Bob & Vivien & Nick & Young: Thoughts on a Post Screening Discussion

L-R: Nick Egan, Vivien Goldman, Bob Gruen, and Young Kim

Malcolm Mclaren: Worlds End Paris Catwalk Shows 

+ Duck Rock Post Screening Discussion and Q&A 

Click here to watch on YouTube 

 

 

I. 

 

If I could have been anywhere in the world this week it would have been New York City - despite the subzero temperatures - in order to attend a programme of events put on by the Anthology Film Archives to honour Malcolm Mclaren and organised in collaboration with Young Kim, his creative and romantic partner for the last twelve years of his life and the executor of his estate. 

 

Essentially a series of screenings, the week-long event explored McLaren's relationship to film and surveyed his rarely seen or discussed contributions to the world of the moving-image.

 

Following the screening of a 60 minute video of the Worlds End Paris Catwalk shows (1981-84) and the 42 minute long-form music video made to accompany the album Duck Rock (1983), there was a post-screening discussion and Q&A moderated by the the British writer, musician, and punk scholar Vivien Goldman and featuring the American photographer Bob Gruen and the English visual artist and self-styled creative vandal Nick Egan, alongside Young Kim. 

 

And, having now twice watched a recording of this discussion uploaded to YouTube, I thought I'd share some thoughts (and impressions) on what was said (since I wasn't invited to attend and chip in my tuppence ha'p'orth in person). 

 

II.

Vivien Goldman sounds fun and seems keen to infuse a little liveliness into events, which is what you need, I suppose, from a moderator. Her remark re Malcolm's heavenly status (0:26) made me smile; for if he has indeed ascended to the Kingdom of God then the angels had better tie him to a tree, or he'll begin to roam and soon you know where he will be.  

 

Young sounds smart and serious, though one might raise an eyebrow at some of her claims; was Duck Rock really an 'anthropological study of world dance cultures' (3:22)? I mean, it's more than just an amusing pop record, but that's over-egging the pudding somewhat.

 

Let's just say rather that it's an imaginative and pioneering work of ethnomusicological curation - albeit one that conveniently and commercially packages things for a Western audience. Malcolm certainly did his research and Duck Rock displays creative genius, but he wasn't an attempting a serious study of world music nor trying to faithfully document such.          

 

 

III. 

 

It's interesting to hear it confirmed by Kim that there is, in fact, not a huge archive of material left behind by McLaren (6:41); I know some people like to think he was England's Andy Warhol [1], but here he absolutely differed from his hero. 

 

For Warhol, of course, left behind an outrageously large and detailed archive of material, consisting of approximately half a million objects, including his personal and artistic belongings from the 1950s until his death in 1987, and filling a space of some 8,000 cubic feet. 

 

Amusingly, The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts donated the vast majority of this material to The Andy Warhol Museum, giving them the Herculean task of cataloguing the contents (whilst they hold on to the massive collection of paintings, drawings, and prints).        

 

One suspects that the Malcolm McLaren Estate will soon exhaust whatever materials have not yet been placed into the public arena and that defending his legacy will be Kim's main role, rather than adding to it in any significant manner. 

 

 

IV.     

 

Nick Egan I'm always going to think fondly of, as he was kind and helpful to me back in 1983 [2]. 

 

But his claim that Malcolm was 'not a nostalgic person' (7:11) is laughably false; his entire project might be summed up as an attempt to live yesterday tomorrow (to reverse the past into the future). 

 

He may have been quickly bored and always looked to radically shake up the present (his history in relation to 430 Kings Road is evidence of that), but McLaren was a man haunted by ghosts and childhood memories his entire life and was even nostalgic for mud; i.e., some form of primal and primitive authenticity.  

 

Let's just say that his relationship with nostalgia was complex and that he viewed the lost promise of the past as potentially subversive rather than something to get sentimental about.     

 

 

V.  

 

Bob Gruen - whom I've never met or had any contact with - seems like a nice chap and I enjoyed listening to his anecdotes from back in the day, be they about the New York Dolls or suckling pigs (15:30). 

 

And his initial impression of McLaren as odd (9:45) is not wrong; Malcolm was nothing if not an odd duck, although some may prefer to idiomatically label him a queer fish. 

 

Either way, Malcolm was a member of the punk 1% - i.e., those who don't fit in and don't care (as it says on a Seditionaries shirt) [3].  

 

 

VI. 

 

Interesting also to hear from Nick that Malcolm had 'a bubble around him' (17:37) and wasn't always aware that other people didn't see things as he saw them and didn't always realise when he had overstepped the mark or outstayed his welcome. 

 

Hearing how he managed to piss off the mountain folk in Tennessee (16:42) reminds one of that time when, in 2007, he managed to antagonise the good people of Gardenstown, a small fishing village in Aberdeenshire, by informing them that Jesus Christ was a sausage [4].   

 

Is this a sign of McLaren's egoism, or narcissism, or solipsism ...? 

 

I don't know. 

 

But let's call it innocence. 

 

 

VII. 

 

Interestingly, in answering an audience question about accessing the McLaren archive Kim - who obviously has legal control - makes it clear she also wants complete control. Thus, whilst she plans to make Malcolm's work available, it will be at a time of her choosing and according to the terms and conditions she sets: 

 

'I don't really want [things] just everywhere right away. I want to do something with them, but I want to control kind of how it goes out to be honest.' (30:00 - 30:15) 

      

That's understandable, I suppose, but one does have concerns that Kim is also trying to determine the critical reception of McLaren's work and coordinate his entire story from her perspective (I suspect this is what Vivien Goldman refers to as Kim being a 'really fierce defender' (1:31) of Malcolm's legacy.   

 

 

VIII. 

 

Where Young is spot on - and right to contradict Egan - is in her claim that Malcolm always viewed things ultimately from a British perspective (33:13); thus, for example, his album Paris (1994) was very much a love letter to the city and to French pop culture written by an Englishman.     

 

He once told me that Paris is for living in; New York is for playing in; but London is where he always returns to work and bring ideas together (and it's Highgate, of course, where he has his final resting place, not Père Lachaise).   

 

 

IX.

 

Is Nick right to argue that Duck Rock has had more influence than Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (1977) (41:02)?

 

Young looks as if she wants to interject and challenge the idea and, if I'd been there, I think I might also have challenged that. For while both albums are seminal works, the comparison is inappropriate (maybe even odious), for their influence operates in very different spheres. 

 

Push comes to shove, however, I think Never Mind the Bollocks is the more culturally significant and broadly influential work, having defined the punk movement and its global aesthetic - but this is not to deny or downplay Duck Rock's innovations and the latter album has perhaps proven to be more prophetic (some critics arguing that it not only brought hip-hop into the mainstream, but that it anticipated developments in the 21st century, such as sampling, for example). 

  

 

Notes

 

[1] See the post titled 'The Talented Malcolm McLaren and the Visionary Andy Warhol' (21 Jan 2026): click here. 

 

[2] See the post titled 'Memories of a Duck Rocker' (17 Mar 2025): click here. 

 

[3] I'm referring to the Anarchist Punk Gang' shirt designed by McLaren and Westwood for Seditionaries c. 1979. Click here to view an example of such held by the Met Museum. And click here for a forthcoming post discussing the shirt and in praise of the 1% who don't fit and don't care. 

 

[4] See the post titled 'Don't You Know Jesus Christ is a Sausage?' (18 April 2020): click here.  

 

 

Unbearably Beautiful: Why I Love the Photographs of Rachel Fleminger Hudson

An untitled photo by Rachel Fleminger Hudson 

rachelflemingerhudson.com

 

 

I.

 

As someone who grew up in the 1970s and remains amorously fascinated with the period - the music, the TV, the fashion, the football, the girls (not necessarily in that order) - of course I'm excited by the work of British photographer and filmmaker Rachel Fleminger Hudson ... 

 

 

II.

 

An ultra-talented graduate of Central Saint Martins and winner of the 2022 Dior Photography and Visual Arts Award for Young Talents, Fleminger Hudson's highly-stylised images recreate the aesthetics of the period within a contemporary cultural context, thereby loosening the "aura of necessity and sanctity surrounding categories of the present" [1].

 

Although often playful, her images are meticulously researched, carefully staged with authentic objects and outfits, and invested with ideas drawn from her intellectual background in cultural studies and critical theory; we can tell this by the fact that, when interviewed, she prefers to speak of hauntology rather than mere nostalgia [2], although, clearly, Fleminger Hudson is yearing for something in her work; if not for the past or for home as such, then perhaps for the intimacy of touch in a digital age. 

 

III.

 

People of a certain age - like me - might remember the '70s and even publish posts on their glam-punk childhood: click here, for example.

 

But nobody reimagines the decade better than Fleminger Hudson and it's this creative reimagining rather than a straightforward recollection that somehow best captures the spirit of the times and, more importantly perhaps, projects elements of the past into the future, so that we might live yesterday tomorrow - as Malcolm would say - rekindling sparks of forgotten joy [3].    

 

Although she's not a fashion photographer per se, it's the fashions of the 1970s that most excite Fleminger Hudson's interest; a true philosopher on the catwalk, she clearly believes that clothes maketh the period and express not only the individuality of the wearer, but embody the socio-cultural conditions of the time [4].

 

Why Fleminger Hudson has a particular penchant for the 1970s, I don't know. Arguably, she might have tied her project to an earlier decade, or even the 1980s [5].

 

Perhaps because the 1970s were a uniquely transitional time; one that was marked "by a change in values and lifestyles" as "modern society and its cult of authenticity gave way to a postmodernism based on reproduction and simulacra" [6]. 

 

 

IV.

 

Whether we think of Fleminger Hudson's work as a form of theoretically-informed fantasy, or as magically-enhanced realism, doesn't really matter. Because either way, her images are fabulous, relaying a narrative that is truer than truth [7] and revealing more about the past than historical facts alone.  

 

  

Portrait of the artist 

Rachel Fleminger Hudson

 

 

Notes

 

[1] William E. Connolly, Political Theory and Modernity (Basil Blackwell, 1988), p. ix.  

 

[2] See, for example, the interview with Gem Fletcher on wetransfer.com (8 July 2024), in which Fleminger Hudson says: "I think about the work as anti-nostalgic. Nostalgia, for me, is about being homesick for a distant past. I'm not homesick for the past because I exist in the material world of the 70s now through my relationship with objects."

 

[3] See the post on retrofuturism dated 10 June 2024 entitled 'I Wanna Live Yesterday Tomorrow': click here. 

 

[4] On her website, Fleminger Hudson says that clothing is "an often overlooked symbolic language" and that one of her aims is "to engage with our psychological entanglement with our garments". Click here.

 

[5] Fleminger Hudson recognises this in the interview with Gem Fletcher on wetransfer.com (8 July 2024): "My work isn't a glorification of the 1970s. [...] In truth, I could be using any era."

 

[6] I'm quoting from a text on the Maison Européenne de la Photographie website showcasing some of Fleminger Hudson's work. She had her first solo exhibition at the MEP in 2023, curated by Victoria Aresheva, bringing together pictures from several different series of works. Click here.  

 

[7] The Jewish proverb that suggests that stories (fables) are truer than the truth is one I first heard being spoken by the South American writer Isabel Allende in a TED talk (March 2007): click here. 

 

Scattered Pictures of the Smiles We Left Behind: In Memory of Four Treadwellians

Thomas, Meni, Mark & Bianca

Treadwells, 34, Tavistock Street, London, WC2 [1]

(c. 2006) 

  

I. 

 

I rarely think back to what might be termed the Treadwell's period (2004-2008), but, when I do, I find it is with increasing fondness for the curious little bookshop and its owner Christina Harrington, and, of course, for the handful of people who used to assemble in the basement to listen to my philosophical reflections on topics including sex/magic, thanatology, and zoophilia [2].  

 

Some of the regular attendees to these lectures soon formed a magic circle with whom I would go for drinks and discussion afterwards. As this group had around a dozen members [3], the Little Greek used to jokingly refer to them as the disciples, though I'm sure none of these highly individual characters recognised themselves as such or thought they had anything to learn from me. 

 

 

II. 

 

Sadly, very few pictures were ever taken at the Store when I was there; 2004-08 was just prior to everyone carrying a smartphone and sharing photos and video footage on social media.

 

However, in a rare snap reproduced above, we see four members of the Treadwell's contingent all looking surprisingly cheerful for some reason [4]. 

 

The gang of four are:

 

(i) Thomas the Austrian; an artist and genuine oddball, whose chief pleasure was telling me how wrong I was about everything and whom I used to imagine as a bald-headed bird of prey picking at my entrails ...

 

(ii) Melpomeni Kermanidou; a beautiful and talented singer-songwriter from Down Under, who, knowing how I hated the sight and sound of people clapping, once threw rose petals at the end of one of my talks - an act for which I will always adore her ...

 

(iii) Mark Jeoffroy; an occultist, poet and illustrator with finely curved lips and a boyish, slightly sinister charm; his eyes sparkling with the conceit of his own corruption, he told me once he was the spiritual heir (if not the actual reincarnation) of William Blake.     

 

(iv) Bianca Madison (aka the Great Dane); a former model turned therapist, nutritionist, activist, author and public speaker, who encourages everyone to learn how to love themselves and live inspired, healthy and compassionate lives (i.e., become a bit more like her).    

 

Wherever they are and whatever they're doing now, I hope they're just as happy as they seem to be in this picture and that - one fine day - we all get to meet up once more ... 

 

Notes

 

[1] Treadwell's moved from this address to 33, Store Street, WC1, in 2011. Those who cannnot visit one of London's friendliest and most fascinating bookshops in person, can go to treadwells-london.com

 

[2] See the post from 4 December 2012 entited 'The Treadwell's Papers' for details of the thirty papers presented at the store during 2004-08 (and the four additional stand-alone papers presented in 2011-12): click here. 

      Readers might also find Gary Lachman's 2007 article in The Independent on Treadwell's interesting, providing as it does an insider's insight into the store at this time. Lachman is spot-on to argue that what set Treadwell's apart from other occult shops is that it was a centre where people from different intellectual and artistic backgrounds could meet and exchange ideas. For this, all credit must be give to Christina, who conjured up an environment in which the world of philosophy and literature could flirt with occultism and pagan witchcraft.

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

 

[3] Other Treadwellians in my little circle included Steve Ash, Tom Bland, David Blank, Dawn Garland, Annette Herold, Simon Image, Sara the Satanist, Fiona Spence, and - of course - Simon Thomas. 

 

[4] We know from the clock on the wall that my presentation would have just finished, so perhaps that explains their joy; now they were free to go off and enjoy themselves in the pub.         

 

 

 

Are We Really Returning to the 1970s? (I Wish ...)

Front page of The Sun (20 June 2022)

 

 

I. 

 

Some commentators seem to imagine that Britain is returning to the 1970s, pointing to rising inflation, higher taxes, strikes, shortages, and even the threat of power cuts, as if these things alone defined the decade, when, actually, I think it might just as legitimately be argued that it was predominantly characterised by a greater level of joie de vivre: everything was so much more fun in the 1970s - the fashion, the football, the music ... etc. 

 

It was certainly a fun time to be a child growing up; the 70s was a golden age of sweets, comics, conkers and playing outside all day, whatever the weather, with friends, but without parental supervision, electronic surveillance, or any concern for health and safety. You might come home muddy or with a grazed knee, but you always came home happy. 

But even adults seemed to laugh more and enjoy all kinds of manual labour; including hard, tiring, often dirty jobs. People sweated more - and smoked more - in the 1970s, but they also whistled more than they do now. My father used to return exhausted some days from work, but I never remember him complain about being tired. Similarly, I never heard my mother say she was stressed.  

 

In a sense, the 1970s marked the end of the post-War world as we had known it; a time when the British still had a sense of themselves as a people and were happier and healthier because of it. 

 

 

II.

 

I know, of course, that some readers will say I'm being nostalgic and suffering from the psychology of declinism (i.e., the belief that things only ever get worse over time and that this distorts one's recollection of the past). And I know that they'll be able to point to all kinds of data to show that life is measurably better for most people in the UK now than it was fifty years ago (particularly for ethnic and sexual minorities).

Let me remind these readers, however, that I didn't say things were better in the 70s, only more fun. And whilst people might live longer now and own more expensive houses, drive bigger cars, and have all kinds of technology at their disposal, are they really any happier? 

 

I doubt it. 

 

In fact, British people seem so angry and resentful these days: Everybody just yells and screams at each other. Nobody is civil anymore, or smiles at a passing baby. I think if we were truly able to go back to the 1970s we might learn something important; something which we've forgotten.    

 

 

Note: Whereas I remember the 1970s mostly for fun and games, Polly Toynbee writing in The Guardian remembers the decade as one of feminist and working class solidarity. To read her take on things, click here.   

Hey Look, It's Me!

Do you see yourself on the T.V. screen?

  

D. H. Lawrence has a real problem with self-seeking in the negative sense identified by St. Paul. He particularly despises those men and women who stare into the eyes of their lovers only for the opportunity to see themselves reflected and who degrade sex (a flow of feeling) into sexuality (a will to sensation):

 

"The true self, in sex, would seek a meeting, would seek to meet the other. [...] But today, [...] sex does not exist, there is only sexuality. And sexuality is merely a greedy, blind self-seeking. Self-seeking is the real motive of sexuality. And therefore, since the thing sought is the same, the self, the mode of seeking is not very important. Heterosexual, homosexual, narcistic [sic], normal or incest, it is all the same thing. It is just sexuality, not sex. It is one of the universal forms of self-seeking. Every man, every woman just seeks his own self, her own self, in the sexual experience." [1]

 

To be honest, this doesn't bother me as much as it does Mr. Lawrence. For unlike the latter, I don't subscribe to the metaphysical notion of sex as some sort of ontological anchorage point residing deep within us and possessing its own intrinsic properties etc. I'm just a bit too Foucauldian for that [2]. 

 

And whilst there may be an element of self-seeking in the various forms of sexual expression, so too are there many other elements. For love is not just one-sided or always rejoicing with truth; sometimes, it does involve falsehood, impatience, cruelty, envy, pride, rudeness, anger, and resentment; sometimes it does delight in evil and is a means of destruction; sometimes, sadly, love fails [3].          

 

What does irritate me, however, is when people self-seek within works of art; i.e., when they look or listen out for themselves in every image, song, or text, identifying either with the subject or the author of the work. It's very depressing. And, surprisingly, even some readers of Lawrence fall into this trap, despite his explicit warnings about the dangers of self-idolatry. 

 

I know people who only really enjoy his works based in or around the East Midlands so that they might better locate themselves and feel an intense sense of belonging. They thrill to imagine characters speaking with accents like their own and walking down streets they themselves have walked along. They turn Sons and Lovers, for example, into a giant mirror reflecting their own history and childhood memories. 

 

It's not so much parochialism, as a mix of narcissism and nostalgia. Either way, the result is the same; artworks which are intended to facilitate a radical becoming-other and deterritorialization, are made self-reassuring and all-too-familiar. If only people bristled like cats when they saw themselves reflected!     

 

    

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'Review of The Social Basis of Consciousness, by Trigant Burrow', in Introductions and Reviews, ed. N. H. Reeve and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 335-36.   

[2] See the post entitled 'Lady Chatterley's Postmodern Lover' (9 Sept 2013) where I discuss Lawrence contra Foucault: click here. 

 

[3] In giving this more negative - yet more rounded and more honest - portrait of love, I am suggesting the opposite of what St. Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 13. Of course, it should be noted that the latter, writing in Greek, used the word agape [ἀγάπη] and that he was not referring to sexual love or érōs [ἔρως].     

 

 

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 ...  

The Broken Heart Knows No Country

A short guide to D. H. Lawrence country

by Bridget Pugh (Nottinghamshire 

Local History Council, 1972)

I. The View from Walker Street

In a letter to Rolf Gardiner written in December 1926, Lawrence provides a fairly detailed description of the East Midlands landscape in which he grew up; the so-called country of his heart - a phrase much loved by those who would forever tie Lawrence to Eastwood and fix his work within a literary tradition of English Romanticism.  

It is, for me - as for all those who prefer to think of Lawrence as a perverse European modernist, writing after Darwin, Nietzsche and Freud rather than Byron, Shelley and Keats - another of those deeply unfortunate expressions.

Like his self-description as a priest of love, I really wish he'd never said it. But, say it he did. And so let's examine this phrase and see if we can interepret it in a manner that doesn't serve a depressingly provincial purpose - as if the view from Walker Street was the only one that shaped Lawrence's perspective upon the world.

II. The Savage Pilgrimage

As is clear from much of his writing - particularly his letters - one of Lawrence's driving obsessions was to stage an angry engagement with England, whilst also making good his escape from the place of his birth in all its perceived dullness. 

His savage pilgrimage is usually said to begin after the War and refer to a period of voluntary exile. And whilst it's true and important to recall the fact that Lawrence left Britain at the earliest practical opportunity - only returning for brief visits, the last of which was in 1926 - I think we find this schizonomadic desire to flee from the suffocating familiarity of home from the start.

The fact is, Lawrence always hated Eastwood and couldn't wait to get away - first to Nottingham, then to London and to Cornwall, before drifting with Frieda around Europe, America and Australia. In 1913, he once confessed as much to his sister Ada, telling her that he should be glad if the town were one day blown off the face of the earth. 

We shouldn't forget that nostalgia is a type of disease - not a sign of health - and that if Lawrence occasionally displayed symptoms of homesickness he was essentially sick of home: 

"It always depresses me to come to my native district. Now I am turned forty, and have been more or less a wanderer for nearly twenty years, I feel more alien, perhaps, in my home place than anywhere else in the world. I can feel at ease in ... Rome or Paris or Munich or even London. But in Nottingham Road, [Eastwood], I feel at once a devouring nostalgia and an infinite repulsion."

That's the Lawrence I admire: refusing to belong to any community or region; a singular individual who is no longer their Bert - and probably never was.

And as for the heart to which memories of childhood landscapes are said to belong, well, like Lawrence, I would prefer for it to be broken rather than preserved in formaldehyde; for it's wonderfully liberating to abandon the past and to find new things to treasure, new people and places to love, within the dawn-kaleidoscopic loveliness of the crack.

See: 

D. H. Lawrence, letter to Rolf Gardiner, 3 Dec. 1926, in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. V. March 1924 - March 1927, ed. James T. Boulton and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1989).

D. H. Lawrence, [Return to Bestwood], Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 15. 

Punk bonus: Stiff Little Fingers: Gotta Gettaway (Rough Trade, 1979): I'm sure this is how the young Lawrence felt (it's certainly how I felt at 16): click here to play on YouTube.

A Postcard from Southend-on-Sea

Southend-on-Sea, Essex, lies approximately 40 miles east of London on the north side of the Thames Estuary; a region that has produced its own virulent strain of English now spoken in many regions of this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this Ingerland.  

It is home to the world's longest pleasure pier; a marvel of 19th century engineering that everyone from Princess Caroline to Arthur Daley has strolled along at some point. 

I first day-tripped to Southend with my parents in the early seventies. By then - although I didn't know it at the time - it was already in decline as a popular holiday destination. Everyone who could was jetting off to sunny Spain instead. For who wants soggy fish and chips and a mug of lukewarm tea, when you can have a big plate of paella washed down with a cheap bottle of vino? 

Still, I always loved my time in Southend as a child, beginning with the train ride from Romford via stations whose names had an exotic and almost magical allure - Shenfield-Billericay-Wickford-Rayleigh-Hockley-Rochford-Prittlewell - my excitement growing as I got ever closer to the coast and the thought of a fresh plate of cockles raked straight out of the mud at low tide, or an ice-cream from Rossi's.

There was no real beach to speak of and the grey sea was always out as far as I remember. But the place had a certain working-class Cockney charm (dare one say authenticity) and I had hours of fun in the amusement arcades and Peter Pan's Playground (which I preferred to the rather intimidating Kursaal full of young skinheads in their boots and braces and ageing Teddy Boys). 

What I enjoyed best of all, however, was sitting in the landscaped gardens of the Shrubbery eating a packed lunch, which always involved either a ham or cheese sandwich. There was a little stream and a waterfall, a fairy castle and a few left-over figures; remnants from its fifties heyday as Never Never Land.

Today, over forty years later, Southend is still on sea and many things have remained essentially the same; the pier, for example, still stretches a mile out to nowhere (although now you have to pay to walk along it).

But the deprivation of the town is as noticeable - and as shocking - as the tattooed obesity of the natives, or the large number of women hanging around the newly built lagoon wearing hijabs and burkinis and recreating scenes that more closely resemble Mogadishu than the lost world of Jane Austen and Donald McGill. 

      
 

Denise, Denise (In Memory of My Childhood Sweetheart)

Neil Levenson wasn't the only one to have a childhood sweetheart called Denise. My primary object of affection also went by this name and although I didn't write a doo-wop song in her honour, I've never forgotten the happy days we spent together, as here, feeding the deer at Bedford's Park in the summer of '69.

Some clever people with cold hearts sneer at sentimentality and dismiss early forms of love as puppyish. They fail to appreciate what Scott Fitzgerald described as the undesirous medley of joy and innocence that belongs to immature romance and think the experiences and emotions of childhood are best grown-out of and forgotten. Almost they seem embarrassed by such feelings and infatuations and reject nostalgia as indecent or in some way reactionary and escapist.

But Freud knew the crucial nature of first love and acknowledged the psychic importance of returning to the past. Our greatest poets also possess not only a distinct memory of childhood, but retain fidelity with its promise.

Those who believe that paradise can only be re-entered via an act of socio-sexual transgression might like to consider whether such doesn't begin with Lady Chatterley and her lover, for example, but with two anonymous six-year-olds holding hands under the desk, or unashamedly agreeing to show one another their genitalia behind the bushes ...                

And No Birds Sing

This could be heaven ...

Having moved back to my childhood home, it's forgivable to be feeling a little nostalgic for a time and a place - and even a people - now vanished. For although Harold Hill remains Harold Hill, it's not the Harold Hill I remember with such fondness. It's changed. And not for the better.

To be honest, it was never a pretty place. A large, post-War estate on the far fringes of Greater London, Harold Hill was developed on 850 acres of formerly private land to house ex-servicemen like my father and those cockneys (as my mother always called them rather disparagingly) looking to leave behind the bombed-out ruins of the East End and start a new suburban life in leafy Essex. 

Construction of over seven-and-a-half thousand new homes began in 1948 and was completed ten years later. The development, however, was fairly low density; mostly two or three bedroom houses built of brick with lots of open spaces, including woodland, parks, greens and, perhaps most crucially, gardens at both front and back that the original residents not only delighted in but prided themselves upon.  

Needless to say, most of the playing fields and wild areas have now been built on. But it's the loss of the front gardens which has, I think, dealt a mortal blow to any sense of community and reduced the estate to stony silence.

It's not simply a case of no birds singing - a prospect which has long troubled poets from John Keats to John Lydon - but also of no insects buzzing, no flowers blooming, no frogs spawning, no hedgehogs hiding, no lawnmowers gently humming, no neighbours chatting, and no children laughing ...

The idyllic world above has been buried alive under concrete and gravel in order that the nation's 35 million vehicles can have space to park.

Beneath the crazy-paving stones lies the past. And future hope lies with the weeds that defiantly grow between the cracks ...

Oh Bondage Up Yours! (A Slice of Punk Nostalgia)

A model for Vivienne Westwood wearing an Exhibition Tartan Bondage jacket 

and Lyon Tartan Bondage trousers (Anglomania, A/W 2015)

viviennewestood.com 

I'm not entirely convinced by the Nietzschean notion of eternal recurrence, but it's certainly true to say that within the fabulous world of fashion everything comes around again; yesterday's daring new looks so outmoded today will be marketed as avant-garde all over again tomorrow. 

Even designers who think of themselves as radical and revolutionary, invariably return to their old designs and recycle ideas. So it is, for example, that Vivienne Westwood is once again flogging her tartan bondage lines first seen all those years ago at Seditionaries. 

Of course, ripping garments out of their cultural and historical context robs them of their fetishistic power and subversive potential; transforming clothes for heroes into items of fancy dress for those who long for a past they didn't experience, or those who vainly wish to relive their youth. 

But, well, there you go: even ageing punks are prone to nostalgia and a certain wistfulness; just like the old rockers and hippies before them whom they so scorned. It's nothing to be proud of, but nothing to really feel so ashamed of either. 

Indeed, when I saw one of the models on Westwood's website wearing her mismatched tartan bondage jacket and trousers, even I couldn't help remembering with a certain poignant joy those years gone by when I would hobble around the streets of Soho still thinking of myself as a sex pistol and still fiercely loyal to Malcolm and his project of pop-cultural provocation:

Portrait of the artist as a young punk (1985) 

On Convalescence

Oy, I don't feel so good! Coughing, aching, lemsipping, etc. Still, whilst I might not have Zarathustra's animals to look after me, I do have the pigeons on the balcony for company and the Little Greek to make some chicken soup. So I can't complain. 

Also, I have a period of convalescence to look forward to during which colours, sounds, etc. all seem to become clearer and more vibrant and one feels momentarily perkier than usual. Doubtless this is simply a physiological effect of returning strength, but Heidegger prefers to see it in slightly different terms, relating it as he does to questions of nostalgia and being:

"The convalescent is the man who collects himself to return home - that is, to turn inwards, into his own destiny. The convalescent is on the road to himself, so that he can say of himself who he is."

Obviously, this is anathema to me; a rootless cosmopolitan who knows no home, scorns notions of interiority and prefers anonymity and masquerade to self-confession and the revelation of true identity. In fact, I'd rather stay sick and self-alienated than convalesce in a Heideggerian manner. 

Dr Bayard's Cough Drops

Some of the things that make happiest in life are small and inexpensive pleasures carried forward from and reminiscent of childhood. Such as a bag of sweets. 

The very names are often enough to trigger delight: black jacks, sherbet pips, kola cubes, love hearts, lemon bonbons, strawberry bonbons, pear drops, glacier mints, jelly tots, wine gums, humbugs ... the list is a long and delirious one of lip-smacking, gob-stopping wonder. 

Heaven, it seems, is sugar-rich and full of artificial colours.  

But these days, having succumbed to middle-age, I must almost shamefully confess that my confectionery of choice happens to be a very smooth aniseed-flavoured cough drop invented by a French physician in 1949 and still made to his original secret recipe at a factory in Portugal. 

Recommended by pharmacists the world over, Dr Bayard's cough drops are more than just medicinal wonders; they are also - like Ferrero Rocher - a welcome addition to any social occasion. Or so we are told by the manufacturers in their rather charming attempt at English: "Even in a friends gathering they're always a success!" 

If they lack the anarchic and childlike character of the best of British sweets and trade instead on grown-up bourgeois credentials, they remain eccentric enough in a European manner to make one smile and delicious enough to ensure I keep sucking them. I do worry though that I'm on a slippery slope towards Werther's Originals.