No. Not Blue Suede Shoes as in “don’t step on my.”

This is a much more poignant song written by Mike Hugg who was a member of 60s band Manfred Mann. When the band morphed into Manfred Mann Chapter Three Mike shifted into writing theme tunes and incidental music for film and TV as well as having a solo career. His album Somewhere was released in 1972 and Blue Suede Shoes Again got a bit of radio airplay as a single at the time but wasn’t a hit – which I could never understand as I really liked it.

Mike Hugg: Blue Suede Shoes Again

His theme tune for the TV series Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads is undoubtedly much better known. This is the full version.

Mike Hugg (as Highly Likely): Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads?

When looking for Blue Suede Shoes Again I came across this track and it’s brilliant.

Mike Hugg: Bonnie Charlie

Gollancz, 2004, 303p, plus 13p glossary.

This is an epistolary novel unusual in that the addressee of each letter is the stone of the title.

In a space-faring society known as t’T where crime is all but unknown Ae starts her narration awaiting execution in a seemingly inescapable jail situated in the upper atmosphere of a star. The death sentence is carried out by the removal of her dotTech (nanodevices which repair any deleterious damage and render humans effectively immortal.) However, having struck a bargain with mysterious would be liberators to kill the inhabitants of an entire planet she is soon sprung from her confinement. Unfortunately we do not get to this climax for a long part of the book as Ae travels the galaxy and meets with various people fascinated by the injuries, illnesses and scars she suffers as a result of her lack of dotTech.

She kills one who has begun to suspect her status as an escapee – this is a necessarily laborious process because of their dotTech and is gone into in detail – yet later takes a lover. A lot of discussion centres around a galactic phenomenon known as the Great Gravity Trench, an anomaly where space has been bent back on itself like a ruffled sheet. Indeed it sometimes seems as if Roberts is using his story to present a primer text on quantum theory. The faster than light mechanism works by means of simultaneous quantum adjustments but is constrained by mass – effectively anything larger than a human is debarred – and also by the volume of space involved; fast-space allows up to 3000c, slow-space up to 3c and sub-light space only Einsteinian travel. These areas are seemingly influenced by the Gravity Trench.

To portray a mass murderer in any sort of sympathetic light is a difficult trick to pull off. While Roberts does not quite succeed in this he nevertheless draws the reader in to the story. In many ways I felt I was reading a 1950s or 60s piece of SF, here. The characters seemed a bit wooden, but of course they were being filtered through Ae’s consciousness.

It is a neat authorial trick to get round the information dumping problem by having the narration couched as what is effectively a confession but also as a translation (supposedly from Ae’s language Glicé into Amglish) complete with footnotes. Under a psychiatrist’s suggestion Ae is telling her story to a stone due to her inability/reluctance to communicate with other humans.

Stone is an interesting read but with some longueurs. I’ll look out for more Roberts.

(However there was a span, shrunk and miniscule count of 1 each.)

On our recent trip I seem to have passed through, or close to, a fair few towns in England that have or had teams in the Football League, which gave me some idea of their geographic proximity. Starting with Sheffield, we went on through Derby, bypassed Mansfield, then headed back up to Chesterfield where I photographed the famous crooked spire which lends the nickname Spireites to the local side.

Cheterfield had a large street market on the go the morning we were there. It made the place seem thriving though whether it truly is or not I have no idea.

After that it was up north through Huddersfield and Halifax on our way to Haworth again.

Yet in all these travels I caught sight of not one single football stadium – though I had seen a road sign for Brammall Lane in Sheffield.

The reason for going to Haworth this time was we hadn’t seen as much of it as we would have liked when we were there before.

This certainly wasn’t there in the Bronté’s time. It’s now a stop on the Keighley and Worth Valley Railway – one of those preservation railways which reflect the British love of nostalgia but are an important reminder of our industrial heritage.

We didn’t do the Bronté Parsonage this time but explored the old street more. There were more shops open this time including the old style sweetie shop where we bought something called Yorkshire Tablet – as sweet as Orkney Fudge but a bit softer – and had a browse round two second hand bookshops we don’t recall from two years ago. The good lady bought three books and I got a hardback of Tricia Sullivan’s Lethe; goodness knows when I’ll get round to reading it.

Is anyone else slightly sickened by the outpourings of Mr Irresponsible and Boris Johnson over the recent riots in London and elsewhere.

Aren’t these two erstwhile members of the Bullingdon Club, whose activities consisted of exactly the sort of thing they were condemning?

Where is the difference between what they are said to have got up to in their youth and what we have seen on our TV screens?

I found it particularly ironic when David Cameron said the perpetrators would, “feel the full force of the law,” and Johnson that they would, “regret it.”

Did Mr Cameron feel the full force of the law?

Did Johnson regret his actions? (“We got drunk, trashed the Ritz & then went down Piccadilly to loot a few items from Fortnums” – Boris Johnson in his autobiography, 1986.)

Or is it just that they could get away with it because their daddies were rich?

I hope the rioters do not get away with it. Nothing excuses such wanton acts of violence and vandalism. (Whether their daddies are rich or not.)

Parliament has been recalled for Thursday. Expect a whole series of speeches ploughing the same themes – none of which will be along the lines of why people might have been motivated to act in this way. Get to the root of that and the problem – for there clearly is a problem – might be on the way to being solved.

I’m not optimistic. I feel further restrictions on civil liberties coming on.

Unfortunately when we visited last week Chatsworth House was swathed in plastic and scaffolding so we never actually saw the frontage. They don’t miss a trick though. For an extra contribution you could go on a scaffolding tour. (We gave that one a miss.)

This is the stable block – which is big enough on its own.

There’s a quadrangle inside the block with buildings all the way round with shops, eateries etc. The only selling opportunity missed was that there was a lack of a decent plant sale outlet. The only plants they had for sale were pretty poor specimens. It’s difficult not to get other folk in the photos. The place was stowed.

The grounds and gardens are huge. You could spend the whole day doing them alone. This is the Emperor Fountain and Canal Pond, complete with sculptures. The Cavendish family, whose home it is, seem to be very fond of their art. The house and grounds are liberally sprinkled with works old and new.

I especially liked these rock formations – probably artificial; Capability Brown landscaped the estate.

I suppose this one shows off Brown’s handiwork.

This pond was up a hill. You cannot see the house from it at all. More of Brown’s efforts I should think. The photo was taken from a grotto perched like an eyrie above it.

As we were leaving a couple of Morgan cars pulled into the car park. I waited till the drivers had left before taking the picture.

Next Sunday (14/8/11) Writers’ Bloc is giving a free show at Word Power Books.

Here’s the blurb:-

After the sell-out success of their Mr Big Society show, Edinburgh’s premier spoken word performance group, Writer’s Bloc, presents: The Writers’ Bloc Think Tank.

Watch out for: derring-do and saboteurs in Operation Fairycake, monkey mayhem in a sleepy Suffolk town, as well as advice on social climbing for psychopaths and Rupert Murdoch’s exploding zeppelin in this free event of spoken word and unlikely social policy.

Writers’ Bloc is Edinburgh’s premier spoken word performance group. Its members include published and prize-winning poets, novelists and short story writers, who present original material with iconoclastic attitude.
Details of The Writers’ Bloc Think Tank can be found in the Edinburgh Book Fringe 2011 listings on Word Power Books’ website.

Venue is Word Power Books, 43-45, West Nicolson Street, Edinburgh EH8 9DB
Sunday 14th August 2:30pm, FREE

In our trip down south we stopped in Sheffield for the night but only had a small wander around the city centre. It was enough to spot this Art Deco beauty which is the Central Library and Graves Art Gallery.

Here’s the doorway:-

And this shows the windows above it:-

More pictures of Art Deco buildings in Sheffield – including a close up of the frieze on the side of building above are on this site.

In the town centre there’s a lovely civic space – called the Peace Gardens, I think – with several water features like this fountain:-

I couldn’t not photograph the Crucible Theatre. My sons were great snooker fans when they were young.

This seems to sum up something about the US, or it did at the time. Quite what it sums up I’m not sure, though. Lost innocence maybe.

For a long time I thought the song was written by Guthrie himself but it was actually composed by Steve Goodman.

Arlo Guthrie is of course the son of the perhaps more famous Woody.

Arlo Guthrie: City Of New Orleans

Corvus, 2010, 294p.

In a phenomenon known as The Reaction, governments worldwide have become theocracies. The religious stripe varies from place to place, Protestant fundamentalist in the US, Roman Catholic in South West Europe, Orthodox in most of the Balkans, Muslim in the Middle East. Even Japan has succumbed, though whether to Shintoism or something else is not stated. The only outpost of rationalism left is the scientists’ state of Illyria, carved out of a small part of the Balkans opposite Corfu. There, all the developments of technology are given free reign; domestic robots and other syntech abound. Even prostitution is provided by androids. (Far less trouble than real women, apparently, and so more highly prized.)

Illyria is of course the most powerful state in the region, hated and feared by its neighbours – who are nevertheless fascinated by it – but it is not an idyll. Despite a large number of guest workers carrying out those mundane tasks not yet performed by syntech, only people with scientific training are allowed to vote and the disenfranchised are restive. The most advanced robots are able to learn by experience but the odd one is prone to breakdown, either wandering off into neighbouring states or at worst killing people. There are proposals to wipe these self-evolving robots every six months to prevent this sort of thing.

The narrator, George Simling, is a relationship inadequate, bound to his mother Ruth by her dependence on SenSpace, a virtual environment she enters to try to escape her fear of persecution due to the memories she has of her suffering in the former US when The Reaction took over. George has fallen for the android prostitute, Lucy, and the novel follows their adventures outside Illyria after he has spirited her away from the brothel. The inevitable consequences of this – Lucy’s uncovering as a syntech creature – drive George to a life spent as a tramp in the southern Balkans, his only aim a desire to meet the Holy Machine of the title, a robot which is the focal point of a new religion.

A front cover quote from Interzone describes this book as incredible, which is perhaps too hyperbolic. But even though George Simling’s narrative voice does not always strike the correct note The Holy Machine is certainly readable – despite a blizzard of typos and omitted words – and goes down relatively smoothly.

With its close attention on George, the world events that might have been the focus of a different author’s take on this scenario happen off stage, a reminder that in a crazy world the troubles and activities of little people are worth a hill of beans.

The Holy Machine was first published in the US in 2004 but only in 2010 in the UK. Its discussions of religion and illustration of the irrationalities that give rise to it, not to mention the closed-mindedness of many of its adherents, might suggest that order would have been reversed.

While the characterisation of a self-evolving AI is always going to be somewhat flat, Beckett does well enough. Some of the humans could also have been more rounded though. Nevertheless Beckett is one to seek out.

While our main purpose in travelling to Derbyshire was to go round Chatsworth House, it’s only a few miles from Bakewell and I couldn’t resist the urge to visit there.

It’s a lovely small town with a beautiful tree-lined river, the Wye, and made nicer for most of the buildings being constructed from stone rather than, as is mostly the case in England, brick.

This is a view from very close to the town centre. Plenty of geese as you can see, but there were also ducks and swans.

There was a second hand book shop at the edge of the town centre but it wasn’t up to much. The antiques centre off a square had prices which were off-putting.

However, you cannot go to Bakewell without being reminded of its contribution to the culinary world.

I present the Original Bakewell Pudding shop.

I had to cross the road to get the whole shop in.

On the left is a crop of the above photo to show the lettering.

The puddings themselves were displayed in the window on the left of the shop but that’s obscured by the blue car. It has to be said they looked a bit misshapen and amateurish.

That may be to enhance their “home-baked” charm.

But in Bakewell you are spoiled for choice. Trawling further round the town centre I came upon this.

That doesn’t claim to be the original pudding shop.

But just across the street from it is this:-

The first and only original Bakewell Pudding Shop.

Well! Someone’s telling porkies. (Which reminds me. Must get to Melton Mowbray sometime.)

The do all share a green colour scheme though, for some reason.

In the end we didn’t sample a pudding from any of those three.

The Bakewell deli features this placard in its window. Spot the huge meringues on the right of the photo.

Are you a pudding or a tart person?

We opted for a slice each of pudding from here.

Be warned. That stuff is calorific.