Spouting Incoherently About Freemasonry

In the end I did do a little publicity for the première of Freemasons On Trial in India. How could I refuse an interview to a Mumbai news organisation that began with the question: ‘How did this community originate and what is the grave suspense that surrounds this community?’

Grave suspense? How could I refuse a feed line like that?

The documentary premières in this country on April 1st. I will not be doing any publicity for it in the British Isles. For those readers of this blog who want to see a bloated, long-haired, one-eyed author/meejah hor in a leather trenchcoat, filmed against a South London wall spouting incoherently about Freemasonry in an Essex barrow boy accent on what otherwise could look like a 100 minutes of pro-Freemasonry propaganda, tune you boxes to National Geographic Channel at 10pm.

The True Meaning of Ghosting

Today, while as Sean Twist would put it, being a ‘word slut’ I had to write about the Litvinenko case. I found writing about his murder incredibly difficult. I have always refused to believe in the bullshit crutch of ‘writer’s block’, but even a hack like me has to acknowledge the emotional obstacles that can get in the way of your words and the page. Writing about the death of someone who helped provide information for one of your books and who may have been murdered for exposing conspiracy theories is like rubbing a dull bruise.

In Global Gangland I was given free reign to write what my then editor called a ‘David Southwell book’. By this, she meant that she expected me to bring some of myself to the subject I was writing about. My direct experiences and personal perspectives could flow into the bare facts and reported narratives. Where it was relevant – the Rettendon murders, the Belfast slaying of Brendan Campbell and my family’s glancing involvement with the Richardsons – my own special knowledge of the topics covered, my feelings, became part of the reporting. My editor also knew full well I could not survey organized crime without railing about poverty and prohibition, that my take on crime would be have some political DNA buried within the text. I always try to make a ‘David Southwell book’ something beyond a mere hackwork refrying of old, cold facts.

However, in my current ghosting job I have to take the exact opposite approach. I have to exorcise myself from the text. Even though I had some contact with Litvinenko and the echoes of his death have been felt in my life, I cannot let a trace of any personal knowledge of his murder make it onto the page. The esteemed crime author holidaying in Barbados I am impersonating did not know Litvinenko, therefore I write the case up in his staccato rhythm, try to include his trademark tastelessness and make myself totally invisible.

There is no informed reflection on the Litvinenko’s character. He becomes simply: ‘Alexander Litvinenko, a former lieutenant-colonel in the KGB and outspoken critic of Russian President Vladimir Putin’ rather than a man who generously took time out to offer advice on the Moscow Mafiya and the ‘Tambov bastards’. My views on who murdered him and why are absent, possibly waiting for the new version of Conspiracy Files, possibly to be swallowed deep inside myself to never be published at all.

It is on jobs like this I understand the true meaning of ghosting. You have to remove your spirit from the text. You become insubstantial. Without mass. Nameless and unable to interact with the audience, you do not officially exist and no-one can notice your literary half-life. Naked to the eye, you are condemned to float through the world of words beyond the detection of the reader.

Somewhat Shamefaced

A Korean reader of Secrets & Lies has made me feel somewhat shamefaced today about the standard of editing in the book. In a delightful email, they picked up on a literal. So, for the benefit of 안 소연 and everyone else who reads page 122 of the standard edition... yes, ‘flying back triangles' should read ‘flying black triangles’.

The Visit the Albanian Mafiya May or May Not Have Made

I will remember this weekend, now in its last few minutes of existence, for the following reasons.

• The terror caused by visit the Albanian Mafiya may or may not have made to my Nanna.
• The sheer delight of unexpectedly coming across the Earl's Court TARDIS (OK, more accurately a police box).
• Discovering Surreal Girl has the knack for understanding Ikea instructions, which for the first time in my life ensured assembling flat-pack furniture was a non nightmarish task.

It has been an exceptionally ragged, restless couple of days. I just hope that the tiredness I feel will cut through the stress and let me have a few hours oblivious sleep.

Hack/Backroom Spirit/Wordsmith/Writer of Last Resort

It appears my current word rate as a ghost author is 10p a word. The previous sentence would have cost someone £1.40 if I had been ghosting for them. Of course I would be happy to offer a lower rate to any readers of English Dreaming, English Rain that want to employ my services as a hack/backroom spirit/wordsmith/writer of last resort (delete as applicable).

Today I earned tenpences for the word combinations ‘sexual lubricant’, ‘12-gauge shotgun’ and ‘up against the chalkboard’. Gruesome as this is, it still it beats the time I ghosted for George Best. Trust me, never work ghost for ex-child stars, egomaniacal television actors or alcoholic Irishmen – especially when you have to try to talk with an alcoholic Irishman first thing on a Monday morning for a 1pm newspaper column deadline.

Knocking Out the Equivalent Lazy B-sides

Given that Global Gangland led to some serious death and maiming threats, I was made to promise I would never write a true crime book again. What will I be doing later this week in-between looking after my Nanna and fighting the maddening bureaucracy the social services? Writing a true crime book.

I can claim that I have not broken my oath, as I have not undertaken to author another work. I am merely ghostwriting some material for an established name in the genre. Aside from irritating a couple of my contacts at the Yard, there should be no danger involved in bashing out a few thousand words on recent notable crimes. It should just be hackwork, especially given the insane deadline in which I have to deliver the material.

However, my bloody professional pride kicks in with every gig I undertake. Instead of looking at it as merely a job, only undertaken because I need some money for help cover the recent funeral costs, as soon as said yes I actually began to care. Now I will fuss and worry about trying to write in the style of the author who name will be on the cover so that readers will not notice any jarring change. Instead of just banging out the required word count on time, my head is full of trying to write the best roundup of crime in 2006 in print.

Will the established name I am pretending to be actually care what I do in his name? Possibly not. Like a boy band member whose vocals are laid on in some backstreet South London studio by an unknown singer, he is too busy in Barbados to be troubled about the minor cogs in the machine that produces his income and reputation.

Despite the fact it is going to make life much harder over the next few days, there is bit of me that refuses to let just be a hack. It seems as if I am incapable of knocking out the equivalent of lazy b-sides. If I had been a musician I would have made a bloody useless session player.

Spitting out Pure Ridicule and Contempt

If you are long-term reader of this blog you will know that one of my Saturday pleasures is reading Charlie Brooker’s Screen Burn in The Guardian Guide. Sometimes reading his material causes me physical pain from the fits of laughter it induces. Although I have come to him late, there is no doubt in my mind that Brooker is astoundingly funny, acerbic, grumpy and pretty spot on.

Brooker is someone I ought to regard as a columnist/comedy writing hero (especially for his role in TVGoHome, Brass Eye and Nathan Barley). However, despite the fact I can praise the man to the rafters and passionately recommend you read his Screen Burn column online or try to catch his TV show for BBC4, I have issues with him. These are not related to his derision of those believing in any element of a 9/11 conspiracy theory as having their brains ‘fluttered off to spaceland’ (which I happily admit is a great line). No, my issues arise when he bothers to comment on US politics.

Why? It is down to the fact that in 2004 he apologised for a line in an article that read: ‘John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, John Hinckley, Jr. - where are you now that we need you?’ When Mark Thomas caught heat from the US secret services for alleged incitement to kill George W. Bush, (he jokingly offered a cash bounty on his head), Thomas did not get on his knees and say sorry. In a similar situation, Brooker and The Guardian did offer an apology.

Maybe I am expecting too much of my comedy favourites these days. A man who is a recognisable expert at ripping apart the absurdity of Big Brother should probably not be expected to stand up to America’s state employed bully boys. At an objective level, apologising probably marks Brooker out as both as a writer who is both funny and wise. It is just that when someone making a living tossing out diamond-hard insults backs down when challenged, it takes the edge of any purpose beyond mockery. I am all for writers spitting out pure ridicule and contempt, especially when it is done with the verve and panache of Brooker’s work. Yet when you know the guy dishing it out will not stand up and be counted for his use of words, even the funniest lines always ends up tasting like the comedy equivalent of a dirty KFC meal.

Hindi Subtitles Across the Bottom of the Screen to Explain my Essex Barrow Boy Accent

For those of you who read this blog and happen to be in India on March 25th, I should warn you not to watch National Geographic Channel India as it is premièring one of my Meejah hor performances. They have even cheekily asked me to do publicity for the tawdry Freemasons On Trial documentary.

Going from back street South London shoots to the living rooms of Haryana does makes me realize certain elements of my life are somewhat unusual. Unfortunately I do not think they are dubbing me or floating Hindi subtitles across the bottom of the screen to explain my Essex barrow boy accent. Even I would have been interested in seeing that.

The Second Albert Southwell

I am a writer. I am meant to be good with words, but sometimes I struggle to fit them together. Some things are hard to write about and any attempt ends up like trying to capture the wind in your hands.

I did not manage to write the eulogy for my grandfather until an hour or so before the funeral. There had been some family debate the night before over whether or not I could call him a “scoundrel” in an oration and whether if I did, whether it would be the only word my predominantly deaf Nanna would actually hear. However, the real problem with trying to write it was that my emotion was too raw and rushing to be shaped by words.

In the end I hit deadline, scratching a few notes in the morning ahead of getting into the hearse for the short trip to Saint Mary’s Prittlewell. Blurred by tears, a little shaky and finding it somewhat difficult to play the role of strong man, I pushed my Nanna’s wheelchair into church whilst Surreal Girl supported me. With the blonde wood of the coffin ahead of me, the hymns and preliminaries of the service just ended up becoming the background noise to help hide my sobbing. When it was my turn to go to the lectern, I felt hollow, exhausted. I was sick with grief and the knowledge my pale words were going to fail me, my grandfather and the 70 or more people waiting in the pews.

Below is roughly what I told them through veil of water and a voice that kept betraying my sense of loss. I think all that you need to know about my grandfather to understand what follows is that he had been a scoundrel (a word actually used in the end by Father Frank to cover his years of gambling, drinking and hustling) who had a profound spiritual experience after my father died 12 years ago. After that he really was in many senses reborn. He was certainly a different, easier to love man.

'This should be very easy because I know Father Frank will come up after me and tell you how wonderful my grandfather was. And he was wonderful. However, it is incredibly hard. I do not think I can begin to do my grandfather justice today.

There is no doubt about it that my grandfather would be terribly embarrassed by me or anyone else standing here and you about him. For a man so many regarded as special, he was incredibly modest.

If he was here and you could actually persuade him to talk about himself he would probably tell you how proud he was to come from Stoke Newington. How proud he was of his own father – a trade unionist who stood up for Jewish refugees and those in worse conditions than his own. Most of all, my grandfather would have told you about his flaw and the mistakes he made in his life.

I was with him when he died. In the last few weeks of his life his body and even his mind had been ravaged, but beyond the moment of death he looked fulfilled. Even the stretched parchment dryness of his skin and utter, wasted tiredness were invisible. He truly looked fulfilled. Part of this was his total faith, his absolute belief in a return to heaven. Part of it I am convinced comes from him having lived an incredible 95 years.

As a teenager my grandfather put himself through college to learn a trade as a printer. He volunteered for service in the war because he felt it was the best way to protect him family. He joined the air force, which saw him moonlighting and running scams in Iceland to much harsher episodes during the liberation of Belgium and other parts of the Low Countries. He worked hard all of his life for little reward or recognition. When he retired he began to work to help others. By taking up running in his seventies he not only broke records – he once held the British veteran record for the fastest half marathon – he raised thousands of pounds for charity.

However, my grandfather took no real pride in of this. If you asked him, he would say his biggest accomplishment was 73 years of marriage and the great love he shared with my Nanna. After that, the only thing he would mention with pride was being a father to my father Bert.

The saddest thing my grandfather suffered was the loss of my father. However, it was through such devastation and the vision he enjoyed in its wake that he believed he came into the presence of his God. After this, he was a changed, renewed man. His response to sadness was a total love for the world. From that moment on his heart was full of love, forgiveness and light.

I will treasure my grandfather and all the things I was lucky enough to see after his sea change. I will treasure his questioning mind, his avid reading, interest in politics and the him being one of the few men who could talk about LSD, Islamic history, his worries over the environment and the woes of Southend United all in the space of 10 minutes. I will treasure his ability to break into song – usually Ella Fitzgerald or Charles Aznavour. I will treasure his advice on everything from the best place to drink Dubonnet Rouge in Paris (outside Opéra de Paris) or how to find a love that would last like that between him and my Nanna (only marry someone who embodies your favourite song by the Beatles).

I have lost not just a wonderful grandfather, but also a great friend and an example of someone who was able to live without judgement, someone who walked every step with hope and love. My grandfather’s total faith meant he had no fear about his spirit dying and nor have I any fear that he will fail to live on in the hearts and minds of those who knew him.’

Right now, as I am getting close to hitting the publish button before any trace of a tear comes, I raise a glass of brandy to the Gros Bon Ange of the second Albert Southwell. My grandfather deserved better words than I could muster, but I can at least honour him in the best way the living ever can, through a remembrance of love.

Hidden Away Like Mrs. Rochester

With the departure of the Norwegian Rock God to Brighton (apparently it is easier to be ascending star in the musical firmament down there than it is in Bayswater), new candidates to leave pools of water on the bathroom floor are being sought. During the interview process and grand tour of the house candidates were given on Sunday, I was hidden away like Mrs. Rochester. A strange and weathered looking writer is not an asset when trying to find someone able to pay £150 per week for a room in a house share.

Potential contenders for the prize of living in one of London’s most soul-warming spots and having to suffer me taking over the kitchen when I cook include a corporate Canadian from Calgary, a fashion journalist from Harper’s Bazaar, a Canadian Lesbian couple and an Irishwoman. The Calgarian looks like being the favourite. This is due in part because he seems “inoffensive”. Having sometimes lived amongst Canadians, I think inoffensive is not so much an individual trait, more like the default national character setting. As long as innocuous is not merely a cover for a sufferer from an anxiety disorder, the Calgarian has to be preferable to someone who was talking about people they knew on Cosmopolitan within 10 minutes of being over the threshold. I accept my life must often resemble a bad soap opera, but I will be damned if it is going to degenerate into something akin a sub-plot from Ugly Betty.

Given I have spent less than 50 hours in London during the last six weeks, I know should be probably less concerned about the goings on there. However, my heart is in London. Living in exile from where it resides can make you feel hollow, drifting through empty days possessed of a surreal, nightmarish quality. Whether it is a Calgarian, fashion fascist, lesbians or an Irishwoman leaving pools of water in the bathroom, I cannot wait to be back home.

The First Albert Southwell

Thinking about my grandfather’s life ahead of writing his eulogy, the Kaneko Mitsuharu line: ‘to oppose is to live’ kept echoing through my mind. Through speaking to my grandfather on many occasions, I know one regret he had about his 95 years is that he did not oppose more. He felt like he had failed himself, his god and world as whole by not standing up more to a myriad of injustices. He once told me that it was not until decades after the death of his own father that he understood what a wonderful man my great-grandfather had been and how he felt he had not lived up to a family tradition of opposition.

My great-grandfather was drayman in Stoke Newington at the start of the 20th century. He stood up for and helped immigrants in the area, battling the prevailing prejudices of the time on behalf of any individual who was friendless and struggling. Whether they were Jews, Poles or shunned anarchists, he did his bit to help find them homes, jobs and take on the daunting maze of paperwork and bureaucracy ranged against them. These actions did not win friends in officialdom or within the predominantly Christian, white working class community he came from. At one point when jobs were scarce, my great-grandfather was sacked for taking time off to bring a union petition to Parliament. By all accounts, the first Albert Southwell was the type of man brave enough to oppose, even when opposition came at great personal cost.

Reflecting on lessons I want to take from my grandfather’s life, I hope I remember that as their last days surge towards them, no one ever seems to regret standing up for what is right. No one ever seems to feel remorse for fighting against unfairness, but many repent a life lived without enough opposing of what is wrong.

The Fame Meme

Long ago – certainly before I hit 22 – I lost the desire to be famous. This may have something to do with my narrowly failed attempt to become the sidekick to Nobby The Sheep on a TV show called Ghost Train. Just as many alcoholics have a moment of cold moment of sober realisation allowing them to realise the destructive arc of their addiction, being down to the last few candidates hoping to be partnered with a rubber ram sporting a green mohican and a BLJ, I understood just how fucked up the fame meme is. Even though I told myself that I wanted to be known so that I could further my own creative projects, I had been possessed by the idea that any level of public recognition equated to success. This is of course bollocks. Being the associate of TV puppet could only be defined as an achievement if your previous occupation was as career street drinker.

The ridiculous, adolescent need to be recognised eventually gave way to the equally ludicrous suggestion that I wanted to be known as good writer. The excuse I offered myself for such egotism was that being well-known would mean I could achieve a bigger readership. Of course, what I should have been concentrating on is just being an author, getting on with the business of trying to express information, stories, ideas or feelings with clarity and originality.

It was that realisation that played a big part in my decision to radically reduce the sort of meejah horing I did when my first book came out. When you find yourself hawking your wares on radio stations alongside the likes of Belinda Carlisle you know something is wrong. However to an agent it is only another sign of my: “Constant failure to be careerist.”

Due to the sometime strange trajectory of my life, I have been through periods where I could not enjoy a meal in a Soho curry house without someone asking if I was: “That bloke off of Sky News”. This is not a good thing and it certainly not a valuable measure of success. These days I would define success as writing each book a bit better than the last, communicating something worthwhile to an audience and paying the bills. I will be a meejah hor if I absolutely have to get a book out, but at least it will be done without a preposterous craving any shade of fame.

Fighting Back Tears

Today was tough. The funeral saw me fighting back tears as I delivered the eulogy, but the worst waited for me post-wake. It was then my Nanna asked me to “put her to sleep”. Now more tears are flowing and I cannot even face sleep.