How We Used To Swear

Sunday 21st February 2016. Tom’s birthday. I take him for lunch in Soho, at The Crown and Two Chairmen. Nut roast for me, fish and chips for him.  Tom’s a big Alan Partridge fan, so I’m also delighted to alert him to the new series of Mid Morning Matters, just released online (and how to view it gratis, via the ‘Now TV’ free trial). It’s pleasing that this now vintage comedy character can still be as funny as he was in the 1990s. The new series follows the classic sitcom tip of ‘less sit, more com’, where a fixed, claustrophobic location – a radio station’s studio – forces the writers to work harder at producing the jokes. Past examples of this are the Hancock episode where the characters are just sitting around at home, bored (‘Stone me, what a life’), or the similar Porridge episode (‘A Night In’). The format is even there in the opening scene of Reservoir Dogs, where the gangsters are in a café, simply bickering over trivial subjects. This set-up may be more theatre than TV or film, but can be all the better for it. I’m convinced that the full-length film Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa suffered from a need to crowbar in a cinematic, three-act story.

The new series of Mid Morning Matters still has plenty of plot; it’s just weaved into the dialogue as off-stage remarks. One detail is particularly up-to-date: at one point Partridge’s hapless co-presenter, Sidekick Simon, heads off to a job interview for a new website that ‘aggregates content’.

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Monday 22nd February 2016. To the Birkbeck offices in Gordon Square for a meeting with my MA tutor, Grace H. We discuss my last essay. She advises me to take the option to submit my own question next time, rather than choose from the list. It seems I over-did the urge to say the things I wanted to say, rather than prioritise the question’s criteria. That said, I still came away with a distinction, so it’s not like I can’t tick the boxes as well.

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Tuesday 23rd February 2016. Finishing my review of Eternal Troubadour, the new biography of Tiny Tim, for The Wire. One thing I cut for space is a reference to Bowie being called ‘the undisputed king of camp rock’ by Melody Maker in 1972, a term that ‘glam rock’ seems to have usurped. Six years earlier, the Red Bird offshoot label Blue Cat Records labelled a Tiny Tim single with the words ‘The Camp Rock Sound’.

Another favourite detail is the wording for a mid-60s poster, advertising a late-night bill that Tiny shared with Lenny Bruce: ‘Lenny Bruce Speaks For Money. Tiny Tim Sings For Love’.

Interesting to think of some novelty records as entryism. One-off curios to many, gateway drugs to some. As well as Tiny Tim’s ‘Tip-Toe Thru’ The Tulips With Me’ there’s Laurie Anderson’s ‘O Superman’. Ms Anderson is a productive performance artist, successful across the decades, yet for a certain generation of pop fans she’s just a quirky one-hit singer. The phrase ‘best known for’ demands the taking up of one specific perspective. It can sometimes be an unfair one.


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Thursday 25th February 2016. Evening: MA class at Birkbeck. This week it’s Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. I bring in Andrew O’Hagan’s review from the London Review of Books, which manages to praise Franzen’s novel while calling some of its stylistic elements ‘show-offy’, with others ‘pure millennial bullshit’. I suppose that’s one way of being balanced.

Afterwards myself, the tutor Joe Brooker, and some of the students go to the IOE student union bar for a quick drink; a much-needed bout of socialising for me. I order a small pizza and offer it around. One of the students, Serena, is Italian. ‘You do know this isn’t very good pizza, don’t you,’ she says. I reply that I hardly expect a student union bar to offer the height of gourmet food, and I’m just hungry.

Serena then suggests some Italian-approved places where one can definitely get decent pizzas. There’s the chain Franco Manca,  Il Piccolo Diavolo in Crouch Hill, and – her favourite of all – Rossella in Kentish Town.

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Saturday 27th February 2016. To a third-floor flat in a pleasant part of Bethnal Green, for the latest attempt at relieving my back pain. This time, it’s an offer from Ms Maud Young to use her bathtub, so I can try out soaking in Epsom salts. My own place only has access to a shower. I think the last time I had a bath must have been in a hotel, which would have been at least five years ago. Afterwards I top up this rare experience with another suggestion: some spray-on magnesium oil, which stings.

Two books lie by the cistern in this shared flat: Douglas Adams’s and John Lloyd’s Meaning of Liff, and Mythologies by Roland Barthes. Toilet books are an interesting genre, though probably not one I can study at postgraduate level. The Barthes is, of course, not a typical toilet book, though it does serve the function of being something one can dip into at random. Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet, with its structure of random fragments, might be a similar recommendation for the more bookish lavatory.

The Meaning of Liff is a classic toilet book, though. With its dictionary-like observations on wry commonplace predicaments, it’s like a form of stand-up comedy, albeit one read sitting down. When it was first published in the 80s, it seemed just another jokey and disposable tome firmly aimed at the ‘Humour’ section of bookshops. A book to be filed alongside the Sloane Ranger’s Handbook, the Wicked Willy books, 101 Uses For A Dead Cat, and anything by Nigel Rees. Yet The Meaning of Liff has long survived the usual expiry date for such books. Perhaps the respect for Adams’s Hitchhiker’s Guide books helps.

I mention this because today I’m also perusing a brand new toilet book, Get in the Sea! It’s the spin-off of a popular Twitter account by the very sweary Andy Dawson (aka Mr Profanity Swan), in which the objectionable aspects of modern life are instructed to go and away, well, just get in the sea. It’s the ‘get in’ which makes it unique. The words seem an unexpectedly careful, even gentle approach to what is otherwise an angry expression of disgust. A touch of the King Canute too, which keeps the tone of the book jokey and self-deprecating, rather than actually nasty.

Predictably, some of these fashionable irritations I agree with (chuggers, poverty porn TV, Jeremy Clarkson), and some I don’t (online petitions, cereal cafes, and Benedict Cumberbatch, though I do like the idea that Cumberbatch is thought to have ‘a face like an anagram’). In one case I find myself to be someone who must get in the sea too, as I am one of the ‘people who don’t like sport’.

Despite its status as a toilet book of the moment, Get in the Sea! might be valuable in decades to come as a slice of 2016 attitudes, just as The Sloane Ranger’s Handbook must now be useful for studying the 1980s. It’s another form of How We Used To Live. And indeed, how we used to swear.

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Josie Crystal!

I’m determined not to let another day pass without getting something in this diary, however dull.

Today, morning: dental check-up. Went so well that the dentist said I don’t need to come back for nine months, rather than six. This is actually quite a big thing for me – I think at the age of 40 I’ve finally managed to look after my teeth.

Afternoon: researching Polari for my talk on Tuesday. It’s at the Camden School Of Enlightenment, upstairs at the Camden Head bar, in Camden High Street. That’s in Camden, strangely enough. More details at:

Learned today: ‘On your tod’ (meaning alone) is rhyming slang. After Tod Sloan, a US jockey popular in the 1890s. Tod Sloan = alone.

Found on the web: the entire Bible translated into Polari, courtesy the Sisters Of Perpetual Indulgence:

Jesus Christ is ‘Josie Crystal’.

This evening: I attend Miriam Miller’s birthday do at the North Nineteen bar in Holloway. It’s in the same road as the flat where Douglas Adams wrote the novel of Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy (19 Kingsdown Road, according to the book I Was Douglas Adams’s Flatmate ). Miriam is a comedy fan and promoter. When I pointed out the proximity of this slice of comedy history, she and a gaggle of her comedian friends nipped out to have their photo taken outside it.

(Douglas Adams is actually getting a heritage plaque next year, courtesy of Islington Council. It’ll be at one of his other Islington addresses. I’m hoping to attend the unveiling).

Walked today from Highgate to the British Library: 4 miles, 1 hour. I’m trying to do at least an hour’s brisk walk every day now, in place of jogging or going to the gym. Not quite up to Dickens’s alleged 20-mile walks yet, but I’m working on it.


Recent activity: I spend my 40th not bothering with the stresses of organising a party, but going on an impromptu solitary day trip to Margate and Broadstairs, via the new high speed domestic trains. What better way to celebrate the continuing existence of one’s eyes and legs than to give them new sights to see, new paths to walk?

The sleek nose of Southeastern’s HS train looks too priapic to refuse, frankly, the big trainy Casanova  (Microsoft Word’s spellcheck isn’t accepting ‘priapic’. What can that mean about Mr Gates?). Top speed of 140mph, 82 minutes journey time to Broadstairs, and 88 to Margate. Canterbury is now a mere 56 minutes away: Chaucer’s pilgrims would have to condense their Tales into Tweets (I bet someone has done this).

The town of Margate is, like a 40-year-old person, getting on a bit. One of England’s first seaside resorts from the 1700s, its decades-old amusement park ‘Dreamland’ is now listed and in the throes of restoration, currently hidden behind hoardings and scaffolding: see But also like a 40-year-old, it knows the story is not at an end, and it’d be a shame to just lapse into decay, moaning how things aren’t what they were. The past can be a burden (my ever decreasing energy, my lower tolerance for youthful things like noise and Mucking About, my ‘life experience’ proving difficult to use when chasing conventional employment), but it can also be a tool for building the future, if done carefully and properly. Just a question of knowing what to do.

One man’s regeneration is another’s despoiling. (‘Aw, I preferred it when it was falling apart’). The council rubbish bins are in brightly coloured plastic (red, blue, purple), emblazoned with the phrase ‘margate – the original seaside’ in self-conscious lower case and Helvetica font. One idea of what Taste means. I visit the brand new Turner Contemporary gallery: huge blocks of geometric White Cubes with slanted roofs joined together, a similar feel to the Tate St Ives. Staff in the gallery cafe wear black shirts and trousers: another indication of what Taste means.

I wistfully remember Break In The Sun, a 1981 children’s BBC TV drama based on a novel by Bernard Ashley, in which a young girl runs away from her awful stepfather in London to be with her mother in Margate.

Other Margate sights seen: the incredible Shell Grotto of underground tunnels covered in millions of seashells (discovered in the 1800s and still officially Unexplained), the Old Town shops around the old marketplace (very Brighton), and the town museum based in the old police station and court room (where 60s Mods and Rockers were jailed and called ‘seaside Caesars’ by the judge).

One unexpected memory of the trip: in the Margate museum, in a room of old Punch & Judy booths, a blind woman sits playing Una Paloma Blanca on the accordion.

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