My life, my death, my choice

Although I won't weigh-in too forcefully on the debate on assisted death, I enjoyed reading Terry Pratchett's comments yesterday in the Guardian (an extract from Monday's Richard Dimbleby Lecture) about his own possible future assisted death. As you may know he is suffering from posterior cortical atrophy (a rare form of Alzheimer's disease). When the specialist told him this, Pratchett says "I quite genuinely saw him outlined in a rectangle of flaming red lines". I am quite clear that Pratchett has every right to make an educated decision about how he ends his life. He says "it must be allowed as a result of careful consideration". He continues; "my life, my death, my choice".

This seems perfectly fair to me. It does seem rather disgusting, however, that only now that a famous and well-spoken person speaks out about this disease that there is any kind of real debate at all. Previously we have had some moving documentaries on the subject (for example 'Right To Die' by Canadian director John Zaritsky), but I fear that in the State of Great Britain all we can really expect is a reality TV show revealing the boats of geriatrics soon to be shipped out to Martin Amis' 'medal and martini' booths - there's bound to be a bit of money to be made out of it. Hence the following ditty:

The magic of the failing brain is

hallucinatory; you see things, or

indeed you don't (but you won't

remember that, we'll do it for you.)

Cameras in position: black is not a happy

colour - yet rather face that magic

until it swallows itself in a dark hole of

monolithic storm then pass the test.

Right? Right. Good man. More or less.

Lights! (too bright? That's the Alzheimer's

pixillating your eye-pins, or something)

Can we give him more eye-liner?

You can be sure a screaming starlet is

yanked out of the ether of the

fizzed-out Terry P who looks at the

teapot and it is not here

but he knows there, in some battling

space jumping with atoms, is tea in front of he.

See? Death sums up, rattling:

"Clogged with rheum and the decision

of death! Catchy. Pass me a microphone

and we'll make a reality series. I'll

wear high-waisted trousers with my cowl."

Death, they name is Simon, and it's

clearly uncouth to start making

merry with a hatchet; let's film the slow

and shaming unravelling instead -

once you go with one they'll all catch it.

The State on Death - AFG

For the other side of the argument, read Dr Crippen's piece here.

The Assisted-Suicide blog is here.

MP3

In the week that Apple launch the new and possibly thrilling IPad, I too have created a paean to technology inspired by poet Tony Williams' stint as the Guardian's poetry workshopper. He wishes us to think of commodities. I have entered this before (see Gas) but have yet to be published on those hallowed webpages. As usual I've gone wildly 'off-message'; but it is true to say without my MP3, wantonly reactionary in its non-Apple-ness, I would be a lesser man.

You cannot see but under my shirt

I am working a panel of pert

buttons with my fingers, and coils

of white wire lie against my skin.

The MP3 sits reassuring and thin

to protect me from the gargoyles

of a thousand white headphone-

wearing passengers who vant to be alone.

We forge six-hundred glittering train miles

in a capsule battered by bomb-lit vials

of light. You cannot see but this MP3 machine

has a long cord, a gland, a spiny dart

that sews my inner ear to my inner heart,

whose sound within its glaucous mine

is pearly-eyed and huddled on my bones

as I pass through various travel zones.

Em-Pee-Three, AFG

Derrick Brown

So many good poets out there, but Derrick Brown seems to be one of the better ones. He describes himself as a "gondolier, magician and fired weatherman" amongst other things. I've just read his poem 'cotton in the air' which merits a read through or two. Quite hypnotic and arrestingly sexy. He describes the movement of a lover's lusty limbs as being like "poisonous wrens", which I love. It is softly sensual as well when he describes undressing: "your tank top slides down the huh huh huh of your shoulder". Sublime. Have a look here.

It's on The Nervous Breakdown site which I've been a fan of for a while and who old friend Kip Tobin writes for. Click on his name to read his recent blog on mix CDs (or mix tapes as us reactionaries call them) which is typically brilliant, sharp and romantic. Just like Kip.

Books: Michael Donaghy knew my suicidal hamster

I've been busy reading.

Philip Pullman had me back in his grasp for a while - those Northern Lights are mesmerising. But like C.S Lewis he does do god a little too much. That is rather the point of the trilogy, but still - Mr Pullman. We tire. The first book is thrilling but the further he cuts into new universes (and especially the rather vomit-inducing trip to the world of the dead, nameless harpies included) the more I desire to escape all reference to our erstwhile Creator or indeed his troop of angels. But, that aside, Philip Pullman is a genius and writes a fabulous new version of the Bible that is less risible - an update, shall we say.

Then a slew of Wilbur Smith. Guilty pleasures die hard and Wilbur dresses up a racist nation with hard men and feisty women - he does for Africa what Jilly Cooper does for the Cotswolds, and for that I thank him.

Then Robert Harris' 'Lustrum', the one where Cicero is consumed with thoughts of power and Harris plots his ultimate downfall through the very pleasing and measured voice of Tiro, his scribe and the man who invented shorthand. Whereas in 'Imperium' Cicero is the strong arm of the righteous, here he is the well-spoken icing on a very corrupt little cake. He becomes the figurehead of a failing Rome, and Harris has Caesar all angles and jutting malice quite monstrous in the background. There are so many books about Rome, but Harris is one of the best. So many stand out characters, not least Cicero's wife. One of the worst I have recently discovered is Steven Saylor (from 'A Gladiator Dies Only Once'):

"I left the consul's house with a list of everyone Decimus Brutus could name from his wife's inner circle and a pouch full of silver. The pouch contained half my fee... and if I failed him, I would never collect. Dead men pay no debts."

No shit, Sherlock.

Better is Eric Linklater's 'Magnus Merriman', a little gem I picked up at the Stirling University bookstore. Magnus is a drunken journalist and writer who deludes his way through the war and then Edinburgh and the Orkneys with frankly side-splitting results. Linklater was a contemporary of Hugh McDiarmid and other Scottish Renaissance poets and writers and Linklater lampoons them fondly, but defiantly. Here's an idea of the greatly heroic Magnus:

"In common with the ancient Athenians and the modern Americans, Magnus had a great liking for novelty, and would adopt a new fashion - in though, in clothes, or in behaviour - not only with enthusiasm but with such conviction that often it appeared to have been his own discovery."

A sham. A master. A buffoon. A legend.

I should write taglines for Hollywood movies, n'est-ce pas?

Otherwise it's all poetry, especially remebering Michael Donaghy, who died in 2004. He was a poetic genius and man of Celtic blood and strength who I was taught by, if only briefly. We called him Uncle Mikey and he took us under his wing. He smiled (I realise now he must have been suppressing insane laughter) at my youthful poem about the imagined death of a hamster who was in the same kitchen as Sylvia Plath when she gassed herself. Heavens to Betsy! I can't believe I have revealed such information. I should have called it 'A Hamster Dies Only Once'. The squeaker snuffed it, but by Jings it was a poetic death.

One of my favourite poems of his has always been 'Held - here's an extract ':

Not as this hieroglyph chiselled by Hittites in lazuli,
Spiral and faint, is a word for 'unending',
Nor as the hands, crown, and heart in the emblem of Claddagh,
Pewter and plain on that ring mean forever,
But as we stood at the window together, in silence,
Precisely twelve minutes by candlelight waiting for thunder.

His close friend is Don Paterson, and Paterson's collection 'Rain' includes tributes to Donaghy, so well crystallised and sad and true. For these moments I love poetry. These two poets are a must read; but apart from these two bookish, learned men I have learnt of a darker, less tutored, more dingy poet called Charles Bukowski and his stuff is well worth a look-see. All poetry, however, should be read. Even Andrew Motion.

I once wrote a really mean poem about Mr Motion which was wrong on so many levels, even if I do think the man is an out-and-out bore and try-hard. He deserves a good reading. Like we all do. I wish I could make a speech at an awards ceremony a bit like the recent Mariah Carey one - where I say: "Thank-you all but I'm sorry I'm a bit..." and Andrew Motion shouts "...fucked up!" from the audience. But it will never be, alas.

More blogging, so much more to come and nearing fruition.

Keep reading friends.

Oyster

Had a hell of a busy week, starting off with the Steve Earle gig at Perth Concert Hall. I went with Claudia Massie and her brother (and the Spectator's political blogger) Alex Massie. Steve Earle has just released an album of Townes Van Zandt covers and was great. Very good banter, especially his tale of Townes' horse Amigo and the trips they used to make across mountain ranges. Steve said that the day Townes had to sell Amigo was the day "he started dying". Quite emotional stuff as Townes was Steve's hero and became a mentor, collaborater and friend. Great gig and another winner for Perth which seems to do well for a northern-central small Scottish city.

Then off to Edinburgh to catch a lecture at St Cecilia's Hall on the Cowgate entitled "Scotland's Historians: the Development of Eighteenth Century Historical Studies" with Tom Devine, Chris Smout, A.I MacInnes and C.A Whatley all speaking, chaired by Brian Lenman. All very august and distinguished professors in their field and a fascinating subject, but having been spoilt by the much more dynamic Richard Oram and Michael Penman at Stirling University, these men seemed rather stuffy and spoke awkwardly and frankly, badly. Typically, many academics who look so good on paper are very disappointing when put in front of an eager audience. By the end of the talk (I left before the questions) I counted at least five very suspicious nodding heads - by that, I mean amateur historians driven to deep and untroubled sleep by the woeful presentation on show. However, I encourage you all to read these professors books - they are wonderful.

After this made a rather dismal paella round at Fleur MacIntosh's house, the lady behind Godiva and go-reborn about which I have written reams. Check out the go-reborn shop in the Princes Street Mall and Godiva on the Westport off the Grassmarket. The large quantities of wine used to wash the paella down seemed to do the trick, then I was out and the night of Edinburgh was my oyster.

I prised it open and took a big, voluptuous bite.

Back in the country now and up to my eyes in mud, horses, dogs and fog, all of which I will write more about later.

The Return of the Food Blog: Moules & Kedgeree at Dudley Drive

Took a trip to Glasgow to catch up with an old friend and his Spanish girlfriend, and was immediately waylaid by a table-full of tapas – ensaladilla rusa, smoked salmon on toast, chorizo, Parma ham, blue cheese on biscuits, pizza, olives and feta, and a nice bottle of Rioja. The next day a plan was formed to venture to the Kelvingrove Museum where we were treated to a rousing organ solo (plus a close up of the organist’s feet) and a reverential visit to the skeleton of the Baron of Buchlyvie. He was possibly the most famous Clydesdale stallion to stalk the fields of Stirlingshire and is spoken of in hushed and hallowed tones in Buchlyvie itself, where blogger resides.

We went to the Alan Beveridge fishmongers on Byres Road and purchased smoked haddock, smoked salmon, kipper fillets, a bag of mussels and left grinning inanely. Then it was next door for a handful of limes, a bag of flatleaf parsley, onions and garlic.

The plan was to make a big steaming bowl of moules with garlic, white wine, cream and parsley and wash it down with the Martin Codax Albariño I got at Peckham’s and follow it an hour or so later with a steaming bowl of kedgeree and some more rioja. Some call us greedy. Some call us blessed by the hand of a foodie god. Whatever. Here´s what we made, and by golly were we a happy bunch of sailors. Kedgeree is an Anglo-Indian dish purportedly taken to India by Scots and traced back to some Macdonalds in the 1790s. This seems somewhat apocryphal to me and I prefer to believe it was invented by Indians and stolen by the Victorians. Diana Rigg´s mother Beryl, stationed in Jodhpur in the 1930s, made it with sultanas and tinned sardines. Our version is slightly richer and inspired by Delia Smith´s recipe from her book ‘Fish’ (BBC 2003). Also, managed to get hold of some enormous duck eggs on Byres Road which ups the ante a wee bit.

The moules were unable to be photographed as they leapt wildly down our throats.

The food was unreal:

Moules:

Fry garlic and onion gently in olive oil

Add huge amounts of white wine

Add mussels, put lid on

Wait til they open

Add lashings of cream and loads of flat leaf parsley

Cook a wee bit more

Eat with loads of bread and white wine

Kedgeree:

Poach the fish in milk for 10 minutes

Hardboil four humongous duck eggs

Seperate fish and keep milk aside

Fry garlic and onio in olive oil

Add rice

Add fishy milk to rice and some hot water

Leave rice to simmer on low heat for 15 minutes

Flake fish and chop up positively gigantic duck eggs

Mix

Add loads of flatleaf parsley (chopped)

Top with a gutsy dollop of creme fraiche

Put wine in glass

Gorge

Photos by Andrew Faraday Giles and David Daker. Wine not included.

go reborn: XMAS 2009