Is there a local branch of RA?

Ahem *stands up*

My name is Maureen and I am a bookaholic.

I have only just come to this realisation although the seeds go way way back. Addiction has been described as a compulsion which affects your everyday life: that describes my relationship with books perfectly.


You know how on Desert Island Discs the celebrity is asked to choose one book to take with them to their mythical island? One?? Panic is setting in even as I write this, with no threat of ever being put in that position – by the BBC or worse still, a plane crash. How could I possibly survive? My only chance is the existence somewhere of an anthology comprising the complete works of Shakespeare, Hardy, Wilde, Keats, Fry, Byron, Orwell, Kerouac, Self, Iain Sinclair.... the list goes on.


The best way to solve the problem, it occurs to me, is for my luxury item to be my Ipad, pre-loaded with all the above and just a few more books to keep me going. Would that be allowed under the rules I wonder? At the very least, it breaks the spirit of the programme.

So, at a pinch, I suppose I might just be able to cope by rereading The Book of Dave, Endymion, London Orbital, Dorian Gray…..

Like many addicts, I blame my parents. Dad especially. He was a connoisseur. He savoured books – wrapped them protectively in brown paper covers to protect the precious bindings, and handled them with the reverence of the wine buff. I have inherited his set of Arthur Mee’s ‘Children’s Encyclopaedias, a ten-volume work which I spent many happy childhood hours poring over. I wasn’t allowed to touch the books until I had washed my hands, and I still have the urge to do so before removing them from the shelf.

One of my earliest memories is standing in the village shop Dad kept, a copy of 'Bobbalink and Bunty' ( a story about an elf and a teddy bear - don't get me started...) propped on a chair in front of me, narrating the tale verbatim from the book for the delight and delectation of the elderly ladies of the village, who invariably marvelled to my Mum: 'Can she read??' I was three - and no, I couldn't: I had pestered for this story so often I could recite it by heart, turning the pages at the right time.

Mind you, another memory from around the same time is visiting my Uncle and rolling his cigarettes for him. Give me, aged four, a pack of tobacco and a few Rizlas and I was absorbed for hours... yet I've never been a smoker. Perhaps you choose your influences early.

By the time I was about ten my habit was so firmly established, it was already interfering with my normal life. Eating was a problem: I didn't hear Mum calling me in for dinner because when my head was in a book the rest of the world ceased to exist. Even when I got the message that food was on the table, it was difficult to eat with one hand propping a book open.

The habit took a back seat slightly during my teens as I found other outlets for my amusement: music, boys, that sort of thing. But my fate was sealed in my sixth form years by two things. First, a relationship with a poet. Not a famous one - just aspiring. But he wrote poetry for me and to me - and that was one of the most romantic things that had ever happened to me. The second was being introduced to a pantheon of writers I still love, which cemented my habit forever.

I don't know whether heroin addicts long to go to Amsterdam, Marakesh or wherever, but my equivalent is Hay-on-Wye, a town crammed with my own preferred type of dealer. I have to go there as often as possible.

When we bought our current house, the thing that really sold it to me was that it had three - in estate agents' speak - reception rooms: living room, dining room and - yes! a library! This room is now lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling, mostly stacked two deep with books. Every place I have ever lived in has only felt like home once certain of my favourite tomes are ranged on shelves, and now I can wallow in the comfort of my sofa, surrounded by my literary heroes and friends.

This Christmas I received about eight books which are gratefully received even though I know I will have real problems finding somewhere to store them.

Throw some out? How very dare you!! I save and cherish books the way some people do stray animals, and with equal love. And I appreciate and adore my family and friends who feed my addiction. There may be a cure - there may even be a Readers Anonymous group I could attend. But as every addict knows, the first step to beating an addiction is the recognition of the need to break it, and of its negative effect on your life. And since the most negative thing I can find about reading is the occasional burnt dinner while I am absorbed in the latest tome, which fades into meaninglessness against the joy I derive from my habit, I cant see this addiction being broken any time soon.

Old Musicians Never Die - They Just De-compose...

The media has been - depending on which papers you read or websites you visit - aghast, fulsomely admiring, or just plain amazed that David Bowie has just released a new album and single at the ripe old age of 66.

OK, granted, he has had major heart problems, has not performed since 2006 or released any new music for nearly a decade, and is now known more for his reclusive lifestyle than for changing his hair and makeup evy other week, but still, is it so amazing that one of the most talented and in his day most prolific rock musicians of our age wants to make more music?

Even more extreme is the praise and opprobrium, about fifty percent each way, greeting the new single. It is alternately the worst song he has ever released, the product of a lost genius, a man deluded into thinking he still has what it takes; or the subject of laudation dripping with adjectives like elegiac, and phrases such as "like hearing King Arthur's voice from the cave."

Let's get this bit over quickly: having heard the song once, I like it: the words are poetic and the melody is haunting. But I have to say while it is undeniably and indisbutably Bowie, it is not his best work. Having said that, I am aware I am comparing it on one hearing to well known and well loved songs like Starman and Life on Mars. So I am quite prepared for it to grow on me on further listening.

But for now, that is my opinion - not worth the hype but not worth the insults hurled in its direction either.

More importantly, what I find difficult to understand is the media amazement that Bowie could have come out of what we had all assumed was a permanent retirement to record again.

Surely, music is, apart from his wife and children, the passion that has governed Bowie's life. He is a musician, first and foremost and is it therefore so surprising that he has one day got up, decided to jot a few Ideas down, come up with a few songs he thinks worth singing, then made his way - staggering on his zimmer frame if the media are to be believed, into the recording studio to warble the tunes into a microphone so that they can be preserved for posterity before he shuffles off this mortal coil?

Yes, there are those who are reading this foray back into the recording studio and the music charts as a swansong from a man who knows his end is near. Is he dying? they are asking, as if only the prospect of imminent demise would force him to release more music to be remembered by, or possibly with the foresight that his death would propel the album to the top of the charts and ensure maximum sales, thus providing his widow and daughter with a legacy.

But no, my view is he just wanted to share the songs he has written, like any artist - why DO people want to sing, dance, write? The creative impulse, which has beat unceasingly in Bowie's breast since the late sixties until he has (almost) reached his own late sixties.

And as for the idea that 66 is geriatric, I wonder if anyone has told Mick Jagger or Bob Dylan they should have given up the ghost at their advanced years?

The former is setting out with his compatriots on yet another tour, still strutting around the stage with his voice and physique in extremely good nick. The latter has just released another album, Tempest, which is worthy to be placed alongside any of his preceding work, and the last I heard he is still on his Never-Ending Tour. Without the aid of a Zimmer(man) frame. Sorry, just had to work that bad pun in.

I acknowledge that Mick and Bob have kept their careers going while Bowie has appeared to have left the music and performing world behind, but maybe that,s the mark of the great and talented artist - the music (or art, poetry, prose, whatever) keeps coming. And while some areas of the arts may demand a younger frame, such as dancing - though again Jagger seems to call that into question - singing, playing instruments and song writing are not solely the preserve of the young.

And the older songwriter has a message to convey that the younger writer cannot - not without the use of a high level of imagination anyway. They can speak of a long life, of looking back with nostalgia, sadness, joy or whatever emotion, on the past.

Bowie seems to be doing just that in his new song, as Dylan does at times on his new album. And it is wonderful to hear. Old musicians never die - they just keep singing till they can sing no more. Lets hope that day can be delayed as long as possible for these great talents.

Why we should listen to comedians

I have just read an article by Victoria Coren here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2013/jan/06/jim-davidson-arrest-standup-comedy
She comments on the arrest of Jim Davidson and his resulting withdrawal from Celebrity Big Brother, and laments it: the context is that years ago there were two types of comedian: the old school such as Davidson who we knew were racist, sexist etc and the new young things who traded on being the opposite: she opines that everyone under 45 liked the latter, while over 45's preferred the former.

Nowadays, she says - apart from the fact that most of those under 45's are no longer in that age bracket (me included,sadly) - things are not so simple and cut and dried. No longer can we accept Eddie Izzard's comedy credentials only on the basis that he is an executive transvestite (his description). And Coren argues that bringing back the Jim Davidsons of this world redraws the boundaries between the goodies (no, not Tim Brooke-Taylor et al) and the baddies. But one paragraph keys into something I was thinking about yesterday and strikes a familiar chord, especially in the light of comedians turning inward on themselves and criticising each others' choice of target and material:

"Our era's spirit of disapproval has triggered a widespread blandness and terror of challenging consensus, in everything from mainstream political discourse to the ordinary workplace, which makes the comedian or jester's traditional duty to shock and shake up more vital than ever. Haranguing them for shocking in the wrong way might be a luxury we can't afford."

Amen, Ms Coren - it is indeed the comedian's duty to shock and shake up. But how many nowadays do? Most are more mainstream than the daily dose of soap opera and even less in touch with the topical issues to be debated: their stock in trade is still relatiosnhips with the wife, mother, children - delete as applicable according to age of comedian.

So when a few months ago the Daily Mail was - not unexpectedly - aghast that the politicians were speaking to comedians about important social issues and listening to their views, and claimed it was appalling that we had to descend to listening to Hugh Grant and Russell Brand telling us what to think about phone hacking and drug taking, I could not be other than amused. Quite apart from the fact that Hugh's phone was hacked and Russell has experienced drug abuse both from having been an addict himself and working with drug charities, their comments made far more sense than anything any politician had said on the subjects throughout the discussions.

Of course we should ask people who have direct experience of an issue what their viewpoint is, and listen to an ex-drug addict when he explains that the law is totally irrelevant to a drug addict: his one thought when he wakes is how he is going to score, not whether he is breaking the law by doing so. And since the addict, as opposed to the casual user, is almost certain to be using drugs to escape from other problems and issues in his life, let's support him and see if we can dael with the issues and then he might be able to lead his life sober.

Makes sense, doesn't it?

And a comedian - at least, an intelligent one - should have something challenging to contribute because if he (or she) can find something funny and entertaining to say on stage about life, it should mean s/he looks at life in a slightly different way from most people, and can take an objective standpoint, which are crucial abilities for anyone who wishes to address a problem in society.

And unlike politicians, comedians are free spirits: they are not linked (or bound) to any political party or shade of thought - a few, Mr Izzard and Kenny Everett come to mind - do publicly espouse party politics in some form, but most are devoutly apolitical and will happily lampoon all political creed and beliefs. So a comedian can say exactly what he thinks, without the chief whip - er - whipping them into line.

Which is precisely why some comedians are feared - and therefore targeted - by the media. Let's tell everyone how stupid this person is so no one bothers to listen to him. Let's print and draw attention to the odd ridiculous, or even unkind, thing he says, or the one person he has offended, and no one will bother to listen to the thoughtful, insightful and challenging things he has to say. And let's only listen to one or two words - or perhaps a phrase or sentence - and then take them out of context and use them against him.

You can understand why most comedians take the easy - and cowardly - way out and deliver bland jokes about the mother/daughter/local takeaway.

But that just makes me admire even more those who risk being vilified in the media for challenging our views, to shock and shake us up.

Sindy and Donny: Days of Innocence

Today is the birthday of an old friend from primary school, Maxine.

She was the child who owned the first fashion doll I ever saw - and it was Tressy, whose selling point was that her hair grew. It is only now as I type this that I have realised where her name came from - the tresses that supposedly emanated from her plastic head. I wanted Tressy with a deep desire only an eight year old girl can understand.

Only to be disappointed when I saw the actual doll itself. Instead of the expected tresses sprouting from the whole head, there was a key in the doll's back which operated a mechanism by which you could pull out a tiny section of hair on the crown of her head. It was only this little bit of hair that could grow to almost waist length, and the only way it could be made to seem that the doll had long hair was by very careful arrangement of the section.

I suppose in retrospect it was good training for those girls who in later years would sport extensions, but the fact that most of Tressy's hair remained not only resolutely short but also styled in a definitive sixties bob reminiscent of the hairstyles favoured by our mums meant she was a distinct disappointment. It was only in later years that dolls were marketed especially to be made up and to have their hair done, and they tended to be disembodied plastic heads which - although I had grown past the age for these dolls by this time anyway - I always found rather macabre.

So I ended up with Sindy. Not as she is now, not much different from a Barbie - who was of course a brash American. No, the sixties' Sindy did not have the jutting boobs which frankly would have made it extremely difficult for her to remain standing if she were real - she would have been continually falling forwards under their sheer weight! Instead, Sindy had a trim, willowy figure and - in the case of mine anyway - came dressed in a patriotic red white and blue striped top and jeans, anlthough my favourite outfit was her sober brown tweed skirt and blouse.

She had, I remember, a dog she could take out for walks and the brown brogues on her plastic feet were far more suitable for tramping through muddy fields than dancing the night away at the disco. By the time she acquired a boyfriend called Paul, a younger sister, a range of clothes and furniture and a racier image, I had passed her on to my younger sister, because my interests - and those of my compatriots, including Maxine - had moved on to real make up applied to real faces - ours - and boys. Ah, the make up: Miners lipsticks, heavy blue Rimmel eye shadows and block mascara which you were supposed to mix with water but we used to spit on to make a paste which we then brushed on to our eyelashes with mini toothbrushes - and shared with our friends, long before we had heard of a little thing called hygiene!

But while the make up was real, the boys we fantasised about weren't - at least, they were real people but were far removed from our little Norfolk village and we only knew of them via our TV screens and - even more importantly - the pages of the teen magazines we assiduously bought and pored over every week. David Cassidy and Donny Osmond were the main focus - Maxine adored David and I loved Donny. So much so that we papered our bedrooms with their images.

I envied Maxine because I was only allowed a limited number of posters on my walls, while she literally covered every inch of the walls and ceiling of her room with pictures of David. Her paricular favourite was positioned carefully right above her bed so David was the first thing she saw when she awoke each morning. The best I could do, in the face of my mother's fear that a poster on my ceiling might fall down in the middle of the night and suffocate me - was to stick a poster of Donny compiled from three separate double page spreads from Jackie magazine on the wall at the head of my bed so I could kiss Donny goodnight.

Looking back, those were innocent days: we wished for nothing more from our heroes than a chaste kiss on the cheek and to walk hand in hand through a leafy meadow or sunwashed beach. Perhaps it's just as well that we never attained our dream of going to a Top of the Pops recording and meeting them in person - the reality, as we now know, may have been somewhat different from our expectations....although I am sure that to this day I would be perfectly safe in Donny's arms!