Detectorists: Hidden Gold

We are living in a golden age of television at the moment. Never has there been such quantity or quality consistently available to our watching eyes, with the plethora of streaming services now out there also meaning that there is more content than we could ever want or need. Due to this, it has perhaps become inevitable that some shows simply just slip under the radar and don’t attract the attention and praise that they rightly deserve. Detectorists is one of these shows. In fact, rather ironically given what the show is about, it is a tiny speck of gold among the rubble.

First broadcast on BBC Four in 2014, Detectorists never captured the public imagination in the way other comedies like Gavin and Stacey or Fleabag have done, though it is worth pointing out it still featured in the thirty most watched shows of the last decade. But I hadn’t heard of it. And so to me it seemed underappreciated. When my flatmate recommended it and we began to religiously sit down and watch it, I was slowly sucked into its charm and simplicity and having just watched the final episode, I can now say that it is a true masterpiece of British television.

I will attempt to describe the basics of the plot now but with the crucial disclaimer that there is no-one on Earth who could attempt to sell Detectorists based purely off what happens in it, because basically nothing does. It follows Lance and Andy, two strange, awkward men (played astoundingly well by Toby Jones and Mackenzie Crook) whose main passion in life is metal detecting (hence the title). Stay with me. Every episode we see them going out into the fields of their local rural area, hoping to find ancient gold but often instead ending up with bottle caps or other bits of discarded trash. We see their wonderfully mundane interactions with their fellow members of the DMDC (Damebury Metal Detecting Club) and we see snip-its of their perfectly normal and simple home lives.

And yet the real selling point of the show is that it revels in the dull. It is a celebration of everyday normality. Mackenzie Crook is also the writer of the show and deserves the utmost credit in crafting sharp and at times hilarious dialogue when all the characters are really talking about are the questions from QI or University Challenge the night before or the merits of their respective metal detectors. More than anything, the atmosphere he generates is a pleasant one, one where you’re encouraged to gently chuckle along. There are no elaborate comedic set-ups or witty punchlines, though a special mention here has to go to Sophie Thompson’s Sheila, who manages to make me laugh out loud with literally every thing she says. My particular favorite is when she suggests that to raise money, the eclectic and odd-looking members of the DMDC should release a nude calendar!

Other things I want to mention include the wonderful cinematography, which features long, sweeping shots of the countryside. Honestly, dull old England has never looked so good. Also the fact that there are no nasty characters, everyone is layered and fundamentally good-natured; even the rival detectorists, the Dirt Sharks, act more as the butt of the joke and are ultimately redeemed in the end. And finally, the theme song, written and sung masterfully by Johnny Flynn, which is so heart-warming and catchy I have now made it a crucial part of my Spotify playlist. Seriously, it bangs.

The final thing I want to say is another compliment to Crook, who really cannot get enough acclaim for the skill of his screenwriting. As a writing student, I have been taught relentlessly about the importance of setting up plot points and then bringing them to a satisfactory and ‘earned’ conclusion. Crook does this as well as I’ve seen anyone manage it. Every little thread, however trivial or irrelevant it seems, will eventually be drawn together and often in a way that makes you beam with delight.

So, very much like Lance and Andy, I felt like I was wandering around the endless fields of the intimidating television landscape. With Detectorists, I can honestly say that I unearthed a piece of hidden gold.

A Love Letter to Gavin and Stacey

When Gavin and Stacey returned after ten years with the 2019 Christmas Special, the show also had the chance to return to the public conscience. The truth is it had never left. The 12.3 million viewers that tuned into the special on BBC One on Christmas Day show just how popular and culturally significant the show has become. That works out at nearly 20% of the population watching the same show at the same time. It is the show that launched the career of James Corden, one of the few British entertainers to truly have cracked America, spawned a ton of catchphrases and idioms and massively helped Barry Island’s tourism. It is also my favourite programme. I have probably seen each individual episode about twenty times each. I could accurately repeat whole scenes line by line. It has become like a comfort blanket and a friend. Whenever Gavin arrives at his parents, Pam and Micks, it feels like I too am home.

So, what makes it so iconic? I think the first thing to mention is a quality that I have probably just invented but that is best described as ‘rewatchability.’ It is not a synonym for good or brilliant, as there are numerous television shows that I have enjoyed hugely when watching them but have no intention of returning to. It doesn’t even necessarily connote quality in terms of something that is critically well-received or that is truly original. ‘Rewatchability’ instead refers to an inherent warmth or charm and it tends to be a quality that is found in shows whose goal is to make the viewer happy. The best and most obvious example is Friends, whilst other American sitcoms like The US Office and New Girl also manage to produce this, mainly because with 24 episodes in a season, there is so much content to enjoy. One huge compliment to Gavin and Stacey is that it manages to be so ‘rewatchable’ despite there only being three seasons of six to seven episodes and a couple of Christmas specials. It will just always be able to to raise a smile or cause a chuckle, even when you know exactly what is coming next.

This ‘rewatchability’ is also due to another key attribute of the show, which is its realism. Other shows are more laugh-out-loud funny but none have been able to create characters that are as authentic or true. As iconic as comedy characters like Alan Partridge or David Brent are, you can’t really imagine yourself bumping into them in the supermarket, whereas running into Pam, Mick or Bryn seems somehow normal and believable. None of them are comedians, they are just normal people who happen to say funny things, which is what most normal people can do in my experience. All of this is borne from the earliest premise of the show, with James Corden saying in a number of interviews that he’d “never seen a Wedding on TV like one he’d actually been to.” That one-off show about a wedding eventually became a multi-episode series but that effort to create something true to life has led to an affinity between the characters and audience that is rarely found. I saw on Facebook the other day a thread a fan had posted, imagining how the Gavin and Stacey characters would all be coping with the lockdowns of the past year. That sort of says it all.

Finally, I want to mention the sheer brilliance of the writing behind it. James Corden and Ruth Jones are rightly celebrated for the quality of their scripts and you always know a piece of writing has entered the hall of fame when the process of creating it becomes famous as well and Corden and Jones’ epic marathon writing sessions have done just that. Jones on the laptop and Corden wandering around restlessly proved to be a wonderful recipe for success. It’s a combination of well-crafted scenes that masterfully increase in tension and humour, a number of genuinely hilarious one-liners (“There’s the salad”, “It’s usually used on cattle but she reckoned the effect would be exactly the same” and “Where to she now then” to name just three) and a sort of unique, intrinsic language that is both nonsensical and authentic. The iconic moments of the show: Smithy’s Indian order, the fishing trip motif and the ‘American Boy’ rap are all examples of script-writing at its very finest.

So, thank you Gavin and Stacey for providing so much entertainment. I don’t think I will ever stop re-watching you. If I could be so bold as to ask for one more little favour after all you’ve already done… a fourth series wouldn’t hurt.

‘Chasing the Tram’- Part 5: ‘Goodbye.’

Airport Terminal. Hour to flight. Goodbye Mannheim. For now. I’m tired. Might sleep on the plane. Back hurts. Left hand side. Think from when I helped that fit girl with her bag on the stairs. Typical. The gate change is welcome. Little girl screaming her head off at the last one. Was starting to grate a little. Can’t wait to get home. Longest I’ve ever been away from England. From home. Ready to go back now. I miss England. Two more tic tacs. Save the rest for the plane. To suck on during take-off. Not convinced that’s even effective. But I’m not buying anything else. Can’t afford it. Four pounds ninety for a Cheese and Tomato Sandwich. Fucking criminal. I’ve started to fantasise about food. It’s only since being a student that this happens. When you’ve spent your day eating toast and pasta and sauce, I guess it’s no surprise that food becomes so romanticised. I started the day watching a video on how to make Mini Egg Cheesecake. And now I’m watching a two-layered Pizza being made. Who needs porn hey? 

Met Christina’s family last week. Somewhere out in Hessen. Birkenau. But not like the Auschwitz-Birkenau. Though that was what I kept thinking every time it was mentioned. That’s amazing though. I sat at the table of two German grandparents who were kids during the second world war when my own grandparents were kids on the “enemy” side. I think that’s fascinating. Shows just how much the world can change even in a human lifetime. Things come around. Everyone is basically the same. I think they liked me. Christina said they did. I did as much as I could without really understanding most of what was said. Occasionally something would be translated to me and I would chip in. And I smiled a lot. That’s key. The place was lovely. The house was amazing. The setting picturesque. Took Christina’s dog for a walk with her. Through the forest. It was lovely. Though also an ideal murder spot I feel. We didn’t see for a soul for miles. But it was wonderful.

Anyway. Stop. This is reflection time. Was the term a success? Definitely. Fun? Definitely. Best part of my life? Maybe. Think of Christina. Said goodbye to her yesterday. Kept it short. Clean. Unemotional. She was on the brink. I think. Goodbye to the tram. The same stops. On repeat. Like a greatest hits soundtrack. Know the words by heart. Goodbye to the Christmas Markets. The wurst. The lights. That delicious Reibekuchen thing. My god that was good. Goodbye to the coffee shops. Goodbye to “Eine Cappucino Bitte.” For now. Goodbye to Schloss. Goodbye to Chaplin. Goodbye to drunken nights. Waking up and not remembering them. Auf Wiedersehn to that. And then no doubt hello again soon. Twenty-five minutes to boarding. I wonder what it’ll be like at home. I want to sit in my chair. In my lounge. With a proper fucking cup of tea. Maybe looking at a fire. If Mum and Dad get it in time. Chat to my family. Tell them about Christina. They’ll love that. See James and Pip. Go for a drink in an English pub. And then come back refreshed and ready for more. What else has Mannheim got in store? What else has Europe got? Hopefully I can afford to go on another trip. Prague. Nuremberg maybe. Plenty more to come. This is only a pause in my Mannheim experience. I just hope the second act is as good as the first. 

‘Chasing the Tram’- Part 4- ‘Christmas, Cinema and Clogged Sinks.’

Christmas is coming. I love it. I’m in a great time of my life. Everything is coming together. Except money. I still have none of that. But alas. Got a new jacket. Another one. I buy lots of jackets. Starting to be a bit of a shopaholic. St Nicholas’s Day Tomorrow. The Dutch celebrate Christmas tonight. So shall we. For Hans. I’m looking forward to it. Got my presents. Christina wrapped them. I wrote the poems. Apparently that’s a tradition. Quite like that. I’ve always liked writing poems. Jumper for Hans. Dortmund mug for Tony. My two flatmates. Our last two weeks. It’s sad. Strange how three people from three countries can be thrust together so randomly. All stumbling across accommodation. In the middle of nowhere. And get on so well. It’s been my favourite living arrangement I’ve ever had. Maybe. Certainly the easiest. Think back to that bedsit. In the first week. My little all-in-one. That was a strange time. A lonely time. I was trapped in my own head then. Not anymore. Or certainly less. I’ve adapted. I live in Mannheim now. Ich komme aus Chippenham. Ich wohne in Mannheim. Starting to reflect on Germany too. In the days leading to my British return. Too much mayo in the sandwiches, no ice in the cokes. No small-talk. Too much admin. And in Mannheim you have to buy everything with cash. Got some out. Gonna grab a coffee before the seminar. Help get me through. Get to see my lovely lecturer who I really fancy. Didn’t really get to see her last week. Just watched Avatar. So time to turn on the charm. That’s one plus of living abroad. People being nicer to you. English accent and a cheeky smile goes a long way. What that says about me or the world, I’m not sure. Keep on smiling though.

Last night, I had a proud moment. I went to brush my teeth. Found the bathroom flooded. Sink blocked. I looked up the best way to unclog a sink on Google and went for it. At midnight no less. I assembled a make-shift tool kit for the operation: Saucepan- for mixing of salt and boiling water. Coat hanger, toothbrush (non-brush end) and washing up brush- all for general poking and unclogging. Tea towels- for mopping the floor. I got rid of the standing water and using boiling water and salt solution and a variety of unclogging devices, went to work. Watching the last water fall down the plughole was like watching an orgasm. Or having one. I did it. Myself. DIY. Me. I’m gonna tell my parents. They’ll laugh. But actually be impressed I’d imagine. Especially with the style of the operation. We are a family of unconventional fixers. Cries of “don’t forget to check the wok!” when finishing a shower were common. The wok was under the bath as a sort of leak management system. Very practical. Funny. Makes me smile.

Wednesday night. Cinema. Like Orange Wednesdays. With Christina. We really get along. Better and better. I honestly feel like I’ve known her ages. Yet it’s barely been a week. Bohemian Rhapsody. Freddie Mercury. When I was working in a cafe an old Lady came up to me. Told me I looked like Freddie Mercury. Cupped my face. At the time I thought it was a compliment. Now I’m not so sure. Big teeth. Rami Malek was spectacular. I think about the time I ran the wrong way home. From Ullmenweg. Should have taken me fifteen minutes. Instead I ran half an hour the wrong direction. Had to get a taxi. That was the bedlam that was the first month here. Now I’m settled. German house. German friends. German girlfriend? Why not? Long day. Good day. Another one. The best days are always the ones that flow. As if shot frame by frame and then cut perfectly. Like a montage. No breaks. Nothing unwelcome. Set to music. Bohemian Rhapsody? Maybe too dramatic. I studied and then watched a film. That’s it. Though I did search half of Mannheim trying to find a plastic fork. Maybe that’s when the Galileos could kick in.

When Silent Films Shout the Loudest

I must admit that I have never been a huge fan of silent films. Like most people born in the age of talkies, I find it hard to concentrate when I don’t have the sound and rhythm of dialogue to follow. Then, coincidentally, I found myself watching two (mainly) silent films from two completely different eras within the space of a week and I was taken aback by the effect they both had on me,

I had to watch City Lights (1931) as it was required viewing for my film studies module and so I settled in almost reluctantly, phone in hand, thinking I could have one eye on the film and manage to get the gist. It’s difficult to know whether the film itself takes its time with the set-up or if my own eyes took their time acclimatising to this new silent world, but whichever it is I was gradually drawn in and soon I was barely checking my phone at all. The basic plot is that The Tramp, Charlie Chaplin’s iconic comic creation, falls in love with a blind flower seller and tries to find ways to provide for her. This may seem simple enough but the stunning complexity of the exchanges between the two of them is enchanting, all articulated through touch and subtlety of facial expression. The ending particularly is legendary and I would be wasting my time describing it here as far more knowledgeable critics than myself have done it better a hundred times over. Put simply, it lives up to the hype and delivers a romantic and cathartic ending that trumps anything many modern blockbusters or rom-coms could manage.

That’s the heart of the film covered but where the magic of silent films, and in particular Chaplin films, lie is in all the madness that surround that central simplicity. It surprised me just how many clips I recognised within the film, little moments of genius that have become artefacts of film history and have been shown and replicated and parodied over and over again. When you cannot express something through speech, the challenge is to recreate the dynamism that comes from dialogue in another medium and Chaplin uses movement as his weapon of choice. The timing of every step, flinch and trip is sheer perfection and it can’t help but arouse admiration in a viewer. In fact, perhaps one positive of the rise of talkies and the less frequent viewing of silent films in general is that this sharpness of choreography seems all the more brilliant to a modern eye as we are less used to seeing it. My favourite scene in the film is a near ten-minute snapshot of chaos where The Tramp is made to fight in a boxing ring. It plays out like a dance, with him, his opponent, the referee and even the ringbell involved in a series of missteps and mistakes with the end result being genuine laugh-out-loud slapstick brilliance. It just doesn’t feel like acting as I would normally recognise it and hence my affection for the performance goes beyond anything I might experience when watching a modern film. The most fitting reaction seems to be the ones reserved for a live performer, like a stand-up comedian: to stand up and clap and shout for more.

Jumping forward just the 80 years into the future, I then watched Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist (2011). I had seen this one before but it hadn’t stuck in my mind and I was more than happy to sit down with my flatmates and watch it again. Now in a wonderfully meta fashion, the film’s plot is literally about the decline of silent films itself, with the lead character (played astonishingly by Jean Dujardin) failing to cope with the new film world he is faced with. The best moment of Dujardin’s performance comes early on when he is shown filming a silent film in a Hollywood studio, worth highlighting just for the sheer amount of complexity within it. Essentially, he, an actor, plays an actor who is filming a scene in a silent film, while then continuously breaking character and becoming the actor (not the character) who flirts and laughs with the new actress on the scene whilst still having to do it silently as of course the overall film is silent as well. Got it? Dujardin is somehow able to communicate all this complexity into his facial expressions and we are constantly shown when he is performing and when he is himself and even when the lines between the two are blurred and indistinguishable.

Where The Artist mirrors, or even borrows from, City Lights is in its romance. Given that decades of films had come in between the release of the two films and an extensive catalogue of how to effectively capture romance on screen was available to Hazanavicius, it is all the more commendable that he chose to follow Chaplin and show the emotions that are present through movement. Dujardin and Berenice Bejo display the love between the two characters best with their bodies, as their playful tap dance sequences are just as watchable and as smooth as Chaplin’s in the boxing scene. It seems that the point the film is trying to make, and one that I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly with, is that in the mad and complicated big-budget world we live in, we shouldn’t forget that magic lies in the simplest of things: in a tap of the foot or a touch of the hand.

‘Chasing the Tram’- Part 3- ‘Coffee and Joyce.’

Me. And me now. Joyce. Ulysses. Ages since I’ve read any. He’s a clever fucker. Too clever for me. But I got what he’s doing. At least. Me. And me now. Me now is happy. Mannheim is shining through the icy breeze of winter. Christina. Christina. She’s new. She’s different. And that’s amazing. She makes me laugh. It clicks. And she’s German. A German girl in Germany. I can pull in two countries. International Love Baby. All about me of course. Kissing her. How kissing should be. Warm. That buzz. Like the first sip of a hot chocolate. Been productive actually today. Brought a scarf. And gloves. Like the scarf. Went for a run. Used the gloves. Need to go more. Probably look as fat as I can remember. Still not fat fat. But need to shake myself out of the lull. 

Technology has led to the birth of a new kind of frustration. As in one that just didn’t exist a century ago. Total anger at an inanimate object who we project a personality on in order to feel hatred for it. Strange. Fucking infuriating. They do seem to have a sense of mischief. An upgrade is never needed when you’re bored and carelessly browsing. Yet, when you urgently need information that only the internet can provide… Computer will restart immediately. Fuck’s sake. I need coffee now. Day of intellectual thinking is tiring. Enjoyed the lecture though. Good lecturer. The best I have here actually. I suppose it helps I like the subject. Civil War to the Present. America. The great unexplored entity of my life. So far. There was an embarrassing moment though. He asked if anyone couldn’t speak German. Meekly I raised my hand. I was at the front. No idea if anyone else did. But he directed his translation at me. Should I be able to speak German? In fairness, even if I could hold a conversation, which I can’t, I wouldn’t have been able to translate the academic paragraph. I’ve got Duolingo at least. Trinkt Sie. She is drinking. Boom.

He also asked if I was Irish. I choke out “English” in retort. Quite flattered by the assumption really. Irish is more interesting. Time to grab a coffee. Need to get money out. I’m skint. For the first time here, I am worried about money. Spoke to the Uni today. The Study Abroad Team. Erasmus is still weeks away. They’re a bit of a shambles. What if people were relying on that money? I’m not. I’ve got parents that can help and an overdraft. But I’ll have been here three months by the time I get it. Might just extend the overdraft again. Rely on the virtual money till the real stuff arrives. 

This is my favourite coffee shop. They recognise me now. Accept my Englishness. Delicious Salmon Bagel. Healthy. I’m tired. Not looking forward to next lecture. I’ll text a friend. See if he’s going. That’ll give me a reason. Right leg feels a bit numb. The tables are too close to the sofas here. That’s my one complaint. Pretty girls in long coats come in. Caramel Macchiato. Peach Iced Tea. He’s not going. Eurgh. I justified it earlier as I didn’t go last week and I won’t go next week. If I go today, at least there’s a pattern. It’s on De Beauvoir. Kind of intriguing. Afterwards I can nap. Right okay I’m going. I like feeling studious. It shouldn’t be hard to attend five things a week. Five minutes and I’ll make a move. Stretch leg out. Don’t want cramp. Ulysses is starting to drag. I feel like I’m only capable of skim reading now. Honestly, symptom of modern world. Attention span of a goldfish. The Goldfish Generation. Information relayed immediately or focus is lost. Check time. Couple more mins. Deep breath. I feel like I’m building this up to be a challenge so it will like an achievement. That sounds philosophical. Should write a self-help book. They have a flyer promoting a “Cheeseshake.” Sounds disgusting. The colour is purple. Really. Whose idea was that? The amount of times light will reflect off my phone screen and I mistake it for a notification is astonishing. I’m like a fucking cat chasing a laser dot. Aren’t we all? Ooh I like that. That’s going in a novel someday.

‘Chasing the Tram’- Part 2- ‘Venice.’

Venice in the morning is lovely. Best time of the day. Not too hot. Not too busy. Allows for a wonderfully Italian look of jacket but with sunglasses. I think I look Italian. People tell me that. Shame I can’t speak it really. I feel like this is where I’m meant to be. Sat on the side of the grand canal. Having coffee. Just watching. Wonderful. Maybe I don’t look so Italian. Maybe I only look Italian to those who have never known anyone who is actually Italian. The fact I have sugar in a Cappuccino doesn’t help. Rialto is warming up. More and more people pass me. Maybe heading to church. I’d like to visit a church. Pop in for a bit. Not to pray. I like churches. I hate “The Church.” Love the buildings, hate the institution. Another sip. My croissant is looking at me. I’m still trying to project some kind of class. I dabbed my mouth. I never dab my mouth. Could I be a gondolier? I think I’d rock the outfit. Maybe not the actual activity. There’d be a lot of wet customers. Not for the first time. Wahey. Another sip of coffee. Lovely. I fucking hate birds. Honestly, I’d kill them all. Well maybe not all. Pigeons and Seagulls. I’d shoot every last one of them. Shame that I can’t shoot. The thought of dead birds is also just as bad. Is that a phobia? I’m not scared, more repulsed. It’s the thought of touching one. Eurgh. I need to get a boat when I’m rich. I’ll buy a boat. Pip can teach me how to sail. Or I can just get one that’s like a car. Harder to crash a boat. I’d give it a go. Pulling into Venice on your own boat. That’s the dream.

Maybe I’ll move to Italy. When I’m rich. Can’t see it being fun if you’re poor. Last sip. “Unsaturated.” She said it as she passed. The most American sound I’ve ever heard. The way she said it physically pained me. Nails on a chalkboard. God its easy to hate Americans. Some Americans. Americans abroad. I should probably pay. I’m happy here. But I do want to go to a church. Not paying to go in though. Thieving bastards. Check time. Quarter past ten. Bells ringing. Does that mean mass? I don’t want to go to mass. What is it with men taking pictures of their girlfriends? Take a photo together! Or not at all. I’d prefer that. If it was me, I’d throw the fucking phone in the Canal. Maybe why I don’t have a girlfriend… Pigeon gets close to my table again. Just puts me on edge. Horrible creatures. Too many pigeons in Venice. See, now I want to leave. Girl sitting with her boyfriend looked at me. And again. Or am I looking at her? They seem an odd couple. If I ask for the bill, I can do the imaginary pen symbol. Like Dad does. Is that where my table manners come from? He tows the line between charming and over-bearing. These fucking pigeons. This is why I don’t like outside eating. I wonder where the phobia comes from. Or what it’s called. Should I look up a church? Or just wander? I think just wander. Another fucking Instagram boyfriend! What the fuck is that pose she’s doing?! Fall in the water. Please. Yeah, I’ll go for a wander. Keep checking under the table for pigeons. Do I look mad? Certainly not making me look Italian. I did the sign. Dad would be proud.

This isn’t a good restaurant. But I’m poor. I’ll come back to Venice when I can afford the best. And not even think about it. Spend money without worrying. What must that be like? The waiter hates me. It’s because I only ordered a coke to start. I will have a pizza. But its too early. They have pictures of their food on the menu. Bad sign. Am I a snob? Probably a bit. Nice to sit down. Bag’s heavy and uncomfortable. Plus, I’m inside. No pigeons. Right, think about Venice. Sum it up. In short, beautiful. The kind of place that is blemished by other people being there. You want Venice to yourself. Every alley is a story. It really does feel like the walls speak to you. It’s the windows that I like. They look like how windows should be. The eyes on a building’s face. Sip coke. Glad they put ice in it. That’s one mark up. Venice is totally unique. It’s like they put a city in a maze and it’s amazing but you’re also never quite sure where you are and where you’re going and it also doesn’t seem to matter one bit. Everyone else has a similar lost but happy look on their face. Pizza arrives. It’s good. Maybe this isn’t a bad restaurant. Maybe I am a snob.

From café to restaurant to church. It’s beautiful. Marble columns. Dome above the altar. I like churches. They give me a feeling I can’t explain. They have a kind of presence. I’m not religious. Maybe I’m spiritual. I know I’m not religious because every time I’m in one I think what a waste of money it is. A woman smiles at me. That’s one good thing about churches. As soon as you enter, you become part of a community. Welcomed. People treat each other better. The altar is stunning. Flanked by statues either side. The centerpiece looks like the top of the Taj Mahal. Can’t imagine that was by design. My favorite part is the artwork. It is a touch of the sublime. Perhaps because they thought they were representing the divine, the painters elevated themselves to complete works of genius. If there is a heaven, it wouldn’t do justice to some of the paintings that depict it. An adorable little girl runs after her father. She’s not overwhelmed. Good. I miss not being cynical. Part of why I visit churches is because I’m daring God to appear to me. I want that to happen. I’m not writing him off. I actually want a divine light to come through that central window and illuminate my soul. I think I’m tired. That dreary yet kind of reflective state of mind. Check phone. I need to get going. Glad I came. Last chance God. Nope. Better keep sinning then. Imagine being in here if it was burning. That would be sublime. Right, I better go.

‘Chasing the Tram’- Part 1: ‘Morning.’

“Chasing the Tram” is a collection of fragments from a kind of stream of consciousness diary that I kept during my year abroad in Mannheim, Germany. I have recently returned to them and have rearranged and rewritten them into segments that will be posted over the coming weeks and months. Here is the first, which I have named “Morning.” …

My childhood just flashed before my eyes. A little boy got over excited by the tram approaching. His mum pulling him back from the edge. That was me. Stood on Chippenham Station bridge. Legs shaking in excitement as a train passed underneath. Lovely. I smile at him and his mum. I DON’T WANT THE WORLD TO SEE ME. Good thinking song. In a good mood this morning. Long day today. For a student. Lots of old dears on this morning. Counting money. Going to the shops. I’ll do that. I like that idea. Waking up and being energised by the simplest thing. As I assume old people are. Every visit, delivery or newspaper is a thrill. Putting the bin out is a day’s highlight. It must be a simpler life. Only your fading memories to fill your mind. Life lived, time to reflect. I always look for people I know at Ullmenweg. It’s the first stop where it feels like you come out of the outskirts and into the central bubble of the city. I don’t like talking to people in the morning. It’s a thinking time. There is a sticker of Nelson Mandela on some kind of street cabinet. Odd. How do you celebrate the great man? Let’s bung him on a random object in the middle of Mannheim. It’s definitely Autumn now. Fantastic.

Not the nicest bit of Mannheim this. Bit grimy. Leaves blowing on track. And sprouts of ugly flowers. More like weeds. How do they grow on a tram track? Wonder what they’re called. Car horn pierces through the morning calm. Lots of that in Mannheim. Very European. Shop named McDoners. Shit name. I’d imagine shit Doner. Is that a park? Fucking fence all the way around it. Why are German parks like prisons? It’s like escaping Alcatraz if you fancy a picnic. Move the bag off the seat next to me. Always do it when the tram gets busy. It allows me a kind of distance. For the first few stops at least. Am I a loner? I don’t think so. I like being around people. Get energised by it. I just think I’m self-involved. Trapped in my own head. It’s better that way. The times I’ve thought intensely about someone else are the times I’ve lost my mind.

Thought about her this morning. I do a lot when I wake up. I think I must dream about her a lot. Honestly, I’d be a field day for a dream analyst. Some of the hidden symbolism in my dreams is startling. I dreamt I was having sex with a robot. But openly. In front of a room of people. And I was so aware I was being tested or evaluated. Talk about sexual insecurities. Jesus. Homeless people centred around a bench. Drinking. Half eleven in the morning. Nice touch. The face tattoos don’t help. As shit as my life could go, it’s some comfort to know I’ll never have a face tattoo. The drinking at half eleven is perhaps more likely. No sign of that yet though. Thankfully.

I want to go on a night out. Got the taste for it. Want to go for a walk along the river too. Just walk. See how far I can get. Good idea for a date. Who should I ask on a date? No one I know currently. Either they’re a friend, have a boyfriend or I don’t fancy them. Could ask Emma. Know she likes me. I don’t want to. Just no attraction. Shame. Schafweide. What did it remind Tony of? Footballer? Fuck’s sake. Can’t remember. It wasn’t anything like it. Probably why I can’t remember. Schokolade? Schindler? Fuck it. What about the girl from the other night? She wanted to dance with me. She did. Then she left. Thought she was getting a drink. Long drink. I love crossing the bridge. Right is more beautiful than left. You can see the tower. Right is country, Left is city. Black smoke reaching out to the sky. Like a Dickens Novel. Schofield! Fucking Schofield! Phil Schofield! That’s it! Silverfox. Will I be grey like him? I’m certainly going that way.

Review: Pobby and Dingan

The wonderful thing about books and the labyrinth of ways in which we encounter them is that you never know when turning the first page that you may be starting something that will affect you and surprise you and enchant you. That something someone mentions in passing, a cover that caught your eye as you passed or even something you’re reading because you have to ends up being something you will love and remember forever fondly.

Such was the case of my experience encountering Ben Rice’s “Pobby and Dingan” (2000). It entered my life through the medium of being mandatory reading for one of my master’s courses. I left it to the last minute (Sunday evening with the seminar early Monday morning of course) and to be honest was really not in the mood to settle in to a book, purely deciding to get it out of the way as I saw it wasn’t that long. And yet I found myself being gently pulled into this world of harsh Australian outback, opal and people that don’t really exist.

That is the genius of “Pobby and Dingan.” It is not a spoiler to tell you that the two titular characters are imaginary, conjured in the mind of a lonely little girl, Kellyanne. This may already sound abstract and bizarre to you at this stage so when I tell you that the plot of the novella is Kellyanne’s brother, Ashmol, setting out to find the ‘missing’ imaginary friends of his sister, I’d imagine I’m losing you altogether. And yet Rice doesn’t lose you. Pobby and Dingan may not be seen but they are fully fleshed out, developed characters within the world of Lightning Ridge, the small mining community we find ourselves in. And where Rice truly excels is he delicately weaves into the background of this unconventional central narrative fantastic details of the grittier, adult reality that surrounds it. It’s nonsense wrapped in layers and layers of good sense.

And yet it’s the ‘nonsense’ that is where the real magic lies. We follow the same journey as Ashmol, from sceptics to believers and it’s amazing how easy it is to get carried along by the childish charm of it all, especially in times like these where there is a glaring lack of it around. Anyway, after all my reluctance, I found myself reading the final pages (no spoilers) and out of nowhere a genuine lump forming in my throat. I don’t think I’ve ever cried reading a book but my god this was the closest I’ve ever come and it took just under 100 pages to get me there. Give it a read if you’ve got a spare hour in your week. It’s just lovely, I promise.

Sport ‘N’ Stuff

I’ve been thinking about starting a blog for a while now. To be honest what was stopping me was I wasn’t exactly sure what a blog needed to involve and how it needed to be written. After doing some minor research, it seems it doesn’t really matter. I’ve decided I’m going to use it as a tool to talk about the things that matter to me. And a problem I’ve always had is that quite a lot of things matter to me and it’s often difficult picking one to focus on. I am obsessive and I have a small attention span, a lethal combination that has led to a plethora of initially exciting, half-cooked ideas and projects. So, I think that this blog may end up reading exactly like that. Let’s see.

One of the things I am passionate about is sport. It’s a fascination that I think stems from that very human sensation of being intrigued by that which seems alien to us. And top-level sporting performance and the mentality that is tied to it is incredibly alien to me: an uncoordinated and lazy wannabe sports star. That fascination with the mentality and drive and of course spectacular skill that infuses all of top-level sport means that I am often invested in games I have never been able to play, such as golf, cricket or rugby. But it is football that has always been where my heart lies. Quite frankly, it’s the best thing in the world. I have no idea if there is a god, but when it comes to his creations, the sea, the forests and the human race were all good first attempts but he really hit his peak when he created the beautiful game.

Therefore, it is inevitable that football and other sports will form a part of this blog because they form such a large part of my everyday thoughts. Though I am keen that this is not just an outlet to talk about dodgy penalties, bad tactics and VAR. And if you do just want a football fix then check out my podcast! (Smooth plug that.) My thoughts are also frequently dominated by fantastic films, brilliant books or even just the little marvelous moments that make up the day-to-day routines of our real lives. One thing I am keen not to do is to ever stray into the political world, not because I don’t care or don’t have opinions but because I’d like this to be a blog for as many people as possible and nothing has the capacity to divide these days like politics. That’s not to say I won’t comment on any injustices or movements that may stir a reaction within me but I’ll try not to blame one group, one party or one person as that is when things get messy. I don’t think people can be defined as left or right, liberal or Tory and I have friends from right across the political spectrum and would love to expand that group even further. (Maybe no Nazis, I just don’t think we’d click.)

So yeah. This is my blog. I’m interested to see where it goes. As for a name, we’ll go with Sport ‘N’ Stuff for now.