Judge Dredd - The Itch

I've always been a big 2000AD fan, in particular Rogue Trooper and Judge Dredd.  The audience at the recent Alan Reed gigs might have seen me sporting a Judge Dredd t-shirt.  In an effort to get back into writing fiction, I recently entered a competition to write a Dark Judges themed short story.  It didn't get anywhere, so here it is for general consumption.  All characters are obviously copyright to 2000AD and their publishers, it's just a bit of a fan story... enjoy.


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It started as an itch.  Right at the back of her skull, but somehow under the skin not on it: inside her head.  Just enough of a nagging doubt, an aching thought.  Just enough to keep her awake the last two nights wondering what it meant.  So she sits with her legs up on an adjacent chair, Lawgiver and helmet on the console beside her.  It’s 0300 – Psi-division control room is deserted apart from this one figure plugged into the PSU feeds flicking through the surveillance cams – an eerie light flickering across her face.  Now green, now orange, now red; casting weird almost ghoul-like shadows over the vacant chairs and blank screens around her.

Anderson was a Psi-judge and to a Psi-judge itches meant something.  Something scratching away at her, awakening, trying to get her attention perhaps?
She continued to flick through the cams, not knowing what she was looking for, not really sure why she was looking.  The pedways and over-passes were mostly quiet, well as quiet as Mega-City One ever was.  A light, dirty rain was splashing off every worn zipstrip, every pockmarked flyover.  The weather kept the perps indoors, the juves in their beds; just the loons out tonight - that kinda night. 
‘You’re here somewhere,’ she mouthed, her finger still tapping the button to switch cameras.  ‘Whatever you are.’  She reached one gloved hand round to gently rub the back of her neck under locks of long blonde hair, still grimy from a day of riding the Boomways.  It was more like a dull ache now; rubbing didn’t seem to be helping, so she gave up and tapped her finger faster.  Blocks flicked by, some she knew and some she didn’t, just hoping that something, anything stood out.  And then it did, by not sticking out at all. 

She sat up in the chair and flicked back two screens to stare at a long shot picking out a low rise conapt – something had caught her minds-eye, but what?  She rubbed her tired eyelids and tried to re-focus on the steadily flickering image of a dark, rounded building, a few lights showing here and there.  But it all seemed too quiet, too unassuming, too untroubled.  Maybe trying just a bit too hard to be uninteresting.  She squinted at the cam label.
‘Ian Kilmister Block, never heard of ya,’ she muttered, flicking the joystick to zoom in just a little closer.  ‘So why are you bugging the hell out of me?’  The itch flared again, a slight stabbing pain that gnawed at at her brain.  She rubbed her head again. ‘Yeah, yeah, I feel you,’ she acknowledged.
She reached out stiffly and pressed a button on the control panel to call a tech, nothing happened.  She glared at it icily.  ‘Drokk it!’ she thumped it hard with the heel of her hand and it gave a plaintive ‘beep’ and glowed to show it was working now. She drummed her fingers on the console, waiting impatiently for the tech to pick up, what was keeping them?
‘Tech div - Conner here - what can I do you for?’ The voice was crackly but not as grumpy as techs usually were.  Must have caught him on a good night.
‘Conner - Anderson.  Be an angel and call up all the perp stats for Kilmister for the last…’ She thought a second for a suitable period, most blocks called in hundreds if not thousands of crimes an hour, best not go crazy. ’…12 hours?’
‘Sure, I’m on it.  Looking for anything in particular?’ The voice sounded positively perky, she glanced at the console again just to make sure she’d actually pinged the right department.
‘Nope, just a hunch.’  She could hear faint tapping through the speaker as the tech did her bidding.  The tapping stopped and she heard a small intake of breath.
‘Crapola - some hunch.  I’ve never seen this before,’ muttered Conner.
‘What you got?’ Anderson leaned forward so as to hear better.
‘Nothing,’ he breathed.  She could hear frantic typing again, checking his figures no doubt.
‘Say again?’
‘Nothing, nada, zip.  Nothing at all for the last 12 hours.’  The itch dug it’s claws in again but she was already moving, holstering her Lawgiver and grabbed her helmet.  ‘Switching to helmet mic, stay with me Conner.’

Out of the Psi-division, past a slightly dopy looking maintenance crew, boots echoing in the empty corridors.  Hit the ziplift: basement, Lawmaster garages.
‘You still with me Conner?’ she adjusted her helmet, not used to the weight – Psi-judges rarely used them.  She felt her stomach lurch as the lift began its descent.
‘Yeah, I’m here.  Running the records back, last reported crime was 2 days ago, it’s normal before that.’
‘By normal, I guess you mean barely better than chaos?’
‘Exactly.  What drew you to this block again?’
She rubbed the back of her neck once again, ‘Oh, just a itch I had to scratch.’  She reached the Lawmaster garage and strode towards her bike.  ‘Matter of interest, what was the last reported crime?’
‘One mo,’ more typing, barely audible.  ‘Ha, some juve’s cat reported missing.’
‘Missing cat?  Legal pet or illegal?’
‘Doesn’t say.’ Doesn’t matter anyway, thought Anderson, just another bad omen to go with the nagging doubts.  She gunned the Lawmaster into life, the howl of it’s engine filling the spacious garage, kicked it off it’s stand and rode up the ramp out into the grimy, wet Mega-City night.

We are not yet ready!

It was a moonless night, but it made not the slightest jot of difference in the Mega-City, it still glowed gaudily with neon and laser light.  Bars, eateries and pleasure domes stayed open all night plying the citizens with anything they craved.  And they craved just about everything going.  Even on this foul, drizzly night the city still buzzed and throbbed.  Anderson ignored it all, powering her Lawmaster down Judge’s Lanes, pedways, fly-overs.   No one much out tonight though; the rain was at best filthy, at worse highly radioactive.  It tended to put one off a midnight perambulation.  She strained her eyes through the rain and the spray, keeping half an eye on the nav-comp.  Kilmister block was not as far away as she had thought; she was somehow expecting it to be tucked away in some (relatively) quiet backwater sector, whereas in fact it lay almost directly in the centre of the city. 
As the city’s garish attractions flashed past her in a hazy cloud of spray, the itch began to change.  The throb grew tendrils and began to spread across the back of her skull; she had a full-blown headache coming on. 
 ‘Just what I need,’ she cursed to herself, ‘can this night get any more wretched?’  The nav-comp flashed her to pull off the Boomway, she leant the motorbike over and eased onto the offramp, and lo, her night got worse.  This Skedway had all its lights out; traffic seemed to be giving it a miss too.  She considered calling city-maintenance and giving them a piece of her mind, but they were probably all tucked up in their sweet little bunks.  She flicked her headlights onto full and ploughed on. 
Suddenly a dark figure lurched out of the gloom towards her.  Spitting oaths she felt herself start to lose the back wheel of the Lawmaster, scumy, oil saturated spray cascading in plumes all around her. She gunned the engine and the wheel squealed in protest on the nu-asphalt surface but somehow just managing to find some grip.  The bike levelled and she brought it to a juddering halt, killed the engine and dismounted into a firing crouch - Lawgiver already in her hand.   She glared back through the sleet to see her would be assailant.  But all she saw was a prone figure writhing in the puddles, a bottle of something, no doubt highly dodgy, in a faker-paper bag.  It was wailing something barely understandable, ‘They’re back, they’re back.’  Just some drunk stumbling around in the gloom, probably a futsie who just can’t bear it all sober any more.
‘Drokking frightened the life out of me,’ she growled to herself.  The relentless rain and now hammering headache were beginning to really get on her pectorals.  ‘I’ve really not got the mind space for this right now.’  She re-holstered her pistol and slung a drenched leg back over the bike seat.  She hit the start button and the engine fired and then spluttered rudely into silence.
‘What now, for grud’s sake!’ she tried to fire it up again, but this time nothing.  Warning lights lit up all over the rain-splattered dash.   ‘Exactly what I needed,’ she muttered with exasperation as she dismounted, turning back to the drunk who was by now delicately trying to regain his feet.
‘This is all your fault,’ she spat at him, as he continued his unsteady progress back to his feet. 
‘They’re back,’ he gurgled without making a lot of sense.
‘Scarper creep!’ she retorted and then turned and began to stomp along the Skedway towards the block, now just about visible in the gloom a couple of klicks away.  ‘Guess I’m walking then.  Control can you hear me?’ nothing but static from her helmet.  ‘Control?!’  Again nothing.  ‘Oh just perfect, a little bit of rain and everything goes to pieces, you wouldn’t think this was the 22nd Century’.  She realised that complaining was not really going to get her anywhere in hurry so she wiped her visor and began the soggy trek to Kilmister block.

Not yet! Not yet! We need more time!

Anderson walked on towards the brooding block, her boots splashing through the streams of water cascading off the pedway.  Not far out she stopped, realising the block looked exactly as it had in the PSU feed.  Precisely the same lights still on, but not a soul visible anywhere.  Deserted, yet trying to look like it was occupied, trying to draw no attention to itself.  She glanced up the nearest (non-functioning) lighting pole half expecting to see the PSU’s cam right above her the view was so familiar.  There was no cam, but there was something tied to the pole flapping in the hammering rain.  Out of curiosity she reached up a hand and turned it to get a better look.   It seemed to be a little figure of a man made of plastic sticks and tie-wraps, hanging like some sort of amulet on the post.
‘What evil spirits are you here to ward off exactly?’ she mused and even as she did a shiver went down her spine.  Just the cold, she thought, nothing more.  Time to get out of the rain.  She released the figure and strode on.

Finally Ian Kilmister block loomed up in front of her, nearly half a klick high and glistening in the wet.  She drew her Lawgiver again and did a quick 360 as she walked out onto the broadway that surrounded the tower, straining her eyes to see out into the gloom.  With a sickening sense of realisation it struck her then, that there was no light for two klicks in all directions around her.  Beyond that the city glowed malevolently, utterly oblivious to this brooding black hole in its very heart.  She felt very alone, just her and whoever was in the sinister edifice before her.  Moving more swiftly now, holding her pistol in the ready position, she approached the main glass doors to the lobby.  They slid open obligingly and she stepped into a large lobby and finally out of the rain.
‘Control, you back with me yet?’ she enquired of her helmet mic, more in hope than expectation and sure enough no answer came.  ‘Suit yourself.’  She slid the helmet off and propped it on the concierge desk, still lit up with glowing comp-screens.  She shook her head, partly to shake the rain out of her unruly cascade of blonde hair and partly to try to shake out the fog in her mind.  But the headache had her in its clutches, grinding now like a migraine on mega-steroids.
‘What are you hiding?’ she called out, moving forward cautiously across the cheap nu-nylon carpeted floor towards the bank of elevators.  The question had been intended for the building, but uttering it she suddenly felt as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes.  The itch, the throb, the drokking mother of all headaches, it wasn’t trying to tell her something; it was trying to hide something.  Someone, or something was in her mind, blocking her memories, preventing her from realising what was right in front of her.
‘So I know you!’ she muttered semi-triumphantly, as a lift door slid open in front of her.  ‘Well I’m coming ready or not.’ She stepped into the lift and hit the only floor number that made any sense – thirteen.

Not ready!  But come anyway Anderssson.

The lift slid smoothly to a halt and Anderson stepped out onto more tacky plastic carpet on the long 13th floor of Kilmister block. The corridors were lit in eerie low light ahead and to both left and right, but starkly empty.  Nothing moved, her footsteps echoed damply on the floor - she was still dripping wet. 
‘Where are you then?’ she stepped forward, wondering which way to go next.  A movement dead ahead, she crouched and aimed, her finger trembling on the Lawgiver trigger.  A few metres away from her, walking as calmly as you like across the floor was a black cat.  She froze as the cat stopped midway and turned its head towards her.  Its eyes were dark and hollow: there were no eyeballs in the sockets.  It hissed at her viciously and as it did a foul stench of decay filled her nostrils and with alarm she realised that the headache had now shifted to a numbing pain down her back and into her arms, she was barely able to move.
A door creaked open next to the cat with an ominous grinding noise and the animal turned and darted into the apartment, in its place a long dark shadow stretched across the corridor as a figure moved towards the door.
‘Andersssson!’  The stench of rotting flesh was overpowering now, she couldn’t understand why she’d not noticed before.  But the headache was gone and her mind began to clear even as her body refused to move.  The wraith moved out of the door into the corridor, the black helmet with it’s dull metal grille, the sickly, bloody teeth, the decaying flesh: putrid and vile.
‘Have you missssed me, Anderssson?’ it hissed and the sound of its voice rattled down her spine.  Behind in the doorway she could make out more shapes following.
‘Judge Death!’ she had to force the words out, as she was unable to move without considerable effort.  Behind her the lift began to work again, more ghouls coming no doubt – surrounded.
‘You came too sssoon, our plansss are not yet ready!’ Howled the apparition gliding towards her as behind it a couple of decaying bodies stumbled blindly into the corridor.
‘My brothersss and sssissters have not yet been able to join me,’ his voice hammered inside her head like shrapnel grenade exploding.  ‘No matter, Anderssson, your body will be a ssuitable receptacle for one of them.’  He floated closer his hideous, clawed hand reaching out towards her heart. 
‘Drokk it all, I knew I should have just stayed in bed and taken a synthi-aspirin,’ she spat, mostly to herself.  She braced her inert body as best she could, all the awful memories of her first possession by the foul beast flooding back.
Without warning the doors of the lift slid open behind her and a hail of white-hot incendiary bullets flashed past her head and tore through the decaying body of the dark judge.  Flames ignited in its clothing and sparks showered in all directions as shells hit the corridor walls and detonated.  Without ceremony a rough hand grabbed her collar and hauled her backwards into the elevator capsule, dumping her on the floor.  Gazing up she found herself looking at a Lawgiver rapid-firing into the corridor, flame spitting from it’s muzzle, hot metal shell cases clattering down onto her and the floor.  She followed the firing arm back as another ungodly howl came from were the bullets were aimed: the crumpled blue uniform, the dented judge badge, the grizzled face and, well, that chin.
‘Judge Dredd,’ she burbled, finding that movement was slowly coming back to her body.  He ignored her and fired another burst whilst the elevator doors slid shut barely preventing a great fireball engulfing them.  At this moment the lift pinged and started moving downwards in an almost comical fashion given the bloody mayhem they had just witness.  ‘What brings you out this way?’
Judge Dredd shrugged, his Lawgiver still held ready, smoke wisping out from the barrel.
‘Just a hunch, y’know.  An itch I had to scratch,’ he growled checking her over quickly for injuries.  ‘How’s your night going?’  With that the whole lift shook violently and a great scream reverberated menacingly all around them;
‘ANDERSSSSON!!’
The lift light shattered and darkness engulfed them, but just as it did the doors hissed open and Dredd hauled her out into the light of lobby and onto her feet, dragging her towards his Lawmaster still revving in the middle of the lobby where he had abandoned it.
‘Oh, I’ve had better.’ 
They mounted Dredd’s Lawmaster and with a great arc of burnt rubber and smoke he swung it around and gunned it full-throttle at the plate glass doors, smashing straight through them and skidding barely in control into the teeming, ice-cold mega-city rain.
‘Control we have a major on-going incident, Ian Kilmister Block, all available units attend!’
‘What is the nature of the incident Dredd?’ replied the nonplussed controller as Dredd accelerated up onto the saturated Pedway through sheets of filthy standing water.
‘They’re back Control,’ he hissed.  ‘They’re back.’

Doctor What?

I realise I may be straying into controversial territory here, but I’ve been wondering recently about how much writer’s should be influenced by the consumers of their stories.  Let’s call them fans.  The reason for this musing has been the recent changes to characters in popular culture, for example Dr Who changing sex, Hermione Granger changing skin colour and, perhaps closer to my own heart, a myriad of revisions to the Star Wars universe caused by removing the creator from the creative process.  Not to mention various reboots, restylings and general appropriation of other loved stories and characters (I could mention Battlestar Galactica, Sherlock Holmes, Poirot but the list is considerable).

There have been howls of protest about all these things, but as both a fan and an author I can see it from both sides.  Certainly complaints that switching a alien character with two hearts that can regenerate at will from male to female is emasculating seems very wide of the mark.  After all there have been twelve white male doctors and one white female doctor so far, so even some sort of basic equality seems a lifetime away.  Other arguments that this is not really part of what is possible in this (entirely fictional) universe also don't work for me.  After all in the case of Dr Who there is certainly a precedent in the changing of the Master to Missy in 2014 (and presumably lots of other years throughout the whole of history), which I don't remember sparking so much rage, although I'm not really a huge Dr Who fan so perhaps I missed it.

The Hermione Granger (non) issue is even less of a worry to me, after all, as J K Rowling correctly pointed out, she never specified skin colour in the books and people do tend to project their own ideas on to things.  I often wonder whether people imagine all the characters in my own stories to be white, when I also don't specify this.  If I was ever lucky enough to have my books converted into some visual medium, I would be happy for actors of any origin to play any of the roles.  It matters not to me, but rather I would be more interested in the characteristics of how they were played rather than simply how they look.

And I suppose this is the answer to my musing, which is how good is the creative product, rather then the choices about ethnicity, height, weight, facial hair, gender etc... So is the new Dr Who any good?  There are arguments either way on this, but I have to admit I've watched every episode and, although perhaps I don't think it's hit the heights of some previous iterations (I actually really liked Paul McGann's interpretation, anything with K-9 and the original Dalek films) but I think I enjoyed them.  So even though the jury is still out it's a tentative thumbs up from me.  But then maybe I'm weird, I also liked John Malkovich's take on Poirot and the Battlestar Galactica re-boot.

Bottom line for me is that really it's the creator, writer or author's prerogative to do what they like with their characters and stories.  As much as fans may feel they know the fictional world that's been created, they all have their own ideas (and therefor prejudices). Everyone's synapses fire in different ways and only the writer's synapses can be right.  For better or worse.

In the meantime I would suggest that we all remember fiction is made-up, and just try and enjoy the ride.  If something isn't for you, then there is plenty of other stuff out there to enjoy.  Or you could write you own.  Did I mention that I have some stories you could try?  Go on, have a listen, and tell me how I should have done it.

A Tale Of Four Ala(i)ns

It’s funny how the same name seems to crop up time and again in relation to my musical influences. Well, maybe not funny, but certainly makes for an interesting Blog thread, so here it is, a tale of four… Ala(i)ns.

I remember hearing Violator for the first time sitting on the floor at our old bass player’s house. Steve Gent was always one for the very latest music, and in this ca se he had been the first of our gang to acquire Depeche Mode’s latest offering. I remember that first listening as much for the fact that the vinyl copy he had (the second copy as he’d already exchanged it twice) was scratched and used to skip infuriatingly. Vinyl was in demise at that time, and this was the catalyst for buying this album on CD, and presumably buying a CD player to go along with it. However, the music was quite extraordinary. Not since Nik Kershaw’s dramatic intro to Dancing Girls had I been so in love with a drum sound. Ever since World In Your Eyes hit my ears I have been in love with snare drums that go “pffft” instead of “therwap” or “crack”.

This led me to explore Depeche Mode’s back catalogue and discover the harder sound they’d developed since Vince Clarke has quit in 1981. That new sound was partly due to grittier songwriting of Martin Gore, but perhaps even more due to the craft and technique of Vince’s replacement – Alan Wilder. Although not immediately accepted as a core member of the band (he was asked to skip the recording of their next album – A Broken Frame) – he became an essential part of the mix for their most influential period. The albums that they produced – Construction Time Again, Black Celebration, Music For The Masses, Violator and Songs Of Faith And Devotion – all rate amongst my favourite long players. As well as keyboards, Wilder contributed Drums and endless time in the studio alongside Flood and other producers to turn a pop act into one of the greatest electro-rock bands in the world.

For my money they peaked with the combination of the film / live album “101” (Wilder’s choice of title apparently)  and the aforementioned Violator. Perhaps he thought so too, as in 1995 Wilder quit the band claiming that his influence and effort had never been properly recognised. I have to agree, most people have never heard of him, but they will know many of the tunes he helped to shape.

As an interesting footnote, Wilder sold off much of memorabilia and even some keyboards used with Depeche Mode in 2011 and the videos created for the auction make for absorbing watching.

The second Ala(i)n goes by the, not uncommon, name of Alain Whyte. He’s a guitarist and songwriter and was a local Burnt Oak boy (his mum knew the mum of a guy I was in a band with). But you probably haven’t heard of him. You almost certainly have heard of some of the songs he’s written and performed on. If I say that he co-wrote Glamorous Glue, Dagenham Dave, You’re The One For Me Fatty, Don’t Make Fun Of Daddy’s Voice then some of you might know who he worked with. However if I mention that he co-wrote Irish Blood, English Heart and First of the Gang to Die then I expect that many more of you will know these songs and who he played guitar for.

Yes, indeedy, alongside his conspirator – Boz Boorer – Alain Whyte wrote the music for many of Morrissey’s biggest tunes (not just him though, he has also written for Madonna, Chris Brown, Rihanna and The Black Eyed Peas).

Whatever you may think of Morrissey’s dodgy politics, you can’t fail to appreciate the sheer scale and excellent writing of many of his big hits. Well, funnily enough, he didn’t actually write them all himself. It was probably the song “You’re The One For Me Fatty” that first made he appreciate his work. Sure the lyric is provocative, but the tune is catchy, circular and well crafted. I was hooked.

I got hold of some live DVDs and was even more blown away. With a succession of beautiful Gibson and Gretsch semi-acoustic guitars Whyte and Boorer brought a sweaty, muscular rockabilly sound to Morrissey’s thoughtful, spiteful and left-field lyrics. It absolutely worked for me. Where I found The Smiths too introspective and clever, this was rock-and-roll at it’s best for me. Great tunes, big guitars and thought-provoking lyrics.

In the end though, like with the previous Alan, it all got a bit too much and a nervous breakdown led him to leave the band in 2007, perhaps Morrissey finally got to him, as he seems to be getting to us all these days.

Now I must confess that I’d never heard of my third Alan, when he was first mentioned to me by my good friend Tudor Davies. But it turned out that he needed a guitarist, and I was rather in need of a new band. And so it turned out that I got to meet the New-Prog-Legend that is Alan Reed, in his own house, playing his own songs (badly to start with). Although I could never hope to emulate the guitar lines of Niall Mathewson from his (most popular band) – Pallas (not the only band he's been in by the way) – it turned out that wasn’t what he was really after. Indeed Alan’s own guitar lines, especially in his excellent album – Honey On A Razor’s Edge – were not a million miles away from my own. Check out the riff on Razor and compare to my own on Snatch. You can, at least, see why Tudor thought that I might be suitable and, after appointing the amazing Mark Spencer as fall-back guitarist, I was in.

What an experience it has been (so far) – with the aforementioned Tudor on keyboards, Mark on electric guitar, Jennifer Ellen Clark on bass and the incredibly in demand Henry Rogers on bass we were off and running. Gigs in Stoke, Southampton, Glasgow and London followed, plus festival appearances at HRH Prog and Summer’s End in Wales and foreign trips to Pagney (France) and Boerderij Cultuurplatform (Netherlands). It’s been a total riot. Somewhere along the way we even managed to produce a live CD (Live From The Razor’s Edge) and there are rumours of a live DVD. Somehow I’ve even managed to lend my guitar tones to a solo record by Jennifer and crowd-type singing to a Twelfth Night release (coming soon). We now have a reputation for good music, energy and the sheer enjoyment of knowing that we are STILL IN A BAND!

Come and see us play next year.

Oh, so who is the final Alan in my series? Well my dad, of course - Alan Callow. The man who bought me my first guitar (birthday present I think, since my first keyboard was for passing my O Levels and I did terribly at A Level and so generic a Strat copy that it had nothing at all written on the headstock) – that played one gig (see picture, the song is Wrapped Around Your Finger by The Police - easy number to start with, not) and then was promptly part exchanged for something better. He also tolerated our practices (as did our mum) and lent me his estate car to drive to endless gigs. Thanks dad, without your assistance and love not much of this would be possible.

Teleman - Family Of Aliens - Fragile electro-pop with a hint of vaudeville

I was invited to see Teleman first by a friend (stand up James King) who was always on the look out for fun things to do in Brighton. The first time I saw them was at the Old Market in central Hove and I was surprised by how much I liked them. Their music is a very light-weight form of pop that is so fragile in its construction that you almost think it might break at any moment. In fact, during my friend’s favourite tune – Christina – it actually does stop, and you are momentarily wondering if it will start again. Having said that, each tune was beautiful, melodic and just a bit different, which left me wanting more.

 My personal favourite at that point was a euro-friendly number called Düsseldorf, featuring genuine German translation at one point. Its more robust sound and indeed the generally more beefed up nature of their second album hinted at more electro-rock-esque possibilities for the future, in their third album – Family Of Aliens – this duly arrived.

Family Of Aliens is, not unnaturally, how the band see themselves, and perhaps having realised that's who they are, they certainly sound more confident and at home with their sound on this record. The keyboards and electro-pop component is ramped up, and often builds up into joyous extended instrumental sections (Submarine Life, Cactus) that verge on the edges of modern dance music. This is a record crying out for extended 12” remixes if that is still a thing.

At points they are so electro-pop on this disk that you could almost imagine this was how the Pet Shop Boys would sound if one of them played electric guitar. Song For A Seagull falls into this category, a tune that invokes the loneliness of a sea bird whilst simultaneously being up-beat and joyous. Indeed it’s when these elements are combined that Teleman are at their best. I find their music both uplifting and heart-breaking, the latter aided by singer Thomas Sanders unusually tremulous vocals. After all a band that can be both life-affirming and melancholic in the same song, pretty much has something for everyone who loves pop music.

The new found knees-up pomp hits its highest mark with the, practically Madness/Supergrass-esque duo of Twisted Heart and Between The Rain, but fret ye not, the fragility is still there too. Always Dreaming starts with a slow monophonic piano refrain and the next instrument to join sounds like an acoustic bass, it’s the perfect tune to accompany a wallow in misery, should you be so inclined.

Overall then, I have to say it’s a beautiful thing. Certainly their most confident, balanced and exciting record to date. Nothing stands out and that’s very much in it’s favour, it’s all excellent and a pleasure to listen to from end to end. In fact, I may even be inclined to get a vinyl copy, if they exist, as sonically it’s so varied that it would be a good match to the musicality of needle, amplifier and speaker.

I was once told that in the perfect photograph the darkest area will be 100% black and the lightest area pure white, that is to say the unexposed, pure white of the photographic paper – and I’ve always thought that a similar analogy should apply to music, that is to say that the loudest part of any record (or live set) should be the loudest noise you can manage, and the quietest bit should be silence. With this record, I think Teleman have cracked it. It’s the perfect picture, onto which you can project the best and worst moments of your life and revel in them both. It will be played on repeat in a thousand teenage bedrooms and, although mainstream radio might not pick it up, it is surely a pop classic that will simply grow in stature over time.

Personally, I love it, and I’m already excited to see what they conjure up next.

P.S.  There is no such thing as a seagull

We Are Traffic

Some trees, no cars.

We are traffic.

Have you ever stopped for a few moments to consider how the world around you would look if there were no cars? Try it now (well, not now, but in a few minutes after you have read this) – step out into your road and imagine that all the cars were gone. Perhaps you could let your imagination run riot and imagine each car replaced with a tree. Splashes of green where now there is garish metal, plastic, rubber and rust. Imagine a street were you can walk to the shops, or the bus down a pathway between shrubs, birds singing, children cycling and playing. It would be nice wouldn’t it?

But that’s not what we have. Instead we have more and more cars and a whole industry geared up to convincing us that we all need to own one, and drive it pointlessly around and around, because that’s cool, isn’t it? We need connectivity to our phones and wi-fi on tap, even though vehicles kill roughly 1,700 people every year in the UK (that's 1.25 million worldwide, equalling the total deaths from the First World War roughly every 15 years) and mobile phone usage in cars, vans and lorries is a big contributor to that.

Also, dunno if you’ve noticed this, but there is a lot of column inches (is that still a thing) being devoted to air pollution these days. Where does this blight on our, our children and old folks lives come from?

We are pollution.

And while we are thinking about it. When was the last time that driving a car was actually fun? Personally it was a long time ago, when I was young and foolish. The world feels different now, and even with all their much publicised problems, the train feels like much more pleasant option these days. You can read a book (is that still a thing) and go on Instagram without endangering everyone around you.

So what can be done? It seems to me that people are not keen to change their behaviour if it feels inconvenient to them in any way. Even though walking, cycling or taking public transport are either good for you, or good for the world, if you can just jump in your car to drive round the block, why would you give that up? Look at the plastic bag situation. For many years we’ve known that single use plastic bags were a blight on our world. Blowing around the countryside, strangling life and shredding into a billion invisible pieces that we now ingest with almost every mouthful. But did anyone change their behaviour until a tax was put on them? Well some did. In fact, I still mourn the fact that you used to get Tesco Clubcard points (other supermarket point based schemes are available) for every bag you re-used. Gone is the carrot, all hail the stick. And lo and behold bag usage is down to, oh you know just the odd 1.04 billion per year (it was 7.6 billion in 2014, but f**k me that still seems a lot). So I’m thinking that we need government to act if we are to have any chance with reducing pointless car journeys.

Here’s some thoughts then, let me know if you think any of these might tempt you out of your car and onto your feet.

1. Increased Council Charge for any households with more than one car registered to the household
2. Decreased Council Charge for any households with no cars registered there
3. Raise the age you can start driving to 18
4. Give free bicycles to 16 year olds
5. Hell, give a free bicycle to everyone who wants one, they are a couple of hundred quid each. Anyone know how much one car costs us in road repairs, infrastructure, pollution and hospital bills per year? 
6. Free bus passes to anyone who doesn’t own a car
7. Mandatory buy-back scheme for the worst polluters, turning the scrap metal into, well bicycles seems an obvious fit
8. Increase fuel duty
9. Re-introduce road tax charging it by the mile
10. Ban car adverts that show people driving pointlessly around and around unrealistically empty streets, or over the countryside (just see how many of these you notice now)
11. Hell, ban all car adverts

I could go on. I probably will. But even if all that seems unpalatable to you, at least remember one thing. This isn’t someone else’s problem. If you own a car (and I do, although I seldom use it these days), then this is your problem and one day our kids will ask us what we did about it.

We are traffic.

Steampunk Podcast - ARC Light Programme

Since writing stories, performing with prog rock bands and doing my day job are clearly not enough, I have begun serialising my stories into a podcast series.  Based around a fictional presenter (Theodore Pilkington-Rhubarb) and his hapless assistant (Mabel - surname not yet revealed), the podcast takes the form of an old-fashioned radio show in the style of the Goon Show or I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue.  Each week I read part of my book (either a whole story or half of one, concluding the following week) plus new material that I write.  At the moment this is a collection of Listener's Letters, but soon I'm going to branch out into other silly ideas.

It's also a great showcase for the steampunk music of Charlotte Savigar - it works so well in this context and it's well worth getting the album if you like what you hear.  It's all good clean fun and suitable for listeners of any age.  If you love a bit of comedy / storytelling and enjoy a good podcast or audio book, then it's well worth checking out.

You can subscribe via iTunes or Overcast or just visit Soundcloud to hear the episodes.  It's on Stitcher too and TuneIn, but I don't know the links (okay I found the links, so you can click any of them now).  You can find it by searching for "Tales of New Albion".  Do let me know what you think!  There is a new episode coming every week.

Mind you, you can't please all the people all the time.  Have a read of this letter, I don't know, critics!

Interview with Charlotte Savigar

As part of the promotion for the new Tales Of New Albion steampunk electro-rock album, I managed to get hold of the talented composer - Charlotte Savigar - to ask her a few questions about the creation process:

How did you get into music composing?

After starting piano aged 7, it was obvious I had an instant love for this instrument and indeed music. I remember as a kid listening to composers such as Liszt and Chopin at my Grandad’s house and feeling incredibly moved and connected to the piano pieces I was hearing. I guess this was the catalyst that prompted me to sit down and start writing my own music.
I wrote my first solo piano composition aged 11, it was called ‘Pulse’ and I remember feeling really proud of my creation. I even performed it at a school assembly. From there I filled up manuscript book after manuscript book writing down as many ideas as I could. 


Tell us about the Tales Of New Albion project and how that came about

I spend the majority of my time writing library music and every so often I will have a quiet patch where I’m waiting for my next project to begin. With this knowledge, my husband suggested that I write a piece of music for his next story (from the Tales of New Albion) that he was due to read at an upcoming Surrey Steampunk Convivial. After doing a little research about the steampunk genre I decided to create a victoriana / scifi sounding track that is now officially the ‘Albion theme music’. We were both very happy with the composition so Daren suggested that I compose more pieces to accompany his book. Over the course of about 10 months, he gave me more and more story briefs and I pretty much had free range to choose my musical pallet and get creative!  


What is your favourite track from the album and why?

My favourite track is ‘Lost in the Great White’, I would describe this as ‘the serious track’ on the album! It took a lot of time to create this Asian sounding composition and the reason I like it so much is that it really moves me. I feel an emotional connection this piece and am very proud of the writing here.


Your previous releases were more song based, how was it working on an instrumental album?

I loved it! As much as I enjoyed and still do enjoy recording vocal music in the studio, I struggle so much with writing lyrics that on so many occasions it’s held me back. I realised towards the end of 2015 that I was losing the passion for writing songs and once I started writing library music I decided that this was where my heart felt whole and ironically I felt I could express myself more through instrumental music than through words.
With this album I had the opportunity to write for instruments I wouldn’t have ever thought of writing for in the past. In particular synths! They play a big part in the album and really create the scifi landscape I was trying to achieve. I felt throughout the whole project that I had the freedom to create whatever I wanted and as a composer that felt truly liberating!

Any plans for a follow up?

Well Daren is already writing volume 2 so hell yeah!!!

Tell us something about your self that not many people know.

Apparently I’m a bus nerd! And I love to do impersonations!


Check out Charlie's website and download Tales Of New Albion from Bandcamp.

Tales Of New Albion - the Soundtrack Album

Well this is something a bit different from my usual posts.  A while back when I was doing a few readings of my Steampunk stories I asked Charlie (Charlotte Savigar) if she would do a piece of music as an intro for me.  One thing led to another and now we are very proud to announce that we have released a whole album's worth of music to accompany the book.  I'll post an interview with the composer and more about the specific tunes, but make sure you check it out here on Soundcloud.

If you like what you hear, then please do purchase the album from Bandcamp.  You can also order a signed copy of the book along with a signed CD of the soundtrack from Bandcamp, so check that out too.

A lot of the tracks are real earworms, but make sure you at least check out Ellen Hall, Tobias Fitch and Lost In The Great White - as these are just great pieces of music.  Once again there is great artwork by Frog Morris to accompany the release.  Charlie wrote, performed and mixed all these tracks and we had them mastered by Gethin John at Hafod Mastering just outside Cardiff.

I can't recommend this highly enough, so please do check it out and let us know what you think.

Conversation With An Imp

It was dusk as I wandered drowsily and stiff with the fatigues of the day out into my garden, a bag of mealworms clutched in my hand to feed my local hedgehogs. There was a simple science to doing this. Your common or garden Hedgehog’s diet overlaps with both birds and cats, so choosing something that cats are not too fond of is ideal. Mealworms fit this bill perfectly, however the local birds will happy eat those, so you have to wait to put them out until it is late enough to prevent the birds swooping and nabbing the lot. Hedgehogs are nocturnal, so you never see them in daylight unless they are unwell. Right now the warm evening light was a hazy shade of light orange, evocative and dreamlike.

With a small start I realised that standing at the bottom of my lawn in the little hollow near the bush where the fox liked to snooze was a curious looking child, or perhaps a midget as its face was noticeably older looking that its size would imply. Not dissimilar to how the infant Jesus is often portrayed with oddly mature features. It was about four feet tall and dressed plainly in white or very pale blue, its curiously androgynous features were friendly and it had a pleasant, calming smile as though it was delighted to see me. Nevertheless it chilled me rigid and a shiver pierced me through. It raised a hand slightly in a manner perhaps intended to relax me.
‘Please do not be afraid, we will not harm you.’ It spoke in a curiously adult voice, neither distinctly male nor female sounding, but sympathetic and mild. Not for the last time I was inclined to believe it. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked, trying to be calm although my throat was very dry and the words did not come without gruffness attached.
‘No,’ replied the imp with the merest of shrugs. ‘Perhaps we help you.’ It was a statement rather than a question. I swallowed and shook my head slightly to see if that helped in any way. The light continued its lazy drift through the oranges towards burnt ochre. I found myself curious that it had said “we”.
‘How many of you are there?’ I rasped dryly, flicking my eyes around nervously to see if there was more of its kind lurking nearby.
‘Difficult to say,’ it replied in a tone that seemed to imply that it would be hard to explain, rather than it being uncertain on the numbers. It was still slightly creepy though; if it had intoned, “We are legion” in the voice of the devil, I would have been no more perturbed.
‘Are you from round here?’ the question sounded daft even as I formed it.
‘Difficult to say,’ it intoned soothingly again, ‘we have been here before.’
Something felt very strange suddenly, perhaps it was the light. It was darker, but still eerily lit in ruddy tones creeping towards crimson. The clothing of the creature, for I dared not consider it human now, seemed more brilliantly white than before. This brought something to mind and without really considering it I blurted,
‘Are you an angel?’ The creature grinned broadly at this as though amused by the thought, however it shook its head subtly in a way that did not imply anything other than a simple denial.
‘No,’ it replied kindly. However it pre-empted further questions with an expanded explanation this time. ‘What we are is difficult to say. We can tell you what you are.’ The weighting on these words gave me the distinct impression that it didn’t mean me personally, but something much wider, more encompassing. I gulped but could not muster any words at this point as I was distinctly freaking right out (without any difficulty). ‘You are Selfish.’ It continued, still with a simple disarming smile and happy tone to its voice as though discussing a much-cherished pet. Fair enough, I thought but again could not muster any words at this point. The benevolent imp continued to smile pleasantly and its eyebrows lifted just a millimetre or two as if wondering if I had further questions. I did not know what to think. Somehow my lips found shapes and air left my heaving lungs.
‘Why are you here?’ I seemed to have asked, although I was not sure if I had actually spoken out loud. I was suddenly aware of my heart hammering somewhere amongst the veins in my neck.
‘To visit you,’ stated the imp, but again it seemed to imply that the visit was not to me personally. ‘To study and see if we can change.’ I gulped hard, not really following what it was saying. ‘Your planet will continue to revolve,’ it added, but my brain was now spinning sufficiently all on its own. A shudder of dizziness washed over me and wondered if I might faint. ‘We have been here before,’ it repeated, ‘we were selfish.’ This last addendum seemed to suggest that the selfish could overcome their inwardly greedy ways. Why was it speaking to me though, on this warm, sleepy evening that now ebbed inexorably into night? ‘To not be selfish, you must do something that does not benefit yourself,’ spoke the smiling face as though it had read my thoughts, could it read my thoughts? Was it even real?
‘How?’ I croaked in my pitchy head voice.
‘You feed the hedgehogs,’ it replied soothingly in a way that was neither fully instruction nor fully statement.
‘Feed the hedgehogs,’ I mouthed parrot fashion. I could not fathom the implications of the sentence. ‘Literally or metaphorically?’ I worded, astonished at my sudden evolution into some sort of philosophy professor.
‘It is difficult to say, but you should know.’ My head felt clamped now, the whole unreality of this discourse was clanging like a bell in my ears. ‘Hedgehogs are not aware that they are endangered.’ There was a rustling sound from the bushes and a snuffling that did not dissipate. I held still, I knew that hedgehogs have poor eyesight, but would depart pronto if they heard me move. ‘Life is fragile,’ said a gentle voice from somewhere.
‘Life is lumpy,’ I replied, there was the slightest of slight chuckles.
‘This will be hard for you to recall, you do not believe’.
‘You mean no one will believe me, or I will not remember?’ I do not know if I thought this or spoke it acoustically, since neither my garden nor my inner monologue has an echo. 

The sky was dark now, the soft amber glow from the garden lights was the only faint illumination. I could hear the hedgehogs snuffling in the shrubbery and found some residual energy to quietly move and place their food on the ground in the usual spots. I felt like something profound had happened, but I could not tell if it had really taken place or I had imagined it. I was not sure what the difference would be. Sometimes I am awoken suddenly at night by the sound of my doorbell, but no one is at the door; it felt like that.
 ‘I wonder if the hedgehogs will survive our selfishness?’ It was night, and I was talking to myself.

Tales Of New Albion - it's here!

So after three and a half years of writing (not constantly mind, just every now and then) about a dozen live readings and two exhausting days of proof-reading (I didn't do a very good job) - my first book is actually available for all to buy and read.  It's a collection of ten Steampunk short stories that may, or may not, be connected in some way - and you can get it as both a Kindle download or a mighty 221 page paperback (with big print and a cover illustration by Frog Morris).  I'll do some "thank you"s below, but without further ado here are the links you need:

Buy Now On Amazon (please, please leave me a review!)

Tales Of New Albion Website (for joining the mailing list to hear about readings and follow-up publications).

It's been quite an emotional journey in some ways and none of this would have happened without the following wonderful people, in no particular order:

Carolyn Whitlock - who shared her writing with me and encouraged me to get back to using my imagination with her own sci-fi stories and ideas.

Ben Henderson - I'd never heard of Steampunk until I met Ben, the next thing I know I'm dreaming a complete Steampunk short story in my sleep (the first one in the book).  Foolishly he agreed to let me read it at one of his splendid Steampunk Convivials and then I realised I actually had better write something!

Frog Morris and his lovely wife Victoria - for being encouraging friends, keeping me creative and (in Frog's case) doing the wonderful cover illustration.  I owe you so much guys!

Catherine Paver - for actually laughing at my wordplay jokes and encouraging me to keep going.

Darren Gooding - for support at all stages (especially when reading to just one person) and planting the seeds of the final chapter in my head when he said that I should include the homeguard in some way.

Emma King - for so much support and love, more laughter and actually helping me realise I could be an author.

Peter / Otis Manousakos - for taking my writing seriously and actually doing some proof-reading for me, plus loud conversations over coffee that I miss.

Lynda Savigar - my dear mum-in-law, who encouraged me at every turn and chased me up for copies of the stories.  The cats are her fault too!

Maura Sutton, Tom Clements, Brian Hurrell, Rev. Fruitbat, Jude Cowan Montague, Tim Barlow, Chris Simonite, Steve Jones and everyone else who requested copies of the story and gave me encouragement along the way.  Sorry if I've forgotten anyone... do remind me!!

To the Puffin Club for commending one of my stories many years ago. I re-wrote it (for the third time) as episode II of this collection.

Penultimately to all the lovely Steampunk folk who listened, commented, laughed, applauded and maybe even shed a tear during my readings.  You are all lovely.

Finally to my partner, inspiration and muse - Charlie Savigar - without who's relentless encouragement and chiding to write I might well have given up.  I owe you a lot, thank you for being there.

1968 - 1973

In the aftermath of the referendum I have been told by more than one person that they have an advantage over younger voters in that they can "Remember a time before the EU".  Well it only occurred to me the other day that I too can remember a time before the EU (or us joining the EEC to be technically correct).  So just for the record here is the pre-EEC (and early EEC) Britain that I remember.

Despite being exceptionally well educated (6 A-Levels, degree & PhD) my dad had to travel to the north of England, away from his family (who mostly still live in Bournemouth) and my mum's family (still mostly in Kent) in the south to find work.  This is the reason why in the twilight of 1968 I was born in Cheshire, many miles away from the rest of our clan, and spent a big chunk of my childhood there or in Liverpool.  This is something that has dogged me for my whole life and makes it very hard to answer the random question "Where are you from?"  My brother was also born in Cheshire, but to add even further symbolism he was born IN A BLACKOUT!

We were relatively poor (compared with today) through most of my childhood, many early Christmases we had homemade toys rather than shop bought gifts.  Now don't get me wrong, we were very happy kids and a bit of homemade creativity goes a very long way.  But how lucky are we now that we can choose to make a homemade gift for our children rather than having no option?  Those that know me well will be aware that the lack of a Millennium Falcon plastic toy has haunted me my whole life.  Of course that was a little bit later on by which time our joining the EEC had begun to pick up Britain's sagging economy that was struggling to move on from it's industrial roots.  Britain was a country with many economic migrants, but they were mostly British people with no choice but to move around the country (or, after we joined the EEC, abroad to the resurgent economies of Germany and Spain) to find work and support their families.  I've mentioned Auf Wiedersehen Pet before, so will refrain from banging on, but there seems to be a collective failure of memory that this was the situation, and how the EEC helped improve it.

Eventually the recovering economy brought relocation after relocation for us as first dad and then mum moved to get work closer to the capital.  My own friends were left far behind in a world where no email or social media meant it was harder than now to stay in touch.  I did used to write long letters to my best friend in Liverpool, but then he moved also for work and we began to drift apart.  Those of you lucky enough to have stayed in one area your whole life should remember that these days we can choose to move if we wish but, recently anyway, low unemployment has meant it's possible to find jobs without forced relocation.  Being close to your family and friends is something to be treasured.

So the pre-EU Britain that I remember is one of economic migration, (relative) poverty, strikes and blackouts.  A time when the scapegoats for much of this was the Irish and the blacks rather than eastern europeans and muslims, plus ça change as they probably don't say that much on the continent.  Not sure which bit of this is supposed to make me look forward to post EU life, but there you go.  Perhaps I'm missing the point and they are thinking fondly of the austerity of the 1950s and 1960s or the joyous time that was Europe in the 1930s and 1940s?!

It's my honest opinion that it is successive UK government's fault that the economic benefits of EEC membership where not shared more fairly around the country.  We are now a post-Industrial nation, and there seems to be precious little plan as to how we adapt to this changing world.  I'm sure there are people with some great ideas, but (and feel free to tell me I'm a numpty) a return to the 1970s surely isn't one of them.

POSTSCRIPT: I found the letter in the picture above in my dad's new garage in Chesham, a simple reminder that times were very hard before and just as the UK joined the EEC.

Who's Listening?

One vote - no voice

I learnt something very interesting about the UK from the referendum this week.  I learnt that there are areas of the UK (in the northeast and Wales to name but 2) that are so poor that they qualify for EU grants and subsidies on this basis.  I also learnt that these areas voted most solidly to leave the EU?  So how did this happen?  How have successive UK governments failed these regions so completely that the EU had to intervene at all?  This is a damning inditement for those we have elected to lead us - the people that we voted for.

There are many reasons for why the poorest parts of the UK voted to leave, but the single biggest one of these is that they don't feel they have a voice in politics.  Due to our archaic 1st past the post system, this is the first time in 3 generations that a vote in Sunderland has counted the same as a vote in the City Of London.  Finally they had a voice that carried equal weight and we all need to listen.

We need change now in the UK before it is too late, voices must be heard equally whichever part of the UK they were born in.

We need proportional representation now!

We need a fully elected second legislative chamber now!

We need some real democracy so that the stranglehold of vested interests is broken forever and all the regions have a say in how we move forward.

When 1.9 million people (4% of the electorate - they should have had about 26 MPs) who voted Ukip only have one MP - something is badly wrong.

I also think that the environment has been sadly omitted from all politics for some bizarre reason, but PR would help with that too (1 million votes for the Greens = 1 MP, should be more like 12).

This is what the EU Referendum screams at me, the question is...

...is anyone listening?

So About This Democracy Thing

Gotta love Brighton :)

I've heard some very interesting ideas about what the UK will be like if we vote to leave the EU tomorrow.  These seem to include pretty much everything that is on people's wish-list for a fairer society including: nationalisation and a super tax on the rich.  Folk who are on the left of the political spectrum seem to think that this referendum is a kind of super general election, that will make us all happier, less "restricted: and better off.  I'm really struggling to get my head around why people think this, so perhaps it's worth just going over a bit about how democracy works in this country.

Post EU we will continue to elect the UK government with our first-past-the-post system - which appoints the Members of Parliament to The House Of Commons.  This system (as I've mentioned before, and I've not been contradicted on this yet) favours the incumbent government, since they can change boundaries as they see fit.  This means currently we are looking at a majority Conservative government or a coalition of some sort.  I favour coalition, but it means trading off manifesto issues and tends to end up with lowest common denominator politics rather than great social strides, so I'll leave that to someone better qualified to explain.

Don't forget that our second legislative chamber is The House Of Lords, which is entirely unelected, so again favours the incumbent government since it appoints them.  That's right folks, we can't name them, didn't elect them and can't kick them out!

I think it's most likely that Cameron will resign following a Brexit, emboldened by their win the right wing of the Conservatives and Ukip members (who will go back to being Conservative) will demand a pro-Brexit leader to take them through the negotiations, stating that it's "the will of the British people".  This is likely to be Boris Johnson and please don't let anyone underestimate him, he's a very popular politician who will say pretty much anything to be PM - so he has the best chance (The irony that he will then be an UNELECTED leader of our country, hasn't escaped me).  There are still four years left on the term of the current government so that will cover the EU exit negotiations with a bit to spare.  Since nothing much will change in that time and anything that goes wrong Boris can handily blame on the pesky "faceless bureaucrats" (thank you Ukip for that lazy and derogatory term) in the EU I believe he will get another term of 5 years (that's up until 2025).

So how do we know what a post-EU Conservative government will do in the next ten or so years?  That's very easy, you look at their manifesto.  They will carry on with their own ideas, with renewed vigour since we are now free from "pesky EU interference".  In essence this will mean, for the time being, austerity.  This is basically cuts to services, including schools, policing, benefits and healthcare.  When possible they will endeavour to cut taxes for the rich and the middle classes, in the false belief that this benefits everyone - it doesn't, it benefits those who pay most tax, i.e. the rich and the upper middle classes.

The earliest that the Conservatives can make any changes to their manifesto will be in 2020, roughly the time that EU subsidies run out (the promise to keep them until 2020 is EU policy, they are promising what will happen anyway!).  Will increased subsidies for the poorer parts of the UK (notably Wales and the North-East) be added to their manifesto?  Perhaps, but I don't think so, I think that in the unlikely event that there is spare money it will go in tax cuts.  Austerity is likely to still be running (it's currently due to run until at least 2018) or, perhaps, being reduced (it could also increase if the economy sinks, but let's not get too depressed here), but this won't help the poorest regions quickly.   The same goes for farming subsidies: the EU is one of the few organisations in the world rich enough to pay farmers to manage their land as countryside even if they can't make a profit from it through farming.  I don't recall seeing set-aside subsidies on the Conservative party manifesto, but perhaps they'll add it in my 2020?  In the meantime once these subsidies are withdrawn farmers will have no choice but to sell off unprofitable parts of their farms.  What happens to it after then is up to whoever buys it.

I could go on here, but actually I will just re-iterate that in order to understand what post-Brexit UK will look like you need to read the major party manifestos.  This is NOT a General Election, you are NOT choosing who is in power tomorrow (it's the Conservative party) - you are only voting to remove what the EU gives us and for that I hope you will take a few minutes to read my previous Blog on this very subject.

A vote for real democracy is a vote FOR our continued membership of the EU - if you don't believe me, then please research how democracy really works in the European Union.  Oh, and if you don't know the name of your MEP - then effing well find out!  You can vote for them and you can lobby them for change.

PS For more about how EU subsidies are decided and who in the UK receives them, then this is worth a couple of minutes of your time.

PPS Dorian Lynskey has expressed this even more eloquently here.

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.’