‘The English love a good villain.’

As Global Gangland is due out on October 2nd, I though it might be time to respond to those who have emailed me, asking about posting some of the book in this blog.

Any comments or feedback on the following are welcome, just keep in mind that what you are reading bellow is from the draft manuscript prior to any editing.

GANGLAND GB – ORGANIZED CRIME IN THE UNTITED KINGDOM

‘The English love a good villain.’ – Charlie Richardson

Some of his contemporaries – usually the ones who didn’t find themselves with electrodes attached to their testicles – have called Charlie Richardson one of the cleverest English criminals of the 20th Century. When it comes to understanding the English psyche and its fascination with crime, his insight seems exceptionally accurate.

In Britain, there has always been a strong tendency to romanticise crime. A gang of robber bandits led by a local outlaw became the folk heroes Robin Hood and his Merry Men. In just over 250 years since the hanging of sadistic highwayman Dick Turpin in York, he has become the hero of a television series and used to sell everything from beer to porcelain.

This mythologizing is not restricted to historical figures. Three decades after his release from prison, ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser is enough of a celebrity to regularly appear on TV game shows. He has joined the ranks of iconic names in British organised crime from the second half of the 20th Century, who like the Krays, hold a firm grip on the public imagination. This British love affair with outlaws has often obscured the vicious and horrific nature of organised crime in the United Kingdom.

Another insightful ex-gangster - Dave Courtney – who has benefited and commentated on the nature of organised crime’s celebrity status in Britain, has identified that the love-in may be well and truly over in the 21st Century. The trans-national, pervasive and increasingly violent nature of crime in Gangland GB leaves no room for romance.

Norwegian Rock God

Amongst the things I have learned over the last few days, probably the most useful is: if you ever find yourself sharing living space with a rising Norwegian rock god, you should expect puddles of water in the bathroom.

Barriers of Concrete and Traffic

Staying in my new London turf during Carnival is interesting. Venturing out to buy gnocchi becomes a cross between running an urban obstacle course and participating in an unfolding vision of English hoodoo. Even picking up Lebanese cucumbers at the store opposite the Portchester means navigating a liquid flood of Red Stripe fueled whistleblowers, sequin bikinis and emasculated policemen.

During the day a constant barrage of sound – all dueling sound systems clashes and Baron possessed crowds – interrupts the usual droning rhythm of the West Way. At night, The Specials manage to break through all barriers of concrete and traffic. I find myself dancing to a thousand watts of Bright Lights before Horace Panter’s bass is chased away the metallic bawl of police sirens.

If Carnival is a physical expression of the city’s fever dreams then we are due a future clash. Something has to give between the psychic control and colonization represented by Commissar Ken’s plans for and Tesco’s sponsorship of the event and the brooding spirit of Lord C.

Balzac’s Erect Cock

Before it shut down, Surreal Girl and I sorted out schedules enough to manage to get to see the Rebels & Martyrs exhibition at the National. An examination of the image of the artist as a tortured soul and revolutionary from the late 18th to the early 20th century, in theory it was a wonderful idea. In practice, it was fantastic, flawed and frustrating.

Right from the first room, I had issues with it. Given that it partly set itself the task of looking at the myth of the artist as a ‘visionary outsider’ since the birth of Romanticism, where was the William Blake? To start in 1789 with both the French Revolution and the idea of successful artists as aggrandised members of the establishment with no reference to Blake was criminal. It felt as if someone was trying to explain the concept of soccer without mentioning something as important as the fact it is played with a ball.

Still I found it hard to disappointed when I got the chance to see Chatterton in a context investigating the bullshit that orbits the archetype of artist/author/poet/performer as a self-destructive force. Chatterton remains one of the most important and influential works of art in my life. I think it was between Wallis and Rollins I learned that to succeed in any creative endeavor you cannot afford to dissipate yourself in self-pity.

However, overall the exploration of the development of the artistic myth of genius going hand in hand with radicalism, starving in garrets and unconventionality was stuttering. The narrative only real shone when looking at the creation of Bohemia. It was great to see works by Fuseli, Delacroix, Van Gogh and Ensor up close and personal, but I was constantly left feeling that each room was lacking some key pictures that would have illustrated the point trying to be made. Some tangents, such as the intriguing cultism of the Nabis, felt they belonged in an entirely different

My biggest problem with the exhibition came in the final room – Creativity and Sexuality. It is rare that the National Gallery makes me so furious I feel my temples throbbing, but this room pushed me to that point. It felt so patronising and artificial. It was as if someone had realised that there were no works of art by women included up until that point, so quickly decided that some tokenism via Modersohn-Becker would be enough to assay any comments that they had not tackled the female perspective.

The last exhibit seen as you exited Rebels & Martyrs was a Rodin sculpture featuring Balzac’s erect cock. I am not sure how the curator intended us to read this depiction of Honoré de Balzac grasping his stubby penis. Were we meant to take from it that the very act of artists depicting themselves and other creatives as a breed apart was massively masturbatory? Or was it an in-joke, subtlety implying the whole thing was a load of old wank?

From Space to Spaced

I have updated my profile on the blog despite the fact I have no idea how I can effectively write for it. How do I describe my interests in 20 words? It seems so limiting and reductive. I could go from Space to Spaced, but I doubt it would give anyone reading much idea about me. Would it convey I have an abiding passion for the concept of exploring the universe or used to love a TV comedy I now doubt I will ever enjoy in the same way again post the trauma of Anne-Marie?

Given only one other person* on blogger.com lists anti-nostalgia as an interest, is it likely that anyone is going understand exactly what the concept means to me or its appeal? The same with ‘landscape’. I would feel somewhat dishonest if I did not list both long-term or current research topics such as parapolitics, Bill Hicks, Philip K Dick or voodoo, but I am not simply what I research. Nor am I merely what I enjoy such as red wine and cooking. Mentioning such fundamental parts of my life as writing and reading seems redundant despite the fact they are obviously core interests.

Given that there is nowhere else on the profile to list favourite television programmes – surely as equally valid an ideaspace medium as books, films and music – I have given up some of the twenty slots to tip the hat to such big influences on my imagination and life as Doctor Who and Edge of Darkness. Is BBC Radio 4 an interest or an integral part of my cultural identity?

I will keep tinkering with my profile because I am far from happy about it. Of course, it actually does not matter at all in any sensible scale of things. It is just when you attempt to capture your life in words, it tends to feels like a magical act of definition you need to get to right.

*Dale Carrico who writes an interesting blog (despite the fact that he never seems to point out that libertarianism is a filthily broad church not composed solely of property right obsessives dreaming lopsided sci-fi) and whose interests range from ‘queer politics and cultures’ to ‘peer-to-peer digital and bioremedial networks’.

Fragmentary by Name and Nature

I feel a little guilty about just how sparse entries to this blog have been of late. It has been fragmentary by name and nature in ways I did not intend. One reason for this during the last week is my health. I do not write well when I am in pain.

However, as long as I am feeling better, from next week on I promise to try and make sure I update English Dreaming, English Rain at least three times a week.

‘Southend’s Nic Furry’

Comments on the picture I have added to my profile have so far all had a mono theme. A certain Mr. Twist was the first to make a comic book allusion with his quip about me being ‘Southend’s Nic Furry’. A Mr. Springate made a fairly original suggestion about my visual similarity to Zaphod Beeblebrox (obviously I lack the second head), whilst I have had a lot of anonymous observations about pirates. To set the record straight, my look is not modelled on Snake Plissken, Slade Wilson or any other fictional character. Nor is it an affectation to given me the appearance of ‘a hard bastard’.

If we can have a moratorium on the instinct to make one-eyed references, I might even ask for readers help in choosing which image becomes my official publicity shot Though what with the death threats, I do not think there is much likelihood of the publisher actually forcing me to honour the standard clauses in my contract about promoting Global Gangland.

‘…held at gunpoint’

There is a phrase in the proposal for a new book I am working on seems to worry everyone who reads it – ‘…held at gunpoint’. Some people think that suggesting such an incident is so inevitable I can confidently predict it will happen when trying to find a publisher is tempting fate in the worst possible way.

It is really not as bad as it sounds. I am merely extrapolating from what has happened when I have tried to look into certain things before and I am still breathing with both lungs. Besides, I think a good travel book should have a little bit of drama in it.

The Hair of Former Spice Girl

As a hardened ex-hack and spin doctor, it takes a lot to stagger me. Not much makes my jaw drop these days. Exposure to the worlds of hardcore journalistic and political cynicism has left my skin armoured with scars through which a spike of surprise can rarely pierce.

However, an effective attack of the staggering can still be mounted against me if it takes the form of an ambush whilst I am feeling at my most relaxed.

Walking home after a Thai meal out with Surreal Girl and the man she lives with, he calmly slipped into the conversation that he had some hair from ‘Baby Spice’ that could go into their lounge’s display cabinet. I could feel myself spluttering as the terrain of sanity disintegrated before me. I searched for words to express my shock and disbelief. Not only had someone sort out and kept part of Emma Bunton’s over-dyed mane, they even contemplated putting it on show rather than hiding away a sordid souvenir that should in fact be a source of shame.

From now on I refuse to feel any guilt over displaying the collection of Doctor Who toys I am building up thanks to the bewildering generosity of some appreciative readers. It may be geekish. It may show an unseemly joy in moulded plastic for an adult, but it at least it is not the hair of former Spice Girl.

Elves and Shoemakers

I went to bed at 2am and when I got up at 7am, as if by magic, the kindly HTLM Fairy had kindly added the copyright notice to this blog. Talk about elves and shoemakers.

As hard as it may to believe, this swaggering defence of my intellectual property rights should improve this blog. I am now more confident about posting work in progress, discussing potential literary curves and even finally publishing the lost Sharon Tate entry from Conspiracy Theories. This means if you want to read conspiracies about The Process or have the chance to tell me that my latest book proposal is: ‘Shit and will never sell,’ you are soon set to be dancing in moonbeams.

‘Bloody Libertarian Trotskyite’

For those of you who have ever wondered about the Charles Anglin thanked in Secrets & Lies with the line: ‘Who I at least expect to lie with more style when he becomes an MP’ can I direct you towards:

http://bullseye-liberaldissenter.blogspot.com/

Anglin is the man who once called me a ‘Bloody Libertarian Trotskyite’. I do not need to call him anything. He does all the work for me by describing himself as: ‘Liberal Democrat aparatchik… with strong libertarian tendencies.’

/jarvspace

People keep on telling me to set-up on MySpace. However, being the lowest of the low-tec boys, the prospect of having to try to get my head around that particular corner of cyberspace makes me nervous, especially as Billy Bragg has issues with it.

My only real interaction with MySpace has been listening to some of the fantastic streaming that happens on it. Whilst I have not got round to ordering to it on itunes, I have visited /jarvspace a fair few times to listen to Running The World. This is the best slice of Cocker since he spluttered out the heartbreaking Everyone Loves The Underdog a few years back. The new song is witty and angry as hell. Instead of just making pithy comments about the working class, this time he actually looks at the philosophies of power structures exploiting them. It is spot on – ‘cunts are still running the world’.

Getting in Touch with my Inner Amphibian

Thank you for everyone who has written to me with advice on learning to swim and how to get over my phobia about immersing my head under water. Some suggestions may have merit in other circumstances (hypnotism). Some are not only illegal they would probably kill me (taking copious amounts of Psilocybe semilanceata to relax me prior to getting in the pool). Some are inspired (getting in touch with my inner amphibian). If I combined just those three ideas I could possibly set off a Lovecraftian Atavistic regression and synchronise with the Deep One morphogenetic field.

I particularly enjoyed the comment that suggested the childhood trauma of nearly drowing and then being beaten for falling into the near freezing sea by my mother’s brutish ex-boyfriend made me: ‘a big nancy’. The advice included with the comment (‘swimming is all in the head – just bloody get on with it’) was spot on and I will attempt to remember it the next time I am feeling a little panicked in the pool.