bang all matter existed in a state of extremely high order, while afterward all matter in the universe has been expanding outwards, each particle getting, on average, further and further from it’s neighbour and the arrangement as a whole becoming more and more disordered. We are living in the midst of an explosion that is still unfolding. He also explains that it seems that this event also brought into being what we call time, and that there was no linear progression of events, one after the other, before the Big Bang.

Order is described by entropy, low entropy – a high degree of order, high entropy - low degree of order. Within this overall picture of a universe becoming more spread out and entropic we find exceptions of course; planets, suns, living things, are made possible by the forces that attract particles to one another, such as gravity and electromagnetism. However, when we smash a plate or our stomach acid breaks down food, the way the materials in question behave is influenced by the forces set in motion by the beginning of the universe, a current that underlies everything.

It is this undeviating entropic current that gives us time. We cannot undo the mashing of a potato, not because we cannot go back in time but because potatoes are too difficult to unmash. It is that fact that creates the phenomenon of time, not the other way around.

I don’t suppose humankind’s fondness of ordering the things around us, expressed so well by architecture, gardens and jigsaw puzzles has anything to do with an intuitive understanding of the original state of all matter, but it is pleasing to think of our efforts as an attempt to recreate the scene before the Big Bang, to put the universe back together, a playful artistic reconstruction. Although in reality this would of course

and the Second Law of Thermodynamics*

Time

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mean that no separate entities would exist, everything being perfectly uniform, which would be a tad dull, not that boredom would be an issue, because there would be no time.

We are born and live, in that order, because of entropy; we have memories, can learn from our mistakes, make discoveries, appreciate history, learn about the universe, build and create because the universe is falling apart.

I hope I haven’t depressed anyone. This realisation of the ironic nature of our existence certainly doesn’t make it any easier to find a sense of purpose, but that challenge is much more complex and interesting than I thought it was a year ago and in complexity there are more possibilities than in simple, ordered systems and things are getting more complex all the time. More fascinating irony.

I really don’t know how ultimately this will change my way of thinking, I know it already has somehow, but I do know that this train of thought has been my favourite thing of 2011.

*The second law of thermodynamics states that in an isolated system entropy always increases or at least remains the same. The universe is an isolated system (there is nothing outside it to influence it) the surface of the earth, or the solar system is not, hence these clumps of ordered matter we see around us.

A caveat.It’s all a theory! I’ve stated many things here as a fact because it would be too tedious to explain each thing, however commonly agreed, is not proven. And then there’s me, who’s only read one book and quite possibly have drawn some false conclusions. If so, I hope someone will put me right and I’ll put it in FT next year.

Here are a couple of videos that clarify and expand on the science, the web links are too complicated, so google the phrases below and pick the top link:

In about 2 minutes: The Arrow of Time feat. Sean CarrollIn about 20 minutes: TEDxCaltech - Sean Carroll - Cosmology and the Arrow of Time