The Truth

This has been a tough week for me.
I thought after 23 year I might be able to deal with the findings of the Hillsborough Independent Panel Report. I thought I had my feelings under control and could take it in my stride. I couldn’t.
As I watched it unfold, from Cameron’s speech in parliament, to the last moments of the vigil in Liverpool I have cried, beaten my fists in fury and felt the guilt of survival all over again. It never goes way, it only lies hidden.

The despicable behaviour of those charged with protecting us on that day has me enraged. The cover up, beyond even the belief I already had about the goings on, aghast. The dignity and strength shown by the people who made it happen, humble.

This is not just a momentous day for the families and friends of Hillsborough victims, and those of us injured but surviving, it’s also a day that transcends football, and sport. It is a result that should reverberate throughout every football ground, and through every supporter, regardless of their allegiance.

It could so easily have been you.

I was one of the lucky ones. The report showed that dozens of people could have been saved if they had been treated correctly at the scene. Mine was saved by the selfless quick actions, and disregard for the policeman who pronounced me dead on the pitch, of a few fellow fans, who pushed me over the fence, gave me mouth to mouth and carried me unconscious out of the ground on advertising hoardings. They got me into an ambulance and I was taken to hospital. I have never met any of them. I was in touch with one lad once, but he was too traumatised to meet me. They, and everyone else there that day, should be proud of their actions. They have suffered horrifically since through no fault of their own.

What happened that day, and in the intervening 23 years, is a lesson in the venal nature of some in positions of authority when protecting themselves, and their institutions when they spy a way out, an escape from being held accountable. The pursuit of the truth has been difficult. Ordinary, working class people, stricken with grief, looking for answers and justice for 23 years, while having doors continually slammed in their faces and told to move on, forget about it, stop whinging.

They are an inspiration; the perfect embodiment of dignity, tenaciousness and fighting spirit.

Those responsible for the lies, the deceit, the betrayal of trust and the hateful covering up of their own culpability must now be held properly to account.

Those in the South Yorkshire Police who failed to carry out their jobs correctly then deliberately changed witness statements, tried to find criminal links by referencing the dead with criminal records, and took blood alcohol readings from children to try to blame alcohol.

Those in the press who thought that their print-and-be-damned actions were in the public interest, but were nothing short of disgusting lies designed to scapegoat, smear and denigrate 96 innocent men, women and children.

The government of the time that saw an opportunity to wage their class war against the industrial workers of this country, outside the factories, mining towns and docks.

Sheffield Wednesday football club, for their unwillingness to ever accept their part in the disaster by owning and leasing out an unsafe, crumbling stadium unfit for purpose.

And the FA, those bastions of all things inept and wretched, for their lack of awareness, their willful disregard for stadium safety reports and their typically pathetic attempts to avoid any connection with the events of April 15th 1989.

I hope the families and friends of the victims feel they have won a victory, I hope they can find some peace, and I hope that the new inquests they want are forthcoming.

For those who were responsible, took no blame and spent 23 years lying, shifting blame and treating the dead and their relatives with utter contempt. I hope they are truly ashamed and disgusted with themselves. And I hope they experience some of the horror and guilt they’ve so willing to pile onto others for the past 23 years.

Is the end nigh?

Whilst browsing in my local Waterstones recently I watched someone pick up a novel, read the back, look it up online on their phone, order it, then put the book back on the shelf and leave.
I mentioned this to an erstwhile colleague of mine from my stint working in the same shop in my student days. ‘Happens all the time’ she said ‘We’ve become a showroom for the internet’.

Now I’m no Luddite, and regularly use Amazon, but it’s a disconcerting thought that bookshops as we know them might become extinct in our lifetime.

Since 2006 the number of independent bookshops in the UK has fallen by nearly 500. That’s a third of the total. Of course, it’s impossible for these shops to survive in a publishing world that has been decimated by supermarkets piling high and selling the latest toss from the mind of Katie Price, or the new cookbook from one-man-culinary-juggernaut-and-occasional-drum-worrier Jamie (no need for a surname). It’s basic free-market economics.

But what about the rest of us who would like more choice than the 12 books the publishers and supermarket buyers have decided we’re worthy of? And how can any bookshop survive in a world where they are continually undercut by online giants operating without the wage and premises costs of those who have to deal with customers face to face in a shop?
That’s before we even consider the impact of e-books.

Since the decline and fall of Borders there is only one high-street chain still fighting. Waterstones are struggling, of that there is no doubt. The heady days of 3 for 2 are long gone, replaced with buy one get one half price. They have diversified into more games and electronics, and have given stationers Paperchase a new home since Borders disappeared. They try harder too, with creative table lay-outs and window displays, but now have noticeably less staff to guide potential customers. Another ex-colleague told me he dreads dealing with the increasing number of befuddled and downright nuts people who come into the shop now.
So what can they, and independent booksellers do?

It’s true they need to encourage more people in, and once in to spend, but to me it’s all about reminding readers that there is more out there than mass-produced pap – and more to buying a book than clicking a mouse.

A bookshop is a special place, somewhere quite unlike anywhere else. It is a repository of wonders, somewhere that can change your life, unique.

I hope the iconic ones will survive - Hatchards and Foyles in London, and Booksoup in LA, for example, but it is telling that Village Voice in Paris closed at the end of July 2012, after 30 years due to online competition and e-book sales.

I don’t want to look back in a few years and wish I could go into a bookshop again. I’m going to do my best to resist the urge to use Amazon all the time, and at least sometimes go in, browse, enjoy the look, smell and ambience of the shop, and the delights on offer, and spend my money in there.

It’s got to be worth a couple of extra quid to save something wonderful that could otherwise end up a distant memory, hasn’t it?

Reading: What a carve up! by Jonathan Coe
Listening to: Shootenanny by Eels
Watching: Breaking Bad, Season 5

The Return

Well, I’m back.
I never envisaged getting married would take over my life to such an extent. Terribly naïve I think. It was all worth it though, and I’m very happy, but boy did it put the kybosh on other areas of life.

So much has happened since my last blog. Funny how stuff keeps happening. As Douglas Coupland described it, ‘historical overdosing - to live in a period of time when too much seems to happen. Major symptoms include addiction to newspapers, magazines, and TV news broadcasts.’

We’ve had the Olympics, which was a mixture of amazing sport and vomit-inducing bouts of flag-waving, bemusing opening and closing ceremony and awful music, in a summer that’s been like living continually inside a particularly angry cloud.

But I must talk weddings, last time I promise. No rain that weekend, only glorious sunshine. We put a huge amount of work into it, and had masses of help from lots of people, some obvious, some less so, and it was a truly wonderful weekend that brought together people from all over the world. At one point one of my best men took me to one side and said ‘Look. You did this. It looks effortless because you put in so much effort.’

Worth every second, every penny, and every sleepless night.

The day after we got married the wife and I headed to The Millers at The Anchor, Porlock Weir for a night. A gift from one of my best men. It’s a hotel that was unknown to us before we arrived.

What a place.

Designed on the principals of ‘maximilism’, the entire hotel is a cluttered, marvellous, distracting, ramshackle delight. Filled with everything from superb antiques and stuffed animal heads to huge alabaster busts, paintings, ornaments and knick-knacks, photos from across the ages, including family pictures of the Millers themselves, tapestries, velvet curtains, chandeliers, and exquisite sculptures at every turn, there’s always something new to explore. There are even vases, pots and bowls all round the hotel filled with sweets. Perfect for me.

From the honesty bar with Martin Miller’s very own brand of gin, to the endless bookshelves, cluttered with all types of tome, all free to read or take away, to the wonderful lounge area that has to be sat in to be believed, the entire place exudes an old world charm that’s completely beguiling.

Upstairs they have their very own cinema - a dark, lounge room filled with a jumble of old sofas where they show films twice a week. Our room was four-postered, wood-panelled and full of faded glamour, with a gorgeous writing desk nestled in the bay window. We lay on the bed and drank the champagne that was waiting for us (another generous gift from a friend) and opened our cards and presents and looked at photos and glowed in the aftermath.

The views of the tiny 15th century harbour, with all manner of little yachts and working boats resting on their keels before being lifted by the incoming tide, and the sea and headlands beyond, are fantastic.

We didn’t eat there that evening, a mistake I feel, instead dining in the pub next door where we were served perfunctory pub food without smile. The next morning though, we had a splendid breakfast in the hotel’s wonderful dining room, Fruit, toast, porridge, juice, coffee and a very tasty full English. After that, a stroll along the seafront and then back to the room to enjoy our last hours in The Millers. A pleasurable drive back to Bristol followed, via Exmoor, for sun, fresh air, cream teas and a stroll around the most idyllic cricket ground I’ve ever come across (Bridgetown CC, accessible over a tiny wooden bridge across the River Exe) brought to an end a weekend filled with wonderful memories. And we still had the mountains of Mallorca to come!

To everyone who came, for all your generosity of time, and gifts, and for being part of it all - thank you, thank you thank you. I shall re-engage my cynicism for next time…

Reading: Loads since my last blog. Stand outs include - The Devil All The time by Donald Ray Pollock, The Rise and Fall of John Gotti by Jerry Capeci and Gene Mustain, and Five Boys by Mick Jackson.
Listening to: Beach Boys: That's Why God Made The Radio. Ben Kweller: On My Way. Smashing Pumpkins: Oceania.
Watching: Season 5 of Breaking Bad. The finest TV since Sopranos and The Wire

Wedding (un)fairs

I’ve just returned from a wedding fair that was held in the venue where myself and my betrothed will be wed come July. And I’m exhausted. Maybe it was naïve of me to imagine anything different, but proposing (and the rather wonderful acceptance of said proposal) opened a door into a world I had no understanding of, and no inclination to discover.

You might have thought that as a guest at innumerable weddings, and having witnessed first hand and up close and personal, the stresses and strains of friends who’ve been through it, I would have some sort of handle on what actually occurs.

No. No I didn’t.

Venue, food, drink, accommodation, invites and who to invite (and who not to), music, registrars, insurance, flowers, cake, decorations, table plans, place settings etc are not the individual things I thought they were. Every one of them opens a door into a seemingly never-ending labyrinth whereby every specific issue unfolds endlessly like the evil product of a sadistic origamist.

Who knew that choosing the flowers for the flower girls and the bridal bouquet had such a catastrophic knock-on effect on the flowers for the tables, foyer, cake, buttonholes – and by extension the colour of the seat cover ribbons, the napkins, the suit I’ve yet to buy begrudgingly from Moss Bros. (Don’t get me started on the shoes, what’s wrong with the ones I have?), all in all it’s a nightmare.

But.

Despite the expense, the worry, the hellish logistics, and the endless discussions on exactly what type of fruit we need to compliment the cheese board, I can’t help feeling that it will all be worth it. Every confirmation of attendance from friends near (Bristol, Warwickshire, London) and further afield (Australia, Texas, South Korea, Rome) brings a tinge of joy. Another tiny piece slots into place and as momentum builds and the juggernaut gathers pace I know it will be fine, my friends and family, and my wife-to-be will see to that.

And so, even though the glass may feel half empty right now, in the depths of wedding paperwork at the end of another dog-eared winter’s day, come the day I’m strangely confident that the glass will be completely full. Until I drain it in a toast to my new wife and stare out a sea of faces that we’ve brought together to smile and laugh and celebrate, and for a few hours cast off the worries and woes of this strange world we call home.

Just read: A Sunday at the pool in Kigali by Gil Courtmanche
Reading: A time of gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor
Listening to: Cuckooland by Robert Wyatt