Blake Morrison Spills the Beans on Memoir Writing

Blake Morrison Spills the Beans (SA/2026)

(Photo of Morrison by Charles Moriarty) 

 

 

The poet and author Blake Morrison is perhaps best known for three works of memoir: And When Did You Last See Your Father? (1993); Things My Mother Never Told Me (2002); and Two Sisters (2023).  

 

To be honest, I've not read any of the above and as I have an instinctive aversion to Morrison - even though he is a great champion of Lawrence, particularly Sons and Lovers [1] - I don't suppose I ever will.  

 

I have, however, ordered a copy of his new book published by Borough Press: On Memoir: An A-Z of Life Writing (2026), as this genre of writing is of increasing interest to me, even whilst it's one I remain somewhat suspicious of and hostile to.  

 

And, funnily enough - if a recent essay in The Guardian is anything to go by - Morrison himself has a few doubts himself about memoir writing in the age of Substack and digital self-publishing: 

 

"What was once a geriatric, self-satisfied genre (politicians, generals and film stars looking back fondly on long careers) is now open to anyone with a story to tell - 'nobody memoirs', the American journalist Lorraine Adams has called them." [2] 

 

Still, whether written by nobody or somebody, candour is the key to memoir writing; "no matter how fraught the consequences". In a post-Maggie Nelson universe, it doesn't pay to be shy and, as Morrison goes on to note, shocking revelation has long been "an integral part of memoir [because] sometimes the facts are shocking".

 

To be honest, I'm not sure I like such explicit (often brutal and ugly) openness. I do think an author can overshare and that there is such a thing even in confessional writing as too much information. I would like to know, as a reader, how a writer feels about the death of a parent; I probably don't need to know they recall masturbating in the bath on the day it happened. 

 

Whether "the divulgence is sad-fishing on Facebook, curated self-glorification on Instagram or out-there revelation in a memoir", I'm afraid that I'm one of those readers who feels irritated and affronted by exhibitionist authors who figuratively spill the beans whilst literally inviting us to watch them jerk off. 

 

As Morrison acknowledges, it's not essential for writers to reveal all; they should be able to write "on their own terms and in control of what's committed to print". It's often a mixture of laziness and narcissism that causes a writer to indulge in bean spilling and oversharing. Even in the age of social media, discretion can still be a virtue. 

 

But, on the other hand, says Morrison, discretion is not such a virtue when it becomes a form of evasion driven by dishonesty or fear of how others will react:

 

"There's no point in telling a personal story if you censor yourself and hold back too much. Be brave [...] it's your version of events and if people close to you object, never mind - let them write their own memoir." [3] 

 

Having said that, like the exercising of discretion, the expression of candour requires technique: "It needs compression, structure, the right tone of voice. The task is to set down what happened, not parade extremes of feeling." 

 

In fact, I would go further than that and say the task is to reimagine what happened, not just record like a machine; to fictionalise and transform life into art. Ultimately, the best form of memoir is called a novel. But writing a novel is difficult, whereas - as we have noted - nobody and anybody can write a memoir. 

 

Clearly, Morrison and I disagree on this point: 

 

"Truth-telling is the measure of memoir, and it's not the same as autofiction. Readers will allow an author wriggle room, for comic exaggeration, say, but where there's knowing fabrication they'll feel cheated, even outraged." 

 

To which one can only ask this Easter weekend: What is truth? And repeat: memoir that doesn't become autofiction is merely poor writing - or what Deleuze describes as dead writing [4]. 

 

Morrison says that readers want to be able to trust writers. But here he forgets his Lawrence, who sagely advised us to trust the tale, not the teller and reminded his readers that art speech is essentially a form of telling lies, but that, paradoxically, "out of a pattern of lies art weaves the truth" [5].    

 

But it's not the kind of truth that most people want to hear: it's the truth that Oscar Wilde declared to be anything other than pure and simple [6] and which Nietzsche described as a convenient fiction or a forgotten lie [7]. 

 

Finally, what of the argument that readers want more than blog posts or fragments and snippets of text on Substack; that when the story is interesting and the writer is good, then they are justified in demanding a full-length (professionally published) memoir and that ultimately only such will serve and satisfy ...

 

Obviously, I don't agree with that. I think the best way to illuminate a life is in a series of lightning flashes; thus I privilege the glimpse over the detailed portrait [8].

 

But Morrison defends the latter against flashy short-form writing:  

 

"For myself [...] I think published memoirs have plenty to offer that social platforms can't, not least the rewards of a full-length story with a narrative arc, a set of characters, and an approach that doesn't depend on sensational self-exposure, allowing room for reversals, surprises, digressions, complications and a tussle between adversity and reprieve. At their best, memoirs develop with a subtlety unavailable in a short extract [...]" 

Morrison concedes that published full-length memoirs can - "when the author is a bumptious blabber or a catastrophiser" - be "as much a turn-off as online snippets". But, he says in conclusion, "where the self-disclosure is nuanced and the writing compelling" nothing beats a book (how very arborescent, as Deleuze would say). 

 

Some might see this as a hard-working and highly respected professonal author defending the traditional art and craft of writing. But one can't help interpreting Morrison's remarks also as a form of gatekeeping;i.e., safeguarding the elite world of serious literature and those who belong to such - editors, agents, critics and publishers - from the barbarian content creators and bloggers such as myself who are not looking to turn memory into memoir and memoir into money ... [9]

 

 

Blake Morrison Spills the Beans (II)

(SA/2026) 

     

  

Notes

 

[1] See Blake Morrison, 'Sons and Lovers: a century on', in The Guardian (25 May 2013): click here. 

 

[2] Blake Morrison, '"Enough of this me me me": Blake Morrison on memoir in the age of oversharing', The Guardian (4 April 2026): click here. 

      All quotes that follow in this post are from Morrison writing in this article.  

 

[3] Interestingly, Morrison goes on to write: "Readers are no less sensitive than they ever were, just sensitive about different things [...] Push it too far and there might be a social media storm and public backlash. [...] Writers can't afford to ignore the moral climate of the times. But they don't have to kowtow." 

      Again, I take a rather more aggressive line than Morrison. For me, it's not just a question of not being subservient; a writer worth their salt should stand against public opinion and challenge (transgress) the moral climate of their age (move beyond good and evil, as Nietzsche would say). 

 

[4] For Deleuze, writing is not as an attempt to impose a coherent and conventional linguistic form on lived experience. Above all, Deleuze wishes to stress that literature should not become a form of personal overcoding, which is why any form of writing that is exclusively reliant upon the recounting of childhood memories, foreign holidays, lost loves, or sexual fantasies, is not only bad writing, but dead writing. Literature, he says, can die from an excess of truth-telling, just as it does from an overdose of reality. 

      See Deleuze's essay 'Literature and Life', in Essays Critical and Clinical, trans. Daniel W. Smith and Michael E. Greco (Verso, 1998). And see the post 'A Deleuzean Approach to Literature' (30 Aug 2013): click here.   

 

[5] See D. H. Lawrence, Studies in Classic American Literature, ed. Ezra Greenspan, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen (Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 14.

 

[6] Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest (1895). It can be found in The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde (HarperCollins, 2003).   

 

[7] See Nietzsche; On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense (1873). This essay can be found in Philosophy and Truth: Selections from Nietzsche's Notebooks of the Early 1870's, ed. and trans. Daniel Breazeale (Humanities Press International, 1990), pp. 77-97. 

 

[8] See the post 'I Shall Speak of Geist, of Flame, and of Glimpses' (29 Sept 2021): click here.  

 

[9] I pick up on this phrase in a sister post to this one, with reference to the work of Mark David Gerson, a leading figure in the memoir industry: click here.  

 

 

An Easter Message: Britain Must Go Pagan!

Image based on a photo from the Vivienne Westwood Archives

Instagram: @thewestwoodarchives (10 Jan 2023)

 

 

I. 

 

Some people are continuing to choke on their chocolate eggs that King Charles - Supreme Governor of the Church of England and Defender of the Faith - has not shared an Easter message this year, despite wishing Muslims a blessed Eid at the end of Ramadan.  

 

With a mixture of outrage and insecurity, they protest that this is yet another sign of the Islamification of the UK and the erosion of Britain's Christian culture; its history, heritage, system of values, etc.

 

These are often the same people obsessed with flag waving and playing identity politics who tie their ethno-nationalism to Christianity; assembling beneath the Cross of St. George like modern day crusaders wearing replica football shirts. 

 

Where this will lead, is anybody's guess - although I think we all have a pretty clear idea ...

 

 

II. 

 

The argument seems to be that if you wish to counter the rise and spread of one virulent religious ideology, then you need another equally fanatic faith that preaches One God, One Truth, One Way.  

 

In other words, one must fight fire with fire and respond to a challenge by adopting the same methods, tactics, and weapons as one's opponent. 

 

It's a fundamentally anti-Christian philosophy, but ironically, it's one that far-right militants who call themselves Christian frequently fall back on in the belief that such a strategy is necessary to ensure not only the victory of Good over Evil, but their survival as a people.      

 

 

III.  

 

Personally, as an anti-theist, if the last thing I want to see is the submission of the English to Allah, then the second from last thing I wish to see is a resurgence of Christianity. Indeed, I would echo Vivienne Westwood during her late-1980s early-90s phase and declare: Britain must go pagan ... [1]

 

Whether that best takes the form of Ancient Greek aesthetics combined with classic British tailoring - as Westwood envisioned - or of a retro Anglo-Saxon heathenism, in which the English finally wake up to the fact that Christianity is itself a foreign import and the imposition of a Middle Eastern deity upon a people who have forgotten their own gods [2], is debatable.

  

Notes

 

[1] Click here to watch a short video on YouTube in which Westwood discusses her idea of neo-paganism in relation to her design aesthetic. 

 

[2] Without wanting to delve too deeply into English religious history, it's worth remembering that Christianity only became the dominant faith in England in the 7th century. Before that time, polytheistic religions were practised, including Anglo-Saxon heathenism, which encompassed a heterogeneous variety of beliefs and practices, with a good deal of regional variation. In was in many ways very similar to the Norse paganism practised by the Scandinavian peoples that would later be introduced to England by the Danes.

      If I were an ethnonationalist, it's this Early Medieval period that would excite my interest and inform my politics; it would be Woden and Thunor I'd worship, not Jehovah and Jesus.    

 

   

Delicious Poison: The Final Taste (1986-88)

Kirk Field downing the dregs 

of his most Delicious Poison 

 

'Waves form to break and suns rise to set ...'

 

This post is a continuation: to read part 1 - 

Delicious Poison: The First Sip (1981-85) - click here. 

 

 

I.

 

By early 1986, Kirk and I both found ourselves living back in Leeds ... 

 

The year started quietly (some might say ominously) with Delicious Poison playing a set at Haddon Hall to a virtually empty room. 

 

Their following gig, however, at a club called Adam and Eve's and promoted in the Yorkshire Evening Post, was one of their best: "The band gave a very loud, energetic, and much angrier performance than usual. No frills just the thrills, as people like to say." [1] 

 

Nevertheless, despite the band's slightly harder edge and the brilliance of new songs such as 'New Sun Rising', I found my enthusiasm for the project was waning - and I was growing tired of the entourage of losers that seemed to follow them everywhere; the Bromley Contingent they were not.   

 

Another birthday gig took place at Haddon Hall on June 7th, for which I had gifted Kirk a hand-painted 'New Sun Rising' T-shirt and which he wore on stage that night. Gordon [2] approached me after the show, offering £25 plus material expenses to outfit the rest of the band with similar shirts. 

 

I was slightly wary of getting too entangled in the band's inner workings again, but Kirk showed up at my door the following morning, and his persuasion won me over. I spent a whole day working on them, including a punky-looking unicorn design for guitarist Nick Ramshaw with the Delicious Poison slogan and song title (borrowed from the book by George Melly) 'Revolt Into Style' written underneath.  

 

At a time when the UK average wage was nearly £4 an hour, I should have asked Gordon for at least £50, but, I suppose, this is what's known as a labour of love, or an act of friendship. 

 

 

II. 

 

By the late summer, Kirk and I had relocated to London once more, for another assault upon the capital. 

 

On August 17th, we met up at the house he shared with the band in Tooting, not far from where they used to film on location for Citizen Smith [3]. That evening, fuelled by a bit too much whiskey, Kirk and I renewed vows of friendship and decided that we were, after all, two of a kind. Sadly, however, as the year wore on old differences resurfaced and our relationship remained somewhat fraught.  

 

A September set at the Rock Garden felt shaky; the band seemed nervous, perhaps intimidated by the London crowd. A few weeks later at a club in King’s Cross, the stakes felt higher. Gordon was talking about a potential Janice Long session [4], but the gig itself was another hit-and-miss affair. The room was mostly empty, save for a few friends, and I could see Kirk's frustration boiling over. I felt for him; despite all his hard work, something wasn't clicking [5]. 

 

For me, the breaking point came during a meeting with Kirk and Gordon at the GLO offices in October. As we discussed the band's image, the irreconcilable differences between my vision and theirs became impossible to ignore. At one point, for example, the idea was floated for Kirk to adopt a matador look. I suggested it would be far more provocative (and pagan) if he came out wearing horns to embody the spirit of the Minotaur instead. 

 

Neither Kirk nor Gordon seemed particularly amused by this. To break the silence that followed, I pitched an idea for a new song based on the story of Ariadne and of how we might incorporate Picasso's artwork. This, however, was rejected by Gordon as being a little too clever for the desired fanbase. 

 

The year ended with two more shows: one on December 6th at the Polytechnic of Central London and one six days later at the Fulham Greyhound, a pub renowned for its live music gigs. Let's just say that when Delicious Poison were good - as they were at the latter - they were very, very good; but when they were bad - as they were at the former - they were very, very bad. 

 

At the PCL gig the band looked tired and uncaring and were besieged by various technical problems to do with sound and lighting (which, to be fair, were beyond their control). If I hadn't felt a bond of loyalty to Kirk, I would probably have walked out. But I stayed - and even watched ten or fifteen minutes of the band they were supporting - the Blueberry Hellbellies. 

 

Not bad. And, as I noted in my diary (with echoes of Miss Brodie), for those who like this sort of thing, then this is the sort of thing they like. 

 

The Greyhound gig - the band's 50th - was much more fun and it was nice to see Kirk having a lot of fun (and being funny) on stage. He really should have been a stand-up comic rather than a singer and I remember once he suggested we form a comedy double act with the name Norfolk 'n' Good.    

 

 

III. 

   

1987: my new year's resolution was to try and keep my mouth shut as far as possible. 

 

Kirk, meanwhile, had decided to detoxify the band's name by making it less poisonous. From now on they would simply be billed as Delicious. They had their first gig of the year under this new name at the Marquee on 14 January and Kirk was excited about that - and about the emergence of what he called new pulse music that would set the future dancing to a different beat.

 

Retrospectively, I can see now that Mr. Field was remarkably prescient and that my failure to understand what he was talking about showed my own ignorance of (and fundamental lack of interest in) the direction in which youth subculture was moving. Almost ten years after the event, I was still obsessed with the Sex Pistols and Mclaren's great rock 'n' roll swindle. Kirk, however, was looking forward rather than back and the shortening of the band's name to Delicious was the first step in shedding the punk past for something more neon and euphoric. 

 

The Marquee gig was okay, but only okay. Despite intuitively sensing that old school rock as a guitar-driven band-oriented genre that involved songwriting and live performance was about to be superseded by house (i.e., electronic dance music characterised by the synthetic sounds of the Roland TB-303 and continuous DJ sets), for now Kirk was sticking with the boys in the band.   

 

 

IV.  

Didn't see much of Mr. Field for the next couple of months and when we did meet up for dinner at his place on March 7th, we didn't get on. No unpleasantries, but we bored one another. 

 

Despite that, we sat up talking until after 3am and Kirk confessed that, for the first time, he was making plans for a possible future post-Delicious (indicating that he felt Nick and Colin were holding him back). Perhaps that explains why the next gig - again at the Marquee (7 April) - was so appallingly bad ...

 

I wrote a scathing review in my diary afterwards, describing their sound as Americanised rock and their performance as tired, desperate, and clichéd. Left the venue feeling sad and disappointed and hoping that Kirk would call time on the band, remembering Malcolm's words from the Swindle about the need to put a dying horse out of its misery. 

 

Wrote a letter to Kirk telling him all this and received a reply a couple of weeks later essentially agreeing he had to make radical changes. Then, out of the blue, Colin Dodsworth (the bass player) rang me and asked if he could come over for a chat, to which I agreed. 

 

Unsurprisingly, he was less than happy with how things were going for the band and voiced a series of complaints not only about Kirk, but about the manner in which his own role was minimalised and marginalised. 'No one', he said, 'likes to feel that they could be replaced by a monkey'. Which, I suppose, is true. 

 

Didn't really know what to tell him (and, to be honest, didn't feel it was my place to advise him). It was clear he'd like to develop his own ideas in the future and so I simply wished him all the best (not mentioning that Kirk too was thinking of either quitting the group or sacking the other members of the band).    

 

Somewhat surprisingly, Delicious were still together for Kirk's 25th birthday gig on June 7th, at the Rock Garden - and, actually, it was a lot of fun. And they even had a couple of new songs! 

 

The thing that pleased me most, for Kirk's sake more than mine, was that a couple of members of the Porn Squad had made the journey down from Ulverston. They, along with several other old friends of Mr. Fields, formed the fan base of his punk band back in the late 1970s, Initial Vision. 

 

I think it tells us something significant when a person can command such love and loyalty and, it has to be confessed, Kirk's charm is such that even though I first met him over forty-five years ago - and even though I've not seen or spoken with him for almost thirty years - I still feel a lot of affection when I think of him or record these events here.         

 

 

V. 

 

Monday 3 August: another Delicious gig at the Marquee. By this point, there's not much more to say: it was very much just another show. The flyer the band produced to advertise it is reproduced below, alongside a Delicious Poison postcard from back in the day that I have kept all these long years.  

 

At the end of the month Kirk had decided the best thing for the band to do was release a single themselves (something he had previously long resisted doing). 'Delicious' b/w 'New Sun Rising' on a GLO financed label - Temptation Records - was originally scheduled for release in early November (1000 copies), but then put back to early in the new year. 

 

As far as I know, this never came to pass (or, if it did, I never received a copy). 

 

The year ended at the Limelight (22 December): it was a good night with new friends, but Delicious were like a group of strangers on stage, playing unknown (and unliked) material. Didn't get to speak with Kirk afterwards and the next time I saw him was in January 1988, in Mayrhofen, Austria, at the Scotland Yard pub, where he, Nick and Colin were now performing as the in-house band.

 

Without telling me any of the details, Kirk informed me that Delicious had officially broken up as a band (and that he wouldn't be having any future dealings with Gordon Lewis either). An inevitable ending and probably for the best. But I could tell Kirk was hurting, despite the brave face and the spin he was so good at putting on events. 

 

I noted in my diary with a mixture of envy, admiration, and amusement that Kirk 'planned to stay in Austria for as long as possible; hanging around with the ski bums; drinking hot chocolate, walking in the mountains, seducing the local girls, and only thinking about where to go and what to do next when he absolutely had to ...'  

 

It was a plan that, within two years, would lead Mr Field into a whole new world of adventure and he went on to become a defining voice of the UK rave scene, documenting and playing an active role in the very revolution he'd sensed coming back at the Marquee. 

 

Today, Kirk is a celebrated author and public speaker; his critically acclaimed memoir Rave New World was a tremendous (and much-deserved) success and I'm happy to know that, in a sense, the world has finally recognised the star I always knew him to be.  

 

 

 

   

Notes

 

[1] Quoted from an entry dated 24 Jan 1986 in The Von Hell Diaries 1980-89.  

 

[2] Gordon Lewis was effectively Kirk's manager. As mentioned in part one of this post, as the founder of the Gordon Lewis Organisation (GLO), he produced some of the most memorable pop videos of the period. By the end of the '80s, Lewis had opened a number of stylish café bars and clubs in Soho, London. 

      Today, he is perhaps best-known as an author; his book Secret Child (2015) was a Sunday Times bestseller and made into an award-winning short film in 2018, dir. Yewweng Ho. I still think he should have paid me more than a pony for the shirts. 

 

[3] Citizen Smith was a BBC TV sitcom (1977-1980), written by John Sullivan, and starring Robert Lindsay as Wolfie Smith, a would-be Marxist revolutionary and leader of the Tooting Popular Front. I was half-tempted to suggest that Kirk should adopt his look and start wearing an Afghan coat, Che Guevara T-shirt and black beret.   

 

[4] Janice Long's early evening Radio 1 show was well-known and respected for promoting music by indie and alternative bands.  

 

[5] To be fair, a second gig at the Rock Garden on 31 October - supporting Geno Washington and his band - went very well; a short, tight set with the brilliant new song 'Beautiful Friend'. Kirk was much more relaxed and made me laugh with his King of Siam impression, telling the crowd 'When I clap, you shall clap. When I cheer, you shall cheer. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera!'  

 

 

Readers who enjoyed this post, might want to check out his book, Rave New World: Confessions of a Raving Reporter (Nine Eight Books, 2023), or his latest, Planes, Trains & Amphetamines: Clubbing Holiday Confessions (Velocity Press, 2025). Both are available in bookshops, via Amazon, or from Kirk's website: click here. 

 

 

More Musings on My Time in the Music Business

 

The World's Most Flexible Record Label 

Original logo design by Chris Morton 

 

I. 

 

The independent record label founded by Dave Robinson and Jake Riviera - Stiff Records - is revered by many people fascinated by the British music industry in the mid-late 1970s and early-mid '80s.  

 

Indeed, one will often see it described as legendary - mostly because of its impressive roster of artists that included The Damned, Elvis Costello and the Attractions, Ian Dury and the Blockheads, Ten Pole Tudor, Motörhead, Madness, and The Pogues, but also because of the sleeve designs produced by the graphic artist Barney Bubbles [1].

 

My memories of it, however, are mostly shaped by the few miserable days I spent working there in the spring of 1987 ... 

      

 

II. 

 

By this date, Riviera was long gone following a series of disagreements with Robinson [2].  

 

A collaboration between Stiff and Island Records in 1984-85 had not worked out as planned [3] and, after the deal collapsed, Robinson regained full control of the newly independent label. 

 

However, underlying problems - mostly of a severe financial nature - meant that Stiff was forced into liquidation shortly after I turned up at their west London offices as a kind of exterminating angel ...  

 

 

III.  

 

Out of the blue, on St. George's Day, I got a phone call from Roddy Forrest, who had (briefly) been the  general manager at Charisma Records back when I was Jazzing it up at 90 Wardour Street [4]. He asked me to come and see him at his office the next day, at Stiff, as he wanted to offer me some work. 

 

So, the next morning, wearing my hand-painted Pagan T-shirt, I set off to Portobello (not my favourite neck of the woods; seedy and threatening, as I noted in my diary). 

 

Roddy was friendly and I was happy to see him again. But I did not enjoy my first day at Stiff:

 

 

The Von Hell Diaries: Friday 24 April, 1987 

 

Awful day. So glad I quit the music business when I did. It's a horrible industry, basically overseeing the production of shit. 

      Met a few new faces, including Dave Robinson - the boss - very Steve Weltmanesque in several respects, as Roddy pointed out, but, if anything, more intense. Did not like him. I think the only person I found attractive was the Irish girl, Sharon, working on reception.

      Roddy asked me to listen to some songs and give him some feedback. But my main task is to promote new releases with a number of record stores across the UK - i.e., make a lot of phone calls to people I don't know and try to sound enthusiastic. Boring. But it's only for a few days.    

 

 

I was in a far more positive frame of mind by the following week, however:

 

 

The Von Hell Diaries: Monday 27 April, 1987

 

Another day working at Stiff. Surprisingly, it didn't go too badly - went well, in fact, and I even enjoyed it at times. The people are friendly. But Robinson is bad tempered. 

      Rang 14 stores on a list of 19. Had to go to Sarm West Studios as well to pick something up. Owned by Trevor Horn, it's the studio where Duck Rock was recorded - and the Band Aid Christmas single. Bumped into Anne Clark, who I used to vaguely know, and we had a nice five-minute chat. When I got back to Stiff, it turned out someone had just been fired - I don't know who and I don't know why. 

      Roddy invited me to his place in Maida Vale for dinner (living with an Anglo-American woman called Maxine and her five-year-old son). Very tense atmosphere, but the food was okay. Roddy kindly gave me a selection of records (which I sold the next day to Reckless Records, apart from The Ramones album, Animal Boy, which I kept).

 

 

IV. 

 

By the middle of May, I'd had enough: the work was dull and the atmosphere increasingly unpleasant. 

 

And so, on the 14th, I went into the office one last time to collect the money owed and to say goodbye to Roddy. Woke up relieved the next morning knowing I didn't have to go to Stiff and stuff any more envelopes, make any more phone calls or photocopies, nor feign interest in the music business, etc. 

 

Shortly after I left, Stiff also reached the end of the road ... 

 

For despite success with artists like The Pogues, the label was drowning in debts of almost £1.5 million. After going into liquidation, ZTT moved in and purchased the remaining assets for a reported £300,000. They didn't attempt to resuscitate the label, however, rather, they placed it into a state of suspended animation for the next twenty years.

 

As the UK record business transitioned towards corporate ownership, small independent labels like Stiff and Charisma Records - run on an unconventional business model, staffed by eccentrics, and prepared to take a risk with signings and releases - were simply no longer able to survive [5].

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I should point out that none of these acts meant anything to me and I didn't buy any records produced by any artist signed to Stiff. I can't in all honesty say I'm a fan either of work by the tragic figure of Barney Bubbles (sorry, Paul).    

 

[2] Rivera left to form Radar Records in late 1977 with Andrew Lauder (formerly of RCA) and took several Stiff artists with him, including Nick Lowe and Elvis Costello. The label folded in 1980. 

 

[3] In 1983, Stiff mistakenly sold a 50% stake to Island Records in order to alleviate debt. Ironically, however, this partnership backfired when Island itself ran into serious financial trouble and Robinson ended up having to fund the deal himself, further straining Stiff's finances. 

 

[4] Forrest's (shortlived) appointment as GM at Charisma was announced in Music Week (26 Jan 1985) - along with Steve Weltman's promotion to managing director at the label. Roddy had previously worked for Arista Records as artist development manager and at Phonogram Records as product manager. 

      I was associated with Charisma for a few weeks in 1983 and between July 1984 and October 1985. For posts written about my time there, click here. 

 

[5] In December 2017, the Universal Music Group acquired ZTT and Stiff Records.   

 

 

In Memory of Noelia Castillo Ramos

Noelia Castillo Ramos (2000 - 2026)  

 

All she desired was the brief experience of a life free from suffering 

so that pain is forgotten in the eternity of an instant ...

 

 

I. 

 

The tragic case of Noellia Castillo Ramos - the young Spanish woman who died at her own request, aged 25, earlier this week - is one that has attracted significant public attention and roused a good deal of emotion. 

 

 

II. 

 

The facts of the case certainly make for grim reading ... 

 

Taken into social care as a young teen, Noelia was diagnosed with a borderline personality disorder. She remained in care until she was eighteen. 

 

Following a sexual assault by a group of three males at a nightclub in 2022, Noelia attempted suicide by jumping from the fifth floor of a building. She survived, but was left paralysed from the waist down and suffered chronic physical pain and severe psychological suffering as a result. 

 

And so, invoking the provisions of existing Spanish law [1], Noelia formally requested the right to die in 2024. 

 

After a protracted two-year legal battle, during which her father had argued she was incapable of making her own judgements due to her mental health problems and that the state, therefore, had a duty to protect her, Noelia was granted her wish and exited this world on 26 March, 2026 - wearing her prettiest dress and looking beautiful.

 

In a final TV interview, Noelia said that she didn't want to be a role model of any kind; that her decision was strictly a personal one. Despite this, many condemned her actions and those of the doctors who carried out the procedure [2] which involved the intravenous administration of drugs that induced deep sleep and subsequently caused her heart and lungs to cease functioning. 

 

Despite her mother wanting to be present, Noelia chose to die alone.   

 

 

III. 

What, then, are we to make of this case?

 

Well, without wishing to simply repeat what I say in a previous post discussing the case of Ellen West [3], it does seem to me that the case of Noelia Castillo Ramos has echoes of the latter, in that it also centres upon a young woman's agonising struggle to die at the time and in the manner of her own choosing.

 

Both women may have been prone to obsessive-compulsive behaviour and struggled with other mental health issues, but both strike me as remarkably lucid and single-minded when it came to the question of terminating their own lives.

 

And both cases demonstrate that, sometimes, only voluntary death brings freedom and fulfilment and there are times when non-being takes on a desperately positive meaning. 

 

Of course, not everyone will agree with my interpretation. The writer and atheist defender of the faith, Bendan O'Neill, for example, argues that Noelia's 'state-sanctioned killing' is a wicked act that shames Europe: 

 

"The supposed 'gift' of death for those in pain or anguish is in truth a grotesque betrayal of the virtues of the civilised society. [...] Under the regime of euthanasia we sacrifice our human duties at the altar of 'merciful death'." [4]

 

And just in case he hadn't made his moral opposition clear enough, O'Neill adds:

 

"The idea of the worthless life, a life so awful the state might help to destroy it, is the very essence of dehumanisation. It tells the ill they might be better off dead, and it incites the anguished to pursue that final exit they dream of. It demeans those who want to live and tempts those who want to die. It is inhumanity in the drag of mercy." [5]

 

To which one can only say: Keep your hair on, Brendan!  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Spain legalised physician-assisted suicide and euthanasia for those suffering from terminal illness or living with unbearable permanent conditions, in 2021.  

 

[2] A spokesman for the Church - José Mazuelos Pérez (Bishop of the Canary Islands) - declared that the outcome of the case was another step towards a culture of death (which is a bit rich coming from a man who wears a crucifix around his neck).

 

[3] See 'Sein zum Tode: The Case of Ellen West and the Work of Ludwig Binswanger' (18 May 2025): click here.

 

[4] Brendan O'Neill, 'There's nothing merciful about Noelia Castillo's death', in The Spectator (27 March 2026): click here.

 

[5] Ibid. 

 

 

More Tales from Charisma Records: Memories of Steve Weltman and Shelly Clark

 

First Floor, 90 Wardour Street, Soho, London W1. 

Tel: 01 434 1351 

I. 

 

Charisma Records was a small independent label founded in 1969 by the ebullient figure Tony Stratton Smith and is mostly remembered today as the home of a few old hippies and prog rockers [1] and for releasing various novelty records, which, depending on how one views these things, may or may not include Malcolm McLaren's Duck Rock (1983). 

 

For me, however, Charisma is a place I remember fondly not so much for the artists and acts associated with the label, but the equally talented and, in some ways, equally eccentric cast of characters who were running the company during its final years after it was bitten (and eventually swallowed) by the Virgin shark [2]. 

 

 

II.

 

These characters, for example, include Steve Weltman, who had left RCA to take up the role of Managing Director at Charisma in 1981, where he had previously worked in the early '70s and so understood the ethos and history of the label.  

 

I didn't have a personally close or even particularly fond working relationship with Weltman [3] and, as far as I remember, he only twice called me into his office for a serious chat.

 

On the first occasion, it was to warn me against visiting McLaren's office on 25 Denmark Street, as, due to ongoing legal wranglings between Charisma and McLaren, any and all future contact would be construed, he said, as a breach of trust (I was essentially accused of being a spy and of passing on confidential information) [4]. 

 

Needless to say, I didn't heed this warning. For one thing, I wasn't technically an employee of Charisma, so didn't feel under any legal obligation to do so and, obviously, my loyalties were very much to Malcolm, who had placed me in the Charisma press office in the first place. 

 

On the second occasion, it was to advise that I could, if I wanted, have a very bright future working in the music industry and that I should seriously consider my options and seize any opportunities that came my way. 

 

Again, needless to say, I didn't pay any attention to this careers advice and, in October 1985, with £1000 stuffed in an envelope, and carrying more books than clothes in an old suitcase, I set off on a bus from Victoria coach station to Madrid, with the intention of becoming a novelist and poet [5].    

 

 

III. 

 

Another Charisma character that I remember well (and with rather more affection) was the young woman heading the A&R department, Shelly Clark ...

 

Although I was primarily Lee Ellen Newman's right-arm in the Press Office, occasionally I'd be asked to help Shelly deal with the ever-growing backlog of tapes that were sent in by hopefuls and wannabes all aspiring to become successful recording artists. 

 

These tapes, rather sadly, were kept in a number of black bin bags, as if in anticipation of their fate. And to be fair, most were rubbish. It often surprised me to see the lack of care many people took with their submissions; sometimes forgetting even to include a return address or phone number, let alone a brief bio and photo [6].

 

Shelly was, I think, a generous soul. She did once throw a cup of coffee over me [7], but then, on the other hand, she gave me a big hug and a kiss on my 22nd birthday and we shared a couple of bottles of wine in her office listening to various outtakes from Duck Rock. We even once went to see a band together - The Opposition - at Camden Palace (25 June, 1985), on the orders of Steve Weltman.   

 

Unfortunately, I think she was a little ground down (or bored) by the job. And I'm not sure Shelly really knew or cared very much about music. I liked her though and think this photo taken of the two of us by Holly Fogg, the Charisma Secretary, shows that we enjoyed an affectionate and playful relationship: 

 

 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Historians of the British music industry tend to view Charisma in three distinct phases: the first phase between late 1969 and July 1975; the middle phase, from August 1975 to August 1983; and the final phase from September 1983 until Charisma's full assimilation into Virgin in 1986-87.  

      Whilst it is the first phase that is traditionally of most interest to historians and record collectors - this being seen as the golden period during which Charisma released records from artists such as The Nice, Genesis, Lindisfarne, Van Der Graaf Generator, et al, it's the final phase that interests me here and which I was a part of. 

 

[2] Stratton Smith sold Charisma to Richard Branson's Virgin Records in stages. A special relationship, which included a distribution deal, was agreed in September 1983 and this was (inevitably) followed by a full sale of shares in 1985. By the end of the following year, Charisma had been fully assimilated and ceased operating as an independent label; the last new release with the Mad Hatter logo appeared in October 1986.

      Sadly, Stratton Smith died shortly afterwards, of pancreatic cancer, aged 54, in March 1987. On the few occasions he and I ever spoke, he invariably misremembered my name - calling me James rather than Jazz - though he did once say he admired my 'lateral thinking'.   

[3] Having said that, Weltman did invite me to his birthday party on Saturday 1 June 1985, at his house in Esher, Surrey (one of the most affluent towns in the UK, popular with bankers, lawyers, corporate executives, celebrities, and so on). 

 

[4] Ironically, but also to his great credit, it had been Weltman who - undeterred by Mclaren's troublemaking reputation - had insisted that Charisma sign the latter and pay him an advance of £45,000 in order to make the album fusing "contemporary urban black sounds with world music" known as Duck Rock. 

      See Paul Gorman, The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren (Constable, 2020), pp. 494-95.  

 

[5] See the autobiographical fragment on my move to sunny Spain in October 1985 (18 Aug 2020): click here. 

 

[6] Just as surprising was the level of naivety displayed by those who sent in tapes containing a full album's worth of songs; did they really think anyone would continue listening beyond the first 30 seconds of the first couple of tracks? 

      More irritating, however, was the defensive arrogance that occasionally accompanied a submission: If you can't hear the musical brilliance of these highly original songs then please return them without delay.

 

[7] As recorded in a diary entry dated Tuesday 5 February, 1985. The coffee was thrown playfully, rather than in anger or with malice.

 

 

On Being (and Not Being) Leonard Zelig

Stephen Alexander and Leonard Zelig 

(SA/2026)

 

 

I. 

 

Zelig (1983) may not be my favourite Woody Allen movie, but it's the one that philosophically most interests and also the film that most closely resonates with my own experiences. 

 

The title character, Leonard Zelig [1], played by Allen - who also wrote and directed the movie - is, paradoxically, a man without any fixed character or distinguishing features; someone who, out of a pathological desire to fit in and be liked, takes on the personal traits of those people around him. 

 

Our friends the psychologists refer to this with the term environmental dependency syndrome - although some see it as an actual disorder that compromises individuation and prevents personal autonomy [2].  

 

Made as a fictional documentary, Zelig uses archival footage, faux-newsreels, and interviews with real-life intellectuals - including Susan Sontag, Saul Bellow and Bruno Bettelheim - to chronicle the life of human chameleon Leonard Zelig in the 1920s and '30s, humorously exploring themes of identity, conformity, and celebrity. 

 

It's an almost flawless film and certainly far more than the one-joke technical novelty that some critics dismissed it as at the time. To enjoy a short theatrical teaser trailer, click here.  

 

 

II. 

 

Rewatching Allen's film, it struck me that, in some ways, I'm a bit Zelig-like, in that I have the knack for being at the right time and place and of appearing to fit in, even while secretly remaining on the outside of events and somewhat indifferent to what others think of me. 

 

For unlike Zelig, I don't need to be loved; I just need to be close enough (and invisible enough) to watch the chaos unfold; more an amused observer rather than an active participant or paid-up member of an established scene.  

 

 

III.

 

For example, when at Charisma Records in 1984-85, I was both employed and not-employed; at the heart of the music business whilst never really belonging. I hadn't applied for a job in the press office and had no ambitions of building a career. 

 

Rather, I just found myself placed there thanks to the machinations of Malcolm McLaren who wanted me to act as a mole, letting him know what was happening behind the scenes during a very turbulent period when the Virgin shark was in the process of digesting Charisma, having swallowed the label in 1983.     

 

Then, in the 1990s, whilst doing doctoral research at Warwick University, I was both a member of the philosophy department and not quite part of it. Registered as a part-time student, I was based in London rather than resident on campus or living nearby. I was also co-supervised by a professor in the English department and that made me a bit suspect to some in the philosophy department.

 

I knew (and quite liked) Nick Land and even produced some artwork for the magazine Collapse at his invitation, but, again, was never really one of Nick's gang or involved with the CCRU as they accelerated off into the future.        

 

Finally, and by way of another example, between 2004-08, I spent a good deal of time at Treadwell's, in Covent Garden, seemingly a key figure on the pagan witchcraft scene, presenting over thirty talks at the store during this period on subjects ranging from thanatology to zoophilia - as noted by Gary Lachman in an article for the Independent [3].    

 

But, once more, despite my ability to look at home in an esoteric environment, I always felt like an enemy within (just a little bit too sceptical, too cynical, and too insincere to ever really belong).   

 

IV. 

 

In conclusion: I am and I am not Leonard Zelig. 

 

Whilst he transforms physically to fit in, I'm more of an intellectual chameleon: in other words, he has no fixed look; I have no fixed ideas. 

 

In our own ways, however, we both haunt cultural history by being everywhere and nowhere at once, reflecting the mood and the madness of the times. 

 

  

Notes

 

[1] The name Zelig is Yiddish of Germanic origin, meaning 'blessed' or 'happy' and has historically been associated with individuals considered to be favoured by a higher power.

 

[2] EDS is often caused by frontal lobe damage, often resulting from strokes, tumours, or degenerative diseases like dementia. Those with the condition not only copy the gestures and mannerisms of others, but also often use objects inappropriately; unable to resist the impulse to interact with their environment. Such behaviour, as one might imagine, can lead to awkward social situations and, in severe cases, can have serious consequences. 

 

[3] See Gary Lachman, 'Pagan pages: One bookshop owner is summoning all sorts to her supernatural salons', Independent (16 September 2007): click here. 

 

    

In Memory of the Land Girls (and My Aunt Edna)

Edna Hall: Portrait of a Land Girl 

(SA/2026)

 

I. 

 

The Women's Land Army (WLA) was a British civilian organisation created by the Board of Agriculture during the First World War. The aim was to replace the tens of thousands of male farmhands who had been called up to fight (and die) for king and country with what were known as Land Girls. 

 

It was their job to pick potatoes, shovel shit and do all the other necessary work to ensure the nation didn't starve. For this they were paid 18 shillings a week, or a pound, if they were considered by their employers to be exceptionally efficient or hardworking (the latter might even be rewarded with a Good Service Ribbon). 

 

 

II. 

 

The WLA was disbanded in 1919, but reformed in the summer of 1939 under the same name in anticipation of a new war with Germany and the organisation continued until November 1950. It was during this period that my aunt Edna, pictured above (not in official uniform), briefly worked as a Land Girl. 

 

Whether she volunteered or was conscripted and whether her photo ever appeared in The Land Girl - the WLA members' magazine (1940-1947) - I don't know.    

 

Whilst the majority of the Land Girls already lived in the countryside, more than a third came from London and the industrial cities of the north of England, including Newcastle, which is where my aunt was from. I like to think she enjoyed herself in the WLA - more fun, perhaps, than being a shop assistant, but I can imagine the work would be demanding and living conditions not great [1]. 

 

Thank goodness for hot cups of tea, cigarettes, and camaraderie!

 

Outrageously, Land Girls like my aunt were not given any official commemoration until 2012, when the Prince of Wales unveiled the first memorial to the WLA of both World Wars, on the Fochabers estate in Moray, Scotland. Whilst people like to believe better late than never, it's still an insult and just one more reason to despise the British state [2].

 

Just as insulting was the fact that five years earlier, following a campaign led by former Land Girl Hilda Gibson, DEFRA announced that the efforts of the Women's Land Army and the Women's Timber Corps - a sister organisation concerned with forestry rather than farming - would be formally recognised with the presentation of a specially designed commemorative badge to the surviving members. 

 

This badge of honour - a small, belated gesture for a generation that had literally fed the nation during its darkest days - was awarded in July 2008 to over 45,000 former Land Girls (my Aunt, who was in her mid-eighties by then, wasn't one of them).   

 

 

Notes. 

 

[1] The Land Girls, often far from home, were housed in hostels; communal existence allowing for a shared experience and the forging of a collective identity. Evenings were often spent at local village dances; a necessary reprieve from the physical toll of fifty-hour weeks and anxiety about the War. 

 

[2] The neglect of the Land Girls is shameful, but not surprising. When the WLA disbanded in 1950, the women simply returned to their civilian lives, their contribution relegated to the footnotes of history. 

 

 

Does Anyone Else Remember When Trafalgar Square Was a Happy Place?

Feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square 

(c. 1971)

 

 

I.

 

Six days later and still the row rumbles on about the Ramadan prayer event held in London's Trafalgar Square; a public gathering described by shadow justice secretary Nick Timothy as a provocative act of domination - prompting others to decry his remarks as Islamophobic and call for his head (figuratively speaking).     

 

I really don't want to comment on this matter, as I find it both depressing and tedious. 

 

However, as an anti-theist, I would quite happily ban all large-scale outdoor religious events; be they Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, or Sikh. I don't even like to see neo-pagans and old hippies gathered at Stonehenge for the solstice celebrations, to be perfectly honest. 

 

And, as an ornithophile, I would be delighted to see Trafalgar Square cleared of all believers, worshippers, devotees, etc. and made home once more to the thousands of pigeons who lived there for well over a century before Ken Livingstone decided they were a public nuisance and threat to human health (more on this shortly).

 

 

II.   

 

Feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square with seed bought from licensed vendors was an extremely popular thing to do in post-War decades; bringing joy and amusement to people of all ages and backgrounds, be they locals or tourists.

 

The birds were remarkably friendly and would perch on people, lions, and statues alike. Being pictured with a pigeon on one's head was an experience captured in countless family photos - such as the one above, taken in the early '70s, when I was a nipper and wearing my turquoise Fred Perry T-shirt and blue corduroy trousers held up with a classic snake belt. 

 

Readers might also note how, in the photo, the man, woman and young girl observing the scene are all smiling; a facial expression formed by flexing muscles at the sides of the mouth in order to signal happiness that is rarely seen in the UK today.       

 

 

III. 

 

As mentioned, the toxic transition from popular attraction to pest problem happened under Mayor Ken Livingstone, who famously branded the birds rats with wings and argued that their removal would result in a more pleasant environment. 

 

The last birdseed vendor was forced to stop trading after his license was revoked in 2001, terminating a tradition that had begun soon after the Square was completed and birds began flocking to it in 1844. Two years later feeding pigeons was officially banned in the main square to prevent damage to monuments and this ban was then extended to the North Terrace (near the National Gallery) in 2007, when fines for feeding the birds were increased from £50 to £500. 

 

There was some organised opposition to this, but, sadly, the writing was on the wall for our feathered friends and Red Ken was indifferent to the fact that suddenly removing a regular and abundant food source to 4000 birds would result in many of them starving to death. Today, Trafalgar Square is kept pigeon-free by the use of hawks patrolling the area to scare away any remaining birds that might wish to return to a once happy home and place of safety. 

 

 

IV. 

 

In conclusion ... 

 

The pigeon is a bird that links us to our past as Londoners; its association with the capital spans centuries and serves as a genuine symbol of a shared, non-sectarian history. As for the potential health risks they pose, I suspect these are greatly exaggerated to justify a sterile, overly controlled urban environment and, frankly, the preservation of imposing stone monuments is a secondary concern to me: 

 

"We have reached the stage where we are weary of huge stone erections, and we begin to realise that it is better to keep life fluid and changing, than try to hold it down in heavy monuments." [1] 

 

Only people of a malignant spirit - like Ken Livingstone - would wish harm upon birds, or believe - like the current Mayor Sadiq Khan - that the cry of Allahu Akbar is preferable to the gentle cooing of a rock dove ... 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'Tarquinia', in Sketches of Etruscan Places and Other Italian Essays, ed. Simonetta de Filippis (Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 32.  

Dark Thoughts on the Light House

48 Berwick St., London, W1 

lighthousesoho.com

 

 

I. 

 

To the Light House!

 

For Virginia Woolf, this phrase didn't merely reference a destination, but something intangible that keeps us believing in a brighter future [1]. For me, however, it means a trip into Soho and a first-time visit to Joe Corré's new venture on Berwick Street, six months after opening in September of last year. 

 

 

II.   

 

For readers who may not know, Corré is the 58-year-old son of Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren. He is usually described in the press as an activist and businessman, though we might wish to reverse these terms for the sake of greater accuracy. 

 

In 1994, he established the lingerie store Agent Provocateur with his then wife Serena Rees, which they eventually sold to a private equity firm in 2007, for a sum of £60 million (later revealed to be a more than generous price). The following year Corré opened Child of the Jago, an independent boutique very much inspired by the retail outlets operated by his parents in the 1970s and '80s.  

 

In 2016, Corré controversially staged a protest which involved burning an estimated five million quids worth of Sex Pistols memorabilia on a barge on the River Thames [2]. 

 

And now, Corré is the proud owner of a lovingly restored Georgian townhouse that previously operated as a chandelier workshop [3]; thus the name of his new project (as far as I know, there's no Woolf-Westwood connection, even if the former inspired many fashion designers and once famously declared that, contrary to popular misconception, clothes wear us). 

 

 

III. 

 

It would not be fair - or indeed accurate - to describe the Light House as simply a retail outlet. 

 

For it functions as a multi-purpose fashion house, atelier, and members' bar and aims to provide a platform for independent designers known for "their creative aesthetic and high quality manufacture" [4], but who often struggle to find affordable retail space to rent in what remains of and passes for the real world. 

 

The Light House also intends to host exhibitions, talks, and other events; indeed, when I visited, an exhibition titled  'Vivienne Westwood: An Active Life' was just coming to a close [5]. 

 

All of which sounds great - and is great - and Joe is to be congratulated. The venue looks fantastic and, as a concept, the Light House is a brilliant idea. 

 

And let me add that the staff are amazing, too (give 'em a pay rise, Joe!).  

 

 

IV. 

 

However, a concern remains that the Light House is ultimately a space for an economic rather than a cultural elite to gather. To become a member, for example, requires one to cough up £950 per annum - which is quite a lot of money just to be able to access a tiny bar and mingle with a few other like-minded individuals. 

 

And of course, they will be like-minded; the terms and conditions governing membership (as well as the annual subscription fee) guarantee that. If one, out of curiosity, looks on the Light House website, one discovers that membership will be restricted to those artisans, craftspeople, designers, and individuals drawn from the creative industries who agree to conform to a set of house rules that govern not only how they behave, but what ideas to think and values to hold.

 

Members, for example, are not only made aware that loud and boorish behaviour will not be tolerated, but that they musn't discuss or promote any religious or politically extremist ideology. Members must also conform to an approved dress code; no jeans, no trainers, no tracksuits, no mass market fashion, or other unattractive attire. 

 

The management of the Light House also take a very dim view of drunkenness, lewdness, and aggressiveness. Members and/or their guests will be dealt with severely if they use abusive or inappropriate language, piss on the floor, or smoke in a non-designated area. The use of all mobile devices is also strictly prohibited.

 

And, finally, to ensure everyone follows the rules, members must also consent to use of CCTV and the storage of their personal data. A membership card - i.e., photographic ID - must also be carried and shown upon request by staff. I think that just about covers everything; the Hellfire Club it ain't and whilst Joe Corré may fancy himself as a bit of an 18th century dandy and sophisticated man about town, he's no Francis Dashwood ... 

 

 

V. 

  

Whilst Corré likes to be seen offering support to "those who challenge the norms today: punks, artists, activists, thinkers ..." [6] a high membership fee naturally filters the community by disposable income rather than purely by creative merit. This can risk turning a counter-cultural hub into a private lounge for the wealthy to larp as outsiders and rebels. 

 

And whilst Corré is right to say that Soho has been transformed since the 1980s from a gritty, artistic enclave to an area dominated by private members' clubs, one might suggest that as someone who commodifies the aesthetic of rebellion while operating within the same elite structures, he is himself contributing to the very gentrification of the area that he condemns [7]. 

 

When membership of a club is restricted to those who can afford it, the curiosity and conversation that Corré hopes to foster may lack the friction and diversity of thought found in truly public or more inclusive spaces. 

 

Ultimately, I'll leave it to readers to decide: is Joe a genuine 'punk' saviour and cultural 'terrorist', or is he merely a wealthy beneficiary of the system he criticises? Whilst fans of Westwood and defenders of the faith will love what he's doing, I'm sceptical to say the least ...

 

The Light House may be shining bright on Berwick Street, but for the freaks Corré claims to champion, the door remains firmly closed.  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] To the Lighthouse is novel by Virginia Woolf (Hogarth Press, 1927). It is arguably her best novel alongside Mrs Dalloway (1925), and widely considered a seminal work of modernist literature. 

 

[2] See 'Carri On Sex Pistols: Comments on the Case of Joe Corré and His Bonfire of Punk' (19 Dec 2016): click here.

      In this post, I argue that Corré's rather feeble (and belated) gesture was unnecessary; that his father working in collaboration with Jamie Reid had already alerted us in The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle to the fact that the Sex Pistols were fast becoming merely another brand name and that Bambi had already been butchered.

 

[3] Corré explains on the Light House website how he had been on the hunt for candlesticks for use in an art project, but ended up purchasing the entire building at 48 Berwick Street: click here. It seems that whilst you may or may not be able to buy happiness, you can certainly materialise your dreams when you have a significant sum in the bank: Lux ducit, sedpecuia eam realem facit ... 

      (I'm punning here on the Latin slogan used by the Light House: Lux me ducet - the light shall lead me forward. The phrase is often associated with the 19th century Italian writer Carlo Collodi, author of Pinocchio (1883), who adopted it as the motto for his magazine, Il Lampione. Along with other similar classical Latin phrases, it is commonly used to express inspiration, intellect, or spiritual guidance.)

 

[4] I'm quoting from the Showcase page on the Light House website: click here. 

 

[5] The month-long exhibition celebrated the life of the iconic visionary and activist Dame Vivienne Westwood. It was an interesting collaboration between the Vivienne Foundation, celebrity portrait photographer Ki Price, and life-long Westwood devotee, Steven Philip. Not only were limited edition prints of Price's pictures available, but Philip curated a sale of over a hundred vintage Westwood items drawn from his own collection. 

      For full details, see the Spotlight page on the Light House website: click here. 

 

[6] I'm quoting from the Showcase page on Child of the Jago on the Light House website: click here. 

 

[7] See, for example, his piece in The Standard titled 'My mother showed how fashion can bring light to dark days - it's a legacy I won't let die' (21 Feb 2026): click here. 

      Corré claims that once vibrant areas like Soho "have become sanitised and homogenised to the point where they resemble a shopping mall of zoned, soulless cubes of shite" and that his mission is to reverse the tide and "bring back the freaks". The Light House, he says, is a hub for people who love to dress up and discuss "artistic, intellectual and cultural ideas" - providing of course they pay their membership fees and respect the rules.