The morning after the US mid-terms, I was working with the CNN results coverage playing in the background. I looked - and perked - up when Philadelphia was called for the Democrat John Fetterman. Cut to the pundits. “Fetterman won because he was an old-fashioned Democrat” said one. “The Democrats used to be the party of the factory floor. Now, it’s more often the party of the faculty lounge.”

The parallel with the state of UK Labour is pretty clear. The majority of Labour MPs are, if not bourgeois, certainly middle-class and there is no indication that this may change any time soon. In fact, rather the reverse as Starmer and Evans tighten their authoritarian grip on every aspect of the party.

Suspensions and expulsions are multiplying, on many occasions timed to prevent their election to key constituency posts. Triggers have been called against MPs of the calibre of MP of the Year Ian Byrne, Sam Terry and Zara Sultana. The treatment of Apsana Begum in Poplar and Limehouse and Jeremy Corby offends all principles of fairness and natural justice. But that’s ok, because the new party rule book, introduced this year, contains the following sentence:

“D. Neither the principles of natural justice nor the provisions of fairness … shall apply to the termination of party membership.”

It is clear that the membership and the local parties are, de facto, subordinate - even submissive - to the party machine. And this is a party machine which believes that Ken Loach of all people is unfit to be a member.

I’m raising this issue again not merely as a member of the Labour party, but as a citizen. These facts and other allegations are of concern to everyone.

It is not paranoid to fear that this machine, when part of a government, could utilise the resources of the state to cull a major element of the broad church which the party is intended to represent. It will no longer be necessary to suspend members on the grounds that they ‘liked’ a tweet from another party leader announcing that she didn’t have COVID. The STASI-esque trawling of social media and compilation of spurious dossiers full of gossip and rumour will become the responsibility of real professionals; not the amateur factionalists such as McNicol, Oldknow, Matthews and Stolliday.

And if I am paranoid, I am not alone. Michael Crick describes himself as right wing Labour / Liberal Democrat in his politics. Peter Oborne is a conservative, maybe even a Conservative - certainly he could not have been Political Editor of the Torygraph if he had espoused my politics.

Both, however, have published and broadcast extensively on the authoritarian trend within the Labour machine. Both have warned about its implications if Labour became the party of government.

There are still many good people within Labour. I don’t always agree with all their politics but I would still vote for them because I recognise their integrity, intelligence, honesty and humanity. My own MP (at least until the Boundary Commission’s recommendations are made law) is one of them.

But be clear: my vote for Matt Western will not be a vote for Keir Starmer.

​Today from the everysmith vaults: I went last week to see the Cowboy Junkies at the Warwick Arts Centre. A  wonderful show which previewed some of the Songs of Recollection which is their latest album. That’s what’s playing now and it’s brilliant.

For fifty years, I have earned my living as a writer. A wordsmith you might say.

I’ve written ads and commercials, books and book reviews, blogs and brochures, articles and essays, songs, scripts and speeches. It must amount to many hundreds of thousands of words. More likely millions.

But to express the love and admiration I feel for my mother, I have no words. 

Many times, I tried to tell her. Many times, I failed. What came out of my mouth were the banalities and platitudes that we use to describe or reflect those strong incomprehensible emotions that overwhelm us at times like this.

But those commonplace words are true. They are real.

She was beautiful. She was caring. She was wise. She was forgiving. And she was giving of herself, surrendering a career in banking for the life of an RAF officer’s wife. 

It was a role she played brilliantly, almost as well as she fulfilled her role as mother of five children. 

Each of us have our own personal memories of times when she helped us, advised us, encouraged us, saved us from ourselves.

So too will many of Mum and Dad’s friends. So too will local charities. So too will her nine grandchildren and - at the last count - 18 great grandchildren.

In the story of her life which she left for us, this was her final line: “I wish to be remembered as a wife and mother” she wrote.

It is simple, succinct, poignant and profound. And it evokes an emotional maelstrom with which I have yet come to terms and cannot express in words.

What we all seek - and what today is for - is to arrive at the point when emotion is recollected in tranquillity.

That of course was Wordsworth’s definition of poetry. And it takes a poet to find the words we need, to provide for us that heightened language which helps us to understand and contextualise our grief, and thus to achieve a catharsis of sorts.

So here are a few short, succinct, poignant and profound stanzas from a poem, an ode, which resonated with me during her last illness and haunts me now.

The poet is William Empson. He wrote these lines in 1927, the year Mum was born. 

It is entitled To An Old Lady.

Ripeness is all; her in her cooling planet
Revere; do not presume to think her wasted.
Project her no projectile, plan nor man it;
Gods cool in turn, by the sun long outlasted.

No, to your telescope; spy out the land;
Watch while her ritual is still to see,
Still stand her temples emptying in the sand
Whose waves o’erthrew their crumbled tracery;

Fears her precession do not throw from gear.
She reads a compass certain of her pole;
Confident, finds no confines on her sphere,
Whose failing crops are in her sole control.
​
Stars how much further from me fill my night.
Strange that she too should be inaccessible,
Who shares my sun. He curtains her from sight,
And but in darkness is she visible.

​The package was pushed through the letterbox. Gently. A dull thud as it hit the floor. Just enough to alert the reader.

He was nursing a black coffee, but was on his feet in seconds.

​It was a book. Hardback. Portrait. Maybe eight inches tall by five wide. With a moody dusky dust-jacket.

​He rifled through the pristine pages. 464 of them.

Short chapters.

Short paragraphs.

Short sentences. 

The reader smiled. Excitement growing. This was it. The new Reacher. The 27th. 

He had cleared his diary for publication day. He had No Plan B. 

“Fuck business!” Boris Johnson is reported as saying at some point during the Brexit negotiations. He was wrong on the specifics, but probably right on the general point. Business is as business does and its agenda is seldom aligned with that of the country at large.

Nor of course was Johnson’s. But he had the advantage of having been elected. The dangerous ones are those who hide behind spurious and misleading titles such as the Institute of Economic Affairs, the Tax Payers Alliance, and other Tufton Street think-tanks and pressure groups. The influence they hold over Truss and Quasi-Kwarteng is out of all proportion to their numbers and intelligence.

One business magnate who doesn’t hide behind these faux institutions is Mark Zuckerberg, who has managed to make his corporate motto the basis of the government’s modus operandi in the UK.

“Move fast and break things” he said. Truss and Kwarteng moved very fast indeed to break the UK economy, and thus reward those hedge-fund managers who shorted the pound and provide Starmer with a lead in the polls which will not easily be overturned.

We should note, however, that - potential spoiler alert - both Kinnock and Miliband had 28 point leads and managed to lose. Starmer will be aware of this and, despite intimations at Conference that he thinks enough is enough, I suspect he will continue his policy of don’t-rock-the-boat.

Let the Tories lose it, rather than Labour win it. Move slowly and don’t break anything. Not even the Tory hegemony, with its two key elements: hard right ideology and total incompetence.

Yes, Labour will tinker with the detail. But the signs are that it will not make the fundamental changes that are necessary for sustainable growth.

Remember. Zuckerberg has re-named his empire. It is now Meta. It means two things. The first is after or beyond. The second is self-referential.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Bob’s Uk tour is imminent, but others are available. In my neighbourhood, the Hallé is performing the Shostakovich 5th Symphony, followed by the Unthanks, followed by the Cowboy Junkies. Playing today as I write is that amazing debut Cowboy Junkies album, The Trinity Sessions.

My recent absence from this blog is not a mark of faux respect for the death of the queen. But I have used the hiatus in normal life to immerse myself in the poetry of Ed Dorn, for which I am grateful to the poet Roy Kelly. A few weeks back, he posted a tweet:


The rain came down softly
a soaking thing,
a line from a book read
54 years ago, a line remembered
these 54 years, and still
to be found in pages now
tanned and brittle, pages
appropriately water-stained,
the rain still falling there,
falling forever, there and
in my word memory.


That opening couplet resonated, and stuck with me for a couple of weeks during which I Googled the lines, the final phrase, and various beat poets I thought might be responsible. Eventually I contacted Roy. Had he remembered the forgotten poem and/or the forgotten poet? Well, yes and no.

It’s a long story. He had tracked down the poet, finding a review of a public reading in which the lines were quoted. It was Ed Dorn, a poet with whom I had a brief obsession in the early ‘70s following the publication of Gunslinger. He was a prolific poet and a purchase of his Collected Poems failed to locate the lines.

Roy however has access to The Poetry Library and had a sense that the source was to be found in an ancient volume entitled New Writing in the USA. They found the publication for him and he  turned to the Ed Dorn section and read the poems. It wasn’t there.

But all was not lost. The Poetry Library offers a Find-a-Poem service, which is a kind of Apple Genius Bar for forgetful lovers of poetry. He registered his enquiry and returned New Writing in the USA. He was turning away when the Genius called him. “I’ve found it” he said.

And there it was. Not a poem. Two sentences from a prose-piece entitled 1st Avenue.

The rain comes down softly. A soaking thing.

It is prose but a reader would be forgiven for remembering it as poetry. It is poetry, isn’t it? Or is it a prose poem? Or prose which has a poetic flavour?

Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. But I’m glad I now know it. And I’m grateful to Roy Kelly for recalling it, tracking it down and using it as the impetus for the exquisite poem above.


Today from the everysmith vaults: Only connect. The synapses function in this manner: from Ed Dorn to Jack Kerouac to his prose poem October in the Railroad Earth to the band Railroad Earth and Elko. That’s what’s playing as I post this.

Baron Lebedev of Hampton (in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames) and Siberia (in the Russian Federation) is engaging in a war of (so far) words with my MP. I’m on the side of my MP, Matt Western (of Warwick and Leamington) who is the underdog in this fight - not least because he is not the son of an oligarch KGB agent, nor does he own a number of major news outlets, and nor is he a friend of Boris Johnson.

Lebedev is all these things, of course. But his prominent role in British government has not been widely acknowledged. Nor has it been investigated to any significant degree by those who claim to speak truth to power.

Identifying truth was the purpose of Matt Western’s question to the prime minister back in March. He asked Boris Johnson about his attendance at a lavish party thrown by Evgeny Lebedev and the concerns reportedly expressed by MI6.

In the Commons, his question was answered (or rather not answered) with characteristic Johnsonian bluster. The real response came the following day when the Speaker received complaints about the question from both Johnson and Lebedev. Matt was called before the Speaker. Subsequently, he received a text from Lebedev.

Now you may think that this is a storm in a tea cup, or - as Johnson put it in a culinary illiterate metaphor - ‘not a crouton of substance in a minestrone of nonsense’.

In fact, it is neither. It is more serious than the party culture in Downing Street, the wallpaper stuff, the instinctive, gut-reaction untruths for which Johnson will be remembered. Nor is it merely cronyism and corruption.

It is about the security of the country.

When a psychologically disturbed man is being charged with treason for breaking into Buckingham palace, it is appropriate to consider the potentially treasonous activities of a more prominent psychologically disturbed man who happens to be prime minister but managed to evade his minders to make a solo visit to a castle in Italy.

For months, Johnson had refused to answer questions about the trip. But, eventually, in July this year, he ‘fessed up. Yes, he “probably” did attend the occasion. But “as far as I am aware, no government business was discussed”.

Did he he report the meeting to Foreign Office officials? “I think I did mention it, yes.”

So why the concerted complaints to the Speaker after Matt Western’s question?

He has “probably” got something to hide. But he hasn’t yet mentioned it. Yet.

Keep going, Matt.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Sollima LB Files  - another great recommendation from Georgia Mann on Radio 3.

 
It’s not only holiday-makers who are suffering from the recent discharges of effluent. Remember when Rees-Mogg claimed that fish were ‘better and happier now they are British”? I wonder how they are feeling now, as they swim in waters which are full of shit.

There was a Twitter shit storm over the weekend, and it continues today. My feed was taken over by pictures of Tory MPs, each of whom had voted to allow the discharge of effluent into our waterways, posted by constituents. I devoted an hour or so to re-tweeting these name-and-shame posts, particularly those who had posed for their portrait in front of beautiful beaches or river banks which contribute significantly to the economy of their constituencies.

Just two weeks before Britain hosted COP26, the environment summit, the Lords - bless them - proposed an amendment to the Environment Bill which would have placed legal restraints on the discharge of effluent. But back in the Commons, 265 Tories voted against.

Few of them had any specific reason for their vote. They were merely lobby fodder. They had been whipped to vote the way they did, and they are still keeping quiet about their vote.

But some knew what they were doing. When questioned, they justified their action in a number of ways.

Some, including Maria Caulfield, claimed that the amendment called for “an immediate end to sewage outflows” which would have “led to sewage leaking into people’s homes”.

The majority talked about the cost, which is too much for the hard-pressed water companies. There is some truth in this. Water companies have already been forced to pay out billions to investors and millions each year to their CEOs.

But that was then. Now, when the predictions of those who supported the amendment have proved frighteningly and disgustingly accurate, some are taking to Twitter to claim that the actions of water companies are “appalling”. As someone on my Twitter feed pointed out, if you are a member of the face-eating weasel party, you can’t complain when face-eating weasels do what they do.

What is appalling is that the actions of the water companies were enabled by a Government majority. What is appalling is that we no longer have the protection of the EU regulations.

The Twitter storm had an effect. Those named-and-shamed are apparently asking Tory HQ how they can defend themselves. And on the opposite side, the Labour front bench has so far made no official statement. Thirty odd Labour MPs abstained on the night, and although abstention has become commonplace from Labour, they must have had some reason for letting the Tories and the water companies off the hook.

Who knows what that might be?

Today from the everysmith vaults: Yesterday’s Radio 4 programme, How to Play, featured Marin Alsop and Shostakovich’s 5th Symphony. So that’s what’s playin’ today.

If you place a government in a sealed box - let's call it the UK - together with something that could kill it - let's call it the unions - you would not know if the government was dead or alive until the UK was opened. Until that happens, one could say that the government was both dead and alive.

Johnson is allegedly on holiday in Slovenia, where he arrived from a round of parties at Chequers. Zahawi, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, is also on holiday. Priti Patel, the Home Secretary, has disappeared off the face of the tabloids. Dominic Raab, the Deputy Prime Minister, is at the time of writing in Thames Ditton. Liz Truss, the Foreign Secretary, is engaged full-time in her spat with Rishi Sunak. Oh, and the Leader of the Opposition is also on holiday.

There is clearly nothing for them to do at the moment. There is of course a cost of living crisis, which is casting millions into fuel and fuel poverty and which is forecast to get worse and worse in the coming months. But that can wait until September. Or maybe October or November.

So too can the climate emergency.

So too can the parlous state of the NHS.

So too can education, the housing crisis, the problems for trade in the aftermath of Brexit.

None of these, in the view of the governing and opposition parties, require immediate attention.

We used to call this the 'silly season'. Nothing happens, so newspaper headlines focus on frivolous inanities, the less serious stories.

The problem this year is that we have a succession of issues which are very serious indeed, which are profoundly important and fundamental to all of us.

Is the government alive to them? They are certainly dead to me.


Today from the everysmith vaults: TS Eliot once said (admitted? confessed?) that The Waste Land was "just a piece of rhythmical grumbling". Hearing his reading of it, I was inclined to agree. But to 'celebrate' the centenary of the poem, Drama on 3 put out He Do The Waste Land in Different Voices, a reading which while faithful to the text, shows us the different characters and different voices of what is not merely a poem but the first radio play. Quite brilliant.

James Darke is not Rick Gekoski, and Rick Gekoski is not James Darke. But sometimes they rhyme.

I have known James Darke for a mere five years - since 2017, when I saw him at his keyboard, Googling local handymen and adding to the search criteria, the word taciturn. I knew him, I understood him, immediately. Or so I thought. The paradox is that it has taken three volumes of autobiography for this anti-social misanthrope to explain and develop his contrarian - oppositional is the word used - life and lifestyle.

I have known Rick for rather longer, since 1987. And yes, he is also “bookish”, a man of letters, someone for whom books - reading them, writing them, trading them - has been both the business and the pleasure of his life. In the process, he has arrived, as has James, at some judgements of writers which are not mainstream; in fact, might be perceived as being deliberately against the mainstream.

It is tempting, when one knows both author and his character, to read the book with an expectation, even a hope, of finding parallels between the two. (I did so in After Darke when reminded of a weekend at Goddards, a Lutyens house in Surrey, to which James takes his family.) That such parallels exist throughout the Darke trilogy is incontrovertible, but they are irrelevant, even misleading, because James springs into our world fully formed with that single and singular addition to his search criteria.

That was five years ago. And into those five years is condensed an extraordinarily diverse series of events. I am trying to avoid spoilers, but it is noteworthy how his grief in the first volume has been mitigated by genuine wit in the third. Not cynicism; not sarcasm. He is no longer angry, even if he continues to be ‘oppositionsl’.

For example: The attempted hoax on the publishing trade is a fine conceit - a witty concept, wittily executed. And perhaps it is prompted by the author’s own experiences with agents and editors and publishers, which goes back to 1998 and the publication of Staying Up.

Or perhaps not. Only James Darke knows and he won’t tell, because we have come to the end of this chapter, this novel, this trilogy.

I, for one, will miss him. Immensely.

Today from the everysmith vaults: A random choice from the Rough & Rowdy Ways Tour from LA last month. A special delight is the encore, a fine version of Friend of the Devil.