Tales Of New Albion: High Cliffs Tea Rooms

Steampunk Dog enjoying tea

Here is a sneak preview of the third story in my New Albion series.  This time we find out a bit about the back history of Ellen Hall, whilst also getting to explore a bit of the mad, sprawling restaurant complex that is the High Cliffs Tea Rooms.  Enjoy, and if you would like to read the rest then drop me a line.

 ‘Oh flipper-de-jig I am completely lost,’ exspluttered Reggie Peabody to no one in particular since, indeed, no one was paying him the slightest attention.  Somewhere between the overpriced air taxi and the over heated Mongolian Barbeque he had taken a seriously wrong fork in the corridor and was now unlikely to make his dinner reservation. ‘Oh flipper-de-jig,’ he muttered again, turning about face and wondering if retracing his steps to the Polish delicatessen might help in any way.  Mind you the somewhat partially well named High Cliffs Tea Room was, quite frankly, a very easy place to get lost in.  Set over some 20 or so stories on the outside, and much more besides on the inside, of an imposing white cliff at the very end of the homeland it was very much the place to dine. Assuming naturally you had the money, desire and sense of direction required to reach the restaurant of your choice.  ‘This really is too much,’ he sighed, regretting now his decision not to ask for directions at Bellisima Italiana when a kindly maître d’ had offered to assist. ‘They really should have guides or something in this place…’ Barely had these words escaped his lips when a head popped out of a previously hidden serving hatch and asked,

‘Are you in need of assistance sir?’ The voice, and head, belonged to what gave every appearance of being a teenaged girl wearing a rather natty fur trimmed porter’s jacket and matching pillbox hat.  Before Reggie could so much as gather his thoughts the face continued, ‘I am at your service.’  The hatch in question turned out to be merely the top half of a cunningly concealed door, wallpapered in the same peculiar flock design as the rest of the corridor, which now swung fully open to reveal the young lady in her entirety.  The girl sported cropped boyish blonde hair beneath the hat, which rounded off not at all unpleasant, if a little over eager, features including a particularly fine chin.  Smart, but obviously homemade, black trousers and highly polished but clearly second hand shoes, completed the look. ‘Ellen’s the name, Ellen Hall. Are you lost?’ She pointed an accusatory finger, ‘I can certainly help you, oh please do let me…’ This last plaintive exclamation caused Reggie to furrow one eyebrow,

‘Now see here, are you an official guide?’ The girl squirmed slightly and shifted on her heels.

‘Well not official as such, but I know this place better than anyone. Oh do let me help, I’ve even memorised the guidebook.’   She smiled as convincingly as anyone had ever smiled and Reggie felt himself soften to her a little.  To buy a little time before replying he reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his brass pocket watch. Nonchalantly flicking open the cover he glanced askance at the time, the revelation of which caused him to jerk alarmingly upright and turn slightly pale.

‘Do you know Pierre’s?’ he gulped through gritted teeth, barely able to get the words out.

‘Brasserie or bistro,’ chirped Ellen, determined to be of maximum usefulness.

‘Brasserie,’ swallowed Reggie feeling suddenly rather faint.

“Yep, certainly do,’ grinned Ellen, ‘you’re about 10 floors away and on completely the wrong side, but I certainly know it, yes siree, that’s not a problem.  Tell me though, when exactly is your reservation?’

‘Oh dear god,’ inhaled Reggie, ‘ barely twenty minutes’.

With this Ellen’s face lost a little of it’s rosy ebullience also, but without a moment’s hesitation she reached back through the door, grabbed a ragged over-stuffed leather bag, flung it over her shoulder, took his hand and headed off down the corridor with a somewhat bemused Reggie in tow.

‘We’ll talk on the move.’

I'm In

Somewhere in Europe, nice isn't it?

I promised to write something on the EU Referendum, so here goes.  Firstly, this is one of the biggest decisions that we have ever had to make in this country, certainly since 1975 anyway.  So it is vitally important that everyone that can does vote.  I think, deep down, that we can probably survive with any decision, but I would prefer the decision to be emphatic and the turnout to be very high.  Failing that the repercussions might last a lifetime, and I'm not excited by that thought.  If you are not sure which way you are going to vote then I hope you will take the time to research and come to some decision.  I will attempt to lay out some of my own thoughts below, not necessarily to influence your thoughts, but because I really have to get them off my chest!

I know some people have concerns about the political and geo-political situation in the UK, and some of that is aimed at the EU and some is aimed at foreigners, but I believe both of these miss the mark.  Many of the things we are concerned about (austerity, the housing shortage, tax dodging, the NHS, war in Iraq and Syria etc) are the fault of the UK government and the blame should lie with them.  For my part personally I cannot think of a single reason why we would want to leave the EU, not one.  Some have said that the remain case lacks passion, but I disagree, I feel extremely passionately that the EU has produced a net benefit for the UK and rather than look at negatives I'm going to try and put the positive case.


Peace and Stability
================

We have enjoyed 70 years of stability in Europe without internal wars and, barring the global recession, pretty much uninterrupted economic growth.  We are very much stronger together as part of a large single market.  We can compete with any other market in the world together and we can take action against aggression if we need to.

Our membership of the EU is also one of the reasons why the United Kingdom is still united.  And since this is a positive Blog I won't even consider what might happen in Ireland if we have to re-instate border controls between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland.  If you don't know what I'm talking about you need to research the Good Friday Agreement more.


The Economy
============

We are something like the 5th biggest economy in the world and this is whilst we are in the EU.  When we first joined the Common Market our economy was in the doldrums and it was British workers who had to travel to Europe to find work, don't believe me?  Just watch a few episodes of Auf Wiedersehen Pet and you'll see what I mean.   It could be that way again in the future (especially if we do leave and our economy shrinks) but if we remain in I cannot see that happening any time soon.  We should also support EU efforts in helping the Eurozone recover as once it does that will go a long way to re-routing the economic migrants from poorer parts of Europe to these areas and perhaps reduce the number coming here.  I know this is something that bugs some people.

Btw, if you are concerned about the future of the NHS you should remember this: the NHS costs a lot of money, a strong economy is vital for the NHS to survive.  If we leave the likelihood is that the economy will shrink, this will mean less money for everything, so the choice is service cuts or tax rises - take your pick.

Also, just so you know, China don't really care about whether they trade with us or not.  But they do care about EU single market, and that includes us.


Democracy
==========

My brain works differently from other people's I know.  To my mind the EU is more democratic than the UK.  EU members of parliament are elected by proportional representation and the cabinet is made up of the leaders of the member countries, including our PM.  Apparently most people don't know the name of the EU representative, so what?  In most cities people don't even know the names of the people who live next door.  One of mine is Nigel Farage, there you've heard of him haven't you!

By contrast our first legislative house - The Commons - is elected by first past the post, a system that favours the incumbent government since they can set the ward boundaries to benefit themselves.  This means currently we are likely to have either a Conservative government or a coalition for the foreseeable future.

For the record our second legislative chamber - The Lords - is, erm, ENTIRELY UNELECTED!

Home of democracy us, oh yeah.


A Level Playing Field
==================

Did you know that marine creatures don't recognise country borders?  They really don't.  This is why having level playing fields and centralised control over things like fishing quotas is vital.  If any one country over-fishes (is that a phrase?) then the fish go and we have no fishing industry anywhere.  Oh and for the record it's up to our UK government to decide how our fishing quotas are divided up amongst our own fishermen.

The single market is something that doesn't really turn people on unless they are economists, but it's vital to ensure that one country isn't favouring their own pet industries or services over those of a neighbour.   As things stand though an industry in France has to abide by the same rules as us and Poland and Germany and Italy and so on.  This is a good thing.

Another point is that there is currently one body that approves medicines across the whole of the EU - this can give us confidence that should we need medical treatment whilst abroad we are getting the same quality of medicines that we expect here.  Oh, and naturally we have reciprocal arrangements for healthcare across the EU, so we can also be confident of being treated equally wherever we might get ill or have an accident.

Why not also consider food labelling (including E numbers - go on guess what the E stands for), energy efficiency ratings , subsidies for our farmers and grants for the poorer parts of the UK and the arts?  I know I have.


Open Horizons
=============

Recently I drove with Charlie to do a gig in Germany.  We got in our car and drove there and showed our passport just once on the way out and once on the way back.  Being a citizen of the EU is a really cool thing that we shouldn't chuck away willy-nilly... there are chances for our kids and their kids to work, holiday, move, fall in love and marry with others from all over the EU (and I know plenty of people personally that have done all that, and I've done a few myself).  Hopefully this thought is a bit more exciting than the economic reasons to stay in, right?  Hell even my MEP Mr. Farage married a German, so they can't all be bad?

A united Europe is also a bastion against the far right.  It's no co-incidence that ALL far right parties (including some from outside Europe that have no business getting involved) want us to split from the EU.

Bugger them!


I refuse to be afraid of poorer people in Europe, I refuse to brand them all as rapists or terrorists.  The Polish neighbours we used to live next to in Croydon were amongst the most lovely people I ever met.  They would have put themselves out to look after us, and did on a couple of occasions.  They even put up with us practicing our music in the house and told us they enjoyed listening to it!  Nutty europeans!

Migration has been good for this country in many ways and, indeed, all of us are descended from migrants.  There is also pretty good evidence that they work harder and claim less benefits than their UK equivalents - I can believe that.  We need their taxes to support, amongst many things, the blessed NHS and our pension funds.


There are some that say the EU needs reform and they are probably right.  There are some that say immigration levels need to be controlled and, perhaps, they are right too.  There are many that say there are pressures on the NHS, and they are also right, but leaving the EU will not help us with any of these issues.

Once we are out, we will be out.  We will no longer need to remember the name of our MEP, we won't have one.  We won't have a say, we won't have a veto and we won't have all the benefits I've outlined above.

If we end up like Norway or Switzerland then chances are that for our businesses to get access to the single market we will need to a) pay a fee and b) allow freedom of movement.  WITHOUT ANY SAY OVER HOW THIS IS RUN!

You know what, I'm not going to get negative on this.  I love my country and I love that we are a powerful player in the EU and because of this in the world.

I love what we have right now, I want it for my kids too.

So I'm in!


PS If you would like further reading then please check out my previous post and here is a guide to voting written by Martin Lewis that is also worth a read.

Wot He Said

Well I was going to write a piece about the EU Referendum (Ooh er, a bit of politics) - but then someone shared this excellent piece of work, which is basically exactly what I was going to say.   Thank you Dr Andy Williamson and Helen Percy for pointing me in the right direction.  I will also write something too, promise.

PS Still haven't got around to writing down my own thoughts, but this is a very well researched and referenced post from the LSE's Nicolas Barr that is well worth perusing also.

The Long Way Around

Mt. Snowdon in the Mist 2012

This isn’t going to be an easy Blog post to write, not because it’s going to involve big words or complicated ideas, but rather because it involves my emotions.  After stumbling across the tail end of the Brighton marathon on Sunday, I had an increasingly persistent feeling that I really wanted to sign up and be a part of it.  And so I did.  Next year I will take my place amongst the runners on the 9^th April 2017 and have a go at running the most iconic length of race there is.  It’s a daunting thought, the longest I have every run is about 10km and the marathon is over 40km long. 

I started to think about the reasons why I really had to do the race.  I wanted to raise money for charity – sure, and the choice of charity was easy this time.   I’ve opted to run for Cancer Research, and you are very welcome to support my effort by making a small donation.  I’ve chosen Cancer Research this time in memory of my mum, who died from lung cancer over ten years ago (December 9^th 2005) and for my many friends and family who have been lost prematurely to cancer or a related condition.  I’ve listed a few below, so their names might be recorded, but there were others whose names don’t spring to mind.  So that part of my decision was clear, but there are many other ways to raise money, or simply donate, to charity.  Why was I so keen to set a difficult target for myself and push myself to achieve it?

Part of the answer lay in something that happened a little while back in 2012.  For my wife’s friend Sophie’s 30^th birthday celebration, a group of us set out to climb Snowdon.  It was a long and tiring day, some parts easier than others, and when we approached the summit the view was shrouded in fog.  But all the same, I realised I was feeling an emotion that I hadn’t felt in a long time, happiness!  It took me by surprise, I hadn’t even realised that the feeling had been missing, but it had been for a long time.

From roughly 2000 onwards I had suffered the loses of close relatives and friends, more even that just those taken by tumours there were even a couple of suicides (one friend, one client).  I had started the period sadly, but as it wore on and another death was announced, I found myself increasingly numb.  I guess it’s a kind of defence mechanism, you can’t mourn everyone - you’ll bury yourself in an overwhelming weight of emotion.  So I shut down.  By the time my mum died and my long-term girlfriend left me, I had nothing left to give.  I felt sad, sure, but I didn’t cry, and I didn’t laugh anymore.  I found it hard to feel anything about anything.  The long walk up Snowdon reminded me of what I’d lost.  But those kinds of achievements are hard to come by, you can’t climb Snowdon every day, and if you did it would probably start to lose its inspiration.  So I continued to live in my cocoon, but I'd been reminded that the feeling was possible and that I would never forget.

And that is what came into my mind when I considered running the marathon.  The thought that I might chip away at the stone wall and get another glimpse of the sunlit uploads.  Not just happiness though, but a real sense of achievement.  Being part of a group, pushing themselves and trying to do some wider good at the same time.

Oh that, and if I’m ever going to do it, I need to crack on before my knees give up. 

It’s a cliché to say that life is about the journey but, for me, it's always better when you take the long way around.

In loving memory of Margaret Callow, Andy Hewitt, Stevie ‘Normal’ Simmons, Auntie Pearl, Tim O’Brien, Auntie Jill, Auntie Mary and many others.  Safe journey.

PS Feel free to mention your own friend or family member in a Comment if you wish.  My thoughts are with you all.

Captain Slow, My Captain (a slightly ranty open letter to James May from a fan)

Glacier, Patagonia - December 2014

Dear James May,

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.  But I am familiar with your work (you are welcome to Google mine, such as it is) and, for the most part, I love it a bit.  Sorry, I mean I love it to bits.  Your Toy Stories series brought out hitherto repressed nostalgia in tearful sobs, your boozy tours with Oz Clarke left me thirsty for road trips of my own.  But most of all your recent The Reassembler series reminded me of all that was good, and some of what was a bit silly, with engineering and design of the past.

It strikes me that you are the kind of man who thinks fondly of a time when we didn’t just throw things away when we were bored of them; instead we repaired, recycled or reimagined them.  You probably even remember a time when a person in a white coat (and possibly a cap) driving an EV delivered milk packaged in a re-cycled container to our doorstep and then took the empties away to recycle again.  Perhaps you, like me, wail in despair that a time when firms used to get paid to have their rubbish taken away and recycled is not our present nor our future, but a dimly remembered past.

Anyway I’m rambling, my reason for writing this letter is not really to do with any of that.  Instead I am worried for you, and the way future generations will think about you, and this is mostly because of another part of your work with about which I am feeling increasingly queasy.

I can’t claim to be a fan of the motoring programme, but I have been mildly entertained by it at least four times in the past.  I can’t bring myself to watch it anymore though. Even if I could afford an Amazonion of my own, I wouldn’t tune in.  And just to be an equal-opportunities offender I won’t be watching Chris Evans’ offering either, although in classic passive aggressive style I will probably read about both new shows in The Guardian and tut under my breath.

Permit me to explain why I feel this way.  Recently on returning from a rather splendid holiday in Chile I was intrigued to watch your latest offering filmed in Patagonia. But the more I watched the more I found that the sight of rusty metal (other materials may have been involved) boxes driven by the internal combustion engine churning and guffing their way across one of the most beautiful parts of the world left me feeling rather sick.  The thoughts of miscellaneous vehicular body parts and fluids being dumped willy and, more than likely, nilly, in this paradise were really all too much for my lily liver.  I won’t even go into political nonsense, but trust me; it didn’t make me feel any better.

It began to dawn on me, that for me this represented a kind of nadir. The very bottom scrapings of the barrel for this dangerous, smelly, polluting and inherently, mind-numbingly selfish fossil fuel powered personal transit unit, or car, as I guess everyone calls them.

Worse was to come! I began to imagine a dystopian future when our children and their children look back at the excesses of our age from the flooded ruins of Miami and/or London and wonder just exactly what the frack we were thinking.  I cannot imagine that re-runs of shows featuring vehicles being driven over beautiful, unblemished countryside (or just round and round in circles to no good purpose) will be looked on with any sort of delight.  I genuinely think they will gaze with the sort of horror we now reserve for the casual sexism and racism of 70s TV.  My expectation is that the people that participated in all this frivolity will end up pariahs of a sort - emblematic of everything that we failed to prevent.  Made all the worse by appearing to be having a good old guffaw in the process.  I confess I care little for how they think of Clarkson, The Hamster or even the ginger usurper, but for some reason, I do care about how they choose to think about you.

Frankly I have no idea if you are a climate change denier, I know you have an electric car and prefer hydrogen based alternative fuels.  It’s my belief you consider yourself a man o’science, so perhaps not.  But in a way it’s irrelevant whether you believe or not, climate change is here and it’s not going to be a barrel of laughs.  So for the sake of your reputation and behalf of all of us in the age of unparalleled waste perhaps you would consider putting your unique skill set to a different kind of use?

We need to see radical change in the space of barely half a generation: we need to break our addiction to plastic, eat less meat and master alternative ways to produce our energy (fortunately beer consumption levels can probably remain at roughly the current level).  I think that the UK is perfectly placed to achieve that with our mix of creativity, engineering and scientific expertise plus the kind of self-deprecating humour that will be needed to coax the bored and disinterested into playing along despite themselves.

We may never be leaders in manufacturing again, but we can lead the world in these new technologies and, whisper it softly, perhaps even drag the rest of the world kicking and screaming along with us.  Ideally we need to make reuse and recycling sexy, or failing that at the very, very least: funny.

And there, Captain Slow, my captain, is where you come in.

What could possibly be better to get the next generation of young (and not so young) engineers, architects and inventors off of What’s Snap or Facepalm or whatever and into coming up with clever solutions to real (and urgently needed) problems than, dare I say it, a TV Show.  Hey, let’s go wild - maybe a mini-series.

Hopefully I’ve laid out a pretty good case (see above) as to why you should be the man to front it or, if you’re really not up for it, perhaps Guy Martin is at a loose end?

Will you, at least, have a think about it?

The future might be very thankful.

Yours sincerely,

Daren

PS I am available for a pint any time to discuss this more, lovely boozers in my neck of the woods dontchaknow.

PPS Don’t suppose you have Guy Martin’s email address laying about anywhere?

In The Black Heart of Camden - Bella Loka

It's been a while since I last saw Tea and David Boothby performing as The New Root, and a lot of water has gone under the bridge since then.  They moved to Camden and left the old Bristol band behind them.   Last night I schlepped up to the The Black Heart in Camden in order to see their new outfit - Bella Loka - playing live.  I'll admit I was a bit apprehensive as The New Root were one of my very favourite combos and their live gig at The Bull & Gate was one of my all time favourite gigs.  So what would this new pared down version, basically a duo plus backing tape, match up to the supreme sound of The New Root?

Well I need not have worried myself, from the opening notes of Alive I was in music heaven.  Bella Loka are one of those acts who just can't put a foot wrong in my book.  The music is tight and visceral, strains of Radiohead and Talking Heads fronted by angular guitar lines and Kate Bush-esque vocals.  This new outfit has grown an on-the-money drummer and well conceived and impressive video backdrops in front of which to play.  When the images from the projections match the shapes of the actors in front of them it's a truly wonderful experience.

Bella Loka's music aches to be launched into larger spaces, they are a stadium band pushing at the black walls of this small venue.  Of all their tunes it's the very last track, a wonderfully re-worked New Root classic - Breathe Slow that most demands to be released.  It's angular, edgy and in-yer-face to the point of almost knocking you off your feet.  Its a kind of soul music on steroids, a truly 21st century rock music that lacks for nothing in power and noise.

My own favourite tracks came early on: Well Done and Rise Up are cracking power pop tunes, but in a way it was the whole effect from note one to note the last that made this gig so impressive.  I could happily have listened (and watched) another hour or more and not been tired.  Like a much loved album, when the needle gets to the end of the groove you just want to pick it up and put it back at the start... again and again and again.

Could they have improved anything?  Well I wouldn't mind seeing David in something other than a black tee-shirt, but you can't really go wrong in a venue like this.  On bigger stages he'll need to find a way to be seen, but that's for another day.  For now the only thing that would have made this truly perfect for me would have been a Bella Loka reworking of American Tale, but that's just picking at nits.

After their set I stuck around to watch a little of the next band.  Sure they were loud, and tight and the tunes weren't unpleasant (the lead singer had a very tight cat suit, so that's not bad either) - but they just didn't have what Bella Loka had in spades, and that's soul.  Or Mojo if you like, their songs really are about something.  There is a depth and emotion that you can't fake, and that works just fine for me - every time.

http://www.bellaloka.com/

Tales Of New Albion: Tobias Fitch

The second of the New Albion short stories, concerns the introduction (and perhaps curtain call) of the enigmatic Tobias Fitch.  Mercenary and trouble-shooter, perhaps he has finally met his match in this spooky and haunting tale.  Take a read of the first couple of paragraphs and then take a look here to see how you get get hold of a copy of this story and the others in the series.

The imposing bulk of Tobias Fitch filled the doorway of the very last coach of the TTCE as it puffed, wheezed and clanked to a halt at Fin Du Monde station.  He hesitated for just a heartbeat or two scanning the near deserted platform, allowing his senses to read any signs of danger before his body was even fully awake.  It had been a long and restless journey, but at least it hadn’t been the route that had caused him a sleepless night.  The TTCE (Tri Transcontinental Express) was a brutally simple idea; three parallel tracks with three state-of-the-art rocket assisted Sky Legend class locomotives harnessed together like a modernist’s team of horses.  Between them they pull a single line of armoured sleeper cars, the power to weight ratio ensuring fast acceleration and constant, seemingly effortless power.  The only drawback being that bends are not exactly on the cards for this particular three-headed iron dragon.  So the TTCE line (the only one there is) ploughs a relentlessly straight triple furrow from one side of the continent to the other, equally disdainful of border, personal property or natural obstacle.  Pretty much how Fitch himself liked to operate.  His only regret on this cold, grey, blustery morning was that the tri-tracked train couldn’t deliver him and his precious cargo squarely into the bustling heart of the old metropolis.

Gratified that platform 13 seemed to hold no immediate threats to his aching body, Fitch wrapped his floor length leather coat around him, and put a booted foot firmly onto the narrow brick strip.  In his left hand he held a somewhat battered, but extremely robust looking attaché case, his grip was firm and he held it close whilst still viewing the vicinity with caution.  The tight hold however, was somewhat superfluous as the case in question was in fact fastened to his wrist by means of a heavy chain and brass handcuff.  So precious, so vital to national security were its contents that he could not allow himself to be separated from it under any circumstances: casual, accidental or violent.  His right hand hovered constantly in the opening of his coat near his hips, where a brace of custom-made, silver-plated pistols hung in quick draw holsters.  The seven-chambered weapons had extricated him from trouble on numerous occasions when opponents had reckoned on only 6 bullets per loading.  The thick leather of his coat hid other secrets too, additional weapons; including assorted throwing knives, grenades, poisons and a smaller automatic pistol; and steel plating over vital organs and arteries.  All of this now conspired with his aching, sleep-deprived limbs, to make the walk from the back of the train to the front of the monster all the more laboured.  Nevertheless Fitch did not regret the slow progress; it gave him time to go meticulously over the final details of his four-day long journey.  Fitch had been tasked, at barely an hours notice, to retrieve the case from a numbered locker at a far flung empire postal depot, secure it to his person, and then make his way by airship, steam-powered paddle steamer and stage coach to the furthest terminus of the TCCE.  He had then carefully selected the very last sleeper cabin in the train for its two-day cross-continental rush.  The final leg of this clandestine adventure was to cross the channel and deliver his cargo to another anonymous safe locker at the King’s Station, where, he was assured, his six figure pay-off awaited him in return.  There were only three methods by which this crossing could be effected from here, a slow and cheap steamer, a more expensive but a little quicker, airship service or, and the selection of this means hinted again at the importance of his mission, an extremely expensive, but very fast, personal ornithopter flight.  According to terse instructions, the crossing was booked and the pilot was waiting at a nearby Aerodrome, Fitch need make no other arrangements bar finding a hansom cab to transport him there.

Home By The Sea (2016 Update)

For those that have been following for a while and also those that are new to the Blog, now that I'm intending to post more regularly, I thought a quick update was in order.

These days I live in a rather lovely spot sandwiched between the English Channel and the South Downs in Hove, not far from Portslade station.  It's a place with great views, lovely walks and lots of inspiration to photograph and write.  I'm still doing music in the duo - Dare To Be Charlie, and occasionally more arty stuff with Daniel Lehan, Paul Wady or Frog Morris.  I'm also writing and performing short stories, usually Steampunk stories set in an alternative version of Britain I call New Albion, but occasional other Sci-Fi stuff too.

If you are interested then please add this Blog to your reading list and check out the various posts.  You can see some of my photography on Instagram and follow me on Twitter or, indeed, Snapchat (@vulcan2015) if such things float your boat.

Otherwise, do leave me a comment or two as we go and let me know anything I should be checking out.

Tales of New Albion

Steampunk Reading - photo: Jeanette Macklin

Greetings! It's been a little while since I last posted a Blog, but rest-assured I've been busy in the meantime.  I've been working away on writing, and performing, a series of Steampunk short stories - entitled Tales of New Albion - which I'm looking to eventually turn into an illustrated book.

Topics covered in the stories so far include, time travel, a giant restaurant complex and strange and mysterious goings on.  All with a little bit of humour thrown in.  I've really enjoyed reading them at various Steampunk events and I'm always looking for more chances to share them, so if you are running a Steampunk themed soiree and would like me to come and read, them please do get in touch.

You can now own a signed copy of my stories for a mere £1 per story (including postage and packing) - there are five titles so far and more coming.  As a bonus each copy of a story bought will count towards a 5% discount off the printed book once it arrives.  In other words if you buy 20 copies of stories you will get the book for free!  A great offer I'm sure you will agree.  I'm hoping that the illustrations for the book will be provided by the wonderful Frog Morris, so it should be most splendid.  You can pay for these stories by either cheque or PayPal - please drop me a line or leave a comment below for more details.

Here are a few comments about the stories that I've received so far:

"I enjoyed all of them immensely and would willingly read more of your writings if you have any?! 

They are all great fun and I found myself speed-reading them as I wanted to find out what was going to happen!" - Brian Hurrell

"It was a great story. Made even better by your superb delivery. I thoroughly enjoyed it." - Steampunkdj.co.uk

So that's the basic information, stand by for more news of readings and also details of some of the stories to whet your appetite - you may already have seem the first one - Futureshock!

Next reading: Steampunk Convivial 30th / 31st July (but more dates to follow)

Photograph by Jeanette Macklin

God of Fire, Queen of the Skies

Those that know me well may have noticed that recently I’ve become more than a little obsessed. Something has eked into my consciousness in a way that I’ve not known in many years. It has got to a point where I am now urgently checking maps, Twitter and phone apps to see if I can get another glimpse of her doing what she does best. I’ve been booking tickets to shows and glancing out of windows at random times, just in case she hoves into view.

I did catch a fleeting view of her from my garden a few weeks back and ended up calling out her name and pointing like an 8-year-old child. It's even got to the point that friends started to notice my feverish obsession and tried to sate my desire with pictures from magazines and books with lavish photo spreads.

My first attempt to see her put on a display was thwarted by a tragic and horrific accident only four miles from my house. Despite the terrible nature of it all and my deep sadness for those affected, a small part of my heart was aching that I wouldn’t get to see her in all her glory. 2015 is her swansong, her last season; perhaps every opportunity would somehow slip (or be unseemly ripped) from my fingers?

Finally, yesterday in drizzly Dunsfold I got to see her distinctive silhouette appear and my heart gave a little leap. Have you guessed what my object of my affection is yet? (No cheating now) Well here are some clues: she was born in 1960 (although her sisters appeared from 1952 onwards) weighs in at a mind-boggling 205,000 lbs, is 99 ft and 11in long and 111 ft wide and can shift this bulk at nearly the speed of sound. She is the last flying member of the Britain’s V-Bomber force, a guardian angel once ready at a few minutes notice to deliver the A-bomb in our name – she is Avro Vulcan XH558.

Few other planes have such a distinctive visage that the mere sight of them in the distance is enough to raise your heartbeat a notch or two. Avro’s other awesome creation (a mere 11 years before the Vulcan) the Lancaster has is, Concorde had it and (a step or two down) the marvellous pairing of Eurofighter Typhoon and Supermarine Spitfire at this year’s air shows has it. But for me the queen of the skies will always be the Vulcan.

It's sobering to think that only a few decades ago and armed with exotic, toxic and lethal loads with enigmatic names like Yellow Sun and Blue Steel these great dinosaurs of the air were a familiar sight in the skies over the airfields of Britain. Now she seems like a ghostly reminder of a time when engineering in Britain was state-of-the-art and nuclear oblivion was a very real fear for everyone. But what a ghost; arcing and banking and roaring her way past overhead. With a grace and power that belie her bulk. The display was simple yet magnificent. We saw her fly past undercarriage down, bomb bay open – she doesn’t have many tricks, but the few she has are so chest-thumpingly loud and so gob-smackingly graceful that it literally took my breath away.

When she finally turned that unique delta-wing profile heavenwards and gunned her four Roll-Royce Olympus engines one last time to power climb away I definitely felt a tear in my eye and a pang in my heart. You’ll forgive me, perhaps, if I eulogise just a little. She is one of the most beautiful things I have ever had the privilege to see, right up there with all the memories that will burn the longest in my retinas. It’s an incredible tribute to all those who designed, flew and restored her that she still steals the show wherever she goes.

Don’t miss this last chance to catch a glimpse. At the end of this year she’ll stop flying forever, so do not hesitate. I for one am glad to have made her acquaintance, but if I can figure out one last chance to gaze wide eyed and open mouthed, then believe me, I’ll be there.

Surrey Steampunk Convivial IV

So what exactly is Steampunk? Well that’s kind of hard to say, but believe me you’ll know it when you see it. From my limited exposure to it I would describe it as a revisionist alternative future dreamed up from the mind of HG Wells and other authors of the period. Imagine the future as the Victorian eccentrics would have envisioned it. Madcap inventors, fearless explorers, quintessentially English nutters and so forth. In practice it’s a great excuse to dress up, not that we seem to need one. Costumes are lovingly crafted from a combination of theatre costumes, dressing up boxes and antique shops. Top hats must have elegantly worked bronze goggles; cuff-links and watches must be elaborate and needlessly complex. Skirts could be voluminous or airforce sharp depending on your preference, ray guns sit alongside blunderbusses to repel imminent alien invasion. The transport of choice is the propeller-powered airship, or the flying steam train. Are you getting the picture yet?

With all this in mind it was particularly surprising to me to wake up one morning with a fully formed Steampunk short story bubbling up in my mind like some mad professor's laboratory experiment. But what to do with such a volatile thing? Well there seemed to be no other possible course available to me other than to write the darn thing down and then find a suitable Steampunk convention at which to unleash it on a unsuspecting public. But where would one find such a thing?

Step forward the Surrey Steampunk Convivial, brain child of one Ben Henderson (who directed, shot and edited Charlie’s Superbad video and who is pictured centre above) amongst others and now a regular date on the Steampunk calendar. Said event it now bi-annual or is that twice a year? Well whichever is more often, which is the latter, I think. So, missive in hand fresh off the coal-powered steam typewriter, I duly presented myself at the first Convivial of 2015 (on 22nd February) somewhat nervous as to how I might be received. I shouldn’t have worried after all, it wasn’t called a Convivial for nothing, oh deary me no! Barely had I set foot over the threshold when I was engaged in a friendly game of Jenga with complete strangers, complete with an fascinating discussion of the merits of three legged tables of the kind with an additional appendage. This was fairly typical of a wonderful and most excellent day that included some rather marvellous models in the Steampunk museum (pictures above and below), pop-up shops of wonder and bric-a-brac to peruse. Costumes of eccentric invention caught the eye at every turn. I was glad that my story reading was pretty much the first thing on the agenda, allowing me a chance to relax following my performance and enjoy the many splendid wonders on offer. Chief amongst my favourite events of the day were a performance from the ever splendid Dead Victorians (bit of a throwback here, but Paul Tkachenko aka The Maestro from the DVs played bass on my original recording of Lightkeeper), who entertained with some of the rudest and non-PC music hall numbers you could care to hear.

I also particularly enjoyed what is possibly the zenith of eccentricity – Tea Duelling! This turns out to be an archaic ritual basically consisting of dunking biscuits into cups of Earl Grey and attempting to out-wit your opponent by holding your nerve (and your biscuit) and consuming it whole before it crumbles. Yes it is as mad as it sounds. The prize for this worthy pursuit was the Nonsuch ashes (a burnt teabag) – but it was contested all the vigour and rivalry of chess grandmasters going head-to-head. In the end a Baron Munchausen look-a-like won the day, which seemed entirely fitting.

Following this there were other entertaining turns of opera singers, story-tellers and more musicians, and in the end I was sad to depart into the cold Surrey evening. Hopefully this humble description has whetted your appetite for what is fast becoming a national pastime. Perhaps you’d care to attend the next instalment; which is on 22nd and 23rd August. perhaps you’d also like to read my story. Well check out the first chapter here (drop me a line to get a copy of the whole thing) and let me know what you thought of the whole whizzo prang.

TTFN old thing.

Tales of New Albion: Future Shock

[This is the first chapter of a new Steampunk Sci-Fi short story that I will be reading in full at the Surrey Steampunk Convivial IV - at The Royal Oak, New Malden on Sunday 22nd February, 11:30am.]

Little could they have known, as our protagonists were collected two by two in Sir Grenville Lushthorpe’s belching steam coach, the sheer scale of the imminent disaster they were about to inflict upon an unsuspecting metropolis that very night.
First to be embarked were Philby the callow, cheap-suited journalist and Ellen Hall the fearless explorer ravishing in black leather jacket and khaki jodhpurs.
‘Some wheeze eh?’ she remarked leaping aboard, Philby did not reply, brushing his hair sheepishly from his eyes as he clambered after her notebook and pencil clamped in sweaty hands. The charabanc lurched on with an unseemly belch of acrid grey smoke; the city’s streets dimly lit by flickering ochre gas lamps, and an early evening mist settling in every gutter and back alley.
Onwards, onwards to Bankside, where the river was at full swell, foaming angrily at the sides of the embankment. Here they halted again to collect First Lord of the Admiralty Cuthbert and his good lady wife Eliza, in high spirits following a belly-filling luncheon at the Conway Club.
‘Well, well, well,’ he muttered, doffing his hat to Ellen as he squeezed his well-proportioned frame through the ornate door of the iron coach. He nodded, without really looking, at Philby and sat himself in the front most seat. ‘A right escapade and no mistake.’ Eliza was barely seated before the coach jerked on its way to collect the final witnesses of that fateful, fearful night.
Eyebrows were raised (not for the last time) across the motley crew as the last rendezvous turned out to be the ‘Minster itself, as the PM, no less, accompanied only by his Special Branch man (scandalously the scrupulously god-fearing politician had no wife) stood impatiently under the nominated lamppost.
‘What devilry do you think Lushthorpe has in store for us tonight, eh?’ ventured the PM (somewhat nervously) to no one in particular as each acknowledged the other and the final leg of their night’s adventure, some would say misadventure, began. By this time the mists were gathering into fog, but the coach had a good many modern arc lights and the pilot knew his business. Thankfully for the backsides of all in the jalopy the clanking, steaming drive to Sir Lushthorpe’s east end laboratory was made in good time and Cuthbert snored only the once.

Copyright Daren Callow 2015

Star Battles 2014

[These are the new chapters of my sci-fi story written for the Daren Callow V. Nazi Robots exhibition which is at The Kitchen Window Gallery until 28th November]

1

Rewind.

I have a memory. It’s a beautiful autumn evening, the sort of wonderful reddish brown light you only find in England. I’m moving backwards. There is a broken teacup, pretty fine porcelain, a shard lying on the ground, I can’t pick it up I’m still moving backwards. The light is just so wonderful, auburn evening hues. I’m rounding a corner; there is a flash of light. The cup is broken in my hand: hot, brown liquid seeps through my fingers. The edges of the broken cup look so beautiful, crisp and white in this light.

Forward.

A man appears around the corner. Bowler hat, dark trench coat, official looking moustache; he moves purposefully in an odd slow motion. He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a broom handle Mauser and starts firing. I see the shell cases ejecting, pulsing flashes of stark light. The teacup in my hand fractures and falls apart at half speed. Another shot, I’m moving. I don’t think I’m hit; my only thought is to get around the corner, out of line of sight. The cup is gone, it’s a shame I think. The light is just so exquisite. The moustache is still advancing, firing, but he’s lost me. I made it around the corner and I’m gone. Just the wonderful dusk light and the piece of the broken teacup.

Play.

2

I am not Captain Scarlet; I’m in big trouble. There will be no regeneration this time.

Ahead of me across a brown, arid, war-scoured dustbowls are eight war robots. Mark IVs, the very worst: sophisticated, merciless, hi-tech killing machines. Now I’m sweating badly beneath my splinter-camo cape, NBC armour and hastily re-placed respirator; sweat drips over my eye as I try to keep my rifle trained on them. They kick up dust as they move with rapid, lopping steps, but they don’t need to hide, they are masters of this battlefield. Mark IVs are the aces of killing, the ultimate inbred mechanical monster. They resemble an armoured mushroom, flat domed head balancing on an upturned fire extinguisher, a cylindrical ammunition drum on their back and a mini-Gatling gun for a hand. Their legs are spindly, but very strong, designed to be hard to hit, designed keep them in the fight. To let them kill you, before you can destroy them. Despite their mechanical brilliance, I have one advantage. They can’t actually see me, at least, not until I open fire. I’m lying against the bank of a sunken trackway, covered with a splinter-camo cape that means they cannot detect my shape, heat or light. Without these clues I’m just part of the background noise, just a shape in the dust. Fine if I can just let them go by on their merry mechanical way, but I can’t – they’re heading exactly the wrong blasted direction. Straight towards home.

Since they burnt the ground, poisoned the air and shot down everything that moved out of the sky, we’ve been hiding. We dug tunnels into the rock, camouflaging everything and rebuilding what’s precious to us underground. Nothing lives up here so we have to make everything, even our food is 3D printed (and tastes like it). But they haven’t found us yet, and they are not going to do so on my watch. If only there hadn’t been eight of them! I’m kicking myself now (metaphorically) for lazily bringing only 4 rocket tubes. Four tubes - four kills, but there are eight, so somehow I have to shoot the other four, or they will kill me. Today. Right here in the dust. I blink the sweat away and try to refocus, the time of action is rapidly approaching and I don’t want to be thinking about it too much. Definitely eight of them, definitely going the way I don’t want them to be going. Right, that’s it then, let’s be having you.

Leaving my assault rifle on its bipod I pick up the first rocket tube. Tear off the safety strip, point it towards the first Zyke in the deck, deep breath, wait for the red LED to turn green – locked on: press down firmly on the trigger. The tube kicks slightly and a rocket streams out towards the enemy. I don’t even watch it; it can’t miss unless it’s a dud. I chuck it over my shoulder and grab the second tube, same drill – two away. Tube gone I grab the assault rifle, find a target and squeeze off two bursts until the droid in my sights buckles, fractures and starts to topple. That’s quite enough; I don’t even glance as I drag the rifle back into the sunken track and head stiff-legged to my second position. There are two flashes of light, and two bangs, I’m still ducking, running. It feels like an age until I’m at the second stash of rocket tubes. The rifle goes up onto the bank in roughly the right orientation; this will be my last stand, my Alamo. I throw off the splinter-camo, too late for that now, they’ll be on this position in seconds. The tubes are just as I left them, ready to go, safety strips already pulled on these two, I knew if I had to use them there would be no time to think. Out on the plain there is twisted metal, smoke and bursts of gunfire aimed at my first position. The remaining five monsters are heading towards that spot at full speed. Last two rockets are away and my hand is shaking on the rifle grip, waiting for a target. This time I watch the rockets all the way snaking through the air streaming smoke and fire. They impact directly on the body of the two robots targeted. I say a quiet thank you to whomsoever designed these great bits of kit. Four shots, four kills. Through the light and smoke of the explosions the remaining three are turning towards me. I bring up the rifle and start to fire, but I’m panicking, the shots miss, the robots know how to move and evade fire. 100 metres away. Bullets are zeroing in on me, I have only a few seconds. Fire again, maybe hit one, but it’s still going. They are ten seconds away, but their bullets are closer. At least I didn’t hesitate when it was my turn, at least I did my job. Take one more with you, I focus, squeeze the trigger, fire.

In a blaze of colour, sound, light the whole area of earth around the droids suddenly kicks up in every direction. The machines explode, freacture, splinter, flame. Cannon shells tearing ground, rock, sand and automaton alike. There is a screaming roar in the air and a collosal, darker than night aircraft powers over my head still spitting lead from belly mounted cannons, throwing dust in every direction. I am so shocked I can barely register it. The delta wing craft banks and circles round. In a second it’s a kilometre away from me. I’m watching it pull a high G turn banking elegantly to turn back towards me. It has no marking and it’s bodywork is so black it’s almost sucking the light out of the air. An arrow shaped black hole. Instinct makes me turn my eyes away, back towards the Zyke patrol, scanning with my rifle for movement. But it’s just so much scrap metal now, blown to the four winds and scattered across the scree.

The plane by now has made it’s turn and is thundering back directly towards me. Trailing dark smoke from it’s rocket exhausts, a black triangle growing in the sky. I wonder how it’s still in the air, not shot down by AA missiles like all our craft were. Nothing flies anymore, nothing. It suddenly occurs to me that I might not know if I am friend of foe. Frantically I reach up to my line-of-sight laser coms on my helmet and point it their way. “Send ID, Send ID” I try to say, but my mouth is so dry I can barely croak. Perhaps it worked though, the craft does a strange manouvere, it dips each wing in turn, a little wiggle in the air. It feels like it’s just for me. Then it suddenly turns and powers into a steep climb. I’ve never seen something so powerful , so menacing and yet elegant at the same time. I watch until all that’s left is a drifting smoke trail and with a gulp realise that it’s turned exactly the way the Zykes were going before I so rudely interrupted them: home. It knows where I live, and it will be there an hour or more before me.

Standing up with wobbly legs and sweaty hands, I shoulder my rifle and hobble painfully to retrieve my splinter-camo cape. My legs know the way to go, even as I fumble with the clasp I’m clumping stiff-legged on the way back to base. Somehow I have a feeling now the angel of death has arrived, this war will never be the same again.