The Decline of Secondhand

I went out on a little trip this week; me, myself and I. It is infrequent for me to visit Liverpool city centre these days, living, as I do, a sedentary life on the Wirral. Residing just across the water from Liverpool, I rarely make the effort. Though, as today proved, hopping on the train is easy and cheaper than driving through the tunnel and struggling with the vagaries of parking. That is, if all you need is a wander round the city centre; anywhere farther afield and it all becomes a little more problematic.

The city centre has changed a lot since I lived nearby. I was a student at Liverpool University in the early 1980s and then lived in the Toxteth district during Thatcher's continued decimation of the city. Today there are masses of bright new and inaccessible buildings; inaccessible to the casual visitor that is. But my visit did highlight one detail of interest for the world of books.

The mainstream bookseller on the high street is surviving; just about. These shops are clinging on; though for how much longer who can tell. You can still go to your town centre and have a peaceful browse. Though I must admit, I myself, have looked at titles in-store and noted how much cheaper they were on the internet.

Smoke and Short Stories

Recently I have been reading a number of short stories. Among these were Russian nineteenth and early twentieth century authors like Gogol, Tolstoy, Gorky and Kuprin. These were like being in the pub on an exhilarating Friday night full of joyous, and sometimes mischievous, celebration. The beer flowing freely and wild cheers of excitement among well loved friends. Lots of laughing, a little dancing, as well as a few tears, mostly at onlookers expense. All made for a memorable evening and lasted until a tired and bleary sunrise.

I also read many nineteenth and early twentieth century American authors. Authors like Poe, Twain, Chester, Lampton and Hastings. These were like a lazy Sunday afternoon lounging in the pub with well loved family and friends. Very pleasant if a bit subdued; lets not be too raucous so as not to offend aunt Molly. At times it could be a little dull; forgiveable as there was work to be done the following day.

Then I read the flash fiction in the SmokeLong Internet magazine. This was like being in the pub's bogs pissing on the floating fag ends. The noxious liquid overflowing and spilling onto your boots and the nauseating stench filling your nostrils. A real difficulty was negotiating the putrid pools on the floor; the fresh material was hard to locate or wade through. Somehow it was not in the same league; never was and never could be; it was just a utilitarian function rather then any real pleasure. Still when an authors bladders full the excess piss has got to escape somewhere; that appears to justify SmokeLongs entire existence. But the reader is best advised not to follow on in afterwards; not unless they want to get there feet soaked and reek for days. If you really must take a leek: try the back of the car park.

Midsomer Murders: The Unbelievable Evidence

Midsomer Murders is one of those programs you either love or love to hate. It full of that quaint, old fashioned, never was, Englishness some dream of returning to. This is somewhat ironical given the programs celebration of murder, family feuds, and the inbred upper class; among many other less desirable qualities. Still the programs always finishes with conflates resolved; hence the less discerning viewer can comfort themselves that all was just a minor blot on the English character.

The program excludes a lot and has particularly coveted controversy after a recent interview in the Radio Time where the programs long time produce Brian True-May boasted of his whites only policy regarding character and casting. This lead to True-May being suspended by All3Media.

True-May suspension was quite justified in my opinion. But surely some in the British independent television industry must have known of True-May opinions long before and despicably done nothing. Just like with John Galliano rant and subsequent sacking, Dior would have known all along of Galliano offensiveness. These management types feel it's better not to rock the boat and keep the cash flowing than do the right thing. Until it all becomes public that is; then we have the obviously insincere shock and horror.

In the past I have only watched Midsomer Murders when other family members have inflicted it upon me; when there's been no escape. Following this controversy I decided to break with tradition and watch a few episodes willingly. It did not reveal much that was surprising, new or, indeed, appealing, so I will forgo the boredom of a review. Some parts of were tolerable and long stretches proved agonising; enough said.

True-May, however, utterly failed in one respect. And in the (admittedly not very good) image above we reveal the 'unwelcome' truth: minorities do indeed exist in Midsomer. The following shot is from Midsomer Murders Days of Misrule (Christmas Special – 2008). There he is approximately 1 hour 9 mins in.

Of course the token minority did not get a speaking part or have any kind of personality; that would be too much to expect. He was forced to stand in the background and look obsequious while the great and the good paraded before him. Even so, this evidence does prove minorities exist, even in Misomer.

Michael Rosen - NUT Public Meeting, Lambeth 24 September 2009

A great video by children's author Michael Rosen. This is a talk given at an NUT Public Meeting in Lambeth on 24 September 2009. So some of the details are a little out of date. However Michael makes some great points in a fun way.

Dr. Rozakis on Grammar

It seems to be almost a truism about books on Grammar and English that they are not very inspiring reads. I guess that many of these books are churned out by failed novelists or essayists who can find no other outlet for their obvious love of language.

So what about this tome by Dr. Laurie E. Rozakis, Ph.d? Well, The Complete Idiot's Guide to Grammar & Style, 2nd Ed (2003 – note that there is a newer edition) is better than many but it's safely ensconced within the above category. Still there are a couple of major faults.

Firstly there are the jokes, if you can call them jokes. The humour is childish and I was fed up with it after only a few pages. She could never be a comedian or write a comedy script. Embarrassing is the word that springs to mind. And I got fed up with the same joke being repeated over and over again. What is it with guides like this. Why do publishes think that adding some lame jokes to a text book makes it consumer friendly?

Secondly the writing is not wildly exciting. It's sort of OK, just a bit dull. It's not that good an example for the reader. Worst of all, every couple of pages, there are some klutzy sentences. Not terrible, just a bit off. And I'm not talking about those intended to demonstrate how you can get grammar all wrong. They are unintended examples of poor English style. I'm sure they are grammatically correct, they are just embarrassing – see, that word crops up again.

So what about the content? After all that is supposed to be what the book is about. Here we are on safer ground and it's this that kept me reading until the end. Most of the advice is reasonable if pretty conservative. There's little you can argue with here and all the usual stuff is included. What more can I say?

The weakest area was towards the end with the advice of writing style. Here I found the examples a little superficial. For example Rozakis often mentions the need for using non-sexist language. Of course I totally agree with this aim. It's just I didn't find much in the way of practical help in avoiding the problem – other than don't do it, obviously correct but ultimately unhelpful.

In the end this is a do-as-I-say and not a do-as-I-do book. It's worth reading for that reason and following the advise it contains. However, I'm still looking for a really inspiring book on grammar.

Second-hand English: Food or Pood

I was on the bus travailing into the centre of Birkenhead a few mornings ago. This winters snow had the better of me and, being lazy, I could not be bothered to scrape the ice off my car. So the bus was an easy option. Several stops later two youngish women got on and sat in front of me. Let's call them Ms Loud and Ms Demure. It's better not to use their real names, and, maybe fortunately, I do not know them. It became obvious, especially from Ms Loud, that the pair were training to become primary school teachers and were, probably, on their way into college. You could not help overhearing the conversation, or at least one half of it. Ms Loud was not going to be ignored by the back row of any classroom and must have been practising this art profusely.

Despite the volume Ms Loud did not have much of interest to say apart from one piece of trivia. I guess Ms Loud must have reached the stage where she had been getting some classroom experience. She described one girl she had been teaching and this girl had the misfortune to spell the word food with a 'P'. This poor girl had ended up with the letters p-o-o-d on her test paper.

I only know two facts about the girl: she was seven and she was a girl. Ms Loud seemed shocked by this error and admonish the girls reputation in somewhat forthright terms. Ms Demure, on the other hand, did not say very much.

But is this faux pas quite so irrational. After all, in English, the 'F' sound is not that dissimilar to the 'ph' sound. Just think of words like: phonograph, phantom, physical and numerous others.

While pood does indeed look strange on paper you could imagine fuse spelt phuse, or indeed phase spelt fase - odd as they appear at first sight. It's just a convention that food is spelt f-o-o-d and not ph-o-o-d. Maybe the seven year old was not as crazy as first appeared.

I don't think I would have liked Ms Loud as a teacher. I'd much prefer the imagination of the seven year old.