He Fills His Head With

 Culture....

Music:

It’s been an age since I last culturally blogged; June 25^th to be precise. Obviously, I didn’t intend to leave it so long, but things happened, and other stuff got in the way, meaning I needed to write about different subjects at different times than I’d intended to, but here we are at last. This means that certain experiences have become hazy in my mind and, in a few instances, I’m seeing the recent past through a glass darkly. You know, I really should ensure I take my notebook with me everywhere I go. This is certainly the case with gigs, as I can’t remember anything pertinent relating to The Proclaimers at the Mouth of the Tyne Festival back in early July at Tynemouth Priory.  I do know that it cost £37 to get in and, astonishingly, it was still sold out. I do know that the following nights saw Beverley Knight and then the unspeakable Paul Heaton as the headline acts, so we gave those a swerve. I do remember Shelley and I walking down Front Street on a chilly Thursday evening, feeling like a by-election candidate, shaking hands with numerous friends and acquaintances, some of whom I’d not seen in years, while others I’d been in contact with only days before, as I ran into them.

 

Roddy Woomble supported, but I think he’d finished his set by the time we were in position, with a big bag of cans, outside the back of The Gibraltar Rock. Not only because they are Hibbees, though that does help, I’ve always had a very strong affection for The Proclaimers since I first heard Letter from America and Throw the R Away on The Tube in early 1987, followed almost immediately by their Janice Long session containing the same songs. Indeed, in 1987, I must have seen them 5 times; including getting royally smashed backstage at The Duchess in Leeds in November of that year. Of course, the initial splendour of their acoustic work wasn’t maintained once they’d picked up a band and turned overly commercial, but I’ve always held a kind of candle for them. It was great to hear all the old hits tonight, especially the Hibernian FC anthem Sunshine on Leith. Sadly, we didn’t really see them, but the sound was good, and it was an enjoyable evening. Especially for nowt.

I think my next gig was about a month later, on Thursday 3^rd August, when I took my pal Flanners to see the very wonderful Shunyata Improvisation Group away from their 2023 adopted home of The Globe, at the Brinkburn Street Brewery. Augmented by the peripatetic polymath John Pope on double bass, this was a superb set by the region’s foremost free improvisational acoustic ensemble, despite it seeming at one point that they were doing a cover version of Bela Lugosi’s Dead, much to the subsequent post-performance embarrassment of the performers. It was also an incredibly comfortable gig, as the whole room was full of comfy armchairs and overstuffed sofas; ideal for relaxing over a few bevvies, while your mind drew circles in the sky. Shunyata Improvisation Group are one of the greatest musical discoveries I’ve made over the last decade. If you haven’t seen them yet, please try and do so as a matter of urgency.

Of equal importance to my discovery of Shunyata Improvisation Group has been my discovery of TQ magazine, and especially the live events curated by its founder, Andy Wood, though I have to say how much I enjoyed the Feelin’ mini-CD that came with double issue #62/63. It’s a lovely, chaotic experience of random instrumentation and found sounds. However, let’s get back to the live experiences; having called the Lit & Phil home for the last year and a half, times and circumstances have changed, meaning that The Globe is the new base for TQ live events, with the first one taking place on Friday 18^th August. It featured a typically eclectic line-up, with Namke Communications, Peonys and Pettaluck treading the boards this time.

Arriving at a venue that appears to be The Broken Doll rebuilt from what was left in the skips when they tore that dive down, I was dismayed to hear a truly terrible, sludgy ska punk teenage troupe shouting their dreadful wares to very few onlookers. Pausing only to reflect on the veracity of the lyrics to Losing My Edge by LCD Sound System, I ascended the stairs, suffering badly from OCD, and into the latest No Audience Underground happening. As ever, the beautiful people from the Tyneside experimental music scene were conspicuous by their absence, meaning only those who were there for the music and not to be seen in all the cool places, were present for a proper treat of an evening.

First up were Namke Communications from York, which involved half an hour of a diffident middle-aged bloke in specs messing about on an iPad and twiddling few knobs of his pre amp. It was canny, and certainly a billion times better than the tripe on downstairs. A slow, doomy vibe was overlayed with unidentifiable snatches of speech that made the whole thing eerie and intriguing. The only problem was the lack of visual stimulus associated with a solo performer, farting about with some gadgets. The experience is great if you get into the zone, but otherwise things can get a bit dull with nothing to gaze upon. I was lucky to be able to look at trees at the start of Scotchy Road distantly swaying in the breeze through the picture window. More aesthetically pleasing that the Arena’s unchanging roof through the other window.

As regards aesthetics, Peonys have them by the bucketload. Rumours that TQ are part of the movement to destroy guitars are totally unfounded; not only is there the Reynols exhibition starting later in November to look forward to, as well as the utterly fabulous Reynols Live in Mechelen mini CD that came free with issue #64,  but the debut performance by a scintillating guitar and drums combo who provided loud psychedelic prog of the very finest 67-71 vintage rebottled and remodelled for these times, blew everyone in the room away. Peonys reminded me of Cream, which was fitting as Geoff Firminster’s strange brew was red wine for a change. Sean Urquart said they were like Gallon Drunk meets the Pink Fairies and I couldn’t disagree. Telepathic, tearjerking musical demolition work. Absolutely fucking wonderful. They played a second gig on Friday 20^th October at Bobik’s but I couldn’t get there because of a family birthday. I really advise you to look out for them.

Top of the bill was Southend’s Emma Reed, who plays as Pettaluck. Despite the awful racket from downstairs crawling up through the floorboards, I was immensely impressed by her charmingly idiosyncratic set that recalled everyone from Lol Coxhill to Ivor Cutler to Essential Logic. Predominantly a flautist, she was also a body percussionist and singer, with looped sounds and interesting percussion, some of it played by Andy Wood. It’s great to see TQ evenings moving away from a steady diet of synth navel gazers, especially as Emma fought so hard to overcome technical issues that blighted much of her set. I loved Snake Oil about long COVID, which reminded me of Lene Lovich and was delighted to swap products with her at the end of the evening and cannot recommend her cassette Pass highly enough. Get it from her Bandcamp page. She even played Abattage from Bartholomew  cusack’s Dresden Heist CD on her radio show, so giving Pettaluck some positive words on here is the least I can do.

I reviewed Pettaluck’s Pass tape on this site in the blog http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2023/10/57-varieties.html where I also mentioned the Meredith demo tape from 1992. Phil Tyler saw this and, graciously, dropped off a copy of Blindspot, a compilation CD of Meredith’s complete demo tapes that came out in 2019. Meredith, featuring Phil Tyler on guitar, came to my attention in the very early part of 1992. Indeed, I recall them visiting my house in Spital Tongues on Sunday 8 March of that year so I could interview them. I presume it is around then that I came into possession of their tape. It’s got 4 tracks listed on it, though there are actually 5 songs performed. The two particular highlights were the opening Falls and the closing Footsore Four, which both showcase the excellent musicianship, especially Phil’s guitar, and Kay’s remarkable voice. I loved their frigid, glacial indie sensibilities that reminded me of Edinburgh’s The Flowers. I’ve no idea what they did after this, though I obviously know what Phil is up to.

Another excellent artistic organisation I must give a shout-out to is Wormhole World. Purveyors of a magnificent array of experimental music on CD, they often host clearance sales and that is how I came across the cheerfully monikered ensemble Sound Effects of Death and Horror and their rather impressive paean to aged portable telephones, Mota Rolla. Analogue synths are staging quite a comeback and these lot know how to wield them. They describe themselves as producing “ambient, electronic, darkwave and experimental music influenced by The Radiophonic Workshop, Tangerine Dream, Kraftwerk and John Carpenter,” which is a far better way of putting it than I could ever come up with.

While I’ve a lot of time for analogue virtuosos like Sound Effects of Death and Horror and the superb TSR2, I must admit to feeling left cold by the trendy sounds of Warrington Runcorn Newtown Development Plan. Having shelled out for their Moonbuilding CD from the zine of the same name, I was utterly underwhelmed by what seemed to be a reanimation of Vangelis or, more closely, Jean Michelle Jarre. It is staid, plodding and lacking any desire to explore the more experimental side of electronic music. Frankly it’s more Robert Miles than Robert Rental, so I gave them a swerve when they played The Cumberland on Friday 15^th September. However, this was also because Shelley and I had tickets to see I, Daniel Blake at Northern Stage on the same night. Like the film, the stage version is incredibly upsetting. The stressful inevitability of Daniel’s death as he tries to do good, while fighting against the monolithic benefits system would bring a tear to a glass eye. Thankfully, COVID and the ensuing lockdown put paid to so much of the fascist inflexibility we saw in this play. Of course, the events portrayed serve as a reminder as to the sheer evil of the state apparatus and what it is capable of.

It was certainly a more focussed and credible version of the text than the strange production of Macbeth we got to see at Northern Stage on Thursday 5^th October. Set in a modern penthouse flat, with Scottishness hinted at with cans of Tennents and a female Malcolm singing a barely comprehensible version of Yes Sir, I Can Boogie, this production featured some nice actors we met in the pub afterwards and some decidedly odd directorial choices that I didn’t agree with. Still, for a fiver, you can’t complain too much I suppose.

Rewind two days from our first visit to Northern Stage to find Ben, standing in for the unwell Shelley, and I was watching The Bevis Frond at The Cumberland. Despite Nick Saloman fronting the band since 1986, I’d never seen The Bevis Frond and had only ever heard one song by them; the heart-breaking He’d be a Diamond that Teenage Fanclub covered so lovingly. I was so pleased to see them finally; proper prog rock wig-outs alongside psychedelic 60s pop anthems, with every song extended to the longest possible degree. They played about 8 songs in almost 2 hours, which shows what they’re about. I was very pleased they did He’d be a Diamond as well. I was so impressed I treated myself to their What did for the Dinosaurs CD, for a bargain fiver. Here we get 9 songs in 72 minutes, showing these lads like to give value for money. I really want to know more about this band. Apparently, there’s a new album slated for 2024, so I’ll be having some of that.

Talking of Teenage Fanclub, their marvellous new album Nothing Lasts Forever came out in September. As the title might indicate there is a sense of taking stock and perhaps that is not surprising as it is over thirty years since the band formed. Rather like catching up with an old friend, listening to Nothing Lasts Forever has the comfort of familiarity. Those jangling guitars, melodies with catchy hooks and harmonies are still all there. But as summer turns into autumn so those Teenage Fanclub hallmarks sound richer, bathed in a deeper, russet light. With that changing of the season comes a hint of melancholy too but not in a despairing way, more a sense of acceptance, of moving on. Nothing Lasts Forever is a deeply satisfying listen.

Teenage Fanclub’s writing remains firmly in the hands of founders Norman Blake and Raymond McGinley. As honest as in their song writing neither leaves any doubt as to where they are now and what they write about.  As well as where they are personally, where the band made the album is deeply imprinted on Nothing Lasts Forever. Though Teenage Fanclub did the vocals at home in Glasgow, they accepted an offer to record everything else at Rockfield Studios. The only catch was they had only ten days and the deadline stimulated a lot of new ideas.

Foreign Land opens the album in the finest Teenage Fanclub style. A single note wrung through with feedback sounds very familiar but the acoustic riff that emerges blending into a swirl of harmony brings those youthful sounds right up to date. If reflectively mellow, there is also a determination to move on. Tired Of Being Alone adds some echoing folk to the mix: “Come with me, watch the seasons go/Summer nights with the sky aglow”. A slightly fuzzy electric guitar solo blows through bucolic harmonies and acoustic breezes. Already that notion of togetherness makes itself felt as drummer Francis Macdonald, bassist Dave McGowan and Euros Childs on keyboards become as one with the guitars and vocals of Blake and McGinley.

The theme of light is a recurring feature. I Left A Light On sombrely looks back at a love gone forever. Atmospheric pop layers shine what might have been a guiding light but in the end reality prevailed. Similarly, gently paced, See the Light looks forward with hope. That hope for better times burns through Back to the Light, where acoustic and electric riffs surge with life and love on the road. Musing about the past and future inevitably involves much introspection. Despite a jaunty piano line, Self-Sedation has Norman turning into William Blake, “Some are born to endless night/ I’d say my namesake got that right”. McGinley looks beyond the harm caused by today’s increasing polarisation in the anthemic I Will Love You. The phrase Nothing Lasts Forever is a truism, but we must hope Teenage Fanclub continue to create music for many years to come. These ten songs show how.

Live, TFC appeared at The Glasshouse 2, which used to be Sage 2, on Thursday 9^th November, which Shelley, Ben and I took in, but we’ll talk about that next time.

Another band Ben and I ticked off our dad and lad bucket list were Gang of Four, which I think only leaves Cornershop and My Bloody Valentine on the must-see list. Having seen Wire, TFC, The Mekons 77, The Pop Group, The Raincoats, Penetration, Mogwai, GY! BE, The Fall and Lee “Scratch” Perry over the years, it must be said that Gang of Four outstripped every one of those acts with a blinding performance at The Grove in Byker (hahahahahahahahahahaha…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz). They were incredible; the power and solidity of the Hugo Burnham and Sara Lee rhythm section, a virtuoso performance by David Pajo, in place of the late, much-missed Andy Gill (and I have neither insight nor interest into the sad fissure between the erstwhile guitarist and the rest of the band) and an incredible feat of vocal clarity and astonishing energy by the incomparable Jon King. A near two hour set, from the opening Return the Gift to the closing encore of Damaged Goods, hit every high spot of the bands early career. I was delighted to see both Solid Gold and several singles and b-sides getting an outing. Obviously, Ether, I Found That Essence Rare, What We All Want and To Hell with Poverty tore the roof off the place, but even minor classics like We Live as We Dream Alone and Paralysed were acclaimed furiously. An incredible night featuring an incredible set by an incredible band.

Finally, can I recommend the album Songs for T, available from Katpis Tapes on Bandcamp. My dear friend Richy Hetherington lost his son Thomas last year and this compilation is a tribute to him, involving many of the acts Richy organised to play at his Sunday afternoon, NME endorsed Happy Sundays events. Featuring many lo-fi acts, including local lad Nev Clay and Richy’s own Lovable Wholes (a name I suggested to him), not to mention Tot’s favourite artist Jeffrey Lewis, this is a gentle CD that is packed full of warmth and love. Please buy it, even if you hate that sort of music, because all profits go to Kidscape and Papyrus. Each purchase will help to keep our kids alive.

Books:

 

The most important, and best, book I’ve read since I last posted about my cultural life, is James Ellroy’s magisterial The Enchanters. In this latest peerless slice of LA Noir, we are transported back to August 1962, with nods also to events in 1937, 1948 and 1956, wherein defrocked LAPD operative and subsequently black-balled Private Eye, Freddie Otash, of Ellroy novels passim, untangles the events that led up to Marilyn Monroe’s death. As you’d imagine the Kennedy Brothers, Jimmy Hoffa, as well as a tranche of LA high-ranking lowlifes, such as Chief of Police “Whiskey” Bill Parker and City Mayor, the egregious Sam Yorty, feature prominently throughout. The plot, as is compulsory in Ellroy novels, is convoluted to the point of being labyrinthine, though at least at the end of this one, you know what has actually happened, despite the tale being told by the most unreliable narrator imaginable.

Plot, structure, dialogue and characterisation are all at an impeccable standard and it seems Ellroy, aged 75 and aware his formidable contemporary Cormac MacCarthy passed away earlier in 2o23, has a cleared the path for future Otash novels, explaining his dealings with the one and only Richard Milhous Nixon. This is a surprising artistic twist, as nothing has been mentioned about the third and fourth instalments of the Second LA Quartet, that has been on hiatus since the somewhat preposterously plotted This Storm appeared in 2019. All we can do is wait and anticipate Ellroy’s next journey into the heart of the enormous darkness that is US mid-20^th Century history.

Shelley and I often partake of ales in the sophisticated nitespot that is New York Social Club. One great aspect of this juke joint is the huge store of free books that are there for the delectation of imbibers to read at their leisure. From the first time we went in, I’ve tried to avail myself of these treasures, which means several books I’m about to discuss came from there. Firstly, mainly because it was a hardback, I took the esteemed ham actor Valentine Dyall’s Flood of Mutiny, a title taken from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, which is an account of seaborne insurrections from the famed events on The Bounty to the Spithead Rebellion, then on to the Potemkin rising. All rattlingly good stuff, told in a censorious, pro-Establishment tone that leaves you in no doubt Valentine is happy to see them all hanged. Although Dyall comes across as a spokesperson for the Woke Generation when compared to Neil Samworth, former Strangeways screw and author of the pulp autobiography, A Prison Officer’s Story. It’s the usual 250 pages of self-serving hagiographic justification for battering nonces and tea leaves in their cells, with cod psychology profiles of hard men and career crims and the usual tough love approach to drug use (cold turkey anyone?) that probably touches a nerve with disenfranchised former UKIP voters looking for a peg to hang their hatful of hatred on. Utter rubbish.

There is someone who drinks in New York Club who I’d love to buy a rake of pints for, as they have passed on three Ian Rankin books (two novels, Naming of the Dead and the most recent one, Heart Full of Headstones, as well as a short story collection, The Beat Goes On) to me that have piqued my interest in Rebus to the extent that I’m keen to read the whole series. First up, The Beat Goes On: The Complete Rebus Short Stories is an anthology of every Rebus short story, plus the novella Death Is Not the End. Published in 2014, it includes two new stories, set around Christmas 2014, after the central character’s retirement, ranging back to the opening story, “Dead and Buried,” which is set in the mid-1980s when Rebus was learning the ropes at Summerhall Police Station. The twelve Rebus stories in A Good Hanging and Other Stories included here, cover a chronological year in Rebus’s life, which is the kind of exhaustive character, location and plot delineation that has made me fall in love with Rankin’s work. He tells you so much about Edinburgh, current events and invented characters that seem so real.

The Naming of the Dead is the sixteenth Rebus novel. It is set in Edinburgh in July 2005, in the week of the G8 summit in Gleneagles. The book opens with Rebus attending the funeral of his brother Michael, who has died suddenly from a stroke, at the same time as the parents of Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke arrive in Edinburgh as part of the protests that surrounded the G8 summit at Gleneagles. Clarke defied her anti-establishment parents by becoming a police officer, but now wants to feel like a daughter. Rebus is nearing retirement and sidelined until the apparent suicide of an MP occurs at a high-level meeting in Edinburgh Castle. At the same time, a serial killer seems to be killing former offenders, helped by a website set up by the family of a victim. Clues have been deliberately left at Clootie Well in Auchterarder, a place where items of clothing are traditionally left for luck.

Siobhan Clarke is placed in charge of the investigation, although she is outranked by Rebus, and finds herself having to compromise with Edinburgh gangster Morris Clafferty in hunting down the identity of the riot policeman who apparently assaulted her mother at a demonstration. Cafferty is also getting older, though his insecurity is balanced somewhat by his having had a biography ghost-written by local journalist Mairie Henderson, who has been enlisted by Rebus and Clarke to help solve the crimes. Rebus and Clarke pursue their investigation, against the background of the 31st G8 summit, seen from both the police side and that of the protestors; among the events referred to are the 7/7 London bombings, the 2012 Olympic bid and George W. Bush falling off his bicycle whilst waving at police officers.

By the end of the book, Clarke realises that she has grown closer than ever to understanding Rebus and increasingly fears that she is becoming more like him: "obsessed and sidelined, thrawn and distrusted. Rebus had lost family and friends. When he went out drinking, he did so on his own, standing quietly at the bar, facing the row of optics."

This book has been called Rankin's finest novel and while it is a great read, I would like to consume more of his work to be able to pass comment on such a judgement.  That should come when I plough through a trilogy that comprises: Black and Blue, The Hanging Garden and Dead Souls, which comprise Rebus novels 8, 9 and 10. By which time, there is hopefully a follow up to the 22^nd and most recent instalment, Heart Full of Headstones, whereby Rebus, retired since 2007, DI Siobhan Clarke, and DCI Malcolm Fox all pursue their own investigations, though the cases come together around a policeman named Francis Haggard, stationed at Tynecastle nick.

The three of them frequently exchange information or ask each other for help. Clarke is at first working on the criminal aspect of Haggard's domestic abuse of his wife, which has resulted in their separation; Clarke interviews Haggard and also the wife, Cheryl, and her sister Stephanie Pelham, who has taken Cheryl in. Haggard is threatening to reveal the police corruption at Tynecastle unless the case is dropped. Then Haggard is murdered, and Police Scotland sets up a Major Inquiry Team (MIT) which includes both Clarke and Fox.

Clarke and Fox, along with the rest of the MIT, gradually trace Haggard's last day, using phone records, CCTV footage, and file boxes full of old investigations of the Tynecastle police station. Clarke is successful in identifying the murderer, and Fox informally promises her a promotion to DCI. Rebus, however, tries to pursue his investigation with a crowbar, and it does not end well. It is why I’m so keen to read the 23^rd novel in the series.

Rankin tends to use quotations from song lyrics and / or titles to name his books, but he hasn’t specifically written about music, unlike his fellow Scot, the genius that is David Keenan, whose first novel This is Memorial Device, told the story of the greatest band you’d never heard, who were the main figures behind Airdrie’s post punk scene in the late 70s. Before his brilliant debut novel, there was the fascinating biography of three of the actual post-punk scene’s most arcane and enduringly fascinating acts; Coil, Current 93 and Nurse with Wound and the personalities behind them. Keenan’s experience as a performer in the alternative and experimental music milieu, when running Volcanic Tongue records, gave him the ideal exposure to acts featured in this lovingly curated and endlessly fascinating account of some of the most challenging music imaginable. While I am a devotee of Throbbing Gristle, I never really got Coil, partly because of their grindingly fierce undertones and backbeat. Reading this book, I’m vindicated that I’ve made the right decision to swerve them. Jhonn Balance may have been an inspired and tragic artist, but Sleazy Peter Christopherson was simply a scatological bully and boor whose work I can live without. David Tibet lived in Benwell in the mid to late 70s when he was doing his degree at Newcastle University; I bet he fitted in well with the locals. I have to say I’m not entirely familiar with his oeuvre, but he comes across as a right pretentious simp in this book. I should really find out more of his work. The same is true of the magnificent Steven Stapleton, as I’ve loved every note I’ve heard by Nurse with Wound, as well as being enduring fascinated by the world and manner in which he lives, almost off grid, in County Clare. Fair play to the lad.

Talking of Ireland, as you’ll well know, we headed over there in August for our holidays, on the very day the comprehensive and utterly essential Utilita Football Yearbook 2023/2024 popped through my letterbox. I’ve got all 54 editions and use them on almost a daily basis.

Anyway, whilst over there, I got hold of a couple of books that I thoroughly recommend. Picked up from a charity book stall in a supermarket, Donal Ryan’s elegiac semi-tragic love story, All We Shall Know, is both poetic and sad. The narrator, Melody is 33 and has just informed her husband that her unborn child is not his. A 17-year-old Traveller named Martin Toppy, whom she taught for more than a year, is the father. Melody is an educated woman who has written poetry for the local newspaper. She has also written articles on assistance for asylum seekers and abortion.

However, this is purely exposition. In the narrating of her life, we get no sense she has an opinion on abortion other than one fleeting mention of London while she considers what to do with her pregnancy. Nor do we get a sense of her feelings about class issues or discrimination against Travellers other than correcting her father and husband for using derogatory terms. The reader is left on the surface of her psychological landscape, unable to delve into what should be a truly interesting character. Refreshingly, Melody refuses to be a victim, but as if to offset this denial of easy sympathy, every other character becomes weak and needy. Within the opening 40-odd pages, everyone (other than Melody) cries: Melody’s husband on hearing about the pregnancy, Martin Toppy when he first arrives to be tutored, Melody’s father at the kitchen table, her childhood friend, Breedie, and a young Traveller woman, Mary. The tears are unrelenting.

To his credit, Ryan does attempt to give voice to the Traveller community. The two teenage Travellers in the novel are illiterate, though 19-year-old Mary has the “taste of a vision” and is something of a mystic. Martin’s father is a famous bare-knuckle boxer and Martin himself will follow suit. Here, the novel follows a well-worn path of violence between Travellers, with shootings, slashings, family feuds and scores being settled “one on one”. For a writer of Ryan’s obvious talents, it seems like a missed opportunity for an underrepresented community to be portrayed in such a negative, cliched way. Certainly, it lags far behind Eamonn Sweeney’s superb Waiting for the Healer in terms of dealing with this vexed issue. Additionally, the moral consequences of Melody’s actions, seducing a boy of 16 over the course of a year, could have been examined in more depth.

The sharpest moral compass in the whole of the Six Counties belongs to Glenn Patterson. Author of the celebrated Fat Lad, he uses his rapier intellect in the essay collection Lapsed Protestant to point, jab and puncture the hypocrisy of both sides of the political divide in the dangerous days after the Good Friday Agreement, when peace was more of a concept than a state of being. Obviously, some of the events and cultural references that date back more than two decades need researching, but by and large, time has shown him the wiser. I’m looking forward to sourcing the follow-up Here’s Me Here: Further Reflections of a Lapsed Protestant.