Island Story


Island Story - cover (2)

The write-up of my epic ride around the country will soon be available in print. Island Story: Journeying through Unfamiliar Britain will be published with Repeater Books in June 2016.

Pre-order your copy here.

To celebrate the launch of the book, I am raising as much money as I can for Headway East London. Please visit my profile and find out more about this ace organisation:

There will be a joint book launch at Housmans on 22nd June 7pm with Jeremy Seabrook, whose Cut Out is a brilliant parallel exploration of some of Island Story’s themes – the event will involve talks, a conversation between us and questions.

If you’d like a review copy of the book, email If you’d like me to come to your community centre, working men’s club etc. and talk about my cyclo-philosophical findings around Britain, please message me. I’m interested in visiting the Midlands and North of England around mid-August.

Thanks again to everyone who helped me on this trip, a very large number of you. Don’t worry, I have given you a very flattering description in the book. If some think that we islanders are not as courageous, generous or wise as I have described in Searching for Albion and Island Story, then I encourage them to go out there and find out for themselves. I’m also planning a similar trip around Ireland in mid-2017. I’ll post about that when the time comes.

Lastly, let me treat you to a map of that insane journey, which I have had the leisure of finally working out since finishing my PhD last week…

the wrong map


Paradoxes of a Spinozist



The more one lives by reason, the less one prioritises reason in others.

A mind is only as active as its body. A body is only as active as its mind. Both are one, yet irreducible to the other.

God? Nature. Nature? God. Infinity? Now. Now? Infinity.

The more selfless one becomes, the more forgiving one is of other people’s selfishness and one’s own.

Everything could be any other way. There is no other way things could be.

Every difficulty presents an opportunity for self-mastery.

Never relying on a true friend.

Freedom: living by desire, without free will. Living by reason, without any moral imperative to do so. Living as if infinite, without regard for tomorrow.

Before opening one’s mouth to mock, curse or moan, check: why.

As dangerous as empty fear: empty hope.

The problem of evil is that evil is not a problem.

Love’s reward is loving, its outward animation. Lovers harbour secrets, but there are no secrets to love.

Love is blind, and cautious like the blind.

Reality is perfection, and our perfection in this realisation.

A pebble tumbling from a roof; a drunk issuing home truths; a philosopher who reads the world as lines, planes and bodies: the first two know free will, though the latter alone is free.

Power is never over, only with. Power against is no power at all.

Express one’s contempt for misers, moralisers and killjoys by laughing with them gently and shaking their hands.

To recognise the impossibility of ever reaching the ideal one strives toward, and be reaffirmed by this difficulty.

Interrogate all superfluous punctuation.



Kauai waterfall

In J.G. Ballard’s final writing — a typewritten synopsis of an unfinished project of Conversations with his physician, Jonathan Waxman — he rounds up with these moving lines:

‘nature has invented this remarkable instrument of rejuvenation, that touches almost every level of our existence.’

What might this instrument be? A vague and semi-religious sense of hope, or the comfort of family? A technological or economic faith in human progress, or the pleasures of a midday scotch and soda? The completion of the next work project, or a mobile phone upgrade?

‘It is sex to which we turn after bereavement. It is a door that is always open…..’

Etienne Balibar once wrote of Spinoza that, in his final words, a dismissal of women’s right to participate in a model democracy, seemingly at odds with his belief in human capability, he seemed to die right before us on the page. With Ballard, he fizzes out majestically, revealing the key to his generous belief in life and its joyous potential. His words also indicate what I’ve felt yet frustratingly inarticulated. It indicates the most available mystical experience for the largely secular and cynical generation I’ve grown up in.

Love in all forms can be pursued by anyone. A life dedicated to loving others cannot be wasted. It is a striving that is never completed, a joy experienced in its expression.

There is no lack or pent-up drives, forget those Freudian abstractions and plumbing metaphors. It is far stranger than ‘pleasure accompanied by the idea of an external cause’ (Spinoza) and far more earthly than the highest stage of being given by the primitive gods (Ricardo Reis). Where felt, it is revelatory; where shared, it is redemptive.

In providing objects outside oneself upon which to transfer one’s hopes, happiness and curiosity, it reveals that happiness cannot be a solipsistic affair. Reason is most lonely. Yet it must never be confused with the object itself, that bitter lesson of heartache. Sadness and confusion come alongside the relaxed bliss, generosity, and emotionally-charged excitement that imbues one’s life with a drama beyond anything in Ibsen or Eastenders. It is a door that is always open, provided one is willing to suspend disbelief and risk it. The heart, that most disabused compass, indicates the way. How long it takes some to risk it… It is never final or finished, and never quite clear.

Nature has made us far less sophisticated and interesting than popular culture might suppose. At times I see each of us as bundles of energy, expressing light and rhythm, rapidly expiring but, at our best — and this is what I’m now most interested in — momentarily alive in our joys. Even speaking of atoms swerving in the cosmos is another abstraction foisted on the simplicity of our natural experiences.

I am also doubting the certainty of the above words, and expect to lose, and rediscover, to infinity, the feeling and taste of these words.

On March 23rd this year, on our ten year anniversary, me and my partner Sarah were married in Kauai. It was an extraordinary and wonderful experience. I thank her for teaching me what love is, and what it can be.

The gambler


the gambler

Found this from an old bit of writing that felt worth sharing. I’m sure Pascal precedes Locke, Hume and Dostoevsky with the use of gaming and gambling for philosophy and the imagination.

‘Man is so unhappy that he would be bored even if he had no cause for boredom, by the very nature of his temperament, and he is so vain that, though he has a thousand and one basic reasons for being bored, the slightest thing, like pushing a ball with a billiard cue, will be enough to divert him.

‘But,’ you will say, ‘what is his object in all this?’ Just so that he can boast tomorrow to his friends that he played better than someone else. Likewise others sweat away in their studies to prove to scholars that they have solved some hitherto insoluble problem in algebra. Many others again, just as foolishly in my view, risk the greatest dangers so that they can boast afterwards of having captured some stronghold. Then there are others who exhaust themselves observing all these things, not in order to become wiser, but just to show they know them, and these are the biggest fools of the lot, because they know what they are doing, while it is conceivable that the rest would stop being foolish if they knew too.’

A given man lives a life free from boredom by gambling a small sum every day. Give him every morning the money he might win that day, but on condition that he does not gamble, and you will make him unhappy. It might be argued that what he wants is the entertainment of gaming and not the winnings. Make him play then for nothing; his interest will not be fired and he will become bored, so it is not just entertainment he wants. A half-hearted entertainment without excitement will bore him. He must have excitement, he must delude himself into imagining that he would be happy to win what he would not want as a gift if it meant giving up gambling. He must create some target for his passions and then arouse his desire, anger, fear, for this object he has created, just like children taking fright at a face they have daubed themselves.’

— Pascal, Pensée 136, in Pensées, trans. A.J. Krailsheimer (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1966), p. 70.

Dreams of an insect



‘And had mankind been made with but four senses, the qualities then, which are the object of the fifth sense, had been as far from our notice, imagination and conception, as now any belonging to a sixth, seventh, or eighth sense, possibly be: which, whether yet some other creatures, in some other parts of this vast, and stupendous universe, may not have, will be a great presumption to deny. He that will not set himself proudly at the top of all things; but will consider the immensity of this fabric, and the great variety, that is to be found in this little and inconsiderable part of it, which he has to do with, may be apt to think, that in other mansions of it, there may be other, and different intelligent beings, of whose faculties, he has as little knowledge or apprehension, as a worm shut up in one drawer of a cabinet, hath of the senses or understanding of a man; such variety and excellency, being suitable to the wisdom and power of the maker.’

– John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, II.II.3.

Send off


Torino-Paris Aug13 180

Paris, September 2013.

“I will consider human actions and desires just as if it were an investigation into lines, planes or bodies.’
– Spinoza, Ethics, Preface to Part III.

‘I have taken real care not to mock, lament, or loathe human actions, but to understand them. So I regard human affects such as love, hate, anger, envy, pride, pity, and other agitations in the same way as heat, cold, storm, thunder, and other atmospheric phenomena.’
– Spinoza, Political Treatise, Chapter 1. (My translations. Not cold, nor fatalistic, but from a distance few ever dream of glimpsing).

Schiele, Edith on deathbed

Egon Schiele, Edith Schiele on her deathbed 1918. The drawing itself is simultaneously traumatic and beautiful in its actual presence.


Lovers’ formalities, by Paul Verlaine.

In the old park alone and cold,
Two figures just now passed each other.

Their eyes were dead and their lips were slack,
And they hardly heard each other’s words.

In the old park alone and cold,
Two spectres recall past times.

– You remember our former joy?
– Why would I want to remember that?

– Your heart still pulses only to my name?
You still see me in your dreams?’ – Nope.

– Oh those lovely days of unspeakable bliss,
Our lips forever caught in a kiss. – Yeah maybe.

– It was so blue, the sky, and so great, our hopes.
– Hope’s dead and done, the sky’s back to black.

So they walked among wild oats,
And only the night heard their words.

(My translation).


hanged man

From Rider-Waite pack.


The Truth Within Us, by Rumi

‘Twas a fair orchard, full of trees and fruit
And vines and greenery. A Sufi there
Sat with eyes closed, his head upon his knee,
Sunk deep in meditation mystical.
“Why”, asked another, “dost thou not behold
These Signs of God the Merciful displayed
Around thee, which He bids us contemplate?”
“The signs”, he answered, “I behold within;
Without is naught but symbols of the Signs.”

What is beauty in the world? The image,
Like quivering boughs reflected in a stream,
Of that eternal Orchard which abides
Unwithered in the hearts of Perfect Men.”

Trans. Reynold A. Nicholson (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1950, 47). Nicholson deserved some credit for his total poetic licence in translating. From Mathnawi IV, 1358.


Adventures in inefficiency 053

Dungeness July 2013.



What is that thing known only when it is given? What is the exercise and expression of everything that is uneconomic, strange and uncontrollable within? It is a singular feeling uniting a plethora of experiences, desires and sensations. It unifies but never unites. It never utters a final word. But talk of it, or of soul, heart or romance, establishes immediately a distance, alienation, a semi-sacred threshold. Only its lack lays its content bare. If it has language, it is in music. Rarely words, which we are all so easily hung up on. Its expression is physical. How else does one prove the sun except lift up daylight’s veil? These words come ringed with generations of angst and doubt and contain little comfort. Its greatest theorists come starved or deliberately fasting of it. Poets leave it to the night. And all of this above is strange, or pretentious, or nonsensical, unless right now you too are animated by it, of which there is no more to be written but only spoken, enthusively and without end.

Same too, possibly, of those who write of God, universe and nature, only names with attachment to specific images or pre-loaded linguistic connotations, that distort or zoom too quickly into this immensity. Intoxication’s never half of it.



Elements of the known universe, 2013.


Riddle 2.

What if you had time?
So what if you had the time?

And say I gave you that time?
We’d be nowhere fast until you gave yourself the time.

Maybe you feel you’ve been made old by your memories, that the time that you grasp vainly is too finite. Or perhaps through an education in long-term illness, you haven’t got strength to cash in that time, to claim chips, be it credit or debit. Then you know the value of time better than I do. And so then you know that it’s not something you’ve got, but something you’re giving. So what remains to hold onto?


Ramon Casas, Madeline

Ramon Casas, Madeleine 1892.


In every guise, say someone paid you to pursue this and document the results, in whatever medium came to hand: the nameless, the strange, dirty and dangerous, the wonderful and unknown, the peerless, incommensurable, the oceanic feeling, that of the cosmos, the absolute or whatever name books give it. Until it’s given a name, any experience, object, image or sensation which provokes a feeling of awe and compulsion to repeat and explore.

How would you handle it? Give it a year, see. A wager. Why not?




Crane up with open eyes to peer at grey, greyer, greyest skies. But the most I see on a bright day is just how dark everything else appears.

Certain times I want to shout out with Charlie Baudelaire, ‘it’s time to get drunk. With wine, with poetry, with virtue, as you please … but get drunk.’ But then I have had my fill of people who tirelessly pursued this goal, anywhere out of this world (using one of these, anyway). Certain times I want to change them, like wanting to change everything else. I think of endless large halls of people toiling away at the reformation of others, satisfying at least the need for toil. Each one boring the man or woman next to them with statements of self-love, row after row of the same, decade after decade in succession. Why was the first…? Certain days you’ve got to travel miles for some fresh air. The countryside’s good for that – there’s no rebranding what they lay thick on the fields. In times like these you may as well learn to laugh, so then no matter how hard the rain’s falling at least you’re the only one looking like they’re having a good time.

There’s no better person to learn from in this respect than Democritus, that ancient atomist and scientist unkindly forgotten, and one particular episode in his life retold by Democritus Junior, aka Robert Burton, in The Anatomy of Melancholy of 1621-51. The original tale comes from an apocryphal letter sent from Hippocrates to Damagetus. I reproduce a long excerpt below, for other daydreamers to take counsel from. I think Democritus is a little harsh on Hippocrates here, but then again, most days I find myself offering up the same platitudes…

‘Heraclitus the philosopher, out of a serious meditation of men’s lives, fell a-weeping, and with continual tears bewailed their misery, madness, and folly. Democritus, on the other side, burst out a-laughing, their whole life seemed to him so ridiculous, and he was so far carried with this ironical passion, that the citizens of Abdera took him to be mad, and sent therefore ambassadors to Hippocrates the physician, that he would exercise his skill upon him.

‘[…] When Hippocrates was now come to Abdera, the people of the city came flocking about him, some entreating of him that he would do his best. After some little repast, he went to see Democritus, the people following him, whom he found (as before) in his garden in the suburbs all alone, “sitting upon a stone under a plane tree, without hose or shoes, with a book on his knees, cutting up several beasts, and busy at his study.” The multitude stood gazing round about to see the congress. Hippocrates, after a little pause, saluted him by his name, whom he resaluted, ashamed almost that he could not call him likewise by his, or that he had forgot it. Hippocrates demanded of him what he was doing: he told him that he was “busy in cutting up several beasts, to find out the cause of madness and melancholy.” Hippocrates commended his work, admiring his happiness and leisure. “And why,” quoth Democritus, “have not you that leisure?” “Because,” replied Hippocrates, “domestical affairs hinder, necessary to be done for ourselves, neighbours, friends; expenses, diseases, frailties and mortalities which happen; wife, children, servants and such businesses which deprive us of our time.” At this speech Democritus profusely laughed (his friends and the people standing by, weeping in the meantime, and lamenting his madness).

Hippocrates asked the reason why he laughed. He told him, “At the vanities and fopperies of the time, to see men so empty of all virtuous actions, to hunt so far after gold, having no end of ambition; to take such infinite pains for a little glory, and to be favoured of men; to make such deep mines into the earth for gold, and many times to find nothing, with loss of their lives and fortunes. Some to love dogs, others horses, some to desire to be obeyed in many provinces, and yet themselves will know no obedience. Some to love their wives dearly at first, and after a while to forsake and to hate them; begetting children, with much care and cost for their education, yet when they grow to man’s estate, to despise, neglect, and leave them naked to the world’s mercy. Do these behaviours express their intolerable folly? When men live in peace, they covet war, detesting quietness, deposing kinds, and advancing others in their stead, murdering some men to beget children of their wives. How many strange humours are in men! When they are poor and needy, they seek riches, and when they have them, they do not enjoy them, but hide them underground, or else wastefully spend them.

‘O wise Hippocrates, I laugh at such things being done, but much more when no good comes of them, and when they are done to so ill purpose. There is no truth or justice found amongst them, for they daily plead one against another, the son against the father and the mother, brother against brother, kindred and friends of the same quality; and all this for riches, whereof after death they cannot be possessors. And yet, notwithstanding, they will defame and kill one another, commit all unlawful actions, contemning God and men, friends and country. They make great account of many senseless things, esteeming them as a great part of their treasure, statues, pictures, and such-like movables, dear-bought and so cunningly wrought, as nothing but speech wanteth in them, and yet they hate living persons speaking to them. Others affect difficult things; if they dwell on firm land they will remove to an island, and thence to land again, being no way constant to their desires. They commend courage and strength in wars, and let themselves be conquered by lust and avarice; they are, in brief, as disordered in their minds as Thersites was in his body.

And now, methinks, O most worthy Hippocrates, you should not reprehend my laughing, perceiving so many fooleries in men; for no man will mock his own folly, but that which he seeth in a second, and so they justly mock one another. The drunkard calls him a glutton whom he knows to be sober. Many men love the sea, others husbandry; briefly, they cannot agree in their own trades and professions, much less in their lives and actions.”

When Hippocrates heard these words so readily uttered, without premeditation, to declare the world’s vanity, full of ridiculous contrariety, he made answer, “That necessity compelled men to many such actions, and divers wills ensuing from divine permission, that we might not be idle, being nothing is so odious to them as sloth and negligence. Besides, men cannot foresee future events, in this uncertainty of human affairs; they would not so marry, if they could foretell the causes of their dislike and separation; or parents, if they knew the hour of their children’s death, so tenderly provide for them; or an husbandman sow, if he thought there would be no increase; or a merchant adventure to sea, if he foresaw shipwreck; or be a magistrate, if presently to be deposed. Alas, worthy Democritus, every man hopes the best, and to that end he doth it, and therefore no such cause, or ridiculous occasion, of laughter.”

Democritus, hearing this poor excuse, laughed again aloud’…

[Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, ed. Holbrook Jackson (New York: New York Review of Books), pp. 47-49]

I will never finish reading Montaigne


Montaigne portrait

I will never finish reading Montaigne. Coming to the end of his Collected Essays today, having ‘begun’ them over two years ago, at the start of this blog, is simply another event in a life-long relation of reading and re-reading him initiated nearly a decade ago. Our life’s most inspiring thinkers whoever they be can have this effect, so long as they are read, reflected on, and conversed with, slowly, carefully and with pleasure.

Do you want to know the essence of Montaigne, a late-16th century French essayist, soldier, mayor of Bordeaux, lover of melons and horses, brought up only to speak Latin, his life shaped by civil war, plague, love and lust, children born and died, Seneca, Socrates, Plutarch and, above all, his reflections on these ? Then I have no summary. But hear this:

“If doctors want to know how to cure syphilis it is right that they should first catch it themselves! I would truly trust the one who did; for the others pilot us like a man who remains seated at his table, painting seas, reefs and harbours and, in absolute safety, pushing a model boat over them.” [Montaigne, On Experience].

I laugh when I read this in his final essay, near the end of his life’s journeys and reflections on these. Montaigne’s expertise above all is experience, his – there are no painted reefs or toy boats. Pleasure and pain have given him the clap.

Enjoying and understanding life as a good though uncertain, deceptive thing, are his expertise. Montaigne writes plainly and open-humouredly on all matters, his subject matter from the outset being the only thing he could ever claim to know, his self. He anticipates so much now modern in his thoughts on male and female sexualities and desire; he uses descriptions and stories from the New World, China and elsewhere to through a critical glare on European society and its hypocrisies which seems compellingly global. Yet few points ever come unaccompanied by a Latin quotation derived from Horace, Seneca, Cicero or elsewhere, or else some anecdote about Scipio, Cato, Socrates or Caesar.

Montaigne’s essays have provided better sustenance to my life I think than any course of schooling taken, very good though some of it’s been. I have read every word of the essays, much of it 2 or 3 times, yet I remember little. It has only taught me of myself, a subject as vain, inconsistent, idiotic, insightful and, above all, utterly essential for living. What else do we clearly or distinctly know? What else do we so dedicatedly mess up so well? By all means apply philosophical analysis to geometry or jurisprudence, but first use philosophy to live, for the benefit of your life, with all the certainty that any lessons will probably be forgotten or overruled by contrary practice. Like any life’s few compelling books which we read and read again*, it has taken place with repeated thrusts of awe and scepticism, but under the more fundamental and circular revelation of one’s own complete ignorance of a subject (or all subjects) for which one once felt some speck of surety.

When the beliefs of the powerful few are applied to the disempowered many, some think that is theirs and vainly call it common sense. I’m sceptical of it, gladly! Common sense confers greater esteem to work experience than study, and celebrates its use-value, something I’ve found invalid when looking at my life and years wasted in boring jobs or mismanaged organisations. Compare months spent in agonising concentration under some fool tyrant’s will on one unmemorable project or another: I can think of dozens of these. What good would come of offering up, as a CV does, the barren fruits of wage drudgery? It was essential then; it is useless now. Often abbreviated phrases meaningless to you are those which once denied sleep, I’m sure you have your own – GSRs, ONS stats, INWL monitoring,  Local Services – they feel like picking away at an old scar in order to embellish its gore – but they were years spent stressed, disgruntled, lazy. There’s no end to it I know, I’ll be back in that place soon.

But I prefer to think about the stoicism of Thomas Browne, of the escapades of the Angry Brigade or the exhortation to live, think, of Wilde, Woolf, Buddha, Confucius, Montaigne, and above that a million different conversations in pubs. It’s all there, known and forgotten, in loops ranging into infinity. Everyone can claim equal expertise and responsibility to the most interesting subject of ethics, themselves.


– –

* Kafka’s Castle, Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, Dostoevsky’s Idiot and Brothers Karamazov, Deleuze and Guattari’s Anti-Oedipus, and now Spinoza’s Ethics – books that were first confusing, exhausting, irritating, disappointing, or thoroughly frustrating.

Burial customs

Living, Stories

Cleopatra poison
Let’s bury the old year, that which has aged us and wounded us with worry and tough living, and be done with it.

I have a friend who tells me how much better I look each time he sees me. ‘You used to look terrible! Really pale and skinny, haunted, you know!’ He assures me it’s a compliment, though as regular as a morning’s mirror mantra he repeats each time he sees me. This is the story of NY fucking E.

To write better and travel more: this is what I strive for. For 2012 saw the completion of the rest. I learned to drive, formed a band, and learned to write songs and sing in my own voice. I worked my soul away for 6 months, set up the London campaign of a charity that ended up winning awards and securing its funding. There’s still a bitter memory of it all, and I am relieved I left in the way I did. I took a break, wrote some bad stories, then started work at another charity, taught myself how to write winning fundraising bids and at last joined a union. Was it worth it? I gave up meat and drink. I started combing my hair and shaving. I didn’t watch a single bit of the Olympics. It’s as solemn and profound as all that.

To see this one out, this is the final story I wrote over 2012. It’s way too long for a blog-post and is left here inexplicably like an abandoned child’s toy in a roadside gutter. Possibly it provides nourishment for wild animals, and for the rest, it’s a note to self to write something better next year. Toodles.


Burial customs

Nervously even for him he clambered up from the sweaty pew, arse sliding against the bare wood where he had sat alone by the altar, apprehensively, ceremoniously and most properly, the moment marked by the shriek of new shoes against marble, and ice-cold tingles rippling along his spine as he awkwardly shuffled sideways by the casket, experiencing something akin to vertigo whilst ascending the larger-than-life lectern to the rows of eyes of Ben’s friends and family. Celebrate life. In the midst of death we are in life. God would not be found in a place like this, in cold churches where people could go to feel good through feeling bad, through compartmentalising their actions into good or sin, but this is for the family’s benefit, so keep it positive. Work – football – generous – tragedy – celebrate life. Annie, Ben’s sister had asked him to do the second eulogy last week – “you are his best mate, you knew him”, but he’d only sat down to write it this morning, with an online template doing much of the work, aided by several Scotch-laced coffees.

“There is no antidote against the Opium of time, which temporally considereth all things; Our Fathers finde their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our Survivors. Grave-stones tell truth scarce fourty years: Generations passe while some trees stand, and old Families last not three oaks.”

– Sir Thomas Browne, Urne-Buriall, 1658.

And I hope you too will remember Ben as I did, as a fun-loving friend who always loved a laugh, and as a kind, generous and warm-hearted man, whose life was tragically taken short … now he’s up there with God.

The second page had come to an end and there was nothing on the other side. As he glided back towards his empty pew he looked up momentarily, catching Ben’s extended family looking so empty, his sisters holding their elderly mother, and by the very front, Michelle too, with her family, not catching his eye, thankfully. By the time he had sat down he had to stand up again, as the congregation began attempting ‘Abide with me’ with pitiable faint-heartedness. Someone was singing very loudly in a baritone voice by the back, who like everyone else there he struggled to recognise.

“Thank you Alex, that was just right.” Annie and Sylvia, the youngest of Ben’s four sisters, had approached him by the kerb, sharing cigarettes taken from Annie’s handbag. Alex instinctively fished around the unfamiliar black suit for his lighter. They were both very cool, and silent. He could hear their mother wailing somewhere in the background, crowded by consolers. Beyond the gutter and the parked cars, the congested terraced street, the alabaster noon skies of a day which hadn’t somehow been able to start, everything feeling frozen and weightless since entering the church, since waking up the morning after. Perhaps in space too there were no emotions. The cigarette brought him back to earth. The last time they had all been together was outside the police station after the incident. Since then everything had been done by phone, very formal, usually Annie’s sweet faintly-cockney voice, but Alex feeling as if they had in part blamed him for the series of events that had unlikely resulted in Ben’s death. The hearses were pulling away, traffic queued behind, and Elena and Harold began to approach them. “Oh mama,” said Sylvia crying, and now the girls were crying, and Harold too, and Alex could feel his insides beginning to melt, tears forming, and without thinking his arms had wrapped around the family, head awkwardly facing the skies to keep the cigarette in his mouth from burning them, the pale sun glowing dimly through a cloud, a telegraph wire and an airplane high up, journeying somewhere it would never reach with unknowable hope.

Ben’s family were Armenian and had organised their own kind of reception that would coincide with the disposal of the ashes into the Thames three days later.

He’d built up a wicked desire for something to drink, and with the automatic impulsiveness that precedes any self-destructive gesture, he found himself ordering large scotch at a quiet pub by the railway station, which was quickly sunk and discarded. He drifted out and bought himself some ciders for the journey back, then staggered confusedly towards the platform, just in time to board the incorrect stopping train back home.

Dazed by hunger, passing one Tesco town after another. The great secret of these places is their void of a future. Nothing would actually happen there in thirty or forty years time. The malls and new-builds would be bulldozed and forgotten much sooner than that. With supermarket trolleys jutting out of the Thames mud. Objects indiscriminately laid out in the circumference of an invisible circle, without focus or centre. A world belonging to old men with ale-udders, mismatched sports jackets and beige chinos.

It was the early afternoon and the carriage was deserted. The cider tasted like two copper coins had been left inside it, tart yet refreshing. Alone, light-headed, here he was safe to think about the last few awful months. Michelle hadn’t said anything to him. The pregnancy showed. Ben and Alex’s lives had both run in parallel: friends since Year 3, when Ben’s family moved to Woolwich from Armenia. They both improbably supported Leeds United, were a similar height, and had surnames beginning with G-, meaning they sat together most of the time, which continued through secondary school, where they chose the same classes, bunked together, shared their first cigarette together, and drifted into the ignorant certainties of early adulthood’s stream of brainless jobs and relationships together.

They always used to sleep over at each other’s houses. The good thing about staying at Ben’s was that they could watch his older brother’s 18-rated horror videos like Hellraiser and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. They used to get so terrified that they couldn’t sleep, and would stay up all night talking about fantasy football teams and debate the probable victors of fights between superheroes and movie characters. They always had the same type of lunch box, and both their mums always put in a bit of extra food for the other boy, knowing that they loved to trade and share each other’s crisps. When Ben first started at his school the other kids had mocked him for his poor grasp of English and ‘Russian’ accent, but it only reminded Alex of his gran and cousin in Cyprus who he loved spending summers with, and he liked Ben anyway, and taught him all the best swear words he knew, like wanker, twat, shitbag, prick, arseprick, dickface, slag, felcher, and later, the C-word. There’d been only one falling out, when they had that big playground fight in Year 6 when Alex was pasted by Ben after some kid, Ashley B-, had jibed that the pair were ‘gay for each other’. That, and what had happened a month before that ill-fated stag-party.

They’d both been into girls from an early age. When they were 13, they had even started saving up together for a prostitute in the West End, their big dream, but before they’d reached £1000, how much they estimated she would want, they started to work out how to talk to girls at parties. They had even shared girlfriends some of the time. He remembered when they were 19, ‘D’ her name was, Dorothea, who had been with Ben first, and who had told him how Ben liked to play heavy metal music and ‘wrestle’ with her, that’d been her words. It felt dirty but strangely thrilling being inside girls that Ben had been with. They would sometimes talk about them afterwards, “a bit kinky”, “nice tits”, but usually more in terms of what they were like to be with, “hard work”, “control freak”. As they’d entered their twenties, the years accelerated and temporary settlements became patterns – Ben couldn’t go out without first getting drunk, and then taking coke later into the night to keep going. Alex had had a string of failed relationships which usually ended after the girls found out he’d cheated on them then threw him out.

Alex had been working most recently as a security guard, his dark too-serious brow rendered by the vexations of insane drunks, possibly with undiagnosed aspergers’, and their vain attempts to steal confectionery from the store, followed by their absurd defences of innocence or necessity outside. Ben also had talked about starting his own business since the age of 16 or 17, though like most there was no clear plan or strategy, and ten years on he was still selling insurance over the telephone to dementia-suffering biddies in Aberdeen and elsewhere. Ben had got together with Michelle in his early twenties. Her early pregnancy and their fear of her dominant father required getting married young, a number of low-skill jobs in Michelle’s dad’s company. That early pregnancy later turned out to be a miscarriage, but by the time it’d happened the wedding was booking. Ben was unhappily married and the relationship seemed to have all kinds of problems. They weren’t from the sort of background that were supposed to or even thought about going to university. Both Alex and Ben carried their resentment like a club card into masculine life.

The train was starting to get a little busy. Alex put the empty can back in the carrier bag and pulled out a fresh tin of cider. When he and Ben were fifteen they had made a non-resignation pact. Neither was going to become like the other’s father, these clapped-out, taciturn and miserable men who had amply failed to provide any positive role-model to them. “We ain’t gonna give up like that old bastard”, Alex had announced, sharing ecstatic reveries with Ben on a package holiday in Majorca, the end of a wild long night. He saw the outline of his face against the mirror, gargoyle-lined, stubbled, puffy-cheeked, more rough than tough, with dark eyes suggesting little animation. On one side of him sat a few early-finishing commuters, distracted by Coldplay, Facebook, Angry Birds and other contemporary dross. Beyond the window leaving behind the suburb satellite station, a familiar and remarkable urban landscape of buddleia punctuating smears of suburb town, factory town, gas reservoir town, Christian ministries town, cosmetic surgery town, cash for gold town, doner kebab town, Argos town, Ladbrokes town, Tesco town. Resignation’s so easy. “Not like my dad”, said Alex. “Yeah, not like him”, Ben replied.

Michelle wasn’t attractive in the conventional sense. It was more her value to Ben – she had to be special – and the thought that his friend had had her and enjoyed her in the past was what turned him on. Alex was already seeing a woman, Carlie, but she was still hung up on her ex, and Alex didn’t have the patience or interest in her existential problems, and had retreated into his usual bored behaviour of casual flings with women he met on singles dating websites. One evening, Michelle had come round to his flat to drop off something he’d lent, he couldn’t remember what it had been now. Carlie was staying with a friend in Bristol, most likely her ex. Michelle was sad, like she’d been arguing with Ben, and seeing that they had little else to do that night, they both started drinking beer and talking about what they were all like before Ben and Michelle started going out, all the wild times they’d had, while she talked about some of her exs and her early life, growing up and looking after her mum, about all the cats she used to have and their names. Michelle was always a lightweight, it explained why she and Ben always argued when they went out, and after a couple of beers the meaning of her sadness emerged. Alex wasn’t really the ‘sensitive type’: love was something you said when you wanted to get with a girl or end an argument. He couldn’t remember how it had started, but he could remember being on the sofa with Michelle, kissing her, their hands mentally mapping out each others’ bodies, then soon after, their clothes pulled off. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense. She didn’t want to look at Alex, so he took her from behind, and pulled her hair with one hand, and massaged her clitoris with the other, as requested. The sheer wrongness of it turned them on immensely: Michelle, to get revenge on Ben, who apparently hadn’t fucked her for months, and for Alex, the chance to enjoy something out of bounds that belonged to Ben, like reading his diary or climbing into a scary neighbour’s garden together in search of a lost football or fantastical treasure, like when they were kids. They were drunk already and neither had a condom. As Michelle was coming she asked Alex to choke her with his belt, the way Ben did it. He was worried he was going to accidentally kill her, but she wanted to go further and further, taking each other deeper into that dark night of confused, impulsive, beautiful souls.

Alex quickly crossed one leg over another, and replaced the empty can with another new cider, still chilled. The train was pulling into another busy station, the passengers now boarding had expressions like they’d just interrupted their parents, engaged in mutual coprophagia.

Everyone always says in a funeral about what a ‘fitting service’ and a ‘good send-off’ it was, and when it’s someone old, what ‘good innings’ they’d had. It was such shit. Bad poetry read out of library books. Why should he have to celebrate someone’s life, why couldn’t he just be sad that his best mate was fucking dead? Ben didn’t even believe in God. How could they let that bastard priest who had never met him, never, talk about Ben in the most intimate tones, about what had happened to Ben’s soul? He could see Ben there, sat at the back after the service, with a fag-ash stained suit and a cheeky red or polka dot tie, legs stretched out wide, inappropriate cuff-links, short hair spiked up, a look of proud derision, his lips uttering silently but the words reaching his mind.

Geezer. What the fuck mate. What was that shit you said about me. What was my life. You know what happened that night. I was out of it. You should’ve looked out for me. You shouldn’t’ve done that. I knew that feller had a knife, I knew what he was gonna do, and I didn’t care.

They’d both completely failed on that non-resignation pact, perhaps because they’d both allowed their own lives to landslide into a peculiar blend of passive hedonism and cynical grumpiness. He remembered his fear shortly after he and Michelle had got it together. Never again, they vowed, though they both had very much enjoyed it. Carlie was with him, they’d gone to a friend’s wedding, and Michelle and Carlie were away for a little to talk in one of the reception rooms of this fancy mansion. Alex was absolutely terrified Michelle was going to blab to Carlie, though in hindsight she would have had far more to lose. So, totally idiotically now, he crept up behind the door ajar to listen in. He heard Michelle’s voice, she was saying about how men were ‘disabled’, that was her word for it, they were disabled because they always wanted to fuck strangers, that was all they could think about, yet 6 months after getting it together with the same person they lost complete interest. They’d rather masturbate than have sex with them. “Alex!”, Carlie said startled, sat on the edge of a luscious red sofa, Michelle close by on a mismatching floral-print armchair. “Men and woman are both disabled”, he imagined himself uttering, bursting into that charged room now, rather differently to how he’d really behaved. “You girls are disabled too, in your menstruation maybe, but no, in your desire to bear children into this fucked up world. Why? Why not just fuck, or have relationships.” And he imagined Michelle looking up to him, beautiful in that black dress, glaring viciously, also turned on by the infliction of wounds, and replying confidently, completely out of his imagination again, words without sounds: “Men and women are both disabled by that deep sexual hunger that frees our bodies and restricts our minds into these crazes. But how we both find sexual satisfaction is through a gradual concentration and narrowing of earlier sexual pleasures. Think of your first time Carlie, or no, maybe your first really good time. You want that again and again, that same type of male or female experience, and fucking in that same kind of way, rough, violent, tantric, from behind, on top, with the first one that really opened up your mind sexually. That’s why you still want to be with your first ex Carlie, and why you keep sleeping with him. “Yes,” Alex replied suddenly, “we’re the same, different but equal”. “Yes, and that’s why you and Ben are so close.”

It was Alex’s stop. He scrambled up, accidentally kicking the empty cans over into the path of the congested train. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been asleep for. But he wasn’t worried about the spilt cider all across the commuters’ brogues and heels, as he was more concerned with hiding all the tears that had collected in his eyelashes.

Alex had got out of the habit of waking up early after the last few months of night shifts at work. The flat was freezing. He was starting to run out of clean clothes. The milk too had gone off, but he chanced it anyway for his tea and cereal, adding a little water and sugar to conceal the sour taste. In the three days since the funeral service he hadn’t heard a word from anyone, until Annie called again to ask if he was still coming tomorrow to Woolwich Reach, for the send-off. He dug out his only other suit, and hoped no-one would notice he was wearing the same shirt from the service.

After a silent twenty minute journey across the deserted riverside footpath from Thamesmead town-centre towards Woolwich, he turned a corner where, in the distant sands of the brown Thames beach, two white marquees incongruously stood and, flitting about them, twenty or thirty of Ben ‘Benyamin’s’ extended Armenian family, some playing violins in some kind of gypsy dirge. He joined Annie, Sylvia, Mila and Hermione, Ben’s sisters and family all together for the first time in years. “So, what’ve you been doing with yourself these last few years?”, Hermione asked, her words slowing over the final part of the utterance as if she were asking himself what had become of those last few years. Drunk. Unfaithful. I should’ve looked out for him that night. But how did I know that psycho bloke was just gonna stab him like that, blades shouldn’t slide in so easily. He shouldn’t’ve died, he could’ve kept going, but he didn’t want it enough. The ambulance took centuries to come. Lost in traffic. “This and that?”, he replied, with a faint smile. “And you, the baby, right?” “Well, dad wants you to go into the water with Yuri and the others to say goodbye to Ben. He was more than a brother to you.”

He joined Harold, Ben’s father, and Yuri his uncle. There were a few others there too playing music, some weeping, all in black. Harold used to say that the English were a depressed people and this explained their behaviour and politics. He had never given up his customs and ways from the old country, but never really let Ben into them either. “You’re coming with us Alex,” he said, cheerily. “Now is not to be sad. Now we go into the Styx to say goodbye to Benjamin, my son, your friend.” He put his arm around Alex’s shoulder, the first person to touch him since the brawl that Saturday night. He felt almost hysterically light-headed, like he might topple over if a wind caught him unawares. Beneath the marquee was a small table with some pastries left untouched, and a jug half-full of some iced fruit-flavoured moonshine, oghi, which the company were liberally sinking in small plastic beakers. Alex filled one of the cups up and downed the concoction. Soon after his brain was whirling, light-headed yet elated, teeth chattering like demented magnets, and he followed the sound of Yuri’s accordion towards the tide, wading waist-deep into the Thames’ icy embrace, where it was now time.

Yuri began a plaintive, beautiful dirge on the accordion, joined on the violin by another man in the water who he didn’t recognise, a cousin or uncle. Harold came in a little later, carrying the maroon plastic urn, his eyes scanning the crowd by the tide, then the four of them in the water. He handed to him the urn, which was larger and much lighter than he expected, and like a bird, Harold’s mouth opened, and a rich, sorrowful bass voice emerged, singing some song in Armenian, which after certain intervals was joined in chorus by the women on the tideline. He glimpsed the Woolwich ferry in the distance, the post-industrial abysses of north Woolwich and Silvertown, piles and piles of multicoloured containers and tiny golden lights, which when he scrunched his eyes up, which the tears compelled him to do, became much bigger, their rays of light radiating in every distance.

His friend had died because he was tired, he had resigned his game far too soon because he had lost faith in a quick victory. Perhaps Alex had too, he was only 28 but felt three times that. He had a heart, he did, everyone did, but his was soaked in hate, and the source of hate, fear. His fear was death, like everyone else, of getting it wrong, of not being someone before he was old, but in temper of this fear of death he’d become afraid of living, of being able to love, or do, or act as he was, as he truly was, and have the courage to live with the consequences of this. It made little sense, but the truths of life’s studies were demonstrated in experimentation. The water was freezing, the music continuing, a faster song now. He and Ben had forgotten what wonder meant, of that openness of mind that one has in one’s early teens, like they had. All he had known in his twenties was decay, war, stress, anger, migraines, the bankruptcy of everything, only one reality of many. Back when they’d been young, they could’ve invented a cure to cancer or discovered the meaning of god or impossible if they’d wanted, why not? They were bound that way, had that wonder, but of course they wanted to play, to fight, to get together with girls, and that was alright.

There was a young boy on the tideline who was pushed forward by the sisters, and began to play an solo elegy on the trumpet. Ben too used to be able to play trumpet, and was in the school choir when they were kids. “Now, Alex”. The urn was profanely easy to open, its cheap plastic packaging almost blasphemous. Inside a white carrier bag, the ashes, which he now shook out with urgency, like putting out a deep fire, against the wind, towards the other side of the river. The family began to wail, as his ashes are wrapped tight in the whirl of the wind, then sucked into the swilling waters, thick and almost peppery are the remains of what once housed his presence, his soul. The urn was still quite full, and as he kept scattering them towards the river, wide grey smudges momentarily filling the air like Hades’ fireworks, the wind now blowing them into his mouth and eyes, and against the onlookers. As Ben’s closest friend, it was his responsibility to mutter a few vaguely profound words to bring the ritual to its climax. Gingerly the word “hope” is repeated: sceptically, optimistically. He handed the urn to Harold to scatter the remaining half, and looked out at the water, the ashes washing into that other London that might reside tranquilly below the water, on the other side of the river like a mirror-world, a land of London dead beneath the old Thames, a community infinitely greater than the living, still present in the lime and the slime of the banks, still despatching to the living their black-humoured gifts, ministered by gulls: the typewriters, tobacco pipes, shopping trolleys, plastic bags, cut-up corpses, messages in bottles, torn-up letters, wedding rings, and the occasional bit of ironwork that all wash up on the banks, some of which are claimed by the desperate combers of the beach, impoverished junkies still plying an ancient trade, sold on as scrap in exchange for escapism and food. Alex turned again at the onlookers, and back at the waters again, the distant lights. Silence, emptiness anew.

Mate. I forgive you mate. Look out for her. Don’t give up on yourself.

It was late evening now, and they were back at Annie’s flat in Thamesmead, close to where her parents still lived and where the reception had been. They were all wasted and wearied by all the singing, dancing and heavy-duty drinking of the morning and afternoon, and Alex, Michelle, Sylvia, Yuri and some of the others had come back to hers to carry on drinking. “More oghi!” – “Music!” – “That shit’s crazy” – “Ah man, I’ve got work tomorrow, ha ha ha!”. They were jumping round to old skool UK Garage and rave music, hysterically play-grinding and pogoing to those wondrously innocent, sensual dance songs from years ago, the nursery rhymes of generation of Thatcher’s children. Later, when he was out in the kitchen fixing Michelle and himself a final shot of oghi for the road, she followed him, and leaned against the fridge door, his back against her as he washed more glasses in the kitchen sink. “You know I’m pregnant right,” she began, her harsh-sounding estuarine upbringing bleached away to a more softly-spoken, sleepy drawl. “Well you know Ben had tests yeah, his sperm. What you call it, they weren’t fertile enough. That’s why we never had any little ones even though we’ve been together for like five years.” He handed her a full glass, which she put on the counter. “What you trying to say?” he replied. “It ain’t yours Alex, it can’t be, don’t ask me why, but trust me, it’s how it feels. But all I’m saying is, I want you to stick around and help me. For Ben”.

Alex looked into her bright, deep-set brown eyes. For a second, he could feel such immense sadness, uncertainty, vulnerability, that compelled him to come close to her, and hold her. She was crying into his shoulder. Another feeling then blistered inside him, through her – hope, that there was hope, that the right thing could be done. Her hair felt soft against him, beautiful smelling, not artificial like perfume or conditioner, it was the natural smell of her he was drinking in. He could feel an erection inappropriately forming, and began to pull away. “It’s ok”, she said, attempting to laugh, her forearm wiping away at her eyes, taking off her remaining mascara in the process. “I know all you men are disabled like that”. Alex remembered his dream with her and Carlie, it couldn’t be real. He finished the oghi, and she finished hers. “I swear down, is that “I’m a Dreamer” playing?” he said, smiling fierily. “His favourite”. And so Alex took her hand back into that sitting room, their bodies roaming closer and more intensively intimate than either had felt before, charged in space with the real hope that maybe, against the grain, they might know a happiness and a truth denied to Ben, and Alex, up until that moment.

“Honours, monuments, all that ambition has commanded by decrees or reared in works of stone, quickly sink to ruin; there is nothing that the lapse of time does not tear down and remove. But the works which philosophy has consecrated cannot be harmed; no age will destroy them, no age reduce them; the following and each succeeding age will but increase the reverence for them, since envy works upon what is close at hand, and things that are far off we are more free to admire.”
– Seneca, On the Shortness of Life, 41CE

This is who I am


I didn’t go to private school or have private tutors. My family wasn’t rich, it wasn’t poor either. I’ve since learned what that second term means. I was brought up with a brother and sister by a very loving and generous mum and dad. I went to a state boys school for kids pretending to be Catholic. I worked my guts off and, like everyone else, I hated it there. But my response to being in these kinds of prisons was to read and write on my own terms, and besides the fast-food diet there wasn’t too bad.

At the end came a plateau of early adulthood. The choice of future paths on offer was poor, and school only prepares you to take more exams and ultimately end up further up the education food chain or in office labour. The contempt and hostilities exchanged equally between teacher and learners in the classroom was the first taster of later social conflict. You grow up as a son or daughter, safe and secure: the desire comes to form a new identity that is independent, individual and mature. Rich kids go travelling around the world in search for something that I found when I moved out to at 18: who I am, on my own, and with others. Self-knowledge, as in inward knowledge, is an entire world. At this stage, one is like Christopher Columbus, having accidentally landed on the wrong continent, mistaking just the beach-head of a small island for an incomprehensibly huge landscape, and with all the arrogance of young manhood, declaring oneself the sole discoverer and possessor of something that has been known, lived on and repeated inexhaustibly for aeons.

The stupidity of decisions both personal and political stands out. Unfairness is tolerated, irrationality is accepted and apologised for, atrocities occur and are justified or neglected. This makes one in early adulthood upset, and determined to understand their causes, consequences, and ways to rectify them. The energy of your own anger and the excitement and pleasure in seeing one’s work or ideas have some discernible dent in the events of everyday life inspire to conspire further.  It leads to a sense of agency, that one can transform the world in a way, that the world as it stands is terrible and wrong, that the way you shout for is the correct way, and that everyone will agree with you once they’ve seen the light. This is socialist idealism, and my idealism. Presented like this, it seems absurdly naive, but for what it achieves, and what it says of life – that it should be changed – contains courage.

I present only the knowledge of who I am. Observed in others – the desire to be recognised for talent or individuality in music, dance, sport, comedy, literature, for example – might also contain this same desire to impress and develop power in the world, and over the world. Whether this is done as an individual, the masculine way and that of entrepreneurial capitalism, or as a collective, the feminine way and that of peaceful cooperation, varies, but asserts a basic human tendency to be in becoming, and to do through doing. And there is also the desire most commonly for riches, usually for its own sake, with which one can buy things that might also secure a sense of self-empowerment, through aggrandisement, edification, or some bitters-cocktail of the two. It should be clear why this is no way to live, and that it often represents a voodoo doll for some earlier failed ambition. To reject the desire for money itself is not a middle-class notion, as it’s been primarily in middle-class and lower-middle-class people that I’ve seen this trait. Growing up in poverty often leads to seeking other values – health, security, proper family.

Two bodies in the night, a hand that climbs down and finds an inner thigh. Lips meet and learn what books cannot teach. A figure that hunts through dreams of urban decay without a face, that must not be seen, leaving tricks, traps and clues towards wisdom in the cracks between moments of everyday life. Another ancient figure who, after walking across mountains, continents and seas for centuries, collapses finally into the snow and cannot be found. Buddleia bursts through bust brick like it did just after the Blitz. The trees, soil and airborne life all pulsate alive with a single unitary will to become, reproduce, empower, and pleasure – that is life.

I pursued my idealism to its conclusion, in employment from 18 onwards whilst studying and, where I had the choice, working in places that aimed to help vulnerable people improve their quality of life and life choices. That seemed like the practical embodiment of my ideas, not theorising in academia’s exiled crannies. Later, after reading Hardt and Negri’s Empire, I decided to go back to university to understand this book, and I wrote a book of my own, and joined others in writing another. But by the end, I was unable to get funded PhD places to study Spinoza’s philosophy at the institutions I’d applied to. Instead, I worked for a charity campaign that aimed to reduce suicide in London through setting up a London-specific campaign and helpline. It was successful, but for internal reasons that I couldn’t influence I made a choice to leave. I am now here, without any plan and not the person I wanted to be, and not yet the person I want to be. As it’s always been, this is who I am.