My Brush with Scientology

Results of the Standard Oxford Capacity Analysis [1]

which I completed on 9 November 1984

 

 

Watching an episode of Peep Show in which Jez and Super Hans join a religious cult [2], reminded me that I was once persuaded to take a free personality test administered by the Church of Scientology ...

Friday 9 November 1984 [3]

 

Assured that it wouldn't take more than twenty minutes to complete and that I'd have the results within the hour - and as it's always amusing to discover how others see one - I agreed. Of the 200 multiple choice questions, I answered 198 and left two blank; one that was too stupid to even consider and one concerning my voting habits (as an anarchist, that's not a political process I participate in).  

      Afterwards, I went to Dillons to look for a book on fairy tales by Jack Zipes, recommended to me by Malcolm. On the way back, I stopped to pick up my test and was given a brief explanation of the results (all conveniently plotted on a graph) by a friendly (though somewhat earnest) young woman who said, amongst other things, I was depressed, nervous, overly critical, and irresponsible. 

      All of these things may very well be true, but I begged to differ with her conclusion that I was in need of urgent attention - although everyone at Charisma seemed to think that was probably the case, particularly Jon, who found it all very amusing.     

 

      

Notes

 

[1] The Standard Oxford Capacity Analysis is a long list of questions (each of which can be answered yes, no, or maybe) purporting to be personality test and administered for free by the Church of Scientology as an important part of its global recruitment process. 

      However, it is not a scientifically recognised test and has been criticised by numerous professional bodies. The results of the test are invariably negative, as might be expected.

 

[2] Peep Show, episode six of series five; 'Mark's Women' (dir. Becky Martin, 2008).

      Jez and Hans are busking opposite The New Wellness Centre operated by a mysterious new religious movement (don't call it a cult). Deciding that it will be warmer in the Centre and that it might also be fun to laugh at the freaks, they go inside, only to then sign up as fervent new members. Click here and here for a couple of clips on Youtube.  

 

[3] This is (a slightly revised) entry from The Von Hell Diaries (1980-89). 

      Just to clarify: Dillons was a famous Bloomsbury bookshop (founded by Una Dillon in 1936); Jack Zipes is an American professor of German literature and cultural studies (the book I wanted was Breaking the Magic Spell: Radical Theories of Folk and Fairy Tales (1979); the Malcolm that I mention is Malcolm McLaren; Charisma was a famous independent record label based in Soho; Jon is Jon Crawley, director of Charisma Music Publishing.  

 

Autobiographical Fragment: This is the Nine O'Clock News from the BBC

Fig. 1: Jazz and Kirk (1983): the anti-stewards

Back in the early-mid 1980s, students were always protesting against something - though mostly against those things that might negatively impact upon their own lives or future prospects; education reforms, youth unemployment, nuclear armageddon, etc.

And so, when a couple of buses were booked to transport would-be demonstrators down to London for a march organised by the NUS, it seemed like a good idea to my friend Kirk and me to get on board. Not that we were interested in the planned event, you understand, we simply wanted a day out in the capital. 

It wasn't that we were apolitical, so much as politically irresponsible; more anarcho-nihilistic, than socially progressive. We hated the Tories (obviously) - but so too did we hate the grey misery of the Labour Party. In fact, we pretty much hated everyone - left, right, or centre - and favoured a strategy of accelerating the processes already at work, regardless of the consequences. In other words, we had no interest in political reform, but simply wanted (à la Steve Jones) to make things worse. 

When we arrived in London and got off the coach, officials from the students' union - including Simon Skidmore, a fat fucking hippie with a high-pitched voice and a Pink Floyd t-shirt - immediately pulled on stewards armbands to show that they were in charge and everyone should obey their orders and follow the designated route, chanting pre-approved slogans: Maggie, Maggie, Maggie! - Out! Out! Out! 

Of course, we weren't having any of that - so we swiped a couple of armbands - which we wore upside down (see fig. 1 above) - and then proceeded to misdirect as many people as possible, issuing instructions to spend the day shoplifting, getting drunk, and trying to be arrested. Whether anyone actually listened to us I don't know, but it's nice to think that one or two went on a nicking spree ...

          

At some point, Red Ken - then leader of the GLC - addressed the crowds and I remember going up to him afterwards and telling him that if he wanted to be a revolutionary icon like Che Guevara, then he needed to ditch the raincoat as it made him look more like a dirty old man about to flash a group of schoolgirls. I don't think he was very happy to receive my unsolicited fashion advice, particularly as he was trying to chat up a pretty young journalist at the time (see fig. 2 below).

I ended the day posing in front of a thin blue line of policemen, provocatively kicking a traffic cone in an attempt to solicit a response; wisely, they just kept smiling, as press photographers opposite were ready to record any brutality (see fig. 3 below).

Of course, like idiots, Kirk and I missed the bus back. Fortunately, however, we were able to hitch a ride with some students from Leeds Poly. When we finally arrived home, friends were excited to tell us that we had been on the BBC Nine O'Clock News - mistakenly identified as two student demonstrators, when, really, we were just a couple of punks having a laugh ... 

Fig. 2 trying to annoy Ken Livingstone 

Fig. 3 trying to provoke the filth

Autobiographical Fragment: Off to Sunny Spain (October 1985)

¿Qué pasó con Ana y Asun?

Although I remember the journey vividly and in detail, it's almost 35 years ago that I left London for Madrid carrying a case containing everything I owned (mostly books) and an envelope stuffed with £1000 in cash on the day after Broadwater Farm erupted (following riots the previous month in Brixton and Handsworth).

The plan - if you can call it that - was to teach English as a foreign language and write a novel. But the hope was to meet señoritas by the score and, actually, I got off to a good start by meeting Ana and Asun at Victoria coach station and then travelling with them all the way until they got off the bus in Burgos.

That's me pictured with them aboard the ferry to France. I loved being up on deck in the autumnal sunshine, watching with Lawrentian eyes as England, like a long, ash-grey coffin, slowly submerged beneath the waves (not that the French coast looked any less dismal to be honest).

Ana, I recall, wanted to be a policewoman. But it was Asun, curled up against me like a cat on the back seat of the coach, who taught me my first words of Castilian: Me llamo Jazz ... Yo soy inglés ... Tengo hambre. Perhaps rather shamefully, that still pretty much constitutes the extent of my Spanish language skills.      

Although I was happy to be out of England, things did not go well in Madrid, which seemed to me a madhouse; everybody smoked and drank black coffee in order to stay awake (nobody seemed to sleep); everybody shouted and drove like a lunatic; armed police pointed guns in my direction, whilst the children followed me along the street shouting Olé! Olé! 

Even in late November, it was hot by day. But it was so desert-cold at night that I collapsed with hypothermia (the rented ground floor flat that I shared with the Polecat had no heating, just bars on the window; something which, like the beggars on every street corner, I had not experienced whilst living in Chiswick).   

Eventually, as the money and my patience ran out - and having failed as a teacher and failed as a novelist - I returned to England. Although I didn't know it then, my life-long love affair with Spain would only really begin two years later ...


Musical bonus: Sylvia Vrethammar, 'Y Viva España' (1974): click here. 

We Are All Fashion Clowns

Joaquin Phoenix in Joker (dir. Todd Phillips)

Warner Bros. Pictures, 2019

I don't know if it's a post-Joker phenomenon, but the fashion world is still loving a full-on clown look at the moment, with zany outfits, exaggerated makeup, and ludicrous footwear; exactly the sort of thing I was wearing 35 years ago in my Jimmy Jazz period (and I'm still of the view that you can't beat clashing prints and colours, kipper ties, baggy trousers, and clumpy shoes).        

Clownishness would, on the (painted) face of it, seem to be the very opposite of elegant and sophisticated cool; a kind of anti-style that transgresses all notions of restraint and good taste. As Batsheva Hay rightly says, it's the epitome of what most people in their muted blues and browns regard as loud and would normally reject in terms of appearance. 

And yet, it has a queer kind of sexiness and, of course, a slightly sinister edge; the evil clown being a well-established figure within the popular imagination, combining horror elements with the more traditional comic traits. Mark Dery, who theorised this figure with reference to Bakhtin's notion of the carnivalesque, regards the psycho-killer clown as a veritable postmodern icon. 

Which returns us to Joaquin Phoenix and his astonishing performance as Arthur Fleck (Joker) dressed in his burgandy red two-piece suit, gold waistcoat, and green collared shirt ...

It's a very carefully thought-through look created by two-time Academy Award winning costume designer Mark Bridges (in close collaboration with director Todd Phillips); one that is suggestive both of the period in which the movie is set (late-70s/early-80s) and true to the character and his means. Thus, Arthur looks good, but not catwalk fabulous; as if he found his clothes in a thrift store, rather than an expensive designer outlet.     

Again, I can certainly relate to that and maintain that a punk DIY ethos provides the crucial (shabby-subversive) element if you are going to assemble your own clown-inspired outfit ...

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Punk Clown 

by Gaelle Sherwood (c. 1984)

See: Mark Dery, The Pyrotechnic Insanitarium: American Culture on the Brink, (Grove Press, 1999), chapter 2: 'Cotton Candy Autopsy: Deconstructing Psycho-Killer Clowns'.

Play: Joker - final trailer - uploaded to Youtube by Warner Bros. Pictures (28 Aug 2019): click here. 

Note: some readers might be interested in an earlier post to this one called Send in the Clowns: click here.

Punk Friends Reunited

I remember with vague fondness my time at Trinity and All Saints College, which was then a small Catholic institution affiliated with the University of Leeds, but which has since gained full university status and autonomy.

Although I was there under the pretext of studying for a degree in Sociology and Media, essentially, like many undergraduates at this time, I was more interested in extracurricular activities that might broadly be categorised as messing around and fucking about. 

This included the cultivation of my own punk persona, Jimmy Jazz - after the song by the Clash - and becoming part of a small gang of misfits that numbered amongst its members:

(i) Clive Hooker, a drummer and DJ from Northampton, with a speech impediment that unfortunately made him sound like Klunk from Stop the Pigeon.

(ii) August Finer, a bass player with a knicker-invading smile and a mohican haircut; ultimately, a nice, middle-class Jewish boy, from Knutsford, posing as a punk (but who did have a brother in The Pogues).     

(iii) Kirk Field, a drama student (who couldn't really act) and a vocalist (who couldn't really sing), but a clever, funny, charming personality with a quiff and a penchant for magic mushrooms who went on to become a successful tour operator and events organiser for people who like to party.

During the years 1981-84, we four were as thick as thieves. But, amazingly, the moment we graduated the magic spell that bound us together was completely broken; even my friendship with Mr. Field, which had been extremely intimate and intense, didn't long survive the move to London.

I suppose there were reasons for this - but no real reason - and I'm told that it's a common phenomenon; that adolescent friendships often blossom with spectacular colour, but then quickly fade and die and that it's pointless trying to hold the petals on.

Regrets? I have a few. But then again, too few to mention. Besides, any lingering sense of loss only adds a delicious poignancy to nostalgic reflections like this; which is how dead friendships can continue to give pleasure.           

If the opportunity ever arose, I'd be happy to meet any or all of the above for a drink. But I suspect there'd be moments of awkward silence. And underneath the delight of seeing them again there'd be a slight sense of boredom and embarrassment and a longing to get away as soon as possible ...