The Dizziness of Detail

 It's a new year. 

I had such hopes. 

After a modest Christmas distended into a rather crapulous New Year's Eve, I developed flu from the crowd I was DJing for - thanks guys - and I've coughed so much I've put my back out. There was a sudden flurry of snow outside. I like my snow deep and crisp and even, like fresh linen or a nice baked camembert. But you don't just get snow, do you? You get ice. Snow lasts a day, but ice sticks around for a week, glinting like Tinkerbell at her jealous worst, magicking the friction away, introducing you to her snide pals, gravity and the stone cold earth. 

For some reason the ice - and don't worry this is AT NO POINT going to turn into a satire about Trump's gestapo - is always worse outside my house than any other house in the street. In the same way that the front garden is a wind trap - in autumn ours is the only garden full of drifts of golden leaf mulch, and if a bin tips over I'm picking half empty takeaway boxes out of the hedge - it's also an ice trap. It is. I'm not half as paranoid as you think I am. 

I had in mind, once again, the turning over of a new leaf. New year, new John. Less fat, more sober, healthier. That's the shrinking dream. But we're five days into the new year and I'm lying on a sofa with a hacking cough, burning eyes, a ruined back, under siege from the ice moat ringing the house. 

I'm bored. 

No I'm not. I'm never bored. There's always stuff to find out. What I'm not, though, is constructive. The laptop in front of me is a dangerous toy. I'm doing research without reason. I'm just looking things up. Ever spare a thought for the actress Emma Wray? From the ITV comedy series Watching? No? She gave up acting in 1999 to become a nanny. I know that now. She was 34 at the time. 

Did you see that live performance of Take That covering Smells Like Teen Spirit? I did. Jason Orange gurning and playing a tiny guitar, Mark on his knees on bass. Howard Donald, amazingly, a pretty good punk drummer. Gary Barlow, gym-toned, stripped to the waste by the end of the intro, looking an Iggy Pop Ken doll, and singing like Gary Barlow getting the words wrong. That's something I've now seen. 

Yesterday, it was all Jet from the Gladiators. As I lay in bed with a pillow over my eyes, trying to remember how to breathe through a nose and mouth suddenly ill-designed for that purpose, I started to wonder if Diane Yould, Jet from the Gladiators, was related to Sam Yould, the real name of the Sci Fi author, John Christopher, whose book, The Little People sounds insane. 

It wasn't totally far fetched. The Yould/Yould connection, not The Little People which, as I say, sounds insane. Aside from being the Gladiator that turned Alan Partridge's head, Diane had portrayed a werewolf in TV programme, and played flute in her brother's prog rock group. These are all things I know about Jet, without research. It seemed entirely possible that a woman with that amount of niche interests - she's the Kate Bush of fitness - might have a fantasy author in the family. She doesn't, though. Because her name isn't Yould, it's Youdale. And John Christopher isn't her uncle or grandad or whatever, because his name isn't Yould either. It's Youd. No one is called Yould. My brain just made it up while I was half asleep. 

But by then I was in the rabbit hole of Jet from Gladiators and her ill-starred, recent marriage to a woman she met in Tesco, which culminated in alleged violence, coffee spilling and falling over a sofa and why, when Susan came in to find me watching an episode of Celebrity Antiques Road Show starring Jet and Hunter from the Gladiators - he does Gong therapy now - I had some explaining to do. "Is this on the iPlayer?" she said, "Have you searched for this?"

We had a little chat. 

Last night I spent several hours watching professional musicians "reacting" to Bjork records on YouTube, and trying to explain them, something, it turns out, professional musicians are ill-equipped to do. "Wow! This is so crazy!" repeated one jazz pianist, trying to work out her vocal melodies on the keyboard "Wow!" "I didn't really know what to expect," said an opera singer, "I heard her do a jazz song called "It's So Quiet", so I was expecting...but this isn't, like, jazz..." No shit. 

I love Bjork. New resolution: listen to some more Bjork. Those recent records. I bet they're great. 

Today, and it's still morning, I've been reading the one star reviews, on Amazon, of David Mitchell's memoir: Back Story. I'd not heard of Back Story before, but it appears to be a memoir of how he started walking all over London because he had a bad back. And that was supposed to cure it somehow. 

A memoir about a bad back? Who would want to read that? 

Well, loads of people obviously. Because he's a funny man off the telly and that is a license to sell books these days. A lot of people read Back Story, and a lot of people loved it. It mainly gets four and five star reviews. I enjoyed his Unruly history of the kings and occasional queens of Britain. He's a charming, conversational writer, with a voice calibrated for repressed English narkiness. Which is my particular cup of tea. He's the only person I can imagine doing the audio version of Fine. Or Julian Rhind Tutt. He'd be good. He'd be very good. Call me, Julian. 

But I'm not reading the five star reviews. I'm reading the one stars. Not because they tell me much about David Mitchell and his book, but because they tell me so much about the people who have written them. 

Here's "Currer Bell" - nice literary reference, mate - with some views: "I didn't particularly enjoy this book; it wasn't what I was expecting. His narrative is painstakingly descriptive about the most trivial aspects of his life and, in reality, I found it difficult to read this drivel. He doesn't make any particularly ground-breaking conclusions or reflections about his life - it's just a long and tedious story with many obscure and random details. Although the format of the book was interesting, I think it was too ambitious to be done successfully. Mere chapters would have sufficed."

There's a lot to unpack there. He, and I think it's a he, even though the original Currer Bell definitely wasn't - didn't like the book because it wasn't what he was expecting. Well, whose fault is that? Is that David Mitchell's fault? He's written the book. Your expectations are your own business. "I really like that sketch David Mitchell wrote where the Nazis look around and see all the skulls on their stuff - I hope the book is like that. Oh no, it isn't. It's an actual book full of words I have to read. How could I have known ANY of this?"

"I didn't like The Lord of the Rings because I expected it to be a manual for my toaster. There was little, if any, toaster content. Nul points."

"I expected the Little Women to stay little but not only were they largely normal sized at the start, they actually got bigger as the book continued. Farcical."

"I wanted the Bible to feature more kittens in petal slippers."

Currer uses "trivial" and "drivel" and complains about "obscure" and "random" details. Though the format was interesting, it was too ambitious to be done successfully. At all. By anyone. Keep it to "mere" chapters. No one is good enough to move outside the safe parameters of mere chapters. There be dragons. 

The edgy and unsuccessful "format" Bell is referring to is the idea of Mitchell, while taking his long stroll around London, having landmarks spark ideas and reflections in his head as he travels. Currer is right. It's too avant garde. Who could possibly tame that wild literary pony. Stick to mere chapters, guys. Phew. 

ISD says: "Have given up (? temporarily) half way through. Language is unnecessarily pretty bad. David seems to have an obsession with analysing things to death. I have a certain amount of sympathy with his experiences in his early years, but he is certainly unusual to say the least in the way he feels about some aspects of life. Would not recommend this to any of my friends or aquaintances."

I like the tension at the start: "have given up (have I? I don't know. God. Why are you doing this to me, David. I wish I could quit you)" but then the language becomes an issue. The thorny problem of language. Mitchell, boringly, predictably, has plumped for English. A bit obvious, a bit route one. Still, its a language he speaks and one that is spoken by the majority of his audience. He's playing the hits. It's understandable. Indeed, that's its chief benefit. 

I'm joking, of course. Ha ha. 

What ISD really means is that there's swearing in the book. Pretty bad language. And they don't mean the language is pretty but bad, like a gangster's moll icily chewing gum at you, no, the pretty is used as a qualifier here. The language is partially, semi-bad. Not as bad as it could have been. Is this the problem? Does ISD want worse profanity? Are the medium swears not hitting the spot? Could he have tried harder? Get some Exorcist level Karen Finley art filth spewing about? Paint the walls green with noxious effluent? 

No, I'm being disingenuous. Again. She - I think this one's a she - doesn't like the potty mouth. Also she doesn't want a memoir that "analyses" things, and feels that Mitchell is "certainly unusual to say the least" in the way he feels about things. I know we're all in our bubbles. I know people get their news from AI and WhatsApp groups now. But reading a book about someone's life and worrying about the swearing - which Mitchell does all the time in every facet of his career - and then throwing the book aside when his views do not coincide with yours - and again, I think he has been fairly consistent in EVERY FACET of his career about what those views might be - suggests to me that you might want to do a little bit more research before making your purchase. ISD appears to think Mitchell appeared fully formed as Ludvig or as the author of Unruly. But I think I'm right in saying there's both swearing and views in those too.       

This review, by Emily C, is titled "Not for David Mitchell fans", which is a bold claim to be made of a book by David Mitchell where the majority reviews are, as I say, five star ones. Let's hear her rationale: 

"I am normally a huge fan of David Mitchell, but this book just isn't funny and he comes across as a right prat. It's so bad I've even started to dislike him. If you're a fan and don't want to go off him, avoid this book."

Okay. I've not actually read this book. Maybe she's right. Maybe, if I did read it, I'd think he was a "right prat". But I think she's really saying she's a big fan of Mark Corrigan in Peep Show. Again, I don't know that. I did look into her other purchases - oh yes, I'm properly insane - and this is her only book review, so there's no way of seeing what she usually likes, though she was no fan of the bottle of sake she bought that tasted like "weird limoncello" and the Ican London Professional Cream Peroxide turned her hair orange. 

Lollifish called it "Dull". Derek Lunt - and I hope that's his real name - also railed against the "constant obscenity". Bit rich with your rhyming slang moniker, Derek. Amazon Customer called it "boring" and claimed it was "too clever by half" and also described the impossibility of "trying to be original in an autobiography" because "it just doesn't work". Illustrato called it a "steaming pile" and declared his life was "too short". ABZ found it "boring" and "did not engage with it at all". 

 Now. 

Like I say, I've not read this book. It might be terrible. But I doubt it's terrible. Maybe the premise of a "man walking around London remembering things" really doesn't work. It's too clever by half, after all. And maybe the way David Mitchell talks about David Mitchell in an autobiography of David Mitchell is a bit bogged down in all that David Mitchell detail. But I think, given the contract between author and reader, at the very least the writer of the memoir should be expected to write about themselves in their own voice. And the reader should not be surprised and disappointed by them doing that. This book - which have never read - passes the Ronseal test at the very least. David Mitchell's talking about his Back Story, the events of his past and his bad back, its a pun, guys, then the least he can expect of his reader is for them not to be surprised if he goes on about the past and his bad back. Did you not read the blurb? Did you not read the title or the name of the author? Are you happy to write Amazon reviews but never read them? Mitchell is a swearer. He's a ranter. He's pretty good at it. Top notch effin' and jeffin' all the way. Of course. It's what he's known for. His upbringing seems pretty quiet. He's middle-class. He went to a good school and then a good university. He met a man and they started writing sketches together. They got on the telly. Later still he met a woman and married her. They had a little girl they called Barbara, and how come no one has flagged that? He has a bad back. That is the content of this book, if you're just looking for sequential events. The only way to make it interesting is to write in an interesting manner about it. If you want cataclysmic events, read fucking Hitler: Nemesis by Ian Kershaw. Again. You can't buy the autobiography of a nice middleclass boy, who only ever presents himself as a bearded, slightly fraught, middle-aged, middle class Englishman, and complain that he's not exactly Iggy Pop. No, he isn't. That's the point. He's David Mitchell. 

And, equally, while I haven't read this book, I have read enough of David Mitchell's writing to know that one thing he's very good at is getting his voice on the page. You read it, you hear him. He's good at it. So, really, what WERE you expecting, Emily C? If you don't like swearing, why would you buy this, ISD? Descriptions of the most trivial aspects of people's lives is the cornerstone of British humour, Currer Bell, obscure and random details - and here it becomes more about me than David Mitchell - are the very stuff of life. That's the interest. The gold. The sprinkles. The glitter at the princess party. The black pepper on the Pasta Puttanesca. It's what life is all about. It's what life is for. The sheer panoply of peculiarity, the dizziness of detail. 

Though you can go too far. I've just watched the video for Diane Youdale's single "I Don't Know" - she was advised to sing by Nasty Nigel Lythgoe - and, almost unbelievably, its not very good. It's like It Bites had a go at writing a dance pop hit. It's full of This Corrosion guitar and Diane, dressed as a wench, being attacked by cavaliers, while the modern day dance sections look like aerobics workouts for people who hate themselves.  

I'm still lying on the sofa with a hacking cough, burning eyes, a ruined back, and under siege from the ice moat ringing the house. 

I think I'll close the laptop now, though.