What Goes Around...

          Spike Milligan once mimed a sketch in which, standing straight with his arms at his side, he rotated on the spot while chewing. When he stopped, he said, “Post Office Tower Restaurant,” and this is what sprang to mind when I heard that London’s landmark telecoms tower is being sold to an American hotel chain.

          This reminiscence turned out to be the first link in another kind of chain, that of nostalgic memories. The sixties washed over me and, before long, I was asking Alexa to play Catch the Wind, by Donovan. It was a big hit in 1965, the year the PO Tower was declared functioning by the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, though I didn’t consciously connect the two at the time. It was to be another six years before I came into the actual presence of the Tower. And though I never went inside, I became familiar with it because I lived and worked in its shadow for a few years – which explains my subconscious refusal to accept the subsequent change of name to the BT Tower. On reflection, however, its original name was patently ridiculous: all the other post offices in the country were housed in conventional buildings that were open for business to the public. This one charged an admission fee, didn’t sell stamps and had a revolving restaurant at the top that was accessible to only the well-off. The reason I didn’t question the name at the time, was that I had been brought up in the era of the General Post Office, an official body that controlled all forms of communication and was a direct descendant of the original Royal Mail – so called because it was answerable to the monarchy for the purposes of surveillance and censorship. The Tower, therefore, symbolised established authority and its continuance into the future, as embodied in its modernist architecture.

          However, when the delivery of post and the provision of telecoms became separate enterprises, adjustments were made to both business models, the disposal of redundant buildings being the most visible. The microwave dishes for which the Tower was built were discarded long ago, but this building is much more than a left-over mast and deserves a better fate than demolition. The same can be said of thousands of similarly empty buildings all over the country, one such being the Palace Theatre, a half mile from where I live. This seriously ornate entertainment facility was built around 1898, in the heyday of variety shows but, like so many of its kind, it has outlived its commercial viability. Even its last incarnation as a nightclub came to an end and it now stands waiting for either salvation or oblivion. In the absence of a viable plan of my own, I wait in hope that someone with deep pockets will come to the rescue. My preferred saviour would be the Wetherspoons pub chain, not simply because it would bring cheap beer and warm interiors to a local population that has had more than its fair share of hard times, but also because it has a commendable record of rescuing and restoring so many other historic buildings in towns and cities nationwide.

          Meanwhile, back in the capital, where buildings of any description have more commercial value, competition is fierce for the acquisition and re-purposing of obsolete property. For example, the old War Office in Whitehall has recently become The OWO, home to Raffles, London. The name chosen raises the question of whether the new owners of the Tower will similarly honour the history of the building by incorporating it into the branding of their new hotel. Might they, for instance, call it the GPO Pillar? If I were to be consulted (which is unlikely), my suggestion would be The Spike, with Milligan’s Revolving Restaurant, its crowning glory.

 

Learning the Ropes

          “Time for a haircut”, I was told. The last one had been in Athens, where the young barber had given me a subtle style that was subsequently commented upon favourably by as many as three people. (Usually, I get just the one, dutiful observation.) Perhaps he had slightly misunderstood my instructions, despite the admirably fluent English he had acquired during his seven years in London. Or it may just be that they cut hair differently in Athens. Back at home, my ‘regular’ barber is so familiar with the style he and I both think I want, that the resulting rendition is run-of-the-mill in comparison. When I sat in his chair last Wednesday and mentioned my Athenian haircut, his only reaction was “How much do they charge there?”

          He is from Iraq but has been around quite a bit and, like the Greek, speaks English fluently. Nevertheless, he is making an effort to up his game by mastering a range of idioms – you know, ‘It’s raining cats and dogs’, that sort of thing. He quoted me a few but admitted that he had got stuck on ‘bearing a garage’ and asked me to interpret. Before too long, he had not only grasped the meaning of the word ‘grudge’ but also countered with the equivalent Farsi idiom – it involves camels because they are reputed to have long, unforgiving memories. Our conversation then meandered around the topic of the various languages spoken in the Middle East and the random nature of some of the national boundaries that were drawn up by the European colonial powers. We both know that their meddling is the cause of so much war in the region, yet he is too diplomatic to pin the blame squarely on his current home nation, so we let it drop. I asked him who his English teacher is. “YouTube”, he answered. I should have guessed. I’ve taken to consulting its resources myself, most recently in connection with how to use the free graphic software I’m grappling with to create digital posters for our jazz events. There is plenty of free advice in the form of instructive videos, but it requires patience to find one that is succinct and not voiced by somebody irritating.

          Later that day, I decided to polish off a book I’ve been reading, The Web of Meaning, by Jeremy Lent. His proposition is that we might better approach our quest for the meaning of life by adopting a holistic approach, one that factors in the science of evolutionary biology, indigenous wisdom and philosophies such as Taoism and Buddhism, rather than looking to each one of these disciplines, separately, to provide all the answers. In short, he postulates that everything is connected, if only we care to join the dots. A quick look at the substantial bibliography, which occupies a quarter of the book’s pages, is enough to demonstrate that the author had read a lot of other books to get to where he is. He must be, I thought, a tireless processor of information – like a human version of an AI programme. Then it struck me that the Middle East – indeed, the world – might benefit from being governed by a form of AI-powered decision-making programme. Far from posing an existential threat to humanity as the doomsayers postulate, AI could turn out to be its saviour. In geopolitics, it seems, everything is connected, in which case it is evidently well beyond the capacity of humans to get a grip on events. Take humans out of the decision-making process and put an end to wars, the root cause of which is irrational behaviour driven by nationalistic self-interest. I shall run it past my barber and, while I’m at it, I can introduce him to the meaning of the expression “It’s a right dog’s breakfast”.

New Laptop, Old Ways

          One of my favourite non-jazz acts appears to be following me around. I first went to see This Is the Kit when I lived in Manchester, since when they have twice travelled to perform near our newly adopted home in the Southwest. Last year, they played at the Minack theatre, a spectacular outdoor venue carved into a Cornish clifftop by an eccentric old lady armed with a pickaxe and wheelbarrow. Last week, they played Falmouth’s Princess Pavilions, the epitome of an elegant Edwardian leisure complex. Lovely venues and heartwarming performances. But the latter was a ‘standing’ gig, which is a bit of a challenge for us older people. Next time I’ll make sure there is seating – comfortable or otherwise – before buying tickets.

          I have come to accept the inevitability of ageing and I don’t feel too hard done by but have noticed lately that various of my gadgets seem to be approaching a similar state of decrepitude. My six-year-old smartphone one day ceased recharging, thereby causing me a moment of panic. Fortunately, I recovered my composure and remembered a quick fix: spraying electrical contact cleaner into the connector port to shift whatever muck has accumulated there. It worked, but my confidence in the phone has been shaken and I’m gearing up for a newer model.

          The cannister of cleaner is expensive, but it can be used on other gadgets. However, it wasn’t effective when, later that week, I tried it on the power port of my seven-year-old laptop. Its battery having died ages ago, it requires permanent connection to the mains, so I have had to splash some cash on a replacement. I bought a pre-owned model that is similar to but more powerful than the deceased one and have had only minor frustrations setting it up to my liking. (New laptop, old ways.) While I was at it, I bought a big monitor so that I could make sense of the spreadsheets that have become part of my voluntary work. So, feeling renewed, invigorated and even chuffed, I sat at my desk all fired-up for a super-productive morning. That was when an arm fell off my twelve-year-old spectacles.

          The specs were unrepairable, so I had to get new ones – after being tested for a new prescription, that is. There followed the tedious process of choosing frames, complicated by the temptation of the buy-one-get-one-free offer, a scheme guaranteed to wind up costing you more than you could imagine before you are presented with the bill. I gritted my teeth and consoled myself by doing a rough calculation to prove that I might never need to buy new stuff again – apart from one of those phones with really big buttons.

          On the way home, I popped into an art gallery situated in an unlikely location a few streets from ours, behind Lidl and sandwiched between a tyre centre and an accommodation facility for temporarily homeless people. I always have the place to myself – not surprising, considering the catchment area and the nature of the work shown, which could be described as radical-contemporary. It’s an outpost of the Arts University, probably funded by some well-meaning foundation to promote diversity and inclusion, which would explain why they always ask me to fill in the survey concerning my socio-economic background. The latest show comprises stacks of framed photographs on the floor and a robot that spends all day picking them up and rearranging them on the walls. Unfortunately, when I called in yesterday, the robot was out of order. “Awfully sorry about that,” said the girl at reception. “Can I ask you to complete our survey?” “Not again,” I said, ungraciously, “But I do have a cannister of electrical contact cleaner you might find useful.”

 

    

Coffee With a Cynic

          Tucked into the corner of the square by the old fishing harbour, there’s a recently opened indie coffee place called The Cynic. When I went there early this morning, the proprietor was strumming on a guitar as he waited for customers to appear, so when I asked him about the name over the door, he was not too busy to fill me in. Among other things, he gave me a detailed history of cynicism, from the contempt for social conventions espoused by the ancient Greek philosopher, Diogenes, through to its subsequently corrupted modern-day meaning of skepticism. I was impressed (though afterwards, when I checked with Microsoft co-pilot, it credited Antisthenes, not Diogenes, with kicking the whole thing off).

          Whatever. The Greek philosophers had the privilege of sitting around defining the meaning of life, which is a luxury most of us cannot afford until retirement, by which time most of it is already spent. Maybe that explains why this last week, like so many others, has felt to me like a desperate attempt to cram in as much ‘meaningful’ stuff as possible before time runs out. Consequently, most of my Saturday was taken up with providing logistical support for a public demonstration, by NHS medical professionals, of the fatal effects of pollution and climate extremes. It involved a choir, recorded music, pretend corpses and a staged medical enquiry. I could have been a corpse but, because I have a van, I was allocated the roadie job – which, being non-public-facing, also served to side-step potential awkward situations caused by my inclination to rise to, rather than absorb or deflect, abusive or ill-informed comments. Corrective training is available, I’m told, but the truth is, I don’t feel like being nice to detractors.

          Then there’s my interest in Citizens’ Assemblies, the movement to get more people involved in politics outside of the traditional party system. The idea is that the populace should have more direct influence on government policymaking. I agree with the principle and I attended an inaugural meeting, but I have shunned the subsequent call for leafleteers. Similarly, in the movement to persuade the denizens of Plymouth to adopt a Directly Elected Mayor, I have attended the initial meeting but shied away from any active involvement thus far. Am I apportioning my time according to my skill set, spreading myself too thinly or just being lazy? There is so much to do when you have options.

          High on my (non-political) agenda last week was the second meeting of the neighbourhood jazz appreciation group that I’m trying to get off the ground. If success is quantified by numbers, then I can claim some progress - twice the attendance figures recorded at the inaugural session. And if success is quantified by diversity, then I can claim a one hundred percent increase in the number of females turning up as another coup. The fact that the group has migrated from my living room to a popular public venue and, by so doing, has become a more social event, accounts for the rise – that and the leaflets, for which I alone take credit! Mind you, they were not actual pieces of paper that I posted through letterboxes – they were digital – but I did have go online to learn how to make them and, admittedly, I do need to master the art of distributing them more effectively via social media.

          It’s a far cry from when I ran the folk club at university, where we went to the pub with crayons and filched A4 sheets to make posters that we then pinned up in busy places. Life was so much simpler then, before it was complicated by the accretion of experience - and its accompanying tinge of cynisism.