Yer Blues(3): Why a branch?

At the moment the main topic of discussion in Your Party circles – at least, the ones I know about – is branch formation. Political direction, recruitment, campaigning, democratic accountability, undoing some of the damage that the leaders of the project have insisted on doing to their own reputation and ours – all these things will be easier to achieve once we’ve got ourselves organised in an actual, officially legitimated branch of Your Party.

Well, perhaps. But what do we mean by a branch?

Most fundamentally, a branch is defined by geography. If Party A has members in a lot of different places, it will make sense for Party A to set up branches in those places. The area covered by a party branch is inversely related to the size of party membership. If more or less everyone’s a member, it will make sense to have a branch for every street; if an organisation’s got members worldwide, but not very many of them in any one country, national branches (or ‘sections’) will be in order. Your Party has members throughout Britain, and has their details on a membership list (or so we’re told). It would be fairly straightforward to sort the membership list by post code, and from there it’s just a matter of grouping post codes together: every YP member in Manchester could be declared a member of the Manchester branch tomorrow. Alternatively, everyone in the Manchester Withington constituency area could be declared a member of the branch for that constituency; we could probably even go down to ward level, as the Labour Party (for one) does.

A branch considered only as a geographical unit wouldn’t really amount to anything – what would all those members do next? We can start fleshing out the definition by thinking of a branch as an interest group. ‘Interest’ here may mean ‘collective self-interest’ or just ‘finding something interesting’; either way, once you’ve identified everyone in a geographical area who considers themselves to share that interest, it’s reasonable to think they might want to meet up. The interest group is then defined by whatever it is they do to pursue their shared interest; crochet lovers get together to do (and talk about) crochet, trade union activists get together to do (and talk about) trade union activism. And when the nature of the shared interest is membership of a party, party members get together to do (and talk about)… party-member stuff.

Does that need to be defined any more precisely? Can we trust in the shared ethos and philosophy of the party, allow each branch party to be shaped by the particular shared interests of its activists, and let the national leadership get on with it unless and until they say something unacceptable? (I suspect this may be the stop where Green Party activists get off.) Or should we begin with a clear idea as to what party members should do – and how they should relate to the party hierarchy and its national representatives?

One option is to see a party branch as an electoral support system. The starting assumption here is that the party has an electoral candidate in a given area; party members in the branch for that area are there to try and make sure they get (re-)elected. And that goal defines what party members do. Campaigning in elections, canvassing voters before elections, canvassing voters in between elections to make the pre-election canvassing run more smoothly: when I was in the Labour Party, that was the bread and butter of branch activity. Indeed, there was very little else that my branch actually did – at least, very little of any political consequence.

This doesn’t sound like a great idea; it isn’t really possible for Your Party, in any case. At present all Your Party’s MPs and councillors are all either former independents or defectors from Labour; I don’t know who any future candidates will be, or how (or by whom) they’ll be selected. If we had a slate of Your Party candidates I’d be happy to canvass for them, once in a while, but that’s a long way off.

Another option is for a party branch to function as – or ideally to grow out of – a community organisation. The idea here is that a locally-based organisation could bring together activists in the area, across or outside party lines (initially at least), and that similar local organisations could federate, regionally and ultimately nationally, to form a new and more representative kind of political organisation. Bottom-up approaches like this seemed to be endorsed at different times by Jamie Driscoll (of Majority and the Green Party) and by Jeremy Corbyn who, after being re-elected as an independent in 2024, promised to build local mechanisms of feedback and accountability in his Islington constituency.

The problem with this model is self-evident: whether the existence of the new party is made to depend on the presence of community organisers or of active independent politicians, the short-term result will be extreme unevenness, leaving much, probably most, of the country untouched. This is not a recipe for building a national party; it’s not really a recipe for building anything, but (at best) for giving something an opportunity to grow – and in all probability to grow “vaster than empires and more slow”. (And, not to get all electoral-support-y, but there is going to be another General Election within the next few years, not to mention council elections next May.)

We could also embrace the “local branch/central hierarchy” structure and think of the party as a transmission belt. In this model (developed originally by Palmiro Togliatti), transmission is two-way. The party transmits the grounded radicalism of workers in struggle upwards to keep the leadership honest, preventing compromises and sellouts; at the same time, the party transmits the more developed programmes and longer perspectives of the leadership downwards, preventing hasty or adventurist action. It’s a two-way transmission of both ideology and discipline. The membership keep the leaders up to date and tell them what not to do (not to settle for less, not to sell out under-represented interest groups); in return, the leadership keeps the members focused on the longer term and tells them what not to do (not to make demands that can’t be met, not to alienate potential allies).

We might ask why having a transmission belt matters: if we’ve got a common philosophy and shared values, why do we also need the leadership’s thinking to be informed by what the members are doing, and vice versa? The answer is class, and the fact that any Left organisation is always at least partially prefigurative. In this model, the members whose radicalism is transmitted up the chain aren’t considered as random individuals who happen to be party members; they’re people active in trade unions, co-operatives, credit unions, campaigning charities. In short, they’re people actively building alternatives and challenges to capital and its status quo – and it’s the knowledge and experience built in those struggles that needs to inform the leadership’s decision-making.

I think something like this is in the minds of a lot of the people pushing for the establishment of YP branches. But the devil’s in the detail. The party transmits the leadership’s perspectives downwards, fair enough (although right now we could actually do with a steer on the leadership’s perspectives, beyond the perspective that things are generally going swimmingly). Transmitting the radicalism of workers upwards, though: how? How does the branch constitute itself as having a voice, and how does it make that voice heard?

An answer to that question – although not, I think, a very satisfactory one – is to build a formal apparatus for enabling branches to communicate with the centre, and integrate all branches into it. This leads to one last way of looking at party branches, which is to see them as hierarchical nodes. A vote in the ward party decides (or reaffirms) its position on policy A; delegates from the ward party argue for that policy at the level of the constituency party, where delegates from other wards vote for or against it; constituency parties send delegates to the national conference, where they argue for the policies they’ve adopted at national level. Ultimately, by filtering the most popular options upwards through multiple layers of electoral competition, the base governs the centre, steers party policy and determines who represents the party. The logic is simple, and will be only too familiar to anyone who’s been a member of the Labour Party (although Labour Party democracy hasn’t actually worked like this since the 1990s at the latest).

Two points need to be stressed here. Firstly, the corollary of these bottom-up mechanisms of accountability is a degree of democratic centralism: once a position has been adopted by a party centrally, the leadership has the right to expect that the position will be binding on the party at large (as does everyone who worked to commit them to the policy in question). What this means is that, once a debate or a candidate selection is settled, it stays settled, whatever an individual branch may feel about it (let alone an individual member); at least, it’s settled until the next appointed time for these issues to be debated. As well as governing the centre from below, these mechanisms discipline the membership from above.

Secondly, to say that bottom-up control begins with the branch ‘deciding’ its position is a bit misleading. While the branch is the base layer of the whole hierarchical structure, it’s also a hierarchical structure in itself: majority votes decide what position a branch will back, but those votes are the object of intense factional organising – never more intense than when undertaken by the faction that won last time round. Moreover, given the previous point – that settled issues stay settled – a member is unlikely to see a branch as a hive of debate; it’s more likely to present an image of mute, apolitical unity, with serious debate on policies and personnel seen not as a normal democratic function but as a threat to be fought off. You say “the branch reaffirmed its position”, I say “there were stirrings from the opposition, but the branch’s ruling group won the vote after they’d phoned round and got their friends out”. Potato, potahto.

To recap:

  1. The branch is an interest group: party members in particular areas get together and do, collectively, whatever they feel party members in their area ought to be doing.
  2. The branch is an electoral support system: party members in particular areas get together and work to get their party’s representatives elected and/or re-elected.
  3. The branch is a community organisation: party members are campaigners in particular areas, who get together to form a party out of a national federation of these organisations.
  4. The branch is a transmission belt: campaigners in particular areas get together and work to keep the party’s leadership aligned to the priorities of the working class in struggle.
  5. The branch is a hierarchical node: party members in particular areas get together and compete among themselves to represent their branch and to commit it to particular policies.

Labour Party branches, in my experience, are mostly amalgams of 1, 2 and 5. By contrast, the ideal image of a Your Party branch, when the party was first proposed, was a combination of 1, 3 and 4: local, grassroots, community-based activists would be in the driving seat, whether they were organised independently of YP or not. We can see traces of this way of thinking in the proposal, approved by YP’s recent founding conference, to give YP members the ability to form a local branch, subject to the real-time agreement of 20% of the branch’s membership in the relevant area. While this provision might seem to have an obvious flaw – how can you mobilise 20%, or any significant %, of the branch’s membership if you haven’t got the membership list? – this can also be seen as a safeguard. If you’ve got a community organisation (model 3) you can contact like-minded people through that; if not, you can reach out to workers in struggle (model 4), who will either join YP on the spot or already be members. If you don’t know where to start with either of those routes, well, maybe your area isn’t ready to form a branch.

Meanwhile back in the outside world, preparations for forming branches are proceeding apace – and not only branches; there are already cross-branch co-ordinating bodies bringing together delegates from individual branches (although I’m not sure what the status of those delegates is when they haven’t been elected, not least because their branches don’t actually exist yet). The thinking seems to be that building a hierarchical node (and occupying positions within it) is a good idea in itself, irrespective of whether YP is or isn’t in touch with what’s going on in the area, and hence irrespective of whether the prospective branch is likely to be able to function as a transmission belt. In some cases, the drive to form these – both the individual proto-branches and the cross-branch networks – has been pushed by members of some of the small non-electoral socialist groups that have committed to working in YP, notably the Socialist Workers Party and their offshoot Counterfire. Which suggests an additional, more cynical definition:

  1. The branch (like the party itself) is a position of influence which may be occupied by one of a number of rival groups and factions, amplifying their voice and their ability to intervene in the broader struggle.

I’m not a member of Your Party; the anxiety which the period of rival membership portals caused me, and the relief I felt when I considered the possibility of not joining, made my decision for me. For those who are – and those who, like me, are still on the party’s periphery – I think the branch formation process is going to be critical; I think we should do whatever we can to make our local branch(-to-be) more like a transmission belt to whatever’s going on locally, and less like a hierarchical node in a structure like an organisational chart, all ready for local party veterans to move in once they can swing the necessary votes. I am absolutely not in favour of barring members of revolutionary socialist groups in general from YP, or even the Socialist Workers Party in particular. However, I am also absolutely not in favour of rerunning the Socialist Alliance/Respect/Left List débacle with Zarah Sultana in the role of George Galloway – and I think this is a genuine danger if we give free rein to time-served party activists in search of positions of influence, and let YP branches drift into the hierarchical node form. I hate to say it, but I really think we need to go to the people, or at least think seriously about what that would mean. (It’s not language I like using – I can’t honestly say I’ve never been a Maoist, but it was a very long time ago – but when they’re right, they’re right.)

PS Which also means that I’m not in favour of drumming up enough names to reach the 20% threshold out of our existing WhatsApp lists.

  1. A branch is not a WhatsApp list.

Good honest October

In October I read – or finished reading – two books from the £10 Box:

Kate Wilhelm, Somerset Dreams

D.F. Jones, Xeno

Reviews on blog.

I also read (or finished)

Thomas Pynchon, Vineland
My favourite Pynchon, of the five I’ve read; I spent much of September re-reading it, in preparation for watching One Battle After Another (see below). I needn’t have bothered from that point of view, but I’m still glad I did. On re-reading I found the mood of the book quite different from what I remembered, though. Curiously, I found that the mood of Anderson’s film chimed, not with the book I’d just read, but with my earlier vague memory of it – by which I mean, a mood of laid-back, good-humoured but rock-solid radicalism, Costa-Gavras filtered through The Big Lebowski and The Blues Brothers. By contrast, on re-reading it I felt that Vineland‘s not about battles but defeats – at best, the lulls between defeats. Its ending is upbeat, but I closed the book feeling that all its most sympathetic characters and situations, from the saddest and most chaotic or compromised to the glimpses of possible hippie Arcadias, existed at the pleasure of forces far more powerful than they, in the crevices and interstices of a repression so vast and so successful as to have become invisible. Pynchon loves his characters as well as the (genuine) radical history on which he’s grafted them, but he loves them fondly, indulgently, like children. The writing’s amazing, though. There’s a wonderful passage midway through a dramatic confrontation within a chapter-long flashback, when the narrator suddenly throws forward to show the two characters confronting each other in the book’s narrative present, just two middle-aged guys at a barbecue, one cautiously broaching the topic of what had gone on in the old days – It got pretty wild back then, didn’t it? I think you even thought I was a police informer! Yeah… crazy times… All this, before we abruptly spool back to the time of the flashback and realise that that barbecue is never going to happen. There’s also a striking example of a plot-resolving deus in machinam. (No, I don’t mean in machina.) Nobody else writes like this.

Sophie Hannah, The Telling Error
As the next few titles demonstrate, after finishing Vineland I was in the mood for a quicker read. I like a bit of cosy crime, and I keep getting suckered in by Sophie Hannah’s mysteries, mainly because of their intricate and outlandish setups. I should know by now that what you get is 300 pages of people running around like headless chickens, followed by an equally intricate and outlandish solution. There’s a mnemonic for the compass points in order which goes Never Eat Shredded Wheat; I feel as if I ought to be able to do something similar with Never Read Sophie Hannah, but NRSH isn’t really anything.

Henning Mankell, An Event in Autumn
A ‘cold case’ novella and my first exposure to Wallander. Quite Sjöwall/Wahlöö-esque, both in the grim and mildly political resolution to the case and in the rather dogged “The middle-aged man sat down at the table. He felt overwhelmingly tired and he realised that his shoes were leaking.” narration. Good, but not much fun.

Nicci French, The Unheard
Unlike Sophie Hannah, Sean French and Nicci Gerrard are quite good at setting up situations that don’t make sense, but then giving them explanations that do. This wasn’t their best; it was written during lockdown, and I think you can see both stress and haste in the generically ‘Nicci French’ cast of characters (the charming boyfriend, the sceptical police officer…) as well as the details that are left hanging at the end. A good read, though.

Karen B. Golightly, There are things I know
A novella narrated by Pepper, an eight-year-old boy who is very good with some things (especially numbers) and very bad with others (crowds, loud noises); he tells us how a strange man had picked him up from a school outing, claiming to be his uncle. As adult readers we know that things could go very bad at this point, but the abductor seems only to want to replace his own son, who died at a similar age. I was reminded of Walker Hamilton’s All the little animals, a favourite book of mine when I was a few years older than Pepper. It’s an episode rather than a story in its own right, but really well told; if Golightly were to incorporate it into a novel three or four times its length, I wouldn’t complain.

Malcolm Devlin, Engines Beneath Us
A short story and a very powerful one, in a mode that can best be described as working-class Aickman (see also Ray Newman, below). It only rarely crosses the line between terror and horror – which is to say, between ‘creeping dread’ and ‘grue and squick’; it might have been stronger if it hadn’t done so at all. Definitely an author to watch out for, though.

Mick Herron, Clown Town
Some of Herron’s later Slough House books – including the generally wonderful The Secret Hours – have shown signs of narratorial cynicism, self-consciousness, fourth-wall breaking and suchlike symptoms of fatigue. This latest is lively enough, thankfully (although Jackson Lamb does at one point say the words “here we go again”). There’s a bit of London Rules in there, a bit of Real Tigers, even a bit of The Secret Hours, but it’s coherent enough to work in its own right. I was a bit disappointed to be left with a cliffhanger, though – and not just a cliffhanger, but a cliffhanger that could have been designed to be resolved by Goodreads feedback (how many “OMG I can’t believe that X” threads and how many “OMG I can’t believe that Y“?).

Andrey Kurkov, Death and the Penguin
Freelance journalists like to see their work in print, so the life of the freelance obituarist is particularly unsatisfactory – although, this book suggests, that may be better than the alternative. A black comedy from Ukraine (post-independence, pre-invasion). I’m still not convinced about the penguin – although, if the truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have picked the book up without it.

Ray Newman, Intervals of Darkness
Journalist, IT guy and beer authority Ray Newman has been writing horror fiction for a while now, working (like Malcolm Devlin) in a “working-class Aickman” mode; in Newman’s case there’s also an sf-like element of formal experimentalism and more than a touch of the Online Weird (creepypasta, Scarfolk etc). Did I not mention folk horror? Bit of that too. The stories here are powerful and eerie, and I look forward to seeing what Newman does next; I don’t think he’s quite settled on a style yet, but his voice is distinctive. The story that’s sunk the deepest hook into me is one that I’ve read twice – which, when you think about it, is a very good sign.

Also in October, I watched these films:

Dead of Winter (Brian Kirk 2025)
Minnesota. Snow. Shots fired. A frozen lake. A desperate woman. An old woman goes ice-fishing. A girl runs through the snow, screams, is pulled to the ground. Emma Thompson, playing her age, with what sounded like a pretty good Minnesota accent. A decent thriller, elevated by its unusual setting – the cold is practically a character – and its majority-female featured cast. (And that accent.)

The Lost Daughter (Maggie Gyllenhaal 2021)
In which a young female academic (Jessie Buckley) goes to a conference in the entourage of a much older male professor; meets another male professor who she hears lecturing (he opens his paper with a bilingual pun about Bourdieu, which has them in stitches); goes to bed with him after insisting that he first recites Yeats’s “Leda and the Swan”, from memory, in Italian; and leaves her husband and two pre-school kids for him, before leaving him to live alone for three years. That’s one narrative strand; the other is the same woman twenty years later (Olivia Colman), now a successful academic and on good terms with her adult daughters, but apparently still a bit traumatised by all the above. (I imagine the husband was fairly miffed as well.) As much as I like both the lead actors, I found the main character hard to sympathise with (the kids do seem truly unbearable, to be fair). It didn’t help that the academic stuff might as well have been taking place on the moon; it made more sense when I realised that the film was based on a book by Elena Ferrante. (Italian academia is weird.)

One Battle After Another (Paul Thomas Anderson 2025)
Just to reiterate, Pynchon’s Vineland isn’t about the Weather Underground – let alone a Bizarro World Weather Underground that somehow maintained a huge network of sleepers and sympathisers for decades after it stopped operating – and I’m really not sure why this film is. (Or, while I’m being picky, why the nuns aren’t Buddhist.) I liked it as a film, but I wasn’t blown away; I think I didn’t like it nearly as much as I would have if it had seemed like an approximation either to Vineland or to the reality of American radicalism (which, come to think of it, Vineland is a lot closer to). It’s significant that Perfidia Beverley Hills’ mother is a cipher called Gramma Minnie; the book’s equivalent, Frenesi Gates’s mother Sasha Traverse, is a key link between Frenesi and a whole history of Pacific Northwestern labour radicalism. But I do love the fact that Perfidia’s daughter Willa was played by an actor called Chase Infiniti: none more Pynchon.

Urchin (Harris Dickinson 2025)
A young man begging on the streets is offered food, but beats his benefactor up. We understand that he wants money for drugs, but the brutality of the attack (which we only see later) poses its own questions. He gets clean in prison; when he gets out he’s set up in a halfway house and started in a job. However, this all comes crashing down when a restorative justice session with the man he’d beaten up evokes feelings that he has no way of dealing with. A sweet-natured but hardheaded film about what it means to fall through the cracks – although I think it would have been stronger if the main character (played by Frank Dillane) hadn’t been so polite and well-spoken.

Frankenstein (Guillermo del Toro 2025)
Rather long, and very unevenly paced. My daughter informs me that in the book the monster’s story is three times the length of Victor’s story, whereas in the film they’re both long, but pretty much equally long; this may account for the odd sense I sometimes had that the film was both dragging and rushing through the material. (How one goes about learning to read when one knows nothing about alphabetic writing and one’s only companion is blind remains a mystery.) As ever with del Toro, it looks great: there are some heartbreakingly beautiful scenes, and some set-piece sequences that aren’t so much stunning as staggering. I don’t think that’s enough to make it a great film, though.

Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Steven Spielberg 1977)
This isn’t the version I saw when it came out; we spend more time with Richard Dreyfus’s irritating family (boo) and less with the pile of mashed potatoes (also boo). I liked it a bit better than I did then, but still wished that it didn’t so often look like a TV movie. Having spent long enough reading about ufology to recognise several of the early scenes from actual reports, I also feel that the question of whether Flying Saucers Are Real is at the very least interesting, and shouldn’t be answered in the affirmative for the hell of it. I felt, as I often do with Stephen King, that the proposition “there’s something out there” is far more effective if you can add “or is there?”.

Good Boy (Ben Leonberg 2025)
A horror film made over several years on “very minute lolly” (Mark E. Smith), and shot as if from the perspective of a dog – not literally from the point of view of a dog, but showing the world as a dog sees it, perhaps. That the dog sees its owner encountering strange and formless threats wasn’t much of a surprise, nor (mild spoiler) that the owner ends up dead. That the character had begun the film seriously, perhaps terminally, ill was more unusual, and suggested to me that the film might have been aiming for something which would have been really impressive if it had brought it off. (There was something out there – or was there?) A near miss, anyway, and definitely a director to watch out for, if he can scare up some funding.

Orlando (Sally Potter 1992)
Spotted on MUBI and re-watched 33 years on. I enjoyed it a lot. Just the sight of Heathcote Williams – let alone the sight of Heathcote Williams in two different parts – took me back to a vanished world; a world where it seemed perfectly natural for political, formal and cultural radicalism to go hand in hand, and to strike sparks of vivid beauty along the way. Or perhaps it wasn’t a world so much as a scene, even a coterie; perhaps the reason Potter’s film-making often struck me as “school of Jarman” isn’t a matter of artistic affinities or bare-bones budgets, but simply that her film was rooted in the same scene as his, literally among the same group of people. Perhaps that’s also why there never really was a school of Jarman (more’s the pity). Terrific film, though.

Good Fortune (Aziz Ansari 2025)
Aziz Ansari is a working shlub struggling to survive in the gig economy; Seth Rogen is a millionaire tech bro with some personal responsibility for the gig economy; Keanu Reeves is a well-intentioned but not very bright angel. What follows is an odd sort of amalgam of It’s a Wonderful Life, Trading Places, Sorry To Bother You and Bill and Ted. It’s not original, but it is engaging, sharply written and a lot of fun; Keanu as angel is terrific, and even Seth Rogen is less irritating than usual.

The Mastermind (Kelly Reichardt 2025)
In interviews, Kelly Reichardt has reacted very badly to questions about specific elements of this film, preferring audiences to go in as unprepared as possible. In one interview she was asked, delicately, why the scene with the ladder was as long as it is, and seemed to take exception to even being asked to confirm that there was a ladder in the film. Which is a shame, as I would love to know why the scene with the ladder went on so long – particularly when this doggedly vérité approach to (some) individual scenes goes along with editing of the overall narrative that’s tight to the point of being elliptical, leaving key information withheld and significant characters unintroduced. I didn’t think the film being set in the 1970s justified shooting it in misty shades of autumnal brown and prussian blue, either. Josh O’Connor was good, though.

The Last Sacrifice (Rupert Russell 2025)
“I didn’t realise that you wrote poetry. I didn’t realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry.”
Substitute ‘documentaries’ and you’re there. We attended a special screening of The Last Sacrifice, followed by a Q&A with the director. His aim was to make a documentary about Satanism, witchcraft and black magic in the British cinema in the 1970s, and the two-way relationship which these films purportedly had with real practices of Satanism (etc), being influenced by that reality and influencing it in turn. He wrote the film in a credulous, Channel 5 “but was there a more sinister explanation?” style, and had it edited like a trailer (on his own admission). 94 minutes is a long time to be watching montages and jump cuts; the opening ten minutes, introducing the film and edited like a trailer on speed, nearly made me walk out. During the Q&A the director also revealed, artlessly, that he’d only seen The Wicker Man a few years ago and had started getting into folk horror after that, and that he didn’t for a moment think that any of the various wouldbe sorcerers in the film could actually do anything supernatural. Which made me feel that the film, on top of being incoherent, sensationalist, confused and over-excited, was a massive missed opportunity. A film on the same subject made by that person – a newcomer to folk-horror magic and a sceptic about real-world magic – could actually have been interesting. Anyway, I don’t think it’s been released, so you’re unlikely to come into contact with this film; but if you do, avoid.

Not one of us

There was an unexpected blast from the past on Bluesky the other day:

To be clear, if you think that 'objecting to someone who looks at this mural and goes "can't see the problem" is some kind of smear, congratulations, you are a racist!

Stephen Bush (@stephenkb.bsky.social) 2025-11-18T11:12:24.376Z

Point: the racism of current Labour government policy (to which Stephen Bush rightly objects) was facilitated by the labelling of the anti-racist Corbynite Left as racist and the subsequent defeat of an anti-racist Labour Party by Boris Johnson‘s Tories (to which Bush contributed).

Counterpoint: in 2012 Jeremy Corbyn culpably “[couldn’t] see the problem” with Mear One’s Freedom For Humanity mural; this demonstrates that he was (and is) a racist, and hence that the “anti-racist opposition” was no such thing – and demonstrates it so clearly and conclusively that only another racist could object.

Spoiler: I agree with the first poster and strongly disagree with the response. (At least, I strongly disagree with everything after the semi-colon, which I really don’t think is tenable – and let’s not even mention what’s after the en-dash.)

It’s worth pausing to think about what kind of claim is being made here. The response only works if we assume, not only that Corbyn’s response was racist and/or revealed him as a racist, but that one form of racism was just as important as the other. In other words, it only works if Corbyn’s racism was as serious a problem as the unfolding panorama of government-endorsed racism that we’re currently seeing – and, more to the point, as serious as all the predictable negatives of a Boris Johnson-led Tory government (from hard Brexit on). A Labour Party with inadequate policies or a disappointing leader (imagine that) would still be worth supporting as an alternative to that. Really, the argument has to be that the racism some people inferred from Corbyn’s response to that mural was disqualifying: made it impossible to vote for his party.

This isn’t a novel idea; we already know that Corbyn was disqualified – a lot of people who might otherwise vote Labour felt strongly motivated not to vote for him, or for any government he would lead. Having campaigned for Labour in 2019, I clearly don’t agree with this position – I’m not even sure I understand it – but it is where a lot of people are coming from (even now). And, while it’s possible that for some people Corbyn’s comments on that mural were the final, clinching piece of evidence, I don’t think anyone’s mind was made up on the basis of those comments alone – or that anyone’s mind will be changed now by anything I say about them. There are those of us who believe Corbyn and Corbynism to be anti-Zionist but not antisemitic, and then there are those who believe them to be both – or else that the two are in some sense the same thing. Reinterpreting a single piece of evidence is unlikely to move anyone from one camp to the other.

But let’s crack on anyway. What were Corbyn’s comments – and what was he commenting on?

The mural, as you can see in Stephen’s post above, shows six grey-haired and -bearded men apparently playing Monopoly, in front of an image of the eye in the pyramid (as seen on the US dollar bill), on a table formed of the bent backs of naked, faceless people. I say ‘playing’, but five of the six are sitting quietly, staring ahead expressionlessly; the sixth is counting his money. The figures are blobby and caricatured, although they’re not well enough executed to be recognisable (and/or the subjects aren’t well enough known). Three, including the one with the money, have large, bulbous noses.

The mural was painted in 2012, and rapidly came under attack for the perceived antisemitism of the depiction of the six men, seen as caricatures of “Jewish bankers”; the local council duly got it removed. On one level this was unfortunate; it certainly misrepresented what the artist was trying to do. Given that the figures appear to be caricatures, it’s reasonable to take the artist’s word as to who they’re caricatures of; the answer appears to be that they’re meant to represent Walter Rothschild, John D. Rockefeller, J.P. Morgan, Paul Warburg, Andrew Carnegie and Aleister Crowley. (The artist’s own comments refer to Mayer Amschel Rothschild, Walter’s eighteenth-century forebear, but the caricature is fairly plainly of Walter (the original addressee of the Balfour Declaration). This – and the fact of there being multiple Rothschilds – will be relevant later.)

So: Rothschild, Rockefeller, Morgan, Warburg, Carnegie, Crowley. One of those names is not like the others, and we’ll return to that. More to the point, only two of those individuals – Warburg and Rothschild (the figure with the bundle of money) were Jewish. In the words of the artist (heavily edited for length and clarity),

I chose to depict the likenesses of … robber barons, specifically Rothschild, Rockefeller, Morgan, Carnegie, Warburg, as well Aleister Crowley … These wicked banksters have indeed been playing a game of monopoly on the backs of the working class. … [I don’t] believe there is some jewish conspiracy creating and controlling our money … So to conflate my anti-capitalist message with antisemitic rhetoric … is very ill-intended … It was also [my critics’] interpretation, and never mine, to point out ‘hook noses’, ‘crooked noses’ and other vile Nazi, Third Reich antisemitic propaganda

Of course, this only amounts to a very qualified defence of the mural. The then mayor of Tower Hamlets, Lutfur Rahman, said that “the images of the bankers perpetuate anti-Semitic propaganda about conspiratorial Jewish domination of financial institutions” – and those tropes are still evoked if there are only two Jewish financiers in the lineup, or one. Authorial intention is only relevant up to a point. “It’s a banker, they deal in money!” “It’s Walter Rothschild, that is what he looked like!” Valid points, but you still end up with someone who looks stereotypically Jewish clutching a wad of banknotes. When it comes to public art, one hook-nosed banker grinding the faces of the poor is one too many.

ImageStill, that is what the artist thought he was doing – which may explain why, when he posted on Facebook objecting to the plan to remove the mural, he did not mention the antisemitism accusation, or any other reason for the council to want the mural removed. The local MP, Jeremy Corbyn, commented as follows:

“Why? You are in good company. Rockerfeller destroyed Diego Viera’s mural because it includes a picture of Lenin.”

I think it’s probably fair to say that, if a constituent had written to Corbyn asking his views on the Man at the Crossroads mural project, the reply would have spelled ‘Rockefeller’ correctly and got Diego Rivera’s name right. In other words, this looks like an off-the-cuff response, suggesting that Corbyn had probably not thought very deeply about the mural – or looked at it closely enough to see why anyone might object to it. He may simply have thought he was looking at a variant of the “Pyramid of the Capitalist System“, with the eye in the pyramid representing the almighty dollar.

What happened next? Nothing. The mural was painted over, the artist complained and the world turned; nobody even objected to Corbyn’s comments. At least, nobody objected until nearly three years later, when the Jewish Chronicle – acting either on information that they’d sat on for three years or on a remarkably in-depth search of the new Labour leader’s social media presence – ran a story about the mural and what Corbyn had said, contacting his office for comments “about his support for a clearly antisemitic mural remaining on display”. No comment was forthcoming and the story died again – until late March 2018, with the Salisbury attack in the news and the tide running against Corbyn, when Luciana Berger revived it and demanded a response. On receiving it, she and others (notably those Labour stalwarts Gavin Shuker and Ian Austin) promptly demanded a better one.

Here they both are:

In 2012, Jeremy was responding to concerns about the removal of public art on grounds of freedom of speech. However, the mural was offensive, used antisemitic imagery, which has no place in our society, and it is right that it was removed.

“Jeremy thought that removing the mural raised freedom of speech issues. At the time he hadn’t noticed the antisemitic imagery, which overrides those considerations and means it was right to remove it.”

This was considered grossly inadequate (too brief? too impersonal? no apology?) and Corbyn duly issued a second statement:

In 2012 I made a general comment about the removal of public art on grounds of freedom of speech. My comment referred to the destruction of the mural Man at the Crossroads by Diego Rivera on the Rockefeller Center. That is in no way comparable with the mural in the original post. I sincerely regret that I did not look more closely at the image I was commenting on, the contents of which are deeply disturbing and anti-Semitic. I wholeheartedly support its removal. I am opposed to the production of anti-Semitic material of any kind, and the defence of free speech cannot be used as a justification for the promotion of anti-Semitism in any form. That is a view I’ve always held.

“I got it wrong and I’m sorry; you guys were right, the mural’s really bad; the free speech argument doesn’t come into it; and no, I’m not just saying all this now because I’ve been found out.” That about covers it – at least, if we assume that it’s at least possible that the original comment was made in ignorance, in error or in haste. It’s hard to see what more Corbyn could have said – or why what he said wasn’t enough.

But of course his critics didn’t want more, they wanted something different. They didn’t want him to explain that he’d inadvertently fallen short of a shared standard of behaviour, but to admit that he’d never shared that standard in the first place. What they wanted, in other words, wasn’t an apology but a confession. Thus Stephen Pollard stated (wrongly) that the creator of the mural had confirmed that the six figures were intended as antisemitic caricatures, building to claims that “[t]he Jewish caricatures were the entire point of the mural” and that “[t]he obvious truth of the matter is that [Corbyn] liked the mural”. How then to deal with Corbyn’s apology and disavowal, which Pollard quotes in full? Simple: it’s all lies. “Mr Corbyn protests that he cares about antisemitism ‘and all forms of racism’, in the formulation he insists on using. Mr Corbyn is a liar.”

Now, you don’t talk to, or about, a political opponent in those terms; you couldn’t, you’d have nobody left to talk to before long. (There’s a reason why “Liar!” is the worst possible insult one MP can use against another.) You assume good faith, just as you assume other forms of common decency (including not being racist); you make that assumption irrespective of whether you actually think the other person’s truthful, honest and so on. You make that assumption; if your opponent falls short, you challenge them and demand an explanation; you accept the explanation as itself being made in good faith, and the world continues to turn. To call someone a liar is to say that you aren’t assuming good faith – which means that you can’t work with them, ever. Between political actors, it means that you want the other person gone; you think they shouldn’t be in the political sphere in the first place. In Mouffean terms, it turns agonism into antagonism. (The opposition between political opponents – even opponents committed to one another’s total defeat – is agonistic; the opposition between the political sphere and people excluded from it is antagonistic. Usually the relationship between the Labour Party and even its bitterest opponents remains agonistic.)

But the rejection of Corbyn’s apology made it inevitable that he would be called a liar – in point of fact, to listen to somebody’s explanation for why you might have mistakenly assumed them to be X, and then continue to label them X, is to call them a liar. More broadly, to say that your explanation for your actions doesn’t count is to say that your words and your thinking don’t count: whatever game we’re playing, you’re not a full part of it. It’s antagonistic, and as such it’s a treatment that most people in politics would never dream of giving one another – not least because they’d never want it visited on themselves.

What do I think about Jeremy Corbyn’s views on that mural? Well, I think he’s an elected politician, and as such he deserved the benefit of the doubt when he said that he hadn’t looked at it closely and so forth. Yeah, but what do I think he really thought? I think that you can’t ask that question if you think of Corbyn as a legitimate political actor. I also think that delegitimating him – turning him from an agonist into an antagonist – had, and continues to have, baleful effects on our political discourse, and that it wasn’t justified, by his comments on that mural or anything else.

There is something interesting about that mural, though. A few years ago Bob Pitt got curious about it – why that particular lineup? why Crowley, of all people? – and did some digging. It turns out that the image of Aleister Crowley has a similar source to some of the other odd features of the mural, notably the eye in the pyramid – and, I would argue, the weirdly static, trancelike quality of the central tableau. It seems that Mear One is not a conventional Leftist but a devotee of the work of David Icke. According to Icke, “Rothschild Zionists” run the governments of the US, the UK and Israel, and hence the world; the label does not refer to Jews or even to Zionists, but to a secret society which has worked to further the interests of the Rothschild family over the centuries. All five of the bankers featured in the mural have been nominated by Icke as “Rothschild Zionists”; Icke’s personal mythology also has an important place for Aleister Crowley, “Satanist, Freemason and Illuminati operative”. Consider also the odd passivity of the people on the bottom level, as well as the fact that the six figures in the middle are doing nothing more consequential than playing a game, and that Rothschild himself is the only one of the six to show any movement. All this attests to this belief system’s lack of dynamism: history in this vision is not the history of class struggle but the history of unchanging, unending control, exercised at an almost supernatural level. It’s a highly idiosyncratic, borderline-psychotic belief system, based on a weirdly literal re-reading of old antisemitic tropes but without anything to say about real-world Jews. And no, Corbyn didn’t spot this, but then neither did anyone else before 2022.

Returning to the Bluesky posts that we started with: I think the honour of the “anti-racist left” is largely intact. Off the top of my head I’d define racism as “treating people differently, and/or advocating that people should be treated differently, on the grounds of their supposed race, with one or more out-group of people denied the dignity and respect afforded to members of the in-group”. The OED goes further:

A belief that one’s own racial or ethnic group is superior, or that other such groups represent a threat to one’s cultural identity, racial integrity, or economic well-being; (also) a belief that the members of different racial or ethnic groups possess specific characteristics, abilities, or qualities, which can be compared and evaluated. Hence: prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism directed against people of other racial or ethnic groups (or, more widely, of other nationalities), esp. based on such beliefs.

The sense in which the policies and rhetoric of the current government are racist, like the sense in which much of Boris Johnson’s better-known writing is racist, is pretty straightforward. On the other hand, Corbyn and the movement he briefly led were known for their vocal opposition to racism, and for anti-imperialist internationalism more broadly. Can the mural affair outweigh that? Assume (being as charitable as possible to the critics) that the mural made a definite nod to antisemitic iconography and that there’s something suspicious about Corbyn’s failure to notice this; assume that a comment with suspicious omissions, made in 2012, is telling evidence of Corbyn’s trouble with Jews between 2015 and 2020; assume that there’s no other relevant evidence regarding Corbyn, Jews and antisemitism.

When all those assumptions – some of them counterfactual – have been made, what have we got? Certain beliefs about Jewish people’s “specific characteristics, abilities, or qualities” do seem to have fed into the depiction of Walter Rothschild, even if the artist denied it; and Corbyn’s comment in 2012 didn’t call this out. But this doesn’t get us very far; remember the assumption of good faith and common decency under which agonistic political conflict operates. More, surely, is needed in order to overcome the assumption that Corbyn – that any random MP, Left or Right – doesn’t think it’s appropriate to portray a historical Jewish banker as having a large nose, clutching a wad of money and physically oppressing the poor. And even if we assume that the question can legitimately be asked, we can’t overlook the fact that it has been answered, with a resounding No.

So no, the case for Corbyn’s antisemitism isn’t proved by his comments on that mural. In fact those comments can only be considered as possible evidence of antisemitism if you call him a liar – and in that case you can basically call him what you like (you aren’t going to believe his denials); you’ve already excluded him from the respect due to a political opponent. The “Corbyn’s antisemitism unmasked” reading of the mural brouhaha isn’t straightforward or self-evident; it’s tendentious, selective and above all hostile. Relative to Corbyn’s exclusion from political legitimacy, it’s a symptom, not a cause.

Writing as I am in November 2025, the last thing I’m currently inclined to do is defend Jeremy Corbyn. But it really seems to me that his biggest sin – the one thing that made him persona non grata in respectable politics – was his unhesitating and consistent opposition to the imperialism of Britain and its allies. Among other things, this found expression in an opposition to Zionism which guided his approach to Israel/Palestine, although he always fought shy of articulating it – wrongly, I think; equivocating didn’t reduce the hostility his beliefs aroused, and made him seem evasive and untrustworthy. For some people – Pollard included – this could not be forgiven or tolerated; it had to be either elevated to the status of a career-ending defect or assimilated to the racism which was already seen in those terms. Others found his stance on Ireland unacceptable, or the possibility that a Corbyn-led Labour government would seek justice for victims of the British Army in Afghanistan and elsewhere – or simply the fact that he threatened existing centres of power in the Labour movement. (Needless to say, I don’t share these objections or sticking-points; on the specific point of anti-Zionism, I don’t believe a Corbyn-led government would have posed any danger to the security of the Middle East, still less to Jewish people in Britain.) Whatever the issue, Corbyn’s opponents could find common cause in labelling him, and the movement behind him, as utterly beyond the pale; a label that eventually, after much effort and several false starts, stuck.

A successful Corbyn-led Labour government was always a distant prospect; much of the opposition to Corbyn came from within the Parliamentary Labour Party, making it highly unlikely that a Corbyn government elected in mid-2017 would have made it as far as… actually they might have made it to the end of 2019, so never mind. Anyway, there wasn’t a viable, battle-ready alternative government of the anti-racist Left ready to go in 2017, still less 2019. But it would have been good to give it a try; I can’t believe the results would be anywhere near as bad as what we’ve got now.

Yer Blues(2): The local news

1. Where I’m Coming From

As (very) long-term readers will know, I joined the Labour Party in 2015, shortly after voting for Jeremy Corbyn in the ‘registered supporters’ section of the leadership election. Like most people, I didn’t expect Corbyn to win. I committed to becoming a full member after the election in any case, in the hope of taking part in the bottom-up revitalisation of the party that his campaign seemed to herald.

He won, of course, which was great, but even after that I couldn’t see much sign of the party being revitalised. Certainly not locally; I went to a party meeting or two and found the vibe rather routine and self-satisfied – very much as if Corbyn’s election hadn’t changed anything. I stopped going and went back to social media. Then, about six months after I’d joined, I got a call from an unknown number. “Is that Phil? I believe you joined the Labour Party recently… Could I just ask, do you support Jeremy Corbyn?” And a big sigh of relief when I said Yes.

The thing is, you can’t revitalise the party from the bottom up as individual members; you need to do it collectively. But you can’t do anything collectively unless you can bring enough people together – and to do that you need to know who those people are. The local party leadership, of course, knew perfectly well who had joined the party recently and how to get in touch with them – but the local party leadership didn’t intend to use that information (other than to invite the newcomers to party meetings and socials), and they certainly weren’t going to share it. So left-wing members wishing to contact similar – and knowing damn well that several hundred similar had recently arrived – were reduced to scrounging contact details from a whole variety of sources (a Momentum appeal on Facebook in my case), and tentatively asking unfamiliar party members whether, no offence intended and don’t take this the wrong way, they might perhaps be a supporter of… the person just elected leader with 59.5% of the vote.

As well as holding the mailing list, the local leadership clique had the incumbency advantage. This is a killer for anyone trying to win the votes of less informed and/or less motivated voters; think of it as the “seems to be doing a reasonably good job, seems nice enough and lots of people seem to support him/her” advantage. In my ward, at least, they also had a strong networking advantage – as I discovered the day a perfect stranger, who I’d seen at the odd meeting, wandered up to me at the bus stop and asked if I was still working at the same place. We had quite a nice chat, but I never found the words to say “who are you and how do you know me?”. (The person in question would later be Chair of the local branch; talking it over with a friend in the Left group, we worked out that our mutual friend was probably the father of a kid who’d been a friend of one of my kids, five or six years earlier (hence “are you still” etc, I guess).) One way and another, anyway, the clique were several steps ahead of us, so – despite theoretically having numbers to spare – we never did manage to revitalise the Labour Party in Chorlton. We got close once, relatively early on, but not close enough (search term: “rinsed”).

2. Where We Got To

I’m not going to say that the real revitalisation of the Labour Party was the friends we made along the way – we were defeated by the Labour Right, repeatedly, and it wasn’t good. But I did make friends along the way, and that’s not nothing. Specifically, I became part of a network of people in the Withington constituency, mainly organised through a range of WhatsApp groups. (The Withington constituency includes Chorlton, Didsbury, and Old Moat as well as Withington itself.) While to begin with we were all members of the Labour Party, under Starmer’s leadership some of us were expelled and most of the rest drifted away. When a few of us met up in person a couple of months ago, it was quite noticeable that almost nobody was still in the party – nobody, that is, apart from the people who’d managed to get elected to the council before the tide went out.

But the network endured – even when it had outlived its original purpose of organising within the Labour Party – and the first meeting of people interested in Your Party in the Withington constituency grew out of this network. The first thing we did was introduce ourselves – yes, the old ‘go round the circle and say something about yourself’ routine – but, rather brilliantly, we were instructed to keep things moving by only giving three pieces of information: our name, our pronouns and our political affiliation. So I can say with some confidence that there were people there from RS21, Counterfire, the Socialist Workers Party and another couple of groups, as well as several like me whose group affiliations are in the past (Socialist Society/Socialist Movement 1987-95, Labour Party 2015-24 and, er, that’s it).

The rest of the meeting was more practical. With a bit of help from facilitators we surfaced several issues and clusters of issues, enabling people to form sub-groups to pursue them – in the meeting and, more importantly, afterwards. I thought I could make the biggest contribution to the group focusing on party structure, which at that point I saw as three inter-related questions: how the new party should be structured (branches etc); how it actually was structured, if only by default (i.e. who was running the show and how); and how members could feed back their ideas on (a) into the apparatus of (b). As we’ll see in the next post, this question isn’t so much difficult to resolve as difficult to define at all, and there’s scope for an awful lot of bootstrapping and recursion – how to set up structures to enable not-yet-branches to hold the not-yet-centre accountable for the mechanisms it establishes for the formation of true branches empowered to hold the centre to account… To take only the most obvious issue, there’s no easy answer to the chicken-and-egg “the centre is accountable to the branches”/”the branches are authorised by the centre” question. But it’s probably not realistic to take the process as slowly and incrementally as it really deserves to be taken, and I suspect the knot is going to get cut one way or another (and probably without any input from me).

We also began planning for a public meeting where Your Party would be launched on the people of Withington: this, rather than the meeting of our (literally) self-selected group, would mark the true foundation of YP in Withington constituency. What follows is almost entirely second-hand, as I wasn’t involved in planning this meeting – in fact I didn’t even go to it. Digressing slightly, I had a strong emotional reaction to the 2017 election – and an equally strong reaction to the 2019 defeat, which hit me like the loss of a friend. (Which, for anyone lucky enough not to have experienced bereavement, doesn’t mean ‘I felt very sad’; I did, obviously, but it was much worse than that.) My response to the launch of the YP mailing list was euphoric – echoes of July 2017 – and I went to the inaugural meeting on a high. After that, though – and particularly after the membership portal débacle – I started getting 2019 flashbacks, and started keeping a bit of a distance from YP for the sake of my own wellbeing.

The meeting was held in a bar’s function room; misgivings about meeting on licensed premises (would we put off observant Muslims? would the meeting be disrupted by drunks?) were addressed by having the towels put on during the meeting. In passing, I think these worries may have been a bit overdone. It seems to me that there aren’t likely to be many people interested in the explicitly non-religious Your Party who are also sufficiently devout not to want to set foot in a pub – and I strongly suspect that there’s a swathe of people on the Left who would actually prefer at least some of their meetings to be held in pubs.

Anyway, the lack of booze didn’t stop the meeting being a success in the obvious ways; it was well-attended and there were plenty of contributions from the floor. What turned out to be more problematic was a decision that had seemed like a no-brainer: both Corbyn and Sultana were going to be in the Northwest around the time we were meeting, why not get one of them along? A date was agreed with Sultana, the meeting was advertised on social media and tickets flew out. Which was great, except that having Sultana’s name on it made the meeting attractive to a slightly different, and much wider, range of people – and we didn’t have any way of limiting attendance to potential members of a Withington constituency YP branch. In retrospect I think we could have thought more about the potential mismatch between online organisation, publicity and ticketing, on one hand, and organising a face-to-face group within the geographical unit of a constituency, on the other – and between a meeting of Withington YP supporters and a YP supporters’ meeting in Withington.

Hindsight’s a wonderful thing! In any case, what took place was by all accounts the second kind of meeting, not the first. People did try to use the Q&A constructively, by getting answers from Sultana to some of the difficult questions – particularly around party structure – but without much success; she’s a politician, after all. At the end of the night it was a successful meeting, but it wasn’t the founding event for a party branch; the branch, at the time of writing, remains un-founded.

But what do we need a branch for? See next post.

 

 

The £10 Box: Somerset Dreams, Xeno

The £10 Box was an old fruit box containing 40 hardbacks, all of them Science Fiction Book Club editions, dating from 1968 to 1979, which I bought from my local Oxfam bookshop for a tenner several years ago. This is the nineteenth – the last but one – in a series of twenty posts, each reviewing two of those books; earlier reviews are linked at the end of this post.

Kate Wilhelm, Somerset Dreams and other fictions (1979; originally published 1978)

The name of this collection initially put me in mind of Christopher Priest’s A Dream of Wessex, and the psychedelic-bucolic strain of British sf more generally. But Kate Wilhelm’s Somerset isn’t an English county; it’s a small town in rural America, possibly in Wyoming (some of the place names, although not others, seem to match). This Somerset is a small and declining town; it used to be on the route between two towns (well, the back route), but since the river flooded and took the bridge out you only go to Somerset if you’re going to Somerset. And, as with Royston Vasey, if you do go to Somerset you may never leave; more to the point, you may never want to leave…

There are seven other stories here (or ‘fictions’ if you like), all between ten and 30 pages. ‘Planet Story’ is set on an alien planet, and suggests that we may not have considered the implications of that word ‘alien’; ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, This Is Your Crisis’ (from 1976) gives us a couple (and a society) hopelessly addicted to a reality TV ‘survival’ game. (Meanwhile back in 2025, a site called DirecTV has a list of the 15 “most popular Outdoor Survival TV Shows available to stream right now”.) ‘Mrs Bagley Goes to Mars’, the only previously unpublished story, has a title that both is and isn’t self-explanatory; I was reminded of authors like Joanna Russ and Josephine Saxton.

So Kate Wilhelm clearly had a way with titles. Otherwise the stories just mentioned are unusual; very little here is unambiguously set in the future, in space, among alien beings or w.h.y. Policing the boundaries of sf is a mug’s game, always liable to fall back on defensive positions like ‘sf of the old school’ – or if all else fails ‘hard sf’ – so I’m not going to say that any of these stories aren’t sf; I will say, though, that many of them border on Robert Aickman territory and would fit well in a collection of psychological horror stories. It seems that what interested Kate Wilhelm was altered states of consciousness and how they could be induced by – or induce – altered states of reality; uncanny edgelands, which you may stray into on an alien planet or in a suburban garden. It’s also worth noting that ‘Mrs Bagley Goes to Mars’ wasn’t the only story that reminded me of another work of fiction; ‘State of Grace’ evoked an equally (and differently) uncanny story, Patricia Highsmith’s ‘The Empty Birdhouse’, while the Twilight Zone episode ‘Mirror Image’ seemed to lie in the background of ‘The Encounter’. I should stress that I’m not suggesting plagiarism, but something more like a creative dialogue: all three stories are quite unlike the material they seem to riff on, and take similar setups in very different directions.

The other great strength of these stories is that, however eerie their scenarios are, they are about believable relationships between believable people, male and female. (Believable people in awful situations and believable relationships being stretched to the limit, but still.) Which is rarer than you’d think, at least if you’re reading 1970s sf written by straight male authors (for another example see below). When a female point-of-view character acknowledges a man’s interest in her and treats it as a minor irritation, or simply does something normal like planning meals or talking about clothes – I would say it makes a refreshing change, but more specifically it’s a relief: you feel you can stand up straight. I wouldn’t call Kate Wilhelm a feminist writer on the basis of these stories (hence ‘Mrs Bagley’ drawing my attention), but she did write about real women (and indeed real men), for which much thanks.

D.F. Jones, Xeno (1979)

I wondered briefly whether D.F. Jones had been a woman using initials so as to go undetected in the male-dominated world of sf/f (cf. C.J. Cherryh, J.K. Rowling, U.K. Le Guin), but Xeno quickly dispelled this suspicion. In fact the author’s full name and style was Commander Dennis Feltham Jones OBE, and he wrote eight books, published between 1966 and 1981 (the year of his death, aged 62). SFE notes, in appropriately dismal tones, that his later novels “succumb with excessive ease to a slick gloominess”, dissipating his work’s “initial glum panache”. So don’t get your hopes up for this one – certainly not for a happy ending.

The book starts well enough, with a military plane going missing – just blipping off the radar – and reappearing, to the utter bafflement of the pilot, four months later and five thousand miles away. Then we go behind the scenes of US military intelligence, and the pace immediately flags: we see a lot of square-jawed military men being called to urgent meetings, where they exchange lines of the “Surely you’re not saying…”/”That’s exactly what I’m saying!” variety. Then a Russian plane vanishes and subsequently reappears (“But Colonel, surely you’re not saying…”); then an American passenger plane. The authorities keep an eye on the people who were on that plane, who seem initially to be uncannily healthy – but then they start falling ill, and developing subcutaneous cysts that resemble eggs…

This book has a lot in common with Ian Watson’s The Jonah Kit (an earlier 1* review); in this case I’m not suggesting either plagiarism or creative dialogue, at most a certain shared underlying nihilism. Like The Jonah Kit, this book’s plot has two separate drivers: the lost time episodes and what may have caused them fade from view halfway through, with the rest of the book being about the mysterious infection and its ramifications. Like The Jonah Kit, it indulges in some rather weird theological speculations: people interpret the lost time episodes and the subsequent alien infestation in terms, not of alien contact, but of contact with a semi- or quasi-divine being, which has somehow passed on a parasitical infection while playing its inscrutable games with aeroplanes. This would not be God, you understand – God is by definition perfect and hence could not be carrying parasites – but something intermediate between humanity and God: a cosmic angel, perhaps, or an intergalactic saint. The point of this digression seems to be the problems it causes for the Communists (“‘But God does not exist!’ Tatyana cried desperately.”); it’s still decidedly odd. And, like The Jonah Kit, it’s extremely dark, with a far-future frame story that holds out very little hope for the planet.

Then there’s (sigh) the sexual politics, which are from another era (a final similarity with The Jonah Kit) – although, given that Jones was born 25 years before Watson, you could argue that his attitudes were from another era in another era. Either way… oh dear.

Essentially a simple, cheerful girl, Shane de Byl was bright enough to know that she had no great brain. … She knew she had a fine body, and the instinct to enjoy it and to use it for its proper function, children. But not just yet.

Proper function. Right. Moving along… oh, we aren’t moving along.

Secretly, she delighted in her body, watching its magical progression from puberty, from skinny flatness to ample, gentle curves.

Secretly, you say – as in “we’re not going to hear about it”? Nope. Jones is just getting warmed up, and I do mean ‘warmed up’:

Every morning, flanked by a mirror on one side, an open window on the other, she had her private session of self-admiration, turning this way and that, craning her neck to see her herself from all angles, conscious of the fresh air that added to her awareness by its chill touch.

Yep, that’s definitely something that a real woman who is a real person would really do. Every morning.

Shane de Byl is the closest this book gets to a love interest, although ‘love’ may be pushing it.

One of the most powerful and satisfying experiences known to humans is sex, and Jaimie and Shane had plenty of that. In basic, earthy terms,

Please, D.F. Jones, spare us the basic, earthy terms.

In basic, earthy terms, Jaimie screwed the hell out of Shane on every possible occasion.

How nice for them. Jaimie is a doctor; he had first met Shane when he treated her broken leg. He wasn’t in the habit of picking up his female patients, you understand; the idea wouldn’t even cross his mind, generally speaking.

Generally speaking, doctors regard their female patients’ bodies with a detached eye. Often, a body that looks wildly exciting displayed on a dimly lit bed appears very different on an examination couch under cold light.

Call me politically correct, but I would have thought the difference between a sexual relationship and a doctor-patient relationship was more relevant than the quality of the light. Anyway, to examine Shane’s fractured tibia Jaimie would only need to look at her lower leg, wouldn’t he?

But there can be exceptions. Doctors are trained to observe: Jaimie Scott, 28 and unattached, could not help noticing her sensational figure, or the fact that she was a genuine blonde.

OH D.F. JONES NO. As I said, I wondered briefly if D.F. Jones was a woman using initials so as to go undetected in the male-dominated world of sf/f; only briefly.

Like The Jonah Kit, this is a weird, disjointed disaster novel with cosmically doomy overtones, written by an author who seems half in love with the disaster. Like The Jonah Kit, its sexual politics are truly dreadful. And, like The Jonah Kit, it’s getting one star.

Reviews so far (with * rating and SFBC # where present)

Poul Anderson, The Trouble Twisters (1963, 1965, 1966) #141
John Brunner, Timescoop (1969)
Algis Budrys, The Iron Thorn (1967) #142
Terry Carr, Cirque (1977)
Louis Charbonneau, Antic Earth (1967) #133 1*
D.G. Compton, The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (1975) 5*
Michael Coney, Winter’s Children (1974)
Michael Coney, Hello Summer, Goodbye (1975) 5*
Richard Cowper, Breakthrough (1967) #136 5*
Richard Cowper, Phoenix (1968) #147
Richard Cowper, Worlds Apart (1974)
L.P. Davies, Twilight Journey (1967) #134
Samuel Delany, Babel-17  (1966) #140 5*
Richard H. Francis, Blackpool Vanishes (1979) 5*
Harry Harrison, War with the Robots (1962) #138
Philip E. High, Invader on my Back (1968) #148
D.F. Jones, Xeno (1979) 1*
Damon Knight, Three Novels (1951, 1954, 1957) #139
Charles Logan, Shipwreck (1975) 5*
J.T. McIntosh, Six Gates from Limbo (1968) #144 1*
R.W. Mackelworth, Firemantle (1968) #151
Barry Malzberg, Beyond Apollo (1972) 5*
Judith Merril (ed.), Path Into the Unknown: The Best of Soviet Science Fiction (1966) #131
Larry Niven, Inconstant Moon (1973)
Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, The Dynostar Menace (1975)
Frederik Pohl, The Age of the Pussyfoot (1965, 1966) #166
Frederik Pohl, The Gold at the Starbow’s End (1972)
Spider Robinson, Telempath (1976)
Bob Shaw, Ship of Strangers (1978)
Robert Sheckley, Can You Feel Anything When I Do This? (1971)
Curt Siodmak, City in the Sky (1974) 1*
Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic (1977) 5*
Jack Vance, The Killing Machine (1968) #135
Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit (1975) 1*
Kate Wilhelm, Somerset Dreams and other fictions (1978) 5*
‘Patrick Wyatt’, Irish Rose (1975)
Roger Zelazny, The Doors of his Face, the Lamps of his Mouth and other stories (1971) 5*
Chloe Zerwick and Harrison Brown, The Cassiopeia Affair (1968) #149

Key to Star Ratings

5*: you should definitely read this; read the review to see why
1*: you should definitely not read this; read the review to see why not
No star rating: read the review and see what you think

Yer Blues(1): What’s Bin Did

This is the first in a brief series of posts about the “Your Party” project. Like a lot of people, I was initially very enthusiastic about the project; like a lot of people, I don’t think things are looking great at the moment. But first, some background.

Back in July, Zarah Sultana MP announced – to general surprise – that she was leaving Labour to co-lead the formation of a new party, together with Jeremy Corbyn. There had been rumours that a new Left party might be in the offing, but this was the first official announcement that a party was actually being formed. Expressions of interest in the new party were invited and duly flooded in – I think the counter got up to 800,000 before updates stopped appearing.

Corbyn confirmed the news (albeit not immediately), and for a while everything looked rosy. However, nothing seemed to be happening about turning those expressions of interest into membership – or turning the initial announcement into a party that people could become members of. There was a disquieting silence from the leadership on these issues – and on most others, including who the leadership actually were.

On the 18th of September an email broke the silence: a membership portal was opened and announced to YP supporters. However, three hours later another all-supporters email disowned the portal (call it Portal 1), portraying it as little better than a phishing attack:

This morning, an unauthorised email was sent to all yourparty.uk supporters with details of a supposed membership portal hosted in a new domain name. Legal advice is being taken. That email should be ignored by all supporters. If any direct debits have been set up, they should be immediately cancelled.

Ouch. Sultana – for it was she – responded by acknowledging that she’d acted unilaterally in opening up membership, and said that she’d been frozen out of YP collective decision-making by a “boys’ club” of Corbyn and the other Independent Alliance MPs. In one message Sultana talked about taking legal advice herself, and for a while things were looking extremely rocky; she retracted this threat later, fortunately.

Six days later, a new membership portal (call it Portal 2) was announced in another email, headed pointedly “Official: Your Party Membership Now Open!”. Subsequent communications have made a point of referencing Sultana as well as Corbyn, and we’ve been given to believe that relations between the two are at least civil. However, membership data collected from Portal 1 has still not been merged into what’s now the YP membership database; the money paid by would-be members via Portal 1 (which runs to several million pounds) is also in limbo, being held by MOU Operations, a separate company from YP. On October 27th people who had joined via Portal 1 were invited to contact YP and let them know that they’d already paid a sub. Two days later, in less happy news, a story attributed to anonymous YP sources appeared in the Guardian, claiming that YP intended to take legal action against MOU to recover the missing millions (MOU’s response is here).

I haven’t joined; if Portal 1 had been left open I might have been tempted, but the infighting that immediately erupted made me feel I’d be better off sitting this one out for a while. (The 29th October Guardian story does nothing to change my mind.) Even before Portal 1 had been disavowed, though, I was uncertain about the whole process of joining the new party, given that the new party didn’t yet exist – although, without members, how could it? There’s an awkward chicken-and-egg relationship between founding the party and inviting people to become members. On one hand, there’s not much point joining something unless you know what it is and what it’s for: this would imply that the party should be founded first and then opened to members. On the other hand, any new left party should be – and this party in particular is specifically intended to be – guided and controlled from below, by its members: this would imply that nothing should be done in the way of founding the party until after everyone’s joined. Obviously both of these conclusions are impractical; we need somehow to split the difference. The approach being taken so far is to designate the new party’s first conference as its founding event, and to stress that only paid-up members will be eligible to attend – more precisely, that attendees will be randomly selected from the paid-up membership (the principle of sortition, as seen (on a much smaller scale) in jury selection). The wording of Portal 1, in fact, said very little about becoming a member (and what we would be becoming members of), stressing instead that only by taking out membership would you be eligible to be selected for the founding conference.

The conference, it was announced some time ago, is to be held in November, and that remains the commitment (yes, this November). The timetable seems to have been set by working backwards from May 2026, the imperative being to get something recognisable as a party – and preferably not still called ‘Your Party’ – up and running in time for next year’s council elections. However, a two-day conference can’t be expected to write a party constitution, or even scrutinise a draft constitution. Ahead of the conference, therefore, YP’s founding documents have been published in draft form; regional assemblies are being held at which they can be discussed and amendments proposed, while an online ‘crowd editing’ tool has been launched. But the devil’s in the detail. What were originally described as ‘mass’ assemblies are materialising as meetings of around 200 people, who divide into groups to discuss allocated sections of the founding documents. (The principle on which sections of the documents are allocated seems obscure, to put it kindly; one group in an assembly in the East of England found itself called on to discuss how the new party should operate in Scotland and Wales.) Groups then feed back to the room. Comments and amendments are collected by the facilitators, but there’s no time for plenary discussion; as such there’s no attempt to consolidate the contributions made by different groups or to arrive at any overall positions. It seems that the only people getting any kind of overview, or having any chance of synthesising different positions, are the facilitators – a group whose membership and qualifications for the role remain obscure, but which in any case is evidently not very big. As for the ‘crowd editing’ tool, anyone expecting something like the Google Docs multiple-editor experience will be disappointed: apparently anyone will be able to propose amendments, but nobody will be able to see anyone else’s amendments – except the leadership group, presumably, who will be able to pick and choose which to apply. The size of the YP membership, and the range of skills and experience that members can bring to it, has rightly been seen as its key asset; the assemblies and the ‘crowd editing’ tool could have been designed to neutralise that asset.

The founding conference for its part has been trailed as having a projected attendance of 13,000, made up of two separate groups of 6,500 attending on each of two days – or possibly four groups of 3,250 each attending one session (there’s been no official clarification). These numbers are, frankly, insane. Figures this large aren’t required in order to make the meeting representative; random selection does that for you, above a certain (fairly low) limit. Presumably the idea is to accommodate some (most?) of these people online, although that’s scarcely problem-free (a free Zoom account has a limit of 100 participants in a session). In any case, even if 3,250 people could be beamed down at 9:30 a.m. (and beamed up again at 1:00 to make room for the afternoon shift), the deliberative potential of a meeting of that size would be basically nil – as would the chance of any individual member getting to address the meeting. (Both of which would be pretty minimal in a meeting of 325, to be fair) There’s a strong whiff of the stage army about this proposal – of a conference which functions like a rally, endorsing by acclamation decisions that have been hammered out elsewhere. Which, again, gives the impression of a leadership that’s happy to have a mass membership, but doesn’t want them getting any ideas about running the show.

As for who actually is running the show, this article by Archie Woodrow from September is a good starting-point. It appears that early preparations for building a new party were dominated by Collective, a group associated with Corbyn’s Peace and Justice Project in which Karie Murphy, formerly of the Leader of the Opposition’s office team (LOTO), plays a major role. The group was expanded following dissent among participants including Jamie Driscoll (the former North of Tyne metro mayor who now leads the Majority group) and Andrew Feinstein (who stood against Keir Starmer in the 2024 election); the dissenting group circulated a Memorandum of Understanding (unpublished) and established a company, MOU Operations. Following the Portal 1 débacle (in which the directors of MOU Operations have denied any involvement), relations with the MOU group appear now to have broken down; as a result, presumably, the narrower group centred on Corbyn is back in charge.

Officially – according to the email which launched Portal 2 – the leadership group in fact consists of the Independent Alliance. Which is to say, Jeremy Corbyn, former leader of the opposition and the second longest-serving MP in the House of Commons; Zarah Sultana, who is 32 (today – happy birthday, Zarah!) and was first elected to anything in 2019; and four MPs elected in 2024 as pro-Gaza independents, defeating Labour incumbents. With the best will in the world, those four – a former Liberal Democrat councillor, a former Labour Party member and two people with no political history at all – aren’t going to have the resources to mount much opposition to someone with Corbyn’s depth of experience. Mind you, six months ago I would have said something similar about Sultana – and she’s effectively bounced Corbyn into first launching the party and then opening party membership, and is now freelancing on party policy. What seems to have happened is that Sultana’s recognised that Corbyn’s key tactic is delaying and refusing to give a definite answer, and decided to neutralise it by simply going round him. It’s working so far, but it’s not a recipe for a productive working relationship longer-term. But then, neither is Corbyn’s heel-digging – which reminds me of a line by Philip Larkin about how people look at him and think he’s got what he wanted, when in fact he’s only succeeded in not getting what he didn’t want.

All in all, things don’t look too hopeful. It’s disappointing, and disillusioning, and perhaps more than anything else it’s frustrating. Even while writing this post I’ve had the urge to write some formulation like “…which raises some interesting issues”, and immediately felt wretched – the whole point of actually launching an actual party was that we were actually going to do something, like we did in the late 2010s, instead of writing blog posts discussing the issues raised by X and the implications of Y, like we’ve been doing ever since. (NB previous sentence may contain rose-tinted view of 2015-19 period.)

Still, the story’s not over yet. And neither is this series of blog posts (plenty of issues still to be raised!). Next: the local news (Your Party in Manchester Withington constituency).

Do you remember?

In September I read – or finished reading – two books from the £10 Box:

Richard H. Francis, Blackpool Vanishes
Terry Carr, Cirque

Reviews here.

I also read (or finished)

Suzanne Collins, Sunrise on the Reaping
The history of Suzanne Collins’s dystopian future America is pretty well mapped out now, from The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes through to Catching Fire. While plenty of people will be happy to spend some more time in Panem, any new story can only really be set in the period between Songbirds and The Hunger Games. Haymitch’s origin story is a natural choice – but it’s also a story that has fairly burdensome conditions attached. Whatever happens, it can’t involve a rebellion – at least, not one that has any effect or is remembered by anyone; by the end of the book, moreover, Haymitch himself needs to be a burnt-out, cynical alcoholic, or heading that way. The action is well handled and there are some interesting sidelights on Hunger Games characters, but the narrative arc is, frankly, a bit of a downer.

Bernard C. Blake, At the Change of the Moon
At the Change of the Moon, discovered (in the British Library) and reprinted by horror writer and editor Johnny Mains, was one of a handful of books by Bernard C. Blake (1882-1918). Blake wrote this when he was 19; he seems to have given up writing in his mid-20s. In form it’s a linked anthology: confined to their hotel by a storm, two men vie with each other in telling tales of insane people they have known. It’s an odd choice of theme, and not entirely successful: it makes for narratives that are weird and unsettling without being eerie or otherworldly. In other words, we’re never in any doubt that the deranged logic of the accounts we are reading is the product of a deranged mind; this is a security we rarely have when reading Robert Aickman or Arthur Machen. The book itself is very short, but it’s supplemented with other writings by Blake as well as pictures of Blake and a lengthy introduction. It’s clear that this was a labour of love for Mains, in bad as well as good ways; there were a few places where I thought the book could have done with another pair of eyes. It’s a fascinating rediscovery, though; I wish Mislaid Books every success.

(Only four books completed in September! A lot of my reading time was taken up with something I didn’t finish until October.)

Also in September, I watched these films:

The Living Dead at Manchester Morgue (Jorge Grau 1974)
“Contains nudity,” warned Talking Pictures TV. True: during the opening montage of 1970s central Manchester (fascinating in itself) a woman in a long coat, waiting to cross the road, throws off her coat and runs naked through the traffic. (She’s never seen again, nor does anyone else strip off.) It’s an Italian production, with dialogue added in post-production; this and the highly approximate geography give the film an additional layer of weirdness. The main action is set somewhere out in the country, and follows the Night of the Living Dead template: zombies are killing people, but the local police are more suspicious of the scruffy hippies who try to report them. The discovery of what’s creating the zombies gives the story a nice ‘green’ twist, while the ending is, if anything, even more downbeat than that of NOTLD. It’s not, however, set in Manchester (the opening sequence apart) – or indeed in a morgue. (It also went out as Let Sleeping Corpses Lie, Breakfast at the Manchester Morgue and Don’t Open the Window. No one in the film ever opens a window, or gets advised not to.)

Eddington (Ari Aster 2025)
A town divided against itself during the pandemic – divided to the point of civil war! It sounds like it could make an interesting film – darkly satirical, cranking up the tension, showing up stupidity and pig-headedness of all kinds while retaining sympathy for the human beings involved… a Britannia Hospital for the pandemic. The trouble is, a film like that wouldn’t spare anyone or anything, on either side – and it’s far too soon to both-sides Covid. (My internal monologue, in at least one scene, was “Put the mask on. Put the mask on. Put the bloody mask on.”) Moreover, while Britannia Hospital shows that it’s possible to take a tous azimuts approach to satire, it also shows its cost: the need to take on everything results in a film that’s bleak to the point of despair and structurally disjointed (just ask Mick Travis). In any case, in this film Ari Aster isn’t just taking on his audience’s beliefs; he’s taking on every assumption we bring to the film, including assumptions about pacing, tension and narrative coherence. Eddington wrong-foots us so often, and to so little constructive effect, that I’ve got to assume it was deliberate; what Ari Aster was trying to achieve is another question.

Caught Stealing (Darren Aronofsky 2025)
A fast-moving, enjoyable heist/double-cross movie; very post-Coen Brothers in its pacing and editing, and in the way it always seems on the point of tipping into absurdity (the Orthodox Jewish gangster brothers come very close). Austin Butler’s central character frequently gets beaten up, and the violence generally is rather crunchy and unpleasant; given that the film overall is about as serious and grown-up as The Double Deckers, this gives it an odd, slightly fetishistic quality. But it’s never less than watchable; Butler (who appears in Eddington as an annoying Youtube personality) makes a likeable – and very watchable – amiable shlub, while Mat Smith plays a lowlife punk with a lowlife Mohican (and, oddly, a rather unconvincing British accent). The titular ‘stealing’ is nothing to do with theft – it’s a baseball reference (and there’s more baseball in the film than I really needed). Still: overall, good stupid fun.

The Thursday Murder Club (Chris Columbus 2025)
I’ve read The Thursday Murder Club, obviously; my weakness for the less serious fringes of crime fiction has been well documented here. It’s not gritty; it’s not harrowing; it’s not gruesome; it does not abound in heart-stopping narrative tension or savage authorial anger. In short, it doesn’t have any sharp edges. Or so I thought – but Chris Columbus has evidently found some, and he’s filed them right down. As well as almost everything being wrong – the location, the casting, the plot, the dialogue – the film is cosier and more fluffy than you could imagine. I don’t give up on films, but in this case I was sorely tempted. To be fair, it is worth hanging on to see Richard E. Grant, who seems to be visiting from a different film. I imagine his audition went something like this:

REG: …who’s witnessed horrors, and he’s shut his eyes to them so as to survive, but he’s also shut down the core of his being – his heart if you will – and he’s slowly becoming ever more aware of the unbearable cost of doing so… I don’t know, I’m just throwing out ideas…
CC: Sure. And you’re cutting roses all through the scene. When can you be off book?

Jaws (Steven Spielberg 1975)
We saw this at a 50th-anniversary screening; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it, and it was well worth seeing on the big screen. But it is about a shark. Spielberg had a great cast, and he had the sense to let them stretch out and do a bit of acting; the action scenes are great, too (although it would have been better if we’d never seen the shark full-length). But it’s an adventure story about some guys hunting a shark; that’s what it is, that’s what you get. The difference between this and Jaws 2 is one of quality, not kind.

Babette’s Feast (Gabriel Axel 1987)
“So, half the film is going to consist of some people eating a lovely meal – I mean, a really lovely meal – but only one of them says anything nice about it. The others don’t say anything, but you can see they’re enjoying it despite themselves, and it becomes a life-changing experience. Although they are all very old, so, you know.”
– And…?
“No, that’s pretty much it.”
– OK, what about the other half of the film?
“The other half is everything that leads up to it.”
File under Shouldn’t Work (But Does); a genuinely enchanting film. (In fairness, it is a really lovely meal.)

Steve (Tim Mielants 2025)
It’s the mid-90s, and Steve (Cillian Murphy) is the head teacher at a special school: specifically, a residential school for boys excluded from mainstream education after going through the criminal justice system. It’s not an easy job, and Steve doesn’t get through unscathed. The boys are loud, assertive and unruly, in much the same sense that Niagara Falls is damp: they’re unbearable, and I found myself unable to perceive the good that Steve sees in every one of them. Or rather, I should say – this being a drama rather than a documentary – that the boys are very convincingly unbearable: there’s a stellar cast playing members of staff, but the teenage lads playing the pupils are extraordinary. It’s a bit like The History Boys, if at any time there was always at least one of them breaking stuff, yelling with rage and frustration, attacking somebody or just shouting “Wanker!” to relieve the boredom.

Dogtooth (Yorgos Lanthimos 2009)
Perhaps not the oddest film I’ve ever seen, but well up there. The premise – a couple raise their children to believe that they can’t ever leave their house and garden – is no odder than Room or The Village, but the execution is doggedly, claustrophobically bizarre; in its single-minded conviction and intensity it’s reminiscent of Joshua Oppenheimer’s The End (and that was a musical). An example is the titular “dogtooth”; this refers to canine teeth, and to a key element in the family’s personal mythos. The children will be old enough to venture beyond the garden, the father assures them, when one or other of their (adult) canines drops out; however, it’s not safe to leave except by car, and they won’t be old enough to learn to drive until the missing canine grows back again. “Nothing odd will do long” (Samuel Johnson), and on the evidence of Dogtooth this Lanthimos character certainly isn’t going to have a long career. (Johnson was referring specifically to Tristram Shandy – which, he said, “did not last” – so perhaps this wasn’t his finest critical hour.)

Rogue One (Gareth Edwards 2016)
I watched this years ago and couldn’t remember anything about it, except that it was a Star Wars prequel and had something to do with the Death Star. Then we watched Andor, which is just wonderful; real politics and believable characters in the Star Wars universe, who would have thought it was possible? Having four series concertinaed into the second season is a tragic missed opportunity, on a par with the cancellation of Firefly. Anyway, we watched the final episode of Andor and gradually realised that there wasn’t going to be an ending, as it was setting up for Rogue One to start in medias res. So we watched Rogue One again… and, a month later, I couldn’t tell you anything about it, except that it was a Star Wars prequel and had something to do with the Death Star. It was enjoyable to watch – if you want an action movie with lots of SFX, Gareth Edwards is your director – and Diego Luna was in it, as were Genevieve O’Reilly and Ben Mendelsohn; the gang was all there, but in comparison to Andor they just didn’t have much to do. Maybe one day there’ll be a Star Wars film with the seriousness of Andor; I’ll be right there. (Top tip: fix it so Alex Lawther can come back.)

Islands (Jan-Ole Gerster 2025)
Tom is a tennis coach living on Fuerteventura. Someone asks him where he goes for holidays, but he doesn’t really have holidays; he’s on court all day, and at night he goes to the local club and drinks till he passes out. The way he insinuates himself into the life of a wealthy couple, who have hired him to coach their son, evokes another Tom, but he’s no Ripley: he has no goals, seeming to act entirely on impulse. He sees that there are tensions between the man and the woman – she says that he made her give up work, that he mismanaged her father’s business; he says that he thinks he isn’t the boy’s father. And then the man goes missing. What’s happened? Why is the woman confiding in him? What will happen now? Where next for Tom? The key thing to keep in mind – which Tom fails to do – is that he lives on the island; they’re only there on holiday.

The £10 Box: Cirque, Blackpool Vanishes

The £10 Box was an old fruit box containing 40 hardbacks, all of them Science Fiction Book Club editions, dating from 1968 to 1979, which I bought from my local Oxfam bookshop for a tenner several years ago. This is the eighteenth in a series of twenty posts, each reviewing two of those books; earlier reviews are linked at the end of this post.

Terry Carr, Cirque (1979; originally published 1977)

Terry Carr (1937-87) is best remembered now as an sf editor and fan, but he also wrote short fiction and three novels; SFE describes this one as “ambitious and substantial”. It’s also very odd, and I’m not entirely sure it’s not an allegory. (Neither of which – the possibility that it is an allegory and the fact that I’m not sure – counts in its favour.)

It’s set on Earth, but not an Earth that’s in any way recognisable; the book’s subtitle is “a novel of the far future”. This Earth is a galactic backwater: the book opens with the arrival of a “foreigner from Aldebaran”, a giant millipede. Although it’s off the interplanetary beaten track, Earth does have features to draw tourists, one in particular: the Abyss, a hole miles across whose lightless depths no one has ever fully explored. The question of how this works – wouldn’t the depths of the Abyss get a bit hot and magma-y? – isn’t explored either, nor the question of how it got there. Nor does Carr do much in the way of callbacks to the Earth we knew; in particular, whereabouts on the globe the Abyss has opened up is left unclear. Carr makes an exception in the area of religion: we’re told that there are Christians on Earth, along with Moslems, “several Hassidic Zen sects” and devotees of newer belief systems, including Centrists (who believe that all life emanates from the Abyss) and worshippers of the Five Elements.

The titular Cirque is a city perched, literally, on the brink of the Abyss; a river runs through Cirque and disappears, in a spectacular cataract, into the Abyss. For the good people of Cirque the Abyss is a double asset, a tourist attraction and a rubbish dump (and how often can you say that?). But something big is about to happen; more precisely, something big is about to emerge. People are getting premonitions, people are seeing glimpses. The millipede, whose species can see their own future as well as their past, knows for certain what’s going to happen, and has in fact turned up to witness it. (How did it know to come to Cirque? Simple: it was going to come to Cirque, so it remembered what would happen when it did.)

There’s a large-ish cast of human characters, including a priestess of the Five Elements, who is convinced that an all-devouring thing of evil is about to emerge from the Abyss, and a City Guardian, who sees the potential arrival of a large wild creature in more practical terms. We also meet a ‘holopathic’ telepath, who experiences the thoughts of everyone in Cirque and rebroadcasts those that seem particularly interesting or important, like a switchboard manager on a telepathic phone-in. (This is a job that requires a very particular set of skills, and burns out those who have them in a matter of years.) Yet another character uses drugs to induce a controlled form of dissociative identity disorder, and cycles through multiple versions of herself every day. It’s a very mobile narrative, both between characters and literally, in the sense that characters spend a lot of time on the move. Quite a lot of the book, in fact, takes place in boats – either the slightly fairground-esque remote-controlled boats on which tourists navigate the town’s river or the flying boats in which the more daring tourist can go a little way into the Abyss (going more than a little way into the Abyss may not be advisable).

Slight spoiler: something does emerge, and it is big. It doesn’t devour the world, though – the millipede would hardly have gone to Cirque in that case. (Yes I know. Just go with it.) I won’t try to describe what happens next, other than to say that the characters’ different perspectives on the ‘beast’, as well as their telepathic abilities, turn out to be crucial. It’s not that the beast from the Abyss is revealed to be a monster from the Id, but… it’s not not that. The millipede is happy, anyway, and founds yet another new religion, venerating causes and causality – concepts of which, from its trans-temporal standpoint, it had previously been sceptical, but which (for reasons that aren’t entirely clear) have struck it with the force of a revelation during the climactic events.

So it’s ambitious and substantial, right enough, but it’s also very, very odd. Maybe there’s a deeper – quasi-allegorical – meaning, but if so it’s hard to see what it would be, other than that empathy is good and fear is bad (it leads to anger, or so I’m told). It’s hard to quarrel with Joachim Boaz‘s laodicean conclusion – Vaguely recommended for fans of SF allegories.

Richard H. Francis, Blackpool Vanishes (1979)

This is one of two or three books in the £10 Box that I’d read before. Re-reading it wasn’t a chore. It’s sf in the vein of mock-heroic social realism, a bit like Keith Waterhouse in his bleaker moments. It runs the gamut from pastoral through black comedy to fleshy grotesquerie; there are moments of real horror and passages of equally genuine pathos. There’s also a poet, whose work we read at some length; unusually, the poetry’s not played for laughs, and some of it’s pretty good.

What happens? Blackpool vanishes. For the people of Blackpool – and for visitors like the Watts, a cantankerous elderly couple who have come to Blackpool for a week because they always go to Blackpool for a week – nothing changes, except that all the routes out of town are blocked and the sun doesn’t move in the sky (although, as the Mayor points out, this will do wonders for Blackpool’s daily sunlight figures). For those outside the entire town is replaced by a giant sphere, embedded in the ground – a sphere which is somehow both invisible and opaque. For anyone who was on the borderline when Blackpool vanished – well, that’s an unfortunate place to be.

We meet Aldridge, a civil servant whose longed-for promotion has turned into a dead-end posting in rural Boddington, where he’s responsible for the Alien Beings Section. Aldridge has been unofficially sharing information – including information from a correspondent in Blackpool – with an enormously fat and prodigiously intelligent confidant, PyecrafMycroMarcroft. We see quite a lot of the book through the eyes of Tom Standish, an homme moyen sensuel whose dreams have thus far outstripped his achievements, and who comes into the possession of Marcroft’s papers. There’s also Aldridge’s daughter, who teaches at the local secondary school; her pupils include Georgie Prentice (“usually known as Porker”), whose mother has history with Aldridge’s odious boss Barnet.

And then there’s Aldridge’s correspondent, Stone. (Francis has an odd, arresting way with names: an Aldridge here and a Wentworth there, but then you run up against “Stone”, “Miss Nym”, “Pulse”.) Stone’s life has been dominated by UFO sightings: at unpredictable moments – sometimes years apart – he has seen daylight discs, alien craft in groups and swarms. Crucially, he has realised something that never seems to have occurred to earlier spotters: as with Father Ted’s cows, those (sun, moon, stars) were far away, but these were small. Blackpool has been under reconnaissance, for at least the fifty years of Stone’s adult life, by minuscule alien beings in tiny craft. Nobody else seems to see what he does, or – more importantly – interpret what they see as he does; Stone rapidly gives up trying to communicate his discovery conventionally, and writes about it in poetry. We read eight of Stone’s poems, with dates ranging from 1926 to the narrative’s late-70s present; their development over time reminded me of nothing so much as Nick Drake’s songwriting, developing from the conventional imagery of “Fruit Tree” to the concentrated resonance of “Fly”, and on to the stark plainness of “Know”.

It’s all very ably done: you could read this book for the pleasure of watching Francis delineate the grotesqueries of his characters and set them up in different places and combinations. But there’s a lot more to it than that. It’s about having a career, and what it means to have a satisfying career; it’s about things left unspoken, and what happens when they finally are spoken. It’s about sexual jealousy and guilt, and the lingering, corrosive effect they can have – even on the very old; even, indirectly, on the very young. It’s about the horrors of old age; it’s about being young and directionless; it’s about having a good life, and how hard that can be. Although its characters and incidents are variously ludicrous, grotesque, pathetic and horrible, it’s about everyday life – which, after all, can often be all of those things. This plurality of registers and styles seems to me very much of a piece with the fact that it’s science fiction; it’s as if the essential absurdity of the premise (tiny little aliens make Blackpool vanish) makes conventional expectations irrelevant, making it possible to head off in all these different directions. Strongly recommended.

Reviews so far (with * rating and SFBC # where present)

Poul Anderson, The Trouble Twisters (1963, 1965, 1966) #141
John Brunner, Timescoop (1969)
Algis Budrys, The Iron Thorn (1967) #142
Terry Carr, Cirque (1977)
Louis Charbonneau, Antic Earth (1967) #133 1*
D.G. Compton, The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (1975) 5*
Michael Coney, Winter’s Children (1974)
Michael Coney, Hello Summer, Goodbye (1975) 5*
Richard Cowper, Breakthrough (1967) #136 5*
Richard Cowper, Phoenix (1968) #147
Richard Cowper, Worlds Apart (1974)
L.P. Davies, Twilight Journey (1967) #134
Samuel Delany, Babel-17  (1966) #140 5*
Richard H. Francis, Blackpool Vanishes (1979) 5*
Harry Harrison, War with the Robots (1962) #138
Philip E. High, Invader on my Back (1968) #148
Damon Knight, Three Novels (1951, 1954, 1957) #139
Charles Logan, Shipwreck (1975) 5*
J.T. McIntosh, Six Gates from Limbo (1968) #144 1*
R.W. Mackelworth, Firemantle (1968) #151
Barry Malzberg, Beyond Apollo (1972) 5*
Judith Merril (ed.), Path Into the Unknown: The Best of Soviet Science Fiction (1966) #131
Larry Niven, Inconstant Moon (1973)
Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, The Dynostar Menace (1975)
Frederik Pohl, The Age of the Pussyfoot (1965, 1966) #166
Frederik Pohl, The Gold at the Starbow’s End (1972)
Spider Robinson, Telempath (1976)
Bob Shaw, Ship of Strangers (1978)
Robert Sheckley, Can You Feel Anything When I Do This? (1971)
Curt Siodmak, City in the Sky (1974) 1*
Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic (1977) 5*
Jack Vance, The Killing Machine (1968) #135
Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit (1975) 1*
‘Patrick Wyatt’, Irish Rose (1975)
Roger Zelazny, The Doors of his Face, the Lamps of his Mouth and other stories (1971) 5*
Chloe Zerwick and Harrison Brown, The Cassiopeia Affair (1968) #149

Key to Star Ratings

5*: you should definitely read this; read the review to see why
1*: you should definitely not read this; read the review to see why not
No star rating: read the review and see what you think

On barons and libraries

Here are two thoughts that occurred to me recently. They’re not obviously connected, but I’ll see if I can do something to tie them together when we get to part 3.

1. There Are Always Barons

Even the most autocratic ruler has to delegate. Kings and queens are all very well, but no one can actually rule a country on their own (there’s Dunbar’s number to think about, for one thing). They may delegate in ways that give occupants of the lower levels in the hierarchy little or no autonomy, making them effectively mouthpieces of the sovereign, but they will delegate to someone. There’s a persuasive argument, put forward by Lon Fuller (and probably others), that rigidly controlled delegation drastically reduces the efficiency of the overall system – that even an autocrat will be better, more efficiently, served by allowing some play in the organisational joints, meaning that an effective autocrat is a contradiction in terms – but I’m not concerned with that here. Good or bad, there is always delegation.

However much, or little, autonomy they have, there are always barons. Barons may reach their position by different routes. They may have started out as rulers in their own right – local sovereigns, in effect – whose territories were later absorbed into the overall sovereign’s domain; the sovereign may even have emerged out of their ranks. In one sense there’s a big difference between barons of this type and those who are raised and appointed by the sovereign – who are ‘created’, as they say, to answer the sovereign’s requirements. We could reserve the term ‘baron’ for the first-among-equals kind and call the centrally-appointed-governor type something else; ‘prefects’, perhaps. But for the purposes of the current argument they can all go in the same category. My sense is, in any case, that the function of these two groups is quite similar, and the nature of that role – to administer a population and keep the peace in the sovereign’s name – is such as to demand attentiveness both to the sovereign’s requirements and the happiness of the population, encouraging barons to become prefects and prefects to become barons.

There are always barons; there’s always somebody whose job it is to assert the will of the sovereign to the people, even impose it on them. What you won’t always find is anyone asserting the will of the people to the sovereign. (I stress ‘asserting’. A baron who’s good at their job will communicate the will of the people upwards, and a sovereign who’s good at theirs will want to hear it. But, if you’re the sovereign, hearing from a baron that the people are on the brink of revolting is very different from getting that same message from the people.)

In other words, there are always barons, but there aren’t always democrats. We have democrats now, of course: what else was the Labour Party founded for? Right across the political spectrum, in fact, we tend not to think of our politicians as barons; we think of them as democrats, representatives of the people. And it’s true that the MP for Manchester Central and the Mayor of Greater Manchester have a better claim to democratic legitimacy than the High Sheriff of Lancashire. But they’re both part of a governing apparatus; as such they’re only functioning as democrats when – and to the extent that – they’re implementing, or demanding, measures demanded of them by their voters. The rest of the time – when they’re working in ‘top down’ mode – they’re not democrats at all: they’re barons, and as such no different from the various unelected ‘senior figures’ in which our political system abounds (party apparatchiks, Prime Ministerial appointees and the unchanging, irremovable ranks of the “great and good“).

In particular, there’s nothing democratic about a politician pursuing policies for which their supporters didn’t vote, or simply continuing to develop the policies of a previous government. The fact that those politicians ultimately derived their position from a democratic vote doesn’t change this. Democratic legitimacy isn’t like a Blue Peter badge, gained once and displayed ever after; in fact it’s not a property of a person at all, even in their capacity as holder of a political role. What is or isn’t democratically legitimate is what those individuals do and say. And, just as barons take on the attributes of prefects (and vice versa), a democrat elected into the role of a baron will come under immediate and sustained pressure to act like a baron and think like a baron: by all means listen to your constituents’ complaints, pass them upwards if they merit it, but don’t get carried away thinking that they’re telling you what to do. You’re far more important than that: you’re a member of the government!

MPs, Mayors, even local councillors: none of them will operate as democrats unless at least one of two conditions obtain. One is a genuine commitment on their part to work democratically. The other condition, by far the more important of the two, is the regular assertion of democratic demands to them – which in practice means the existence of mechanisms for articulating those demands, telling representatives what their voters and supporters want from them. We need better MPs (although I’m sure yours is lovely), but more importantly we need better mechanisms for articulating popular demands: for keeping democrats democratic. Otherwise, whether politicians start out as rough-edged democrats or as TV personalities will ultimately be irrelevant: they’ll all be buffed to a baronial shine, as they are socialised on and into the job. As my English tutor in college once said, people who say they’ll “show you how to do it” are really offering to “show you how to do what you do because that’s how you do it”. And in British politics, the baronial element of “how you do it” has been being practiced for an awful lot longer than the democratic element.

2. When It’s Ajar

On a separate subject, we visited our local library the other day. It was unplanned, and I ended up borrowing five books without having my card on me, which was neat. All it took was for a member of staff to take my details, look them up on two separate PCs, key in the 13-digit number that was eventually displayed, then hit several separate keys for each book. (Rather hard, I thought, but by then perhaps that was understandable.)

But this isn’t about IT. Two things struck me about the library, that Saturday morning. One was how busy it was; the place was buzzing, with free tea and coffee on offer in one section, kids playing and running around in another section (well, mostly in that section), and people sitting reading the papers in the middle area. They’ve had a refurb recently, which included replacing the rather nondescript children’s section with an area clearly designed for (small) kids – complete with a slide – and in terms of footfall it’s really paid off.

The other thing that struck me was that we were the only two people in the place looking at books. I’m not saying the noise put people off, or the occasional two-year-old underfoot – I’ll admit that the ambience was a big change from libraries as I’ve known and loved them, but it didn’t stop me browsing (five books borrowed). The thing is, looking at books didn’t seem to be what anyone else had come there for.

Which got me thinking. Say there’s an institution with a core competence: not necessarily what it does best or what its people most love doing, but the thing that only it does; the thing that, if it wasn’t there, wouldn’t get done. Suppose you run a textile museum specialising in, and offering expert insights into, a type of woollen cloth which was once widely produced in the local area and is now largely forgotten. You’ve got a café, but it’s small – but then, the premises are small, and the rest of the floor space is taken up by exhibition space, curators’ workshops and offices. The whole place is looking a bit dingy these days, to be honest; it’s all in need of sprucing up.

You get a grant to renovate the premises – great news! But then someone proposes channelling the money into expanding the café, redecorating the galleries with whatever’s left. The textiles are the core function, the café is strictly an extra, and up to now you’ve been able to operate on that basis; now, you’re told, things have changed, and you need to embrace that change.

What is it that’s changed, though? Is it:

  1. The nature of the core function (the extras are no longer extras, full stop)
  2. The nature of the business (extras are no longer extras, for the well-being of this institution)
  3. The nature of the audience (extras are no longer extras, for them)
  4. The sustainability of the audience (the extras are still extras, and they’ll complement the core function)

In other words, which of these are we saying?

  1. “Textile appreciation used to be very much a solitary pursuit, but now it’s much more social – after people have looked at fabric samples all afternoon they want somewhere to sit and have a chat and a pot of tea.”
  2. “In this world it’s all about footfall: the curators are lovely people, but if we’re going to get people through the door we need to offer more than a lot of old shawls.”
  3. “Textiles are great, textiles are brilliant – I’m just saying that younger people won’t set foot in the place unless they can get a decent cup of coffee.”
  4. “A really good café can bring people in from miles around – and once they’ve seen the galleries, some of them’ll come back!”

I think that argument 1, while the example above is fairly silly, is the strongest of all of these; certainly it’s the only one that institutions absolutely need to pay attention to. Returning to libraries, books are still pretty much books, but the whole ‘reference’ function of libraries has been at best transformed, at worst made obsolete, by pervasive Internet access. Sometimes the nature of an institution’s core function does change, and the institution needs to change with it. Which isn’t to say that arguments made in this form should always be taken seriously – see silly example above.

Argument 2 is at the opposite pole to argument 1, despite the superficial similarity of the phrasing (above). Rather than embrace the core function in principle (while asserting that the way it is carried out needs to change), argument 2 starts from the managerial and/or commercial needs of the institution. In any institution with a core function, particularly those with trained and professional expert staff, the core function is, well, core. The institution will need to be able to keep its lights on, hitting a minimum threshold of commercial viability (or whatever shadow measure of virtual commercial success the managers of non-fee-charging institutions are held to) – but a minimum is what it is. In argument 2, though, commercial viability and the core function have swapped places: keeping the punters coming has become the core function, while the original core – the thing that only you do – is simply a lingering contractual obligation, to be performed up to an agreed service level alongside other, more productive stuff.

Argument 3 seems a less drastic contrast. Indeed, superficially it looks persuasive, even democratic: you may be able to study textiles all day on a Tracker bar and a swig from a water fountain, but we’ve got to listen to our visitors! On closer inspection, though, it’s incoherent: if the core function is still the most important thing, you can’t really argue that that it needs to give ground to the provision of extras. It’s an unstable hybrid of arguments 1 and 2: either the core function is still paramount but now includes extras (argument 1), or providing the extras is just as important as the core function (argument 2).

Argument 4 takes a more upbeat approach: the core function is still the core function, and there’s no conflict between it and the extras, because the extras will attract people who will use the core function! In practical terms I think this is highly unlikely to work, unless the extras are very carefully chosen – and how likely is it that you’ll be able to offer ‘extras’ that are both (a) complementary to your decreasingly-popular core function and (b) popular in their own right? Again, this is basically splitting the difference between arguments 1 and 2, attempting to argue that the business has fundamentally changed but not so as to dethrone the core function.

So no, I don’t think the renovation money should go on the café. Well, maybe some of it. We can envisage an extended version of argument 1 (argument 1a): even if the core function hasn’t changed, that minimum threshold of commercial or pseudo-commercial viability still needs to be hit, and there may have been a change in what that minimum threshold requires. But even this – the argument for at least getting a coffee machine to supplement that old tea urn – needs handling with caution. Once you cut loose from argument 1, argument 2 is always lying in wait (it’s all too plausible in our society), and there are no reliable stopping-points between the two.

As for what I saw last weekend in the library, I don’t think there was much of an argument-1 or even argument-1a justification for the changes that have been made – any justification for having all that activity take place in a library. I think a managerial variant of argument 2 had won hands down: essentially I wasn’t in a library, I was in a (hitherto under-utilised) council-run public space with certain shareable resources, including books. And that space was being very effectively used, to the general satisfaction of all concerned. But that’s the thing about argument 2: it tends to deliver, because it works by redefining what ‘deliver’ means. And that redefinition can happen quite gradually, by way of arguments that seem entirely reasonable (e.g. arguments 3 and 4).

3. Faced With The Choice

I think what the two parts of this post have in common is that they’re both about the path of least resistance, and an odd disconnect in the way we think about it. We recognise intellectually that people, in a whole range of situations, tend to take the path of least resistance, or at any rate one of the paths of lesser resistance. But the idea of taking the p. of l. r. is still stigmatised: we assume that you or I would make the right choice, would choose the best out of several equivalent options.

The disconnect is in the failure to take into consideration the key fact about paths of lesser resistance: they’re easy to take. Some things – some options, some ways of achieving a desirable result – are easier than others, and doing easy things is easier than doing hard things. Indeed, all other things being equal, the fact that one option’s easier than the other is a good reason for taking it.

In practice all other things generally aren’t equal – but there are always easier and harder options, and easy options (to restate the point) aren’t called that because they’re shallow or ill-thought-out, but simply because they’re easy to take. And, to add yet another statement of the obvious, consistently taking the hard option is hard. Particularly when the easy option is well-argued, and the hard option seems dogmatic or puritanical.

Keeping a library focused on books – or a museum on curation, or a university on research – isn’t at all the same thing as keeping an MP (or a mayor, or a councillor) focused on the needs of their voters: one’s about asserting professional and craft standards over commercial requirements, the other’s about asserting democratic demands over the requirements of government. But, as things are, they’re both hard choices [sic]. More importantly, they’re choices that need to be made over and over again: the countervailing pressure to take the easy option is always there. As a wise man once said, there is no final victory, as there is no final defeat; just the same battle, to be fought over and over again.

 

In the Curiosities of Art

In August I read – or finished reading – three books from the £10 Box:

Spider Robinson, Telempath
Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic
Bob Shaw, Ship of Strangers

Reviews on blog.

I also read (or finished)

Paul Hanley, Have a bleedin guess
Hex Enduction Hour was the Fall’s sixth studio album (fifth if you’re not counting Slates) and almost certainly their best; it really ought to have a volume in the 33 1/3 series (and Stewart Lee in fact proposed one). Instead it’s got this, by one of the people who were there – drummer Paul Hanley. Essential reading for anyone who didn’t tune out a bit during the last two sentences.

Paraic O’Donnell, The Naming of the Birds
A welcome sequel to 2018’s The House on Vesper Sands, this is a mannered piece of high-Victorian Gothic whose central mystery never quite emerges into the light; this may be for the best, as what we do see is quite bad enough. According to the Guardian reviewer “O’Donnell’s virtuosic style, a mashup of Henry James and Frankie Boyle, is worth the admission price alone”. I’m not sure I’d reach for quite those comparators, but the pairing does capture Paraic’s distinctive combination of delicacy and viciousness, and perhaps an underlying combination of passion and bitterness. Champagne for my real friends! (I used to know Paraic – not especially well, and it was some time before he started publishing. But I thought he was a brilliant writer then, and nothing’s changed my mind.)

Stephen King, You Like It Darker
Actually, Stephen, the way I particularly like it is shorter. One of the ‘short stories’ in this collection is over 140 pages long; allowing for page & font size, it may actually be longer than Roadside Picnic. (It isn’t better than Roadside Picnic.) Only one of the stories here really gave me the creeps, and – perhaps unsurprisingly – it was one of the shorter ones. They’re all fun, though, and pass the time quite agreeably – even if some of them pass more time than they really needed to.

Mick Herron, Reconstruction
Why has a nervous gunman called Jaime taken a class of primary school children hostage? Who is “the lady at the school” and why does he want to talk to her? Will the Security Service get involved (if they aren’t involved already), and how will things turn out if they do? And why ‘Reconstruction’? Now read on… An early Herron, pre-Slough House; there’s a character called Bad Sam Chapman, but there isn’t any real overlap with the later books. As you might expect, though, this is very, very readable.

Sam Knight, The Premonitions Bureau
This is a fascinating true story – or rather, this is a book about a fascinating true story. The book itself is a pamphlet padded out to book length, with results that reminded me of a colour supplement feature: lots of pictures, lots of background detail and human interest, one big idea and all the narrative drive of a milk float. It’s still an interesting subject, though. When a psychologist sets up the titular bureau, aiming to collate seemingly-prophetic dreams and find out how many of them come true, what does he achieve? If we assume that premonitions show things that are definitely going to happen, what could he have achieved – even if we could know the future, would we want to?

Richard Osman, We Solve Murders
I don’t remember a lot about this. There’s a widower who likes pub quizzes; there’s even a pub quiz. There’s a high-end security firm, and a lot of international travel involving their clients, who include a fabulously wealthy novelist who lives on a private island. There’s a gangster who’s stayed one step ahead of the law by the simple method of saving his money instead of splashing it around, and who now lives in a country mansion called No Comment (when visited by the police he, well, taps the sign). It’s fine. It passed the time. (And I remembered more of it than I thought I would, which says something.)

Gillian Flynn, The Grownup
This is a pamphlet not padded out to book length; it’s a short story, and not a particularly long one. It’s basically The Turn of the Screw rewritten by Patricia Highsmith; I enjoyed it a lot.

John Cooper Clarke, I Wanna Be Yours
I first saw John Cooper Clarke supporting Be-Bop Deluxe at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1978. The band’s fanbase tended to the hippyish, and he was not a popular support act; I remember people shouting “Get off!” throughout his (short) set, as well as someone repeatedly calling “Blue Oyster Cult!” (as if the management might have had them in reserve for such an eventuality). This, it turns out, was typical of his experience on that tour: “Some nights, they even screamed curses and blamed me for the ills of society.” I think it’s that line that sold me on the book; it’s not all written at that level, but enough of it is. “The main consideration is what a poem sounds like. If it doesn’t sound any good, it’s because it isn’t any good.” Words to live by, or at any rate write by – and not just for poems. On the down side, for about a third of the book (and from about 1975 to 1990) Clarke is a junkie. At one point he and Richard Hell, who had both had support slots on an Elvis Costello tour, apologise to each other for leaving the end-of-tour party early, only to meet again forty minutes later, at their supplier’s (“We could have shared a taxi.”) Addiction doesn’t make for a varied narrative, or a very engaging protagonist; unfortunately, when the younger Clarke finally succeeds in getting clean 2020 Clarke seems to lose interest, despatching the next thirty years in two concluding chapters. The book was already quite long enough, to be fair – I mean, I started reading it in March (you don’t want to overload on the prose, so it’s chapter-at-a-time stuff).

Also in August, I watched these films:

The Fantastic Four: First Steps (Matt Shakman 2025)
The future-retro design is great, from the metal LPs used for recording to the superhero loungewear the Four spend much of their time in. The film opens with an in-universe highlights reel of the Four’s achievements, which looks superb; I’d happily have watched a full-length version of that. This film, though, is disjointed, unengaging and implausible (unless we’re meant to think that the Four are a bit dim), and in places weirdly misjudged: if you’re going to have a woman go into labour in your film, you can’t then make the labour two minutes long, squeaky-clean and about as painful as sneezing.

Weapons (Zach Cregger 2025)
It was a good summer for horror films; we saw three in August (out of which two featured adults controlling children by supernatural means and two featured VHS recordings of mysterious rituals). This was probably the best of the lot. All the children in one primary school class have got up one night, run away and never come back, as if called by some invisible Pied Piper. The film tells several overlapping stories, circling around and eventually approaching this central mystery; one is a Twilight Zone-like story of the underside of small town community spirit, one has the frantic energy and dark humour of Uncut Gems. Although the film has – and earns – an 18 certificate, violence features very briefly. That apart, I was reminded of Monkey in the way this film approaches horror through comedy, then uses horror to tell a bigger story – in this case, something about loss and trauma and the fragility of familial ties. After seeing it I didn’t think it quite hung together, but it’s very much stayed with me; I think it’s a substantial piece of work.

Bring Her Back (Danny and Michael Philippou 2025)
A very different horror film, albeit one which also earns its 18 certificate. A partially-sighted girl and her 17-year-old brother are taken into foster care; their carer (Sally Hawkins, manically upbeat even by her standards) already has one child in her care, a young boy who is apparently mute. Hawkins’ character has recently lost her own daughter, who drowned in her backyard pool. The film’s constructed with a relentless logic that makes even the most gruesome and terrifying developments seem grimly inevitable; retrospectively, even the summary I’ve given here seems to give away the entire plot. Very nasty but very powerful; a big step forward from Talk To Me.

The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme 1991)
It wasn’t quite time to go to bed and we saw this had just started, so we thought we’d take a look. We went to bed two hours later. While I don’t know how it would strike a first-time audience in 2025, for us it still worked.

Together (Michael Shanks 2025)
Our third horror film of the month. She has a new job where she’s appreciated, and generally has her life together. He wants to play in his band; he supports her career, but worries that if he supports her too much he’ll never do what he wants (“When I’m dying I don’t want to see someone else’s life flashing before my eyes,” says a friend, helpfully). She would like to remind him that he’s thirty years old and doesn’t have a job. She kind of proposes, he kind of refuses. They move to the country (better for her job, worse for his band). They row, they fall out, they sulk. They haven’t slept together for a really long time. Then they fall into this mysterious cave while they’re out walking, and from then on, what do you know, they’re inseparable! The rest of the film – apart from the very end – is in the trailer (and on the poster, even), so it’s worth spending time on the setup. The rest of the film is good – body horror all the way – but it’s a bit clunky having “the horror” over here and “what the horror’s actually about” over there.

Fedora (Billy Wilder 1978)
So there’s this actress who kills herself by throwing herself under a train (not really a spoiler, it’s in the pre-titles sequence). And (flashback) there’s a Hollywood producer who’d gone to see her – not easy, as she lived as a recluse on a Mediterranean island – hoping to persuade her to come out of retirement. And (flashback) they’d had an affair once, many years ago, after he’d seen her boobs and seemed unimpressed (a very 1970s meet-cute) – although (different flashback) the only man for her is Michael York (as himself, kind of). But (back to the first flashback) she may not be a recluse by choice; is she being drugged? And who is the mysterious Countess, in whose villa she is living? It is, as the kids say, a lot. After I watched Wilder’s The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes I took my temperature, feeling slightly rough, and discovered that I was running a 40-degree fever; I was fine when I saw Fedora, but in my memory it has that same lurid, overheated, disjointed quality.

Grand Hotel (Edmund Goulding 1932)
Many stars, many stories. Joan Crawford is a fast girl, Greta Garbo is Garbo. John Barrymore is the original of David Niven in plausible-cad mode, Lionel Barrymore is the original of Alec Guinness in Last Holiday – although his vulgarity and lack of polish is played much more broadly and more at his expense. Contains early-1930s social attitudes, you could say; certainly it wasn’t going to be possible for much longer to make a Hollywood film in which every character had a German name.

Sorry, Baby (Eva Victor 2025)
There’s a certain linguistic register which you see a lot on social media, and which puts me in mind of the early stages of student socialising: it combines a plain- or technical-sounding vocabulary with stilted and obviously non-spontaneous phrasing, making every sentence sound as if something’s going on between the lines. (“Would you like some tea?” “Tea would not be disagreeable at this moment.”) The characters in Sorry, Baby talk like this All. The. Time.: imagine Frances Ha but with the two leads replaced by Tim Key’s character from The Ballad of Wallis Island. (OK, stop imagining Frances Ha. Yes, I know it’s lovely. Come back here, we’ve got a review to get through.) The diction is so unlike anything recognisable as vernacular speech, it gets a bit like watching language lessons: 1. Meeting Friends. 2. At the Seminar. 3. Requesting Help. 4. At the Police Station. 5. Accepting Help. 6. Your Friend’s Baby. The subject matter is grindingly awful (apart from the bit with the actual baby, I should say); the film’s very good at showing how trauma goes on – and on, and on. I just found it very difficult to get past the language. But I suspect Victor wasn’t thinking of the film’s effect on 60-year-old British men. (Or indeed of Tim Key.)

Personal Shopper (Olivier Assayas 2016)
This is a very odd film. The main character is a personal shopper for a supermodel – a role which seems to involve travelling all over the world for fashion shoots, selecting garments from high-end retailers, then either returning them afterwards or (quite often) telling the retailer which ones the model would like to keep and trying to get out of paying. She doesn’t have much of a life, partly because of the demands of the job and partly because she’s obsessed with her deceased twin brother, and with the possibility that he will try to make contact (as they had both agreed they would). It’s conventional to say that films of ghost stories leave open both the possibility of a true haunting and the possibility that the character being haunted is delusional, but I’ve never seen a film wedge both possibilities open as firmly as this one does.

Fuller, narrower, and more critical

When I first got into legal theory I was very taken with Lon Fuller’s The Morality of Law; Fuller was actually the second legal theorist I ever read, after Pashukanis. Although any reasonably focused and analytical reading of TMoL – to say nothing of Fuller’s responses to critics – shows Fuller’s argument to be full of holes, wider reading has left me with the inconvenient conviction that he was onto something. Not the idea of a ‘morality of law’, that is – and certainly not the idea that lawyers make law through an intuitive engagement with the meaning-laden fabric of the law, which those literal-minded positivists could never understand – but… something. I’m still getting to grips with what that was, though.

Here are a couple of abstracts, showing how my thinking on Fuller’s evolving. One’s for a paper that you can, if you’re interested, read here; the second, longer one is for a round-table event planned for November.

 

Fuller, Narrower: A New Reading of Lon Fuller’s The Morality of Law

In Lon Fuller’s The Morality of Law, Fuller identifies eight criteria which legal systems must meet and argues that they constitute an inner morality of law. Fuller argues that meeting these criteria to some minimum degree is necessary to law as a practice; that meeting them more fully produces better law; and that the minimum threshold value cannot be specified in theory, but only through a good-faith effort to make law well. Presented as a challenge to legal positivism, these claims met a hostile critical reaction, which Fuller did not effectively counter. However, Fuller’s critics focused mainly on supporting assumptions grounded in Fuller’s moralised conception of law, rather than on the core claim that conformity to formal criteria is associated with substantively better outcomes. This paper suggests that this core claim may be sustainable independently of Fuller’s moralised assumptions, identifying an association between law, the eight criteria and respect for personal freedom of responsible action. By reference to recent developments in counter-terrorist and public order law, departures from the criteria are shown to be associated with decreasing respect for personal freedom of responsible action; this supports a modified Fulleran association between conformity to the eight criteria and the quality of legal outcomes, and hence a modestly value-laden model of law.

 

Knowable legality: ideal or irrelevance?

This paper develops an account of law as a mode of social organisation, definitionally distinct from modes such as custom, administrative direction and command. Law’s distinctiveness lies in its address to its subjects, considered as rational agents capable of understanding authoritative guidance and freely ordering their own activities accordingly.

Law’s mode of organisation, deriving from the form of subjectivity which it addresses, has inherent in it qualities of generality, intelligibility, followability and justification. Law’s generality enables it to guide rather than direct. Law’s intelligibility means that its guidance is unambiguous and that general rules are sufficiently coherent for specific guidance to be derived in novel situations. A law is followable in the sense that subjects have a justificatory rationale which motivates them to follow it, independent of sanctions for non-compliance.This further entails the criterion of justification: where no valid rationale exists or can be shown, any law should be liable to amendment or withdrawal.

This model of law’s nature can be considered both as constituting an ideal and as setting a threshold – albeit a floating threshold. Any recognisable instance of the social institution we call ‘law’ will be characterised by generality, intelligibility and followability, developed to the standard regarded as requisite in its social setting. Further development of these qualities will facilitate the particular mode of social organisation characteristic of law, shifting the institutions and practices of ‘law’ further away from unlawlike modes of organisation. This represents a non-moralised version of Fuller’s argument for the ‘internal morality of law’.

To call for the law to be more fully or widely ‘knowable’, on this argument, is to call for it to be more distinctively ‘lawlike’, approximating more closely to this model of law and legal subjectivity. Laws will be more knowable to the extent that they are more general, minimising the need for specific conditions and qualifications; more intelligible, obviating the need for specialist interpretation; and more followable, their rationale motivating law-compliant behaviour by according with law’s subjects’ beliefs and desires.

The tendency of this critique is to preserve or restore the law’s integrity as law. This may be a politically liberal programme, asserting the interests of the legal subject over and against those of the state. State authorities can benefit from clothing command and administrative direction in the forms of law: departures from generality, intelligibility and followability, making law less knowable and disadvantaging law’s subjects, may be functional to the requirements of government,. However, this may also be a conservative programme, resisting progressive attempts to impose rules and distinctions which are not generally ‘known’. More fundamentally, the question of whether or not law’s address to its subjects is ‘lawlike’ has no purchase on – or relevance to – the question of who those subjects are. Ironically, the ideal of a wholly knowable legality sketched here may be compatible with very great iniquity.

The £10 Box: Roadside Picnic, Ship of Strangers

The £10 Box was an old fruit box containing 40 hardbacks, all of them Science Fiction Book Club editions, dating from 1968 to 1979, which I bought from my local Oxfam bookshop for a tenner several years ago. This is the seventeenth in a series of twenty posts, each reviewing two of those books; earlier reviews are linked at the end of this post.

Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic (1978; originally published 1977 (English translation), 1972 (Russian original)

Both these books are in the form of a ‘fix-up’, a novel comprising a series of unconnected pieces with a shared setting and recurring characters. The similarities end there, however.

Roadside Picnic is astonishing. (I hesitated for several minutes before beginning this review, because that was the only thing I could think of to say about it. It’s… astonishing.) It’s one of the best works of science fiction I’ve ever read, one of the books that justify the existence of sf as a genre.

A couple of reviews ago I noted that Michael Coney was (justifiably) proud of having written “a love story, and a war story, and a science-fiction story, and more besides”, something he could only do within the discipline of sf. The Strugatskys didn’t provide an authors’ note, but if they had done it would have needed to be considerably longer. This is, most obviously, a gritty thriller about people living on the edge of the law, dealing with interfering bureaucrats, untrustworthy rivals and the dwindling comforts of home life – although it’s also an adventure story, stretching our heroes to the limit as they negotiate the unpredictable perils of a strange landscape. At the same time, it’s a horror story, vividly evoking what it feels like to deal with – and fail to deal with – things that are beyond your capacity to understand, but won’t go away. It’s also a political allegory about colonialism and how it drains the vitality of colonised societies, even while it appears to bring material wealth. And it’s a desperately sad novel about young people growing up, making new commitments and discovering unwelcome truths about one another, and about themselves. It’s all of that, and it is – and could only be – sf.

What’s it about? It’s about alien artifacts – and frankly it puts every other account of alien artifacts in the shade; of those I’ve read I think only M. John Harrison’s Light comes close. There’s a Zone, just outside a sketchily-portrayed American small town; there are several Zones, in fact, situated along a straight line across the globe, but we’re only concerned with the American one. (Which, understandably, doesn’t feel very American – it feels quite East-European, in fact – but the authors can be forgiven for not wanting to combine alien contact with actually-existing socialism.) The Zones have been visited by alien beings of some form. We know nothing about these beings, and in fact only know they were here at all because of what they left behind: the Zones, areas which now have strange and often dangerous properties.

The Zones also contain alien relics, in the literal sense – leavings, things discarded, like the remains of a roadside picnic. What sort of relics? Things that defy the laws of motion, things that defy gravity, things that defy general relativity. What sort of relics? Empties: pairs of copper discs “with a space of a foot and a half between them”, like a canister with no sides. What sort of relics? Witch’s jelly: a substance that can be contained in porcelain but goes through metal and plastic “like water through a sieve”, and turns everything else it touches into more of itself – everything, including living bodies. What sort of relics? The Golden Ball, which grants wishes. But that’s ridiculous; everyone knows the Golden Ball is just a legend, just a stalker’s tale.

‘Stalker’ was the name of the film Tarkovsky based on this book; the Strugatskys actually used the term ‘stalker’ (сталкер), presumably transliterated from English, in the original text. The main characters in the book are stalkers: people who venture into the Zone and bring back artifacts to sell. (The word ‘stalker’ has since entered the (Russian) language, being applied to people who venture into the ‘zone’ at Chernobyl.) A stalker’s life is not an easy life, or a long one. But if everyone who comes into contact with the Zone is contaminated by it – and everyone is, although not in the same way – at least stalkers get something out of it. Or so stalkers tell themselves. The Zone exceeds everything stalkers can bring to it – their physical abilities, their intelligence, their imagination, their desire – and by the same token takes everything from them. It gradually becomes clear that stalkers’ determination to cheat the Zone has only made them its greatest victims; gradually, and then suddenly.

As I was saying, this is an astonishing piece of work. It consists of four separate stories (prefaced by a fictional interview) and was originally published over four issues of a (literary) magazine, but it’s emphatically not a true fix-up; the story it tells is far too complex and coherent for that. Chilling, thought-provoking, moving, atmospheric, immensely powerful… but I’ve gone on long enough.

One other thing is worth mentioning: the page count, which is 143. The next time you’re tempted by a multi-volume saga, do yourself a favour and read this instead.

Bob Shaw, Ship of Strangers (1978)

This, on the other hand, is a fix-up and makes no bones about it (“Portions of this novel have appeared, in substantially different form, in AnalogIf and Universe”). Although it’s divided into twenty chapters, Ship of Strangers is basically an anthology of five stories about the awkwardly-spelt Dave Surgenor and his colleagues in the Cartographical Service. Surgenor, aged 36, is looking forward to retiring from the Service in the first story, and walks away from it at the end of the last; that’s as close as we get to a story arc.

The Cartographical Service, in this universe, has the job of mapping newly-discovered planets on the edges of ‘the Bubble’ of known space, but only those that are known to be lifeless; inhabited worlds are left to the Diplomatic Service. Or so we’re told; it’s not clear what the diplomats do with planets that only support plant life or algae. (Maybe there’s a third government agency for worlds without intelligent life; the Herbaceous and Zoological Service, perhaps.) The worlds the Cartographical Service surveys are empty and dead, in any case.

Or… are they? One story features an alien race which had died thousands of years ago, but which can travel freely in time; in another, a shape-shifting alien being masquerades as a survey vehicle returning to the ship. A third, strongly reminiscent of Poul Anderson’s high-concept stories, sets up (‘contrives’ would be another word) a situation involving several hundred formerly-dormant alien missiles which can be disabled if one of them is shot twice, so as to resolve it with the Birthday Paradox. The other two stories are set on board ship. One proposes a new class of quasi-stellar object to rank with the quasar and the white hole: a ‘dwindlar’, in whose vicinity the universe ceases to expand and contracts instead. Being in the vicinity of a dwindlar seems to threaten dire consequences for Dave and friends, but (spoiler!) shrinking to a dimensionless point turns out not to be terminal. (I wasn’t at all sure about the physics of this one – if the dwindlar was contracting the entire universe to nothing, surely it shouldn’t matter whether you were anywhere near it or not. Best just to go with it.) Lastly, there’s a story about how the guys of the Service, getting lonely on long missions, use a machine that gives them vivid and realistic dreams to, um, release the tension (“A Trance-Port isn’t an erotic dream machine,” says one character to another, protesting a little too much). Discussing their respective Trance-Port experiences proves to be a bad idea, and ructions ensue, culminating when a crewman with good IT skills feeds one of the Trance-Port tapes to the ship’s AI, Aesop. Shaw takes this plot twist in an unexpected direction, though: as the story ends, Aesop is still harking back to its romantic dream experience, while Surgenor has already started thinking about football and Christmas instead.

As this last example suggests, Shaw’s interest is much more in the characters than in the sfnal mechanics of the stories. The “sex tapeTrance-Port” story is mostly about the testosterone-fuelled butting of heads among the crew, while the “time-travelling aliens” story centres on an ill-tempered rivalry between the crew and the Diplomatic Service – one of whom appears to have been involved in an accidental genocide, and is touchy about being reminded. Most strikingly, the ‘dwindlar’ story is also the story of what happens when the crew’s joined by a woman, a rare occurrence in the Cartographical Service (“most women” didn’t think there was any point mapping uninhabited worlds, Dave muses); when it appears that the ship will never return home, she becomes the object of unwelcome and increasingly abusive attention. Not from Dave, though, as he’s a good guy (and duly asks her out when they do get home). It’s an interesting subject, but the treatment’s marred by the sense that nobody involved – the crewmen, Dave, even Bob Shaw – ever quite stops looking at the character and seeing a girly, womanly, female, feminine dame.

“This is SF in the grand traditional manner,” says the blurb. Up to a point. It’s superficially in the same area as the Poul Anderson collection, but without his characters’ blithe self-assurance and with much more interest in the characters and their interactions. Spacemen have feelings too, in other words – although you’ll have to look elsewhere if you want to know about spacewomen.

Reviews so far (with * rating and SFBC # where present)

Poul Anderson, The Trouble Twisters (1963, 1965, 1966) #141
John Brunner, Timescoop (1969)
Algis Budrys, The Iron Thorn (1967) #142
Louis Charbonneau, Antic Earth (1967) #133 1*
D.G. Compton, The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (1975) 5*
Michael Coney, Winter’s Children (1974)
Michael Coney, Hello Summer, Goodbye (1975) 5*
Richard Cowper, Breakthrough (1967) #136 5*
Richard Cowper, Phoenix (1968) #147
Richard Cowper, Worlds Apart (1974)
L.P. Davies, Twilight Journey (1967) #134
Samuel Delany, Babel-17  (1966) #140 5*
Harry Harrison, War with the Robots (1962) #138
Philip E. High, Invader on my Back (1968) #148
Damon Knight, Three Novels (1951, 1954, 1957) #139
Charles Logan, Shipwreck (1975) 5*
J.T. McIntosh, Six Gates from Limbo (1968) #144 1*
R.W. Mackelworth, Firemantle (1968) #151
Barry Malzberg, Beyond Apollo (1972) 5*
Judith Merril (ed.), Path Into the Unknown: The Best of Soviet Science Fiction (1966) #131
Larry Niven, Inconstant Moon (1973)
Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, The Dynostar Menace (1975)
Frederik Pohl, The Age of the Pussyfoot (1965, 1966) #166
Frederik Pohl, The Gold at the Starbow’s End (1972)
Spider Robinson, Telempath (1976)
Bob Shaw, Ship of Strangers (1978)
Robert Sheckley, Can You Feel Anything When I Do This? (1971)
Curt Siodmak, City in the Sky (1974) 1*
Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic (1977) 5*
Jack Vance, The Killing Machine (1968) #135
Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit (1975) 1*
‘Patrick Wyatt’, Irish Rose (1975)
Roger Zelazny, The Doors of his Face, the Lamps of his Mouth and other stories (1971) 5*
Chloe Zerwick and Harrison Brown, The Cassiopeia Affair (1968) #149

Key to Star Ratings

5*: you should definitely read this; read the review to see why
1*: you should definitely not read this; read the review to see why not
No star rating: read the review and see what you think

Why are they like this?

The Labour Party’s account on X tweeted 21 times in the first week of September. Five tweets are positive: one about how the government’s ‘delivering’, plus a four-tweet thread about support for families. One tweet attacks the Tories for their record on asylum-seekers; one attacks the Greens for being anti-NATO. The other 14 – two-thirds of the total – are attacking Nigel Farage; not on policy grounds, but for being ‘unpatriotic’ and for being ‘all complaints, no answers’. There’s even a link to a Web site from which you can download a fake ‘Reform manifesto’, highlighting gaps and contradictions in what Farage and other Reform representatives have said (the document’s called “no-idea.pdf”). Would a Reform government round up and intern immigrant women and children, or just the men? Would they send British prisoners serving life sentences to El Salvador, or just to Estonia? We don’t know! Silly old Nigel, he doesn’t seem to know either!

The idea seems to be that Reform-leaning voters, having been suckered into downloading what purports to be a leaked copy of Reform’s manifesto, will read several pages of “well they say this now, but they said this before” and decide not to risk voting for them. This seems, frankly, unlikely. Catching people out in changing their answers is a favourite pastime for lobby journalists, but for most of us it’s not that big a deal. And what the document rather conspicuously fails to do is highlight the horrors of the policies Farage is (probably quite deliberately) being vague about. It ends with “20 Questions for Reform”, all of which are requests for clarification on what Reform would do and how they would do it. For instance:

Would Reform ban the burka, or not?

Would Reform send violent criminals to El Salvador, or not?

and, perhaps my [least] favourite,

Where would Reform put the detention centres it wants to use to house asylum seekers?

I initially thought this stuff was crying out for parody (where would they even get all that Zyklon-B?), but on reflection it’s quite bad enough as it is. Apparently the Labour Party would have no problem with a plan to intern undocumented migrants, just as long as it was detailed and fully costed.

Why are they like this? When Farage proposed deporting Afghan refugees into the arms of the Taliban, why was it left to the Greens to point out what an appalling proposal this was? Why does Labour keep responding to far-Right provocations with “yes-and” answers – “yes, people don’t like asylum hotels, and Labour are going to shut them down”; “yes, we love the flag too, it brings us all together”. We’ll shut them down by speeding up the asylum process, you understand. The flag brings us all together – not just White people, do you see? Oh, you’ve stopped listening. Never mind.

Labour is handing the ideological agenda to Reform UK. Why? Why is Zack Polanski the only prominent British politician to say publicly that Britain needs immigration, that asylum seekers are a small minority of migrants and that most of them have a valid claim to, well, asylum? Why is Labour at best vitiating its fightback against Reform UK with excessive caution – at worst, tacitly endorsing Reform UK and hoping to win on ‘competency’ points? It’s certainly not because it’s working– Labour’s polling has dropped 13% since the 2024 election, and that’s from a level of 34%. The leadership includes people who like to be known as pragmatic, even cynical, in their ruthless focus on building Labour support – but if they were half of that they would have changed course months ago. Whatever the strategy is, they must really believe in it.

But what is it? Here are six possibilities.

1. This Is What They’re Like

Q: Why is Labour in government so disappointing?
A: Why were you expecting anything better?

It’s a strong argument. From April 2020 to July 2024, Keir Starmer suggested clearly and repeatedly that he would be leading a right-wing government. It was frequently argued that this was tactical: it was the price Labour had to pay to win back voters who had deserted Labour in 2019, or to avoid being monstered by the Tory press, or to win Tory seats, or… Whatever the specifics, the rationale was the same: trim to the Right tactically, win the election, govern strategically from the Left! But there was – and is – very little evidence of the reforming centre-left agenda which the right-wing tactics would supposedly make possible. It’s much simpler to conclude (as a number of Left posters on Bluesky frequently argue) that a right-wing government always was the goal: that the summit of Starmer’s ambition was a government that cut public spending, cracked down on disorder and wrapped itself in the Union Jack – like British governments generally do – but with him in Number Ten.

So that’s Answer 1: they’re being generally very right-wing because they are generally very right-wing.

There’s obviously a lot in this, at least as far as the classic Conservative / Labour Right agenda is concerned – national security and economic growth first, everything else second. The government’s proposals to gut environmental protection laws, for example, fit right into this template. (Although for a party that was trying to appeal to patriotism, “a country that protects rare and endangered animals” would work a lot better than “a country that builds roads and houses, screw you, hippies”. Complicated business, moving Right.) But the kind of nationalistic fervour we’re seeing now, with street-level mobilisation against immigrants in general and refugees in particular, has never been mainstream. Both Labour and the Tories have a long record of opposing this kind of politics and denouncing those who try to exploit it, both outside and inside their own parties. What’s changed?

2. No One Driving

One explanation is non-political, resting on the state of the Labour leadership – in particular, its unusual dedication to top-down managerial control. The effects of this culture are amplified by a lack of experience of senior-level responsibility among the people involved, and in some cases a lack of capacity for flexible and independent thought. Unless Keir Starmer (or someone speaking authoritatively for him) has spoken, Labour’s comms people literally don’t know what to say – and they either don’t feel able to fill in off their own bat or don’t dare. Hence the recent non-response to Farage: nobody had said that Labour wouldn’t send Afghan refugees back to the Taliban, after all, so the only safe option was to say nothing.

Answer 2: they’re not saying anything to oppose the Right because they aren’t saying anything at all.

Again, I think there’s a lot in this; I wish I didn’t, because it suggests that the Labour leadership is in a deeply unhealthy state, in need of renewal for capacity-building as well as cultural reasons. (NB I wrote the last sentence before Paul Ovenden resigned. Looking at it today (16/9/25), I’m tempted to replace the last clause with “in need of sweeping out with an iron broom”, but perhaps that’s a bit extreme.) But it can’t be a complete explanation. To see why not, suppose that, with Starmer temporarily unavailable, Labour were asked to respond to a statement by Jeremy Corbyn advocating that Britain leave NATO. Do we really think that “Labour sources” would say nothing in response, or reply with banalities about what it would all cost?

There’s no possibility of Labour endorsing anything coming from Corbyn, and nothing to be lost by shooting it down in flames. But apparently this isn’t the case for Nigel Farage. Why not?

3. Drifting, Drifting (just not drifting Left)

Another problem with the Labour leadership’s evident lack of capacity for government is that it deprives the government of any overall direction – and in the absence of direction, governments are liable to drift. But not, necessarily, in just any direction. Prominent members of the current Labour leadership spent anything up to four years working to undermine the then leadership of the party (at this stage I don’t think this is a secret, still less a conspiracy theory). The experience will have hammered home something which was already a fairly strong element of Labour Right culture: hatred of the Left. Crucially, this is a hatred of both the Left as people and the Left as a tendency. Labour’s leaked report – documenting the culture among Labour’s permanent staff in the Corbyn years – is informative. Just as George Osborne could be called an oik by his fellow-members of the Bullingdon Club, on the grounds that he went to St Paul’s rather than Eton, so a Labour staffer could be labelled a “Trot”, not because he’d voted for Corbyn in the 2015 leadership election, but because he hadn’t voted for Liz Kendall. (Who got 5% of the vote. You know how Corbynites were supposedly a small, unrepresentative group who tried to take over a democratic party? Every accusation’s a confession.)

Anyway, I’m sure that the ‘oik’ thing barely rankled with George Osborne at all – and didn’t leave him with a lifelong, smouldering resentment of e.g. David Cameron and Boris Johnson – but, as a general thing, this stuff really isn’t just banter. In a group united by hatred of the Left, you don’t ever want to be the furthest-Left person – in the group, in the room, in the conversation; even between you and one other person. More to the point, you don’t want to give anyone any reason for saying you’re further Left than they are. But this means that ‘going left’ is taboo, in any situation – talking about policy very much included. So, in policy terms, having gone Right once, you’re likely to go Right again – and to go further Right. In this view, Labour Right ideology works a bit like Maxwell’s Demon, deriving free energy from the random motion of gas molecules by selecting molecules moving one way rather than another (little bit of science, my name’s Brian Cox, goodnight). If any movement to the Left is precluded, even directionless drift and random responses to events will translate into a slow but steady march to the Right.

Answer 3: they’re going Right because they can’t go Left.

If this is the case, the Labour Party’s basically a lost cause, at least until everyone with this mindset follows Mike Truk, Karl Dandleton and Paul Ovenden out of the door. Even the ones with permanent contracts. But it’s not a complete explanation: the march rightwards is going further and faster – and more enthusiastically – in some areas than others. Specifically, the areas most strongly associated with Reform UK.

4. Split the Vote, Win the Vote (or: re-fighting the last election)

During the last election campaign we heard a lot about ‘hero voters’, the bizarre and frankly rather distasteful label for (2019) Tory voters who were prepared to vote Labour in Conservative seats. Targeting these voters led to Labour seats – and Labour voters – being neglected, resulting in some safe seats becoming considerably less safe or even being lost; this was spun after the fact as “vote efficiency”, as if positively repelling voters in Islington and Leicester had always been part of the plan. But in any case, those ‘hero voter’ Labour gains from the Tories – even without the losses to independents – wouldn’t have been anywhere near enough to win the election. If the Tories had only lost votes to Labour, only 20-30 of Labour’s gains from the Tories in England would still have changed hands; something similar but less extreme applies to the Lib Dems. In other words, if “hero voters” had been the story of the 2024 election, Labour would have made 55-60 net gains (most of them outside England); the Lib Dems would have made 30-odd gains instead of 64, and the Tories only around 50 losses. This would have put Labour in the mid-260s in terms of seats and taken the Tories down to the 300s, leaving them as the largest single party but without a majority – 2017 all over again, eh?

In reality, Labour made 211 net gains and the Tories 251 losses: something else was working harder. Two things, in fact: Tory losses to abstention and to Reform UK. The Tory vote was down overall by seven million, only half of which went to Reform UK; most of the remainder, we can be reasonably confident, stayed at home (there were some Tory-Labour switchers, but not very many in the scheme of things; Labour’s total vote was actually slightly down on 2019). A few Tory seats were lost to Reform, but their effect was nugatory, particularly given Reform UK’s indifference to Parliament. The split in the Right vote – and its weakness as a whole (the lowest since 2005) – enabled Labour to get a landslide out of what was also a very low vote. In many cases, Labour made gains while taking fewer votes than they had taken in the same constituency in 2019. (Hyndburn 2019: Labour vote 41.5%, down 12% since 2017; Labour loss. Hyndburn 2024: Labour vote 33.5%, down 8% since 2019; Labour gain. Work that one out.)

So, like the emergence of the “efficient vote” line, I wonder if Labour’s reluctance to attack Reform UK during the election campaign was a tactical response to feedback on how the campaign was going. And I wonder if, given the undeniable fact that the 2024 election resulted in a Labour landslide, it’s now received wisdom in leadership circles that that’s how you beat the Tories: not by poaching right-leaning voters from them, but by creating the conditions for Reform UK to do so, ensuring that the Right vote stays split.

Answer 4: they’re not risking boosting Reform UK and its agenda, they’re deliberately boosting them.

This would be an appalling strategy for Labour to adopt – not so much unscrupulous as immoral, and self-defeating for Labour in any but the shortest possible term. I only raise it as a possibility because, well, [gestures towards All This].

But if this is the approach being adopted by the leadership, it’s surely time for a reassessment. Standing back (at best) while Reform UK made inroads into Tory territory might have won one election, but it’s not going to win another. Apart from anything else, the conditions have changed – thanks in part to this strategy from Labour. The Right vote in the 2024 election was split 23% Tory to 9% Reform (32% total) at the start of the campaign and 24% / 12% (=36%) by the end. Reform UK support drew level with the Tories’ (23% / 23%, 46% total) in January of this year; the two parties are currently averaging 17% and 31% (48%). The Right vote is steadily regaining strength and steadily becoming less split – and more dominated by Farage.

Is that really what the Labour leadership want? Or do they still think Labour could retrieve the situation by moving further Right?

5. In Search of Lost Heartlands (or: re-fighting the last election but one)

In 2019, Labour lost 60 seats, 48 of them in England. In 2017 Labour made 27 gains in England (36 total) but also six losses. Yes, there were losses – and all of them in places that were Labour strongholds (Copeland), industrial heartlands (Mansfield) or at any rate definitely up north somewhere (Walsall). This is presumably why, in the run-up to the 2024 election, Keir Starmer talked repeatedly about winning back the voters Labour had lost “over the last two elections” (despite having previously said that Corbyn’s legacy was something to build on.)

The myth of the Red Wall (TINRW) purported to explain what had happened: the 2019 election had supposedly been lost by a surge of previously-loyal Labour voters to the Tories, their “social conservatism” overcoming their waning class loyalties (and presumably those six losses in 2017 had led the way). It’s true that Labour lost a lot of seats in 2019, many of them in surprising places – or at least, what look like surprising places when viewed from London and without looking too closely at their electoral history. And it is true that there are some previously-solid Labour constituencies where Labour lost particularly heavily – 17 of them by my count; a less right-on Labour Party might, perhaps, have held those seats. But the numbers alone say that this was a small part of the story of 2019. The Tories only needed nine seats for an absolute majority; a Labour strategy that saved those ‘Red Wall’ seats, and lost the other 43, would still have led to a crushing defeat.

I think the ‘Red Wall’ myth flourished not only because it helped pin the defeat on Jeremy Corbyn, but because it played into a belief that’s endemic on the Right of the party: that Labour voters are fundamentally right-wing. Real Labour voters, that is; traditional Labour voters, “our people”. Not so much on the “bosses and workers” front or on schools and the NHS and the old age pension, but… well, everything else. Anti-social behaviour, all that. Immigration, all that. Don’t mention human rights, you’ll be there all day. Lovely people, salt of the earth, but… well, don’t come round our way with your Pride flags, that’s all I’m saying. For Labour to lose sixty seats while led by someone who challenged this world view – not only by speaking out on those supposedly taboo subjects but by maintaining that ordinary working people were actually with him – was a dream come true. (Nightmare, I mean. Nightmare come true. Obviously.)

How to get those losses back? If there was a group of issues on which long-time Labour voters were likely to lean Right, it could make sense to tiptoe around those areas, while attacking the Tories on everything else and promoting Labour policies as a positive alternative. But this could only work while three conditions held: the list of ‘culture war’ issues was reasonably short (ideally just bringing back racism and hanging); the Tory Party was on the same side of the ‘culture war’ as Labour, or at least could be relied on to leave those issues alone; and the Tories dominated the Right. Unfortunately, the first of these conditions ceased to apply a long time ago – anything can be a ‘culture war’ issue, and many things now are. The second was already fraying under Thatcher, and disintegrated completely under Johnson.

So Labour under Starmer shifted to a strategy of trying to own the Right pole of those divisive issues – raising the flag, supporting our troops. In the name of appealing to former Labour voters, this handed the ideological agenda to the Tories, pre-emptively neutering Labour’s attacks on them, or confining them to issues of competence and delivery. But there was worse to come. The idea, remember, wasn’t that long-time Labour voters held centre-right views – if they did they’d just vote Tory. The assumption was always that “our people” held far-Right views – views that weren’t being expressed anywhere on the mainstream political spectrum. Until they were. An organised, articulate, seemingly popular far-Right party is Kryptonite to this kind of Labour Right mentality: Labour can’t mount any kind of ideological challenge to it, because it’s where our people are. Our voters aren’t on the Left – 2019 proved that (actually we always knew that). So if they’ve deserted us, we can’t go Left to get them – we’ll have to go Right. How far Right? However far it takes!

Answer 5: they’re moving on to Reform UK territory because they think the Right is where the (real, traditional) Labour voters are.

Or is it more cynical than that?

6. Taking Rainy Fascist Island (By Strategy) (or: re-fighting the last election but two)

If you talk to anyone on the Labour Left about the 2017 election, you’ll be reminded that Labour made 30 net gains – the best performance for a Labour opposition since 1997 – and increased their vote share by 9%, taking 3 million more votes than in 2015. If you talk to anyone on the Labour Right about the 2017 election, on the other hand, you’ll be reminded that Labour didn’t actually win (“And here’s me without a pen,” as Barry Cryer used to say). If you can find anyone else who remembers that election, they’ll probably mention the Tories’ appalling campaign – the dementia tax, the coughing fit, the letters falling off the wall…

What nobody usually mentions, due to it not really suiting anyone’s agenda, is that on some measures the Tories in 2017 did extremely well. The Conservative Party in 2017 took 13.6 million votes, 42.3% of the vote – up from 11.3 million and 36.9% in 2015. This was the party’s highest vote since 1987 and its highest vote share since 1983; indeed, 13.6 million was more votes than Labour took in 1997, the year of Tony Blair’s landslide victory. The question of why this huge rise in votes didn’t translate into seat gains has a twin, the question of why Labour’s 40% and 12.9 million votes didn’t translate into a Labour victory (compare 2024: 33.7%, 9.7 million, 211 net gains). Labour were too strong for the Tories not to make losses, but the Tories were too strong for Labour to win (campaign, schmampaign).

So there’s another thing that nobody ever says about 2017: the problem with Corbynism wasn’t that it was unpopular; the problem was that it was polarising. Attracting three million voters to Labour ought to have been enough – but it won’t be if you’re also motivating two million more people to vote Tory. I wonder if that’s what’s going on now: if Labour strategists have quietly – and belatedly – learnt the real lesson of 2017, particularly when compared to 1997 (when Labour’s vote was up two million compared to 1992, but the Tory vote was down 4.5 million). To win from opposition Labour need to encourage their supporters but also discourage the Right’s – don’t make them think they’re in a Battle with the Left, make them think it doesn’t make much odds whether they vote or not. New Labour did this by emphasising all the common ground they had with Conservatism, and the extent to which they’d made a break with ‘old’ Labour values. Now, however, the Right is dominated by Reform UK, so repeating those formulae (support for business, no opposition to NATO, etc) will only do half a job. Like it or not, depolarising the next election is going to mean Labour talking the same language as Farage – and reassuring his followers that they’ve got nothing to lose by voting Labour, or by staying at home.

Answer 6: they’re moving on to Reform UK territory because Reform UK now dominate the Right, and that’s the only way to avoid the next election being fought as a Left-Right battle which the Left is bound to lose.

Answers 5 and 6 both suggest that Labour is deliberately adopting Reform UK’s agenda, either in search of their lost (“culturally conservative“) voters or in a bid to make the next election less polarised and hence easier for Labour to dominate. So, will it work? Firstly, what kind of question is that? Will it work for Labour to repeat far-Right talking points and adopt the far Right’s policy agenda? Never mind whether it would work, it’s a truly terrible idea. Secondly, no, it can’t possibly work. Farage supporters don’t have a list of policy priorities, they have a list of grievances, things that aren’t good enough – and a leader who amplifies those grievances and suggests new ones. You can’t reassure people when they don’t want reassurance – least of all when you personally are one of the things they’re aggrieved about. (I just searched for “keir starmer dpp” on X. I don’t recommend it.) If Labour did move on to Farage’s turf, all that would happen would be that Farage would promptly outflank them on the Right, while the likes of Rupert Lowe and Ant Middleton scrambled to outflank him. The Labour leadership’s apparent confidence that the party can annexe the Reform UK agenda without Farage simply shifting further Right makes them seem bizarrely naïve, if not downright stupid. Like Winnie the Pooh telling Piglet that Jagulars can drop on people without hurting themselves because they’re “such very good droppers”, I feel that someone should quietly explain to Keir Starmer that Nigel Farage is a Very Good Outflanker.

But none of this is as important as the point I started with. If this strategy failed, it would be a terrible idea and put Labour in a really bad place – whereas if it worked, it would be a terrible idea and put Labour in a really bad place.

Why Are They Like This?

Reviewing the candidate answers above, I think it’s true that the government is run by right-wingers (answer 1). People like Reeves, Streeting and Kendall have never made any secret of their priorities; as for Keir Starmer, while it’s certainly not true that he’s never claimed to be left-wing, since being elected leader of the party he’s made very few concessions to the Left. I also think it’s true that the larger government and Labour Party apparats are characterised by control-freakery and populated by people happy to be subjected to it (answer 2), and that making their bones fighting the Left has left them incapable of giving a left-wing answer to a right-wing challenge (answer 3), even when that’s what’s needed.

All of that would give us a borderline-incompetent government, obsessed with Labour Right shibboleths such as NATO and free enterprise, quick to denounce any attack from the Left but strangely wooden in responding to the Right. But that’s not all we’ve got, is it? If we’re specifically looking at how the government chases Reform UK to the (far) Right, we need some more factors.

The remaining possibilities are rather less flattering. (Seriously; answers 2 and 3 say that senior Labour people have given themselves tunnel vision fighting imaginary Trots and that they weren’t very independent-minded to begin with, while answer 1 just says that they’re quite right-wing. It gets a lot worse from here on.) I think Labour strategists did see the rise in the Reform UK vote during the 2024 election campaign and broadly welcome it, on the grounds that it would drive the Tory vote down (as indeed it did); I think it’s also more than possible that this strategy is still basically in place (answer 4), either on the grounds that Reform UK, being more extreme than the Tories, are easier for Labour to fight, or just because nobody’s told them to stop it yet (see also answer 2). This reckless cynicism and electoral opportunism, in the face of resurgent fascism, would be quite unforgivable.

I also think that the Labour Right do tend to think of the core Labour vote as White working-class reactionaries, who need to be appeased from time to time by throwing them a bone on issues like immigration. This would lead logically to reading the 2019 result exclusively through the Red Wall myth – and reading the rise of the Reform UK vote since the 2024 election as evidence that Labour’s core voters have deserted them (again!), and need to be courted by ever more concessions on the issues Reform UK has made its own (answer 5). Believing that your own voters have repugnant views, and not challenging them, is a bad look (see the comments here on Labour seats with substantial BNP votes in 2005 and 2010); pandering to those views opportunistically is even worse. But turning pandering to racists into strategy – dragging the Labour Party onto extreme Right territory, in the face of very strong evidence that a winning Left-wing coalition is possible – is truly disgusting. Nor is it any less disgusting if it’s done out of electoralist calculation (answer 6).

Whether any one, or more, of answers 4-6 is plausible – and which one(s) – really depends on just how low your estimation of the current Labour leadership is. I recently learned that Peter Mandelson “has reportedly remained a mentor and friend to [Morgan] McSweeney” – something I don’t recall ever being ‘reported’ before, even when the spotlight was turned on McSweeney – so mine is very low indeed.

But I still haven’t answered the question: why are they like this? Promoting the worst enemy of your party and its supporters so as to damage the second worst enemy (answer 4), abandoning established policies and fundamental principles to gain votes (answer 5) or adopting far-Right policies so as to defeat a far-Right party (answer 6): they all have something in common. (So does policing yourself never to say anything left-wing and/or think independently, for fear of being bullied (answers 2 and 3).) What they have in common is cynicism: a cynically instrumental approach to politics, and to political policies and programmes, and to political ideologies.

This is a damning judgment in itself – if that’s your attitude to politics, what the hell are you doing in politics? Isn’t that just the kind of attitude we all found so deplorable in Boris Johnson, only cosplaying Malcolm Tucker instead of Billy Bunter? It’s also incredibly dangerous – as we’re now finding out. In the immortal words of Kurt Vonnegut, we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.

In this post from 2020 I argued that different Labour leaderships have articulated different ideologies, and combinations of ideologies; in the case of Jeremy Corbyn, the key ideologies were

an ideology of human equality, of every person (anywhere in the world) mattering as much as any other; and an ideology of constructive empowerment, of mobilising people to make the world a better place … call them “Equality Everywhere” and “Let’s Get To Work”

Starmer, I suggested, was flirting with “something close to the diametric opposite of the ideologies Labour upheld under Corbyn”:

I think a lot of the grudges being sedulously borne in our society can be brought together under a heading of “When’s Our Turn?” – yes to patriotism, tradition, the armed forces and support for pensioners (they’ve done their bit); no to internationalism, cultural innovation, human rights lawyers and hand-outs for scroungers (let them do some work for a change). And, if I’m right, that’s the direction Labour is heading.

I went on to argue that Starmer might not want to own or promote that discourse, just to mimic it and borrow some of its appeal for his own political project – but that what he wanted didn’t really matter:

the process that has been begun under Starmer’s leadership could end up giving us a patriotic, nostalgic, troops-supporting, pensioner-friendly Labour Party.

And the rest. Well played, lads.

One final, perversely optimistic note: what I didn’t anticipate at the time was how unpopular such a Labour Party would be; when I wrote that post Labour were averaging 39% in the polls (Conservatives 40%, Reform UK 2%). After the 2024 election I wrote a post-mortem concluding presciently

I fear that we’re heading for a Britain with three main parties, all of them wrapped in flags and all of them competing for the votes of people who remember proper binmen. And Labour probably won’t even be the biggest one.

But even then Labour were averaging 33% in the polls (Conservatives 22%, Reform UK 19%). Labour’s seven-day polling average hit 20.3% at the end of August, and hasn’t recovered much since. 20.3% is the lowest seven-day average since June 2019, when three polls in a row put Labour on 19% or 20%; this was the time of the last Euro elections, with the Brexit Party and the Lib Dems both riding high. Other than that brief and anomalous episode, Labour’s polling performance has never been as bad as this; not under Corbyn, not under Michael Foot. Whatever it is they’re selling, people aren’t buying. A change of course is surely going to come – even if it’s not under the current leadership.

(Personal note: I’ve been referring to “the current leadership” since 2020. I’m beginning to feel vindicated.)

 

 

 

The £10 Box: The Jonah Kit, Telempath

The £10 Box was an old fruit box containing 40 hardbacks, all of them Science Fiction Book Club editions, dating from 1968 to 1979, which I bought from my local Oxfam bookshop for a tenner several years ago. This is the sixteenth in what will be a series of twenty posts, each reviewing two of those books; earlier reviews are linked at the end of this post.

Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit (1976; originally published 1975)

This book has a thriller-ish plot, with scientific breakthroughs being exploited by shadowy government agents on both sides of the Cold War: lots of incident, lots of international travel. It’s also got quite an interesting structure; the main plot is interspersed with naive, haltingly-worded first-person narratives, apparently from the point of view of a whale which has recently achieved sentience, or had sentience thrust upon it. Running through it are not one but two big ideas. On one hand we have the wisdom of the whales, which are shown as having their own form of consciousness, sophisticated globe-spanning methods of communication and a language rich in philosophical abstraction, all unbeknownst to humanity. The whale-narrator is an interloper in this oceanic idyll, however, as he is a whale on whose brain a human consciousness has been imprinted, using… um… computers (“it seems the research centre there has access to an American-made IBM 370-185 computer”). He’s also been conditioned to surface periodically and communicate with his human handlers, although Watson doesn’t spend very long on how this works.

So there’s that. At the same time – or at any rate in the same book – a cosmologist has redone the calculations for the Big Bang and discovered that the mass of the newly-expanded universe was far too great for it to have gone on expanding. The Big Bang must have been followed immediately by an even bigger crunch, the universe collapsing into a singularity; what we laughingly call the universe is merely a kind of four-dimensional echo or shadow cast by this event. Which would be a bizarre finding, but not one that would make any difference to anything. Whether we were all living in a post-Big Bang universe, a shadow universe or a simulated universe running on a computer even more powerful than an IBM 370, you would still be you, I would still be me, Alpha Centauri would still be Alpha Centauri, Eric Cantona would still be Eric Cantona… I mean, I could go on. But the cosmologist, being the kind of wild and crazy cosmologist he is, interprets the result as proving that (a) the Big Bang was a one-off; ergo (b) it didn’t originate as a spontaneous physical process but must have been caused by a supreme being; but (c) the said supreme being didn’t create the shadow universe and now has nothing to do with it. On the basis of this rather shonky chain of deductions, the cosmologist announces that he has proved that there is a God, but not in this universe: a kind of nihilistic ultra-Gnosticism. The announcement triggers a worldwide crisis of faith, rapidly escalating into a worldwide crisis full stop. Meanwhile, back with the whales…

As you can see, the two big ideas don’t really gel – which might not be so bad if they weren’t both, not to put too fine a point on it, bonkers. The second especially: if anything like that were announced tomorrow, I’d expect the scientific community to question the calculations, religious authorities to deny the conclusions and everyone else to shrug and wonder what they’d think of next. The ‘thriller’ furniture – the various intrigues among the cast of scientists and bureaucrats – also fails to engage, not least because several of the main characters are extraordinarily irritating; a couple of them really seem to like the sound of their own voices, and we have to assume that Ian Watson does too. Female characters are relegated to supporting roles, and are (stop me if you’ve heard this one before) relentlessly sexualised. A particular low-point is the character who had been a popular cheerleader at university, “rubbery curves jouncing pneumatically as she pogoed up and down”; she now “approached cetacean psychology with the same cheerful bounce”, troubled only by the dawning suspicion that she was “only fancied by old men, by kinky men, by men with something wrong with them”. Presumably her male colleagues’ approach was rigid and inflexible, but tended to go slack after a few minutes’ work. (Also, only perverts like women with large breasts. Huge if true.) A less offensive but equally mind-boggling reminder that the book is from a Different Time is the scene, on a Mexican beach, in which one member of the party feeds her baby from a bottle, then throws the bottle away. Another character muses that if a local woman picked it up and reused it, it could make her baby ill; he picks it up, cracks the plastic to make it useless, and throws it away again. Problem solved!

Like the cosmologist’s revelation, this book is very odd and weirdly nihilistic. It’s not short of ideas, and they’re not all bad; the “wisdom of the whales” sections are quite satisfying and would have made a good short story. But in terms of structure, character, themes, mood and (yet again) gender politics, it really can’t be recommended.

Spider Robinson, Telempath (1978; originally published 1976)

“I hadn’t meant to shoot the cat.” It’s a strong opening, putting us firmly in gritty urban post-apocalyptic “A Boy and his Dog” territory. Isham, the 15-year-old first-person narrator, is on a revenge mission on behalf of his father, traversing an empty city in search of ‘Carlson’, the man who had brought about the collapse of society. We get a lot of other unexplained proper nouns, including entities called Muskies and some sort of predator called Grey Brother. It all becomes clear, but not for a while (Grey Brother is forgotten about for most of the book, before it’s revealed to be a collective term for rats).

How did we get here? Carlson was a scientist who, having already come up with a cure for the common cold, planned to develop a temporary damper for the sense of smell (“nearly all the undesirable by-products of twentieth-century living … quite literally stink“). He then adopts a more radical plan: if the ill-effects of modern living call for the masking of smells, making those smells worse by heightening the sense of smell will force humanity to become more civilised. However, the Hyperosmic Virus makes urban life (and most close contact with other humans) intolerable, triggering a disastrous population crash, euphemistically referred to as the Exodus. As for the Muskies, they’re gaseous entities with mild telepathic powers; they’ve been there all along, but we’ve never been able to smell them before now. Unfortunately they don’t like being seen (or smelt), and tend to react aggressively. They’ve also been feeding on the by-products of pollution, so the Exodus has been disastrous for them, too.

What follows is… a lot of stuff; a lot of incident, a lot of different characters, a lot of story to tell. Isham’s mission leads into a trek into the wilds, where he finds a utopian community – which, predictably, turns out to be not so utopian as all that. Most of the rest of the narrative is set here; we’re even supplied with a map, which comes in handy when people start plotting against one another, getting locked up, escaping etc. The main danger, apart from internal dissension, comes from nomadic tribes collectively known as Agros, who blame urbanisation for the fall of civilisation and periodically attack the Technos who build settled communities like this one; they also appear to worship the great god Pan.

So it’s a story of pioneers and their struggles to survive in a hostile land while negotiating political and personal tensions within the group – a very American genre (although that perspective puts the destructive Agros in a different light). But – as the title suggests – Robinson also wants to tell a completely different story. No one’s ever managed to communicate with the Muskies, or considered the possibility of coexistence. Carlson – who has survived the Exodus, and turns out not to have been (entirely) responsible for the Hyperosmic Virus – has developed an alpha-wave feedback and amplification machine, which enables him to make telepathic contact with nearby Muskies. Isham, however, is a natural telepath with highly-developed abilities to relax both body and mind; meditating, his brain pumping out the alpha waves, he becomes a conduit for inter-species empathy, sensing and communicating with Muskies for miles around. Isham’s empathetic/telepathic capacity, already more or less superhuman, is enhanced further by smoking marijuana – an odd and gratuitous detail, but very much of its time. (The book doesn’t go into how his hyperosmic brain allows him to do this without sensory overload.) In a twist reminiscent of Bill Hicks, a fifteen-year-old dope smoker zones out and brings world peace, not only between humans and Muskies but indirectly between Techno and Agros. Cue happy ending, modulo the problems of pioneers and their struggles to survive etc; by the end of the book the hyperosmia’s even starting to wear off.

The narrative hangs together, at least for as long as you’re reading it, but it really is all over the place; if The Jonah Kit had two big ideas, this has at least four (the pioneer stuff, the hyperosmia what-if, invisible aliens feeding on pollution, alpha-wave psi powers). As to the last of these, Robinson certainly seems to mean it, man; like ‘Patrick Wyatt’ in Irish Rose, he provides twentieth-century references for associations between empathy and psychic powers, psychic powers and alpha waves, alpha waves and meditation and so on. Hey, maybe there’s something in it… is the reaction he seems to be pitching for. And I guess it does make an unruly bundle of conceits work better if one of them seems to be grounded in the real world. If’ I’d read this in 1976 I would have gone for it in a big way –  but then, in 1976 I wasn’t much older than Isham.

Reviews so far (with * rating and SFBC # where present)

Poul Anderson, The Trouble Twisters (1963, 1965, 1966) #141
John Brunner, Timescoop (1969)
Algis Budrys, The Iron Thorn (1967) #142
Louis Charbonneau, Antic Earth (1967) #133 1*
D.G. Compton, The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (1975) 5*
Michael Coney, Winter’s Children (1974)
Michael Coney, Hello Summer, Goodbye (1975) 5*
Richard Cowper, Breakthrough (1967) #136 5*
Richard Cowper, Phoenix (1968) #147
Richard Cowper, Worlds Apart (1974)
L.P. Davies, Twilight Journey (1967) #134
Samuel Delany, Babel-17  (1966) #140 5*
Harry Harrison, War with the Robots (1962) #138
Philip E. High, Invader on my Back (1968) #148
Damon Knight, Three Novels (1951, 1954, 1957) #139
Charles Logan, Shipwreck (1975) 5*
J.T. McIntosh, Six Gates from Limbo (1968) #144 1*
R.W. Mackelworth, Firemantle (1968) #151
Barry Malzberg, Beyond Apollo (1972) 5*
Judith Merril (ed.), Path Into the Unknown: The Best of Soviet Science Fiction (1966) #131
Larry Niven, Inconstant Moon (1973)
Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, The Dynostar Menace (1975)
Frederik Pohl, The Age of the Pussyfoot (1965, 1966) #166
Frederik Pohl, The Gold at the Starbow’s End (1972)
Spider Robinson, Telempath (1976)
Robert Sheckley, Can You Feel Anything When I Do This? (1971)
Curt Siodmak, City in the Sky (1974) 1*
Jack Vance, The Killing Machine (1968) #135
Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit (1975) 1*
‘Patrick Wyatt’, Irish Rose (1975)
Roger Zelazny, The Doors of his Face, the Lamps of his Mouth and other stories (1971) 5*
Chloe Zerwick and Harrison Brown, The Cassiopeia Affair (1968) #149

Key to Star Ratings

5*: you should definitely read this; read the review to see why
1*: you should definitely not read this; read the review to see why not
No star rating: read the review and see what you think

Zionism in “The War Illustrated” (coda)

“The War Illustrated” was a part-work, published throughout the Second World War and for some time afterwards. It promised to keep its readers informed on the progress of the War, while building up into a comprehensive encyclopedia which they could refer to afterwards.

In this post I reprinted an article from the 21/12/1945 issue, titled “Grasping the Palestine Nettle”. The background was that Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin had recently made a Commons statement announcing the formation of an Anglo-American Committee of Inquiry on the future of Mandatory Palestine. As the responsible power under a League of Nations Mandate, the UK was committed to following up on the promise made in the Balfour Declaration of 1917, to facilitate Jewish immigration to Palestine and the establishment of a Jewish National Home. However, the Mandate also committed Britain to “safeguarding the civil and religious rights of all the inhabitants of Palestine”, and to keeping the peace more generally. Jewish immigration to Palestine had – tragically – been kept under tight control during the War years, and the Jewish population remained a relatively small minority. Even if the annual rate of Jewish immigration were to increase five- or six-fold, settlers would not have reached parity with the indigenous population for decades; in the short to medium term, demographics were not going to realise the Zionist dream, transforming the “national home” (in a hostile land, under British imperial overlordship) into a Jewish state. The establishment of an undemocratic, majority-Arab, Jewish state was conceivable, as was tipping the demographic balance through population transfers (a.k.a. expulsions), but both of these short-cuts would involve levels of violence and coercion which would never be permitted under the terms of the Mandate, still less positively endorsed by the Mandatory power. Hence the UK-US committee of inquiry, whose underlying question was this: if the “national home” was not going to become a Zionist state in the foreseeable future, and if the Zionists of Palestine (and elsewhere) were unlikely to accept this outcome, what was to be done?

This (as I said in a second post) is essentially the question posed by “Grasping the Palestine Nettle”. The author begins by drawing the key distinction between ‘Zionist’ and ‘Jew’, emphasising that Zionism does not necessarily represent either the beliefs or the interests of Jews generally; what is at issue in Palestine is not the fate of the Jews but the outcome of a particular political project. And, he stresses, there is no way of adjudicating between the claims of this project and those of its opponents, because they are based on different and mutually incompatible grounds. If the Zionist claim to the land of Palestine (based on Scripture) can be considered as valid, so too can the Arab claim (based on continuous historical occupation); neither claim logically takes precedence over the other. The author goes on to debunk a couple of myths – that the conflict between Arabs and Jewish settlers grows out of Arab antisemitism, and that Palestinian Arabs should welcome the settlers’ development of the land; he points out that what Palestinian Arabs are demanding is neither a Jew-free Palestine nor an undeveloped one, but national independence.

The author concludes that Jewish settlers are not going to become a majority, in the short to medium term, through immigration alone, and that the British Mandatory power is never going to impose Jewish minority rule. (The article doesn’t touch on the ‘population transfer’ alternative. In fact the Labour Party had in 1944 adopted a resolution endorsing “transfer of population” – “let Jews, if they wish, enter this tiny land in such numbers as to become a majority … Let the Arabs be encouraged to move out, as the Jews move in.” – but this had never been the policy of the Attlee government; indeed, its elevation of the wishes of the minority over the interests of the majority would have run counter to the terms of the Mandate.) The author’s conclusion is that the dream of a Jewish state looks like remaining a dream. He acknowledges that “thousands of well-armed, well-organized and well-trained Jews” are unlikely to take this disappointment lying down, but notes that Bevin has promised that “force will be met by force”. He ends by suggesting that Jews could take a wider role in the revitalisation of the Middle East more broadly; the Zionist dream of being “masters and the servants of none” may be “but a phase in the long history of the Jews”.

What’s interesting about this article isn’t so much its speculative (and, sadly, optimistic) conclusion as the logic and clarity of its argument. There is a League of Nations mandate; its terms exclude the imposition of minority rule; the minority is unlikely to turn into a majority any time soon; conclusion, there will be no Zionist state any time soon. In historical retrospect, the only real error the author made was underestimating what some of those “well-organized and well-trained” settlers were capable of.

In a third and fourth blog post I reprinted and discussed a reply to this article, printed under some pressure in the 12/4/1946 issue of “The War Illustrated” (“Some of our Jewish readers have expressed their dissent from the general trend of [the author’s] statements … No further correspondence will be considered.”) In an odd way, this is where things get interesting – although not in the sense that any interesting points are being made. The writer states that the Jews are the “one people in all the earth” denied their own nation state, and that this lack renders the existence of the Jews irrational and makes antisemitism ineradicable. He argues that the League of Nations Mandate was designed to give the Jews their own state, even though its terms appeared to exclude this. He restates arguments which were either counterbalanced or flatly contradicted in the original article: Jews have an inalienable right to the land of Palestine; Arabs should be grateful for all that the settlers have done; all Jews believe in a “return to Palestine” and hence in a Jewish state. He concludes that the problem of establishing a Jewish state should be resolved by Britain simply declaring Palestine a “Jewish Commonwealth”, admitting it to a British-led community of nations as a Dominion. South Africa was essentially a White Commonwealth at this point in history, so the suggestion’s not entirely unprecedented.

In the fourth post I went into these arguments and assertions in some detail, so I’ll be brief here: they’re nonsense. What’s worse, they’re plausible nonsense. It’s certainly the case that many Jews believed in a Jewish state, and that some senior British politicians wanted to help create it; it’s true that the lack of a Jewish homeland has given antisemitism some of its peculiar poison, and that many population groups who can be compared with the Jews have a nation state to their name. But the writer’s arguments depend on making much stronger, more categorical statements – all Jews are Zionists, everyone responsible for the Mandate supported Zionism, antisemitism is all about the lack of a Jewish homeland, every other ethnic group has its own country. And, spelt out even as briefly as this, these statements are frankly absurd; they’re self-evidently untrue.

So, what was going on here? What kind of argument are you carrying on if your position depends on – not just uses but relies on – statements that sound plausible but fall apart on examination? Admittedly, all persuasive political discourse is liable to deploy half-truths and make logical leaps, not to mention making rhetorical statements with no truth-value at all, but you would think you’d need some true statements and logical arguments as well. But instead of (say) “unchallenged statement, half-truth, unchallenged statement, logical extension, half-truth, rhetoric” the argument in the reply basically goes “half-truth, rhetoric, half-truth, half-truthnon sequitur, half-truth, rhetoric“. As an argument, there’s nothing to argue with; there’s no ‘there’ there.

And this was what originally caught my interest about the article and its reply: the contrast between the two. The article isn’t set out like a philosophical paper, but it proceeds pretty cohesively: it sets out the context, states its premises, develops an argument, rebuts fallacious counter-arguments and offers conclusions. The reply, by contrast, presents a series of disconnected talking points, each one highly tendentious, then proposes a solution which would be both illegal and repugnant.

This style of argument will be all too familiar to people who have engaged with Zionists in debate – as, indeed, will some of the individual talking points. We have to assume that the goal, in 2025 as in 1946, isn’t to win the argument but to ignore it: to put down a marker that says “you can say what you like, but we believe in Zionism”. Which in turn suggests that, in our time at least, Zionism isn’t the kind of ideology that wins arguments: what Zionism is, first and foremost, is the facts on the ground. Hence the particular quality of what passes for debate over Palestine in mainstream politics. Whether an advocate of Zionism could defeat Jeremy Corbyn or Shockat Adam in argument doesn’t matter in the slightest; whether Corbyn or Adam – and other advocates of BDS and the recognition of Palestine – can be silenced, discredited or otherwise removed from political circulation matters a great deal. As in 1946, so in 2025: the longer and more comprehensively the zone of argument can be flooded with pro-Zionist talking points, the less chance there will be of anti-Zionist arguments gaining influence – let alone of their being put into effect.

It’s not a debate, it’s a holding operation; the goal isn’t to win the game but to keep anti-Zionists out of the game, whatever lies, slanders and logical contortions are required. We should take note; next time they throw the ball for us, perhaps we shouldn’t be so quick to chase it.

 

The £10 Box: Third Quarter

Many years ago, visiting my local Oxfam bookshop, I spotted and promptly bought the £10 Box: an old fruit box containing 40 hardbacks, all of them Science Fiction Book Club editions, dating from 1968 to 1979. It’s an interesting scoop from a very productive period for sf. The plan was to read – or in several cases re-read – the books, and put down a few notes about them as I went along. Not a difficult task, but it stayed on the ‘pending’ list for quite a while; put it this way, the original plan was to post my book reviews on rec.arts.sf.written. Still, I’m getting it done now. Here’s a rundown of titles 21-30.

D.G. Compton, The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (1975) 5*
A very strange, relentlessly grim and ultimately very sad near-future dystopia (but I stress ‘ultimately’; Compton sticks to ‘grim’ for as long as he possibly can). Savagely satirical, where by ‘satirical’ we mean not so much “light-hearted and irreverent commentary on current affairs”, more “taking selected contemporary trends to grotesque and repulsive lengths”. It’s a bit Daily Mail-adjacent in places (ugh, those hippies! those demonstrators, ugh!) but reserves its harshest treatment for reality TV and the “Z-list celebrity” culture it spawned – which is odd, because reality TV only took off twenty years later.

Michael Coney, Winter’s Children (1974)
Post-climate apocalypse, Britain’s 30 feet deep in snow and hardly anyone has survived. One group has holed up in a church tower, where they slowly drive one another insane. Also, there are polar bears; intelligent polar bears. Also giant snow moles. Giant telepathic snow moles. The early, less fantastical part is in the region of early Ballard, but the characters are hard to engage with – under pressure of their environment they seem to be drifting inexorably into ineffectual stasis (very Ballardian), but it’s less the ‘mysticism and homicidal mania’ kind of stasis, more ‘just not really getting anything done’. The snow moles are too much, too late.

Michael Coney, Hello Summer, Goodbye (1975) 5*
This, by contrast, is utterly charming. Rather than Ballard, we’re in the region of Dream Archipelago Christopher Priest (Coney may not have been the most original of sf writers). The story’s not set on Earth, but it is set in a society with countries, wars, bureaucracies etc; also with teenage kids, who come to terms with the horrors and hypocrisies of adult society while also negotiating first love. But on this planet (orbiting this star) things get weird when it’s hot, and really weird when it’s cold – and it’s about to get very cold indeed. Quite a disparate set of parts (including some shonky-looking science), but it absolutely works, emotionally as well as structurally; the ending’s both surprising and satisfying.

Richard Cowper, Worlds Apart (1974)
Cowper’s Breakthrough featured parallel narratives of present-day England and a bizarre fantasy world, the second of which ultimately, well, breaks through into the first. This novel is basically that, played for laughs. It’s partly about the frustrating daily life of George, a middle-aged man straight out of Terry and June, who is writing a fantasy saga whose protagonist is called Zil Bryn; it’s partly about the frustrating daily life of Zil Bryn, who is writing a fantasy saga about someone called ‘Shorge’ who lives on the planet ‘Urth’… Does it work? Of course it doesn’t work, it’s a silly idea. It’s quite fun while you’re reading it, though.

Charles Logan, Shipwreck (1975) 5*
This, on the other hand, is not fun to read. The plot is simple: the main character crash-lands on an alien planet, alone and with no way to either leave the planet or communicate with anyone else. He then struggles to survive. And struggles. There are triumphs along the way as well as setbacks: Logan brings out the pleasure of building something with your hands (in this case, sawing wood to make scaffolding to support a platform to support a windmill to run a backup generator). But in the end there are more setbacks than triumphs – as we always knew there would be. Powerful, moving and (sadly) utterly believable.

Barry Malzberg, Beyond Apollo (1972) 5*
The debriefing diary of an astronaut recently returned, alone, from a two-man voyage to Venus, interspersed with notes towards a novel based on his experiences. What happened to the Captain is unclear. What happened when they got to Venus – in fact, whether they did get to Venus – is unclear. Why the astronaut keeps changing his story is unclear; also, whether he is deliberately lying or helplessly confabulating. It is clear that the astronaut is deeply anxious about the purpose of the mission, and about his relationship with the Captain, and about the vastness of the solar system, and about his ability or otherwise to have sex with his wife; some or all of these factors may be inter-related. Or may not. This isn’t sf as we’ve generally known it, and it’s all the better for it. (1972! Who’s writing ‘New Wave’ sf now?)

Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, The Dynostar Menace (1975)
The basic framework of this novel – the bones of it – is a nuts-and-bolts adventure story – a murder mystery, in fact, prefaced with a plan of a space station instead of a map of a village. And the bones are good bones; it’s well-executed and keeps you reading. Unfortunately the hard science element is rather dodgy – failure of the ozone layer we’re familiar with as a threat, but total, instantaneous failure? – and the gender politics is dreadful. Every female character is classified in terms of her apparent sexual availability (‘too much’ being just as bad as ‘too little’, naturally), and a gay male character is seen as generally repellent. Different times and all that, but come on – Chip Delany was writing about starship throuples in 1966.

Curt Siodmak, City in the Sky (1974) 1*
Another space station novel, also tending to sexualise its female characters (well, two out of the three of them) and to other its solitary gay man. The similarities end there, as this is basically an airport novel, in space; specifically, it’s a jailbreak in space and (when the inmates of the prison satellite reach the larger resort hotel satellite) The Towering Inferno in space. Shlock, and not in a good way.

‘Patrick Wyatt’, Irish Rose (1975)
A much more serious proposition, but an even more problematic one. This is a post-apocalyptic neo-mediaeval dystopia, its population mired in ignorance as well as in, well, mire. It’s a feminist variant, specifically: women are despised and treated as breeding animals by an entirely homosocial society. Why? Because women had brought about the Second Fall: a population crash caused by an undetected malfunction in contraceptive pills, causing sterility in the next generation. It’s neat. What does for it is that, as a corollary of the population crash (and the need to replace the lost numbers), the surviving population of England is almost entirely Black or mixed-race – and there is at least a strong suggestion that this is associated with their low intelligence. Not like the titular ‘Irish Rose’, who is as smart as you like (she teaches herself to read, would you believe), as well as being as White as you like. Like they are in Ireland. Which never had the Second Fall… I did enjoy this while I was reading it – ‘Patrick Wyatt’ was apparently a successful writer for children, and he or she certainly could write – but politically it just gets worse the more I think about it.

Roger Zelazny, The Doors of his Face, the Lamps of his Mouth and other stories (1971) 5*
The last in this group’s generous crop of five-star reviews, and it’s not like any of the others. It’s much more old-fashioned, for a start (participant observation among the Martians? deep-sea fishing on the oceans of Venus?). But Zelazny’s willingness to pitch camp more or less anywhere from the most fable-like fantasy to nuts-and-bolts hard sf, including some weird borderlands in between – which at one time I would have seen as a disqualifying weakness – is actually the strength of this collection, enabling as it does the exploration of a fizzing abundance of ideas, handled wholeheartedly and without cynicism or detachment (Robert Sheckley please note). Don’t buy this framing conceit? There’ll be another one along in a few pages.

Five 5*s and only one real clunker; these 10 turned out to be a pretty good haul.

Next up, and finally:

Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit
Spider Robinson, Telempath
Arkady and Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic
Bob Shaw, Ship of Strangers
Richard H. Francis, Blackpool Vanishes
Terry Carr, Cirque
Kate Wilhelm, Somerset Dreams and other stories
D. F. Jones, Xeno
Christopher Priest, An infinite summer
C. J. Cherryh, The Faded Sun: Kesrith

Peas grow there

In July I read – or finished reading – two books from the £10 Box:

Charles Logan, Shipwreck
Ian Watson, The Jonah Kit

Review of the Watson to follow.

I also read (or finished)

Gareth Southwell, MUNKi; Pale Kings
you are not you are not here is not real is a game without rules made by you are not you…
Thus the catechism of a mysterious group of Gnostic-inspired hackers in MUNKi. (Break it down: “you are not ‘you’, you are not ‘here’, ‘here’ is not real…”) If hackers is what they are. One character responds, “so you’re saying that as long as you can justify what you’re doing online, you can do anything?”. The reply: “Who said anything about ‘online’?”. A very strange sf novel which sets multiple intellectual hares running, but tidies everything up with a much more conventional “everyone’s converging on the same place for different reasons” chase plot. Pale Kings both is and isn’t about gaming, and about the art world, and about AI (and it’s only about 70 pages long). Ideas are not Southwell’s problem.

Jennifer Egan, Manhattan Beach
I’d been put off reading Manhattan Beach after hearing that it was a historical novel, and that it was much more straightforwardly structured than “fix-ups” (or novels in the form of a fix-up) like A Visit from the Goon Squad and The Candy House. I needn’t have worried. It is fairly long & did take me a while to read (note paucity of other titles), but it was well worth it. (And there are multiple point of view characters, one of whom I deeply regretted identifying with – and a sex scene that practically leaves you feeling sore – so really, what more do you want?)

John Phillip Reid, Rule of Law; Robert Fine, Democracy and the Rule of Law

For what I laughingly call ‘work’. Reid traces the concept of the ‘rule of law’ back to the Middle Ages, showing that the phrase initially suggested something very different from its current connotations. Fine, writing from a Marxist perspective, is more sceptical about the whole thing.

Also in July, I watched these films:

28 Years Later (Danny Boyle 2025)
Yes, I watched it again. It made a lot more sense.

Cinderella III: A Twist in Time (Frank Nissen 2007)
I’ve been trying to get my money’s worth out of Disney+. This (recommended by my kids) was actually pretty good; not a million miles away from the Misfits episode where Curtis tries to change the past.

Monsters (Gareth Edwards 2010)
A pretty good monster movie with a strong “…and they are us” undercurrent. An astonishing monster movie when you take into account how much it cost to make.

Frank (Lenny Abrahamson 2014)
It’s not about Daniel Johnson, but it’s not not about Daniel Johnson. It’s not about Frank Sidebottom, but it’s not not about Frank Sidebottom. It’s not about Jon Ronson (who toured with Frank Sidebottom), but it is by Jon Ronson. More to the point, I think it is about a version of Jon Ronson: a version whose well-intentioned disruptiveness goes far beyond occasional klutziness. Think The Little Stranger and you won’t be far out. (Does have a happy ending, though.)

Harvest (Athina Rachel Tsangari 2024)
A vivid and memorable film, but let down by the slowness of the pace and by all the main male characters being weaklings and idiots (whereas all the main female characters are strong, hard-working and permanently angry, and who can blame them). The pace also relates to the atmosphere, of which there is plenty: the “folk horror” meter was registering 25-30% for most of this film, ticking up to 50% in places. But it’s not a horror film – it’s basically a historical drama, set in a pretty clearly identifiable Scottish Highlands early on in the Clearances – so I think a value a lot closer to 0% would have worked better.

Friendship (Andrew DeYoung 2024)
Tim Robinson is a US comic with an awkward, shlubby, un-self-aware persona, like a nightmare cross between Hank Hill, David Brent and Norman Wisdom. This film pits his character against the seemingly sophisticated and debonair individual played by Paul Rudd, and asks what happens when Rudd’s character no longer wants him around. Do things go badly? You bet. Does he redeem himself? Well, not really. It’s as cringe-inducing as early episodes of the (UK) Office, but without the concentrated nastiness: you just watch this not particularly likeable character relentlessly bringing everything down on top of him. Possibly an acquired taste.

M3GAN 2.0 (Gerard Johnstone 2025)
Silly and all over the place. Johnstone makes the classic sequel-writer’s error of thinking that audiences go to sequels asking “can you give us more of the same?”, as opposed to “can you do that thing the first film did again?”. But then, that approach would require thought and reflection – you’d need to have an idea of what it was that the first film did, then think about how to do it again. If you just wheel out the same central character or the same basic setup, not only do you not need to do any of that hard work, you’ve given yourself a free rein on basically everything else – including plot, tone and genre. The result’s liable to be a mess, but you can’t win ’em all.

The Fly (David Cronenberg 1986)
I missed seeing this at the time due to squeamishness over vomiting scenes. I shouldn’t have been so delicate. It’s full-on, but it’s terrific – and I think this (seven years before Jurassic Park) is the film that made Jeff Goldblum “Jeff Goldblum”.

Amadeus (Miloš Forman 1984)
I didn’t see this at the time, either. It’s a bit “Sunday evening serial”, but it carries you along. The scenes with Mozart extemporising music were entirely believable, which is to say, they were awe-inspiring: it was as if the music was already there, just waiting for someone to play it or write it down.

Zionism in “The War Illustrated” (1945–6) [4]

The War Illustrated was a part-work, published from September 1939 to April 1947; it promised to keep its readers informed on the progress of the War (and the post-war settlement), while building up into a comprehensive encyclopedia which they could refer to afterwards. On the 21st of December 1945 it featured an article on the future of Palestine, Grasping the Palestine Nettle by Kenneth Williams. I reprinted the article in this post. In this post I discussed the arguments raised by Williams: some were very much of their time (stressing the importance of supply lines to India as part of the British Empire), but others were more familiar to a modern reader (attacking the use of spurious accusations of antisemitism to end debate).

On the 12th of April 1946 The War Illustrated noted that “[s]ome of our Jewish readers have expressed their dissent from the general trend of [Williams’] statements” and printed an edited version of a letter from “Mr. H. Newman, well known as a Jewish journalist” (adding, “No further correspondence will be considered.”). I reprinted Newman’s reply in this post. Here’s what it said.

H. Newman pitches his opening appeal pretty high, suggesting that the lack of a Jewish state differentiates the Jews from every other ethnic group in the world:

Why should this one people in all the earth be refused the cohesion which its own territory would confer?

While I wasn’t around in 1946, I have heard this argument before; it’s generally advanced with total confidence that there is, indeed, only “one people in all the earth” whose aspirations to statehood are treated as controversial. It’s easy to get sidetracked onto the question of whether Jews do in fact constitute a people on the same footing as, say, “the Poles” or “the French” – a very large claim in itself, and one with obviously problematic implications (e.g. for French and Polish Jews). But even granting this premise for the sake of argument, the assertion that the Jewish people is the only one denied its own state loses all plausibility if we think of the Roma or the Kurds, the Basque country or Chechnya.

Or, for that matter, if we look at the map of the world beyond Europe. The nineteenth-century concepts of nationality and national self-determination, which found their fullest expression in the Wilsonian redrawing of the map of Europe after the Treaty of Versailles, gave the world what now look like some very ‘natural’ tight bundlings of territory, language and culture (Bulgaria, for instance, home to speakers of Bulgarian and to the Bulgarian Orthodox Church). But does anyone imagine that Indonesia or Nigeria, say, represents a similar geography/ethnicity/culture cluster – or that there are no unsettled claims lying beneath (or running alongside) ‘national’ brandings like those two?

The idea of the world as parcelled out into a jigsaw of nation states, each corresponding to its respective ‘people’ – with only the Jews excluded from the share-out – is a childish fantasy. This was all the more true when Newman was writing: in 1946, most of the map of Africa was still painted either red or the blue of Françafrique; the Baltic states born out of World War 1 had been conquered by the Nazis and then absorbed into the USSR; and Ukrainian nationalists could call on no example of nationhood more recent than the Middle Ages. In that world, the bland claim that only the Jews were denied statehood was flatly absurd.

Newman proceeds with another Zionist credo:

Prejudice against Jews will continue so long as Jews remain a phantom, wandering people… welcomed nowhere, resented everywhere – because they are living irrationally. The raison d’être of Zionism is to rationalize the relationship of the Jewish people to other nations.

Jews are a national anomaly: a people without a home cannot go home. Instead, they must either live as a permanent minority – and consequently a permanent source of conflict – or else be eradicated. Which is why antisemitism is universal and ineradicable – at best it goes underground for a while – and also why it is intrinsically murderous. This argument follows on from the previously-stated (and plainly erroneous) assumption that it’s normal for nation states to be ethnically homogeneous. It also legitimates ethnic conflict to a rather alarming degree; it seems that the only way in which minority ethnic groups can live in peace is if they’re under permanent threat of expulsion. For Newman, a world without antisemitism would be one in which (for example) a German government could expel both Jews and Poles, deporting the Poles to their homeland and the Jews to theirs. When you reach that conclusion, something’s clearly gone wrong with either the logic or the premise – and I don’t think it’s the logic.

Newman then turns to the terms of the Balfour Declaration and the British Mandate for Palestine, objecting to Williams’s assertion that “a Jewish State in Palestine … was never promised and is a gloss put by Zionists on the Balfour Declaration as they have grown in strength”. It’s certainly the case, as Newman says, that Britain was committed to “the establishment of the Jewish national home” in Palestine, and to facilitating Jewish immigration and “the acquisition of Palestinian citizenship by Jews”. However, Newman necessarily stops short of saying that Britain was committed to establishing a Jewish state in Palestine. Rather, he suggests that Britain had quietly agreed to help create the Jewish state by stealth: that, under cover of the Mandate, Britain was creating the conditions where a Jewish state could eventually be imposed by weight of numbers. If Jewish immigration was currently running at too low a level to make this possible, this was an aberration which could and should be reversed.

The notion that Jewish immigration would have to be restricted in order to ensure that the Jews would be a permanent minority never entered the heads of anyone engaged in framing the policy. That would have been regarded as unjust, and as a fraud on the people to whom we were appealing.

Actually, given the demographics of Palestine in 1946, for Jews to remain the minority would not have required any covert plotting. The Jewish minority accounted for around 30% of the population of Mandatory Palestine, a proportion that hadn’t grown greatly during the War years: Jewish immigration of 10-12,000 per year was effectively matched by natural growth in the majority population. As mentioned in an earlier post, the British government had recently committed to maintaining Jewish immigration to Palestine at the current level. Even if they hadn’t, changing those proportions would take a big increase in Jewish immigration: even achieving population parity by the year 2000 would have required Jewish immigration to increase seven- or eight-fold, and continue at that higher level. To achieve parity within a timescale measurable by politicians rather than historians – by 1960, say – would have required a tenfold increase. In short, in the absence of a truly massive and sustained increase in Jewish immigration – or a concerted operation of ethnic cleansing – the Jews of the Yishuv were going to be a minority for the foreseeable future.

Newman and other Zionists understood the phrase “Jewish national home” as implyng a Jewish nation state in Palestine, and saw the Mandate as a stepping stone to its establishment. From a non-Zionist perspective – even the broadly philosemitic perspective of those responsible for the Mandate – it could equally be argued that the Yishuv, existing as a minority within Arab Palestine, was the “Jewish national home”. The logic of the Mandate system, moreover, was that formerly-colonised territories were progressing towards nationhood, with the Mandatory powers playing a strictly temporary role as imperial overseer and mentor in the ways of international society. In this perspective, the key question of governance with regard to Palestine would be how the Jewish community was to exist, longer term, as a minority within a majority-Arab territory – and how that territory’s progress towards self-government would make space for the interests of the Jewish community. This wouldn’t involve the Zionists – or their opponents – getting everything that they wanted, but in retrospect that seems more like a positive than a negative.

The remainder of the piece consists almost entirely of Newman restating arguments that Williams had already acknowledged and either countered or balanced.

Newman: “Nowhere else, except in Palestine, can Jews claim as of right and not on sufferance to live”
Williams: “what is called ‘natural right’ is opposed to what is called ‘historical right’

Newman: “To every conforming Jew the return to Palestine is an integral and indivisible part of the Jewish faith”
Williams: “[Bevin] showed … that it is wrong to regard the Zionists as representing the whole of Jewry”

Newman: “Arabs have benefited a thousandfold – in living standards, health, education. … Why, then, refuse justice to the Jews who … have built beautiful cities even on sand dunes?”
Williams: “you can hear it said with truth that the Zionists have brought great material benefits to the Arabs of Palestine. … The soul of a people threatened with domination is unaffected by such considerations.”

This tit-for-tat symmetry disguises an asymmetry between Williams’ and Newman’s arguments. Williams wrote from the standpoint of Britain as Mandatory power; his key argument was that the Palestinian Mandate committed Britain to respecting the interests of the non-Jewish majority population of Palestine as well as those of the Jewish minority. As well as precluding Britain from imposing Jewish minority rule, that commitment qualified Britain’s commitment to facilitating Jewish immigration to Palestine. Higher levels of immigration – even much higher levels – could be anticipated, but there was no likelihood that Jewish immigration would be allowed to mushroom to the levels that would permit a demographic takeover in the foreseeable future. Newman’s response to this complex and balanced argument was simply to restate the Zionist position. Indeed, he explicitly takes sides between Arab and Jew: “In both the last wars Arabs have fought against British and Allied interests. … Jews, and not Arabs, have, through the times of war, proven themselves Britain’s best friends.” I’ve heard similar arguments comparing Ulster Unionists favourably to the SNP.

Newman concludes by looking to the future. How was the Jewish state to be brought about? It is to his credit that he does not propose what actually happened – the disengagement of the Mandatory power under pressure of terrorist bombings and atrocities, followed by the expulsion and murder of most of the majority population. Rather, he proposes that Britain should recognise a Jewish state, then admit it into the Anglosphere under the aegis of the Commonwealth, as a self-governing autonomous territory like Canada or New Zealand:

Arabs everywhere tell British and French to “clear out”. Jews alone desire and urge that Palestine become a British Dominion. … Expediency, no less than humanitarian ideals, demands the fulfilment of an explicit pledge – Palestine as a Jewish Commonwealth.

Inspirational, H., inspirational.

I’ll say a bit more about Newman’s conclusion in a moment. Looking at the article as a whole, what leaps out is how thin it is. While the article to which it’s replying poured cold water on the idea of a Jewish state developing out of the British Mandate, it wasn’t a straightforwardly anti-Zionist piece. It took an overview of both sides of the debate, viewed from the position of Britain as Mandatory power; it acknowledged the strength of feeling among Zionists and their belief in the justice of their cause, but stressed that exactly the same could be said for the partisans of an independent Arab Palestine. The whole thing was framed by an acknowledgment of Britain’s commitments as a Mandatory power, which were themselves set in the context of Britain’s wider interests in the Middle East.

By contrast, Newman’s reply does little more than restate Zionist claims, all of them wearyingly familiar, some dating back to Herzl: only Jews are denied a state; antisemitism can only be defeated by establishing a Jewish state; the ‘Jewish home’ must be a nation state; the Jewish state must be in Palestine; Judaism itself supports Zionism; the Jews have made the desert bloom… The only slight surprise, for veterans of similar arguments in the present day, is that he doesn’t accuse Palestinian Arabs of antisemitism (although according to Williams this wasn’t unknown). Everything else is subordinated to this one set of demands. The terms of the Mandate? Irrelevant. Britain’s national interests? Best served by allying with Zionism. Arab self-interest? They should thank the Jewish settlers for everything they’d done!

It’s very much as if the purpose of the reply isn’t to win an argument, but just to keep on; to keep getting those claims out there, with their emotional resonances and their appeals to justice, to religion, to history, to whatever can get attention. What this reminds me is that, among all the distinctive features of Zionism, we sometimes underrate its sheer partisanship – its extraordinary capacity to mobilise people, not to campaign in any recognisable sense (and certainly not to debate), but just to scrap and keep on scrapping. At least, we underrate how unusual it is; apart from fringe tendencies like the LaRouchites, I struggle to think of another political group who act like this. (It’s not a million miles away from what the Labour Right get like when they’re riled, to be fair – which may in turn help explain the (objectively quite odd) alliance between the two.) In any case, you’ve got to admit that it works for them.

The other thing I want to draw attention to is the part about Palestine as a “British Dominion” and/or a “Jewish Commonwealth”. The post-imperial terminology of ‘Commonwealth’ and ‘Dominion’ is unfamiliar now, and I would struggle to define ‘Dominion’ in this context with any precision. What we can say is that, as of 1946, there were six British Dominions: Ireland, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, Newfoundland and South Africa. All had substantial pre-colonial populations, who were represented to differing degrees within the political system. Aboriginal voting rights in Australia in 1946 varied by state – non-existent in Queensland and the Northern Territory, heavily restricted in Western Australia, full elsewhere. Māori in New Zealand had a separate electoral system, a system that largely persists today. Canada operated an entire separate system of ‘native’ citizenship, which an individual could (and in some circumstances must) formally renounce to become a ‘full Canadian citizen’ [sic]. Whether Newfoundland was any different I haven’t been able to find out.

I think that’s all of them, apart from Ireland obviously (full adult suffrage from 1921). Oh, wait.

South Africa in 1946 had not implemented apartheid and the full disenfranchisement of non-Whites, but it had gone quite a long way down that road. More to the point, only a tiny minority of Blacks – then as now the majority population – had ever had the vote. Newman’s “humanitarian ideals” would have turned Palestine into a “Jewish Commonwealth” in just the same sense that the Dominion of South Africa was a “White Commonwealth”: a British satellite territory which paid lip service to the separate-but-equal status of the colonised majority population, while systematically reserving political power and democratic representation – and material wealth and opportunity – to the favoured minority.

A Zionist friend once asked me, semi-seriously, why so much of the British Left called for a two-state solution, in which the Palestinian state would be geographically split between Gaza, the West Bank and East Jerusalem – didn’t we oppose bantustans in South Africa? (This was years before Oslo and its redrawing of the West Bank, for which ‘bantustan’ would be too polite a term.) It’s a good question, and one that points to a deeper commonality. Under the (never fully implemented) bantustan system, 5/6 of the population of South Africa would have been declared non-citizens, with citizenship rights in an archipelago of ethnically-defined territories making up 1/8 of the area of South Africa. The White minority would have been gifted with almost the whole of the land, with a ready-made workforce made up of Black South Africans in a state of abject economic dependency. The themes of (desirable) land and (unwanted) indigenous people also suggest a parallel with the Indian Wars which created the present-day geography of the USA; in particular, the forcible relocation of tens of thousands of Native Americans from the south-eastern United States to what was then “Indian territory” West of the Mississippi. (That territory was itself settled later.) Then, of course, there was the 1939 Decree for the Consolidation of German Nationhood, which laid down both that Jews were to be deported to German-occupied Polish land and that German-occupied Polish land was to be reclaimed for settlement by Germans.

It’s a recurring pattern. When those in power want the land but not the people living on it, the land is reclaimed and the people are moved to… well, to somewhere else; to some other territory. Usually this territory’s a long way away; usually it’s unwanted; usually it’s quite small, particularly relative to the number of people moved into it. Very often it gets smaller over time, as those in power decide that they do want some of that territory after all. The welfare of the people moved into it is secondary; their poverty may be positively useful, obliging them to provide cheap labour. (Both the early Zionists and the South African Boers celebrated traditions of sturdy rural self-reliance, but in practice this has proved quite compatible with having other people to do the grunt work.) Ultimately, the survival of the people moved into the unwanted territory is secondary.

The last few paragraphs grew out of H. Newman’s use of the words ‘Commonwealth’ and ‘Dominion’, and it may be objected that I’m sewing a genocidal shirt on an innocuous rhetorical button. But think about it: Palestine as a Jewish Commonwealth. Palestine, with its 1.3 million Arab and 600,000 Jewish residents, and its Jewish immigration rate of 10-12,000 per year, transformed by (British) fiat into a Jewish state. What could that possibly mean – other than that a majority non-Jewish nation would be ruled by a Jewish government, in the interests of the Jewish minority? Whatever lip service the new state paid to ‘separate but equal’ principles, it’s impossible to imagine that Arab citizens would both remain in the majority and continue to enjoy the same civil and property rights as Jews (we’ve got a Jewish state, and Arabs are still charging Jews rent and telling Jews what to do?) It’s not too much of a stretch to imagine that the extent of land owned – and inhabited – by Arabs would get smaller over time; ultimately, probably, quite a lot smaller. Those in power would want the land, after all; they wouldn’t particularly want the people living on it.

This, we should remember, is the good Jewish state: this is an alternative history in which the state of Israel isn’t born out of terrorism and ethnic cleansing. (Perhaps we shouldn’t be too hard on H. Newman after all.) Which perhaps tells us something disquieting about Zionism. To put it bluntly, can we imagine a really good Jewish state arising in Palestine: one that isn’t implicated in ethnic cleansing, or apartheid, or the systematic denial of rights to disfavoured groups? Can we imagine such a state, either in an alternative past or in any achievable future?

The day I finished this post, I read a review of Gilbert Achcar’s The Gaza Catastrophe: The Genocide in World-Historical Perspective. According to the review, Achcar “sets out how the ongoing genocide and physical destruction in Gaza are the necessary culmination of Zionist policy … [using] the words of its Israeli authors”; “the book’s thesis [is] that Zionist Israel is willing to go to any lengths … to clear the territory it seeks to colonise of its inhabitants”. It’s a simple formulation, but it seems to explain quite a lot. They want the land; they don’t want the people living on it.

 

 

The £10 Box: Hello Summer, Goodbye; Shipwreck

The £10 Box was an old fruit box containing 40 hardbacks, all of them Science Fiction Book Club editions, dating from 1968 to 1979, which I bought from my local Oxfam bookshop for a tenner several years ago. This is the fifteenth in what will be a series of twenty posts, each reviewing two of those books; earlier reviews are linked at the end of this post.

Michael Coney, Hello Summer, Goodbye (1976; originally published 1975)

My eternal “if this wasn’t sf…” question gets an emphatic “Not Applicable” with regard to this one: this is sf and could only be sf. Coney’s slightly self-congratulatory Author’s Note seems to contradict this, but actually makes the same point: “This is a love story, and a war story, and a science-fiction story, and more besides.” (Steady on, Michael, don’t give it all away!)

We’re on an alien planet among members of an alien species, who seem to be humanoid but are never described in any detail. Similarly, while the planet (and its sun) aren’t Earth-like, social relations seem fairly familiar: there are rival nations and government bureacracies, adults with jobs and kids with long summer holidays (one of whom is the narrator). People drive something not entirely unlike cars (although they appear to run on alcohol) and use domesticated animals to produce food (assisted by the lorin, an intelligent species which coexists with the people of this world). The planet isn’t entirely hospitable, though: some trees will take you captive if you get too close, and some pools are inhabited by ice-devils – animals that kill their prey by freezing the water when they feel any movement, with dire consequences for anyone who puts a foot in their pool.

Freezing is a broader problem for the people we meet – in fact “freeze” is their F-word (“Cocky little freezer, aren’t you?”). Cold – the normal cold of a winter’s night – will kill you if you stay out in it for too long, or at best drive you insane. The summer isn’t benign, either: radiation emitted by the sun means that anyone who works outdoors is likely to develop mutations, growing extra fingers or even an extra arm. At the height of summer the sea partially evaporates, leaving a thick, viscous liquid which can be navigated on punt-like boats, and out of which the fish can be gathered with ease. Obviously(?) this isn’t how genetic radiation damage works – or for that matter how heat and cold work – but that’s not really the point. The viscous sea, the mutated adults, the ice-devils and the lorin all seem to be part of a personal mythology, whose power Coney makes us feel even if its meaning isn’t spelt out.

This isn’t just a coming-of-age story set in an exotic location, in other words. An obvious point of comparison is Christopher Priest: the contrast between an adult world of militarised bureaucracy and the passionate vividness of adolescence was very reminiscent of some “Dream Archipelago” stories. As for the plot, let’s just say that this unfeelingly bureaucratic and militarised society faces the threat of an unusually long cold spell (see previous paragraph) and deals with it in its own way – although there may be another way. The conclusion is satisfying and genuinely moving. (The link a couple of sentences back isn’t a spoiler, or even directly relevant, but it is a clue.)

I wasn’t keen on Winter’s Children, the last Michael Coney I read, so it’s nice to be able to say that I thought Hello Summer, Goodbye really worked. A charming story which has the courage of its slightly dotty convictions and is all the better for it.

Charles Logan, Shipwreck (1976; originally published 1975)

This, by contrast, is very much a pre-sf genre piece in sfnal clothing. The title, in one sense, tells you all you need to know: somebody’s been shipwrecked, and we’re going to follow their exploration of their new environment and their battle for survival.

As indeed we do. The main character, Tansis, is the sole survivor from a crash-landed scout ship; this in turn was all that remained of a ‘generation’ starship which had been seeking strange new worlds for the last 65 years, and on which Tansis had lived his entire life. He knows nothing about the planet where he’s stranded, but he knows that he is stranded – he has no way of getting off the planet and nowhere to aim for if he did. He’s got a ship’s computer (although it’s programmed to respond only to the ship’s commander, who is dead); he’s got a spacesuit and a rather natty decontamination system, shipside of the airlock, allowing him to go outside if he wants; he’s got a water purification system and a year’s worth of food. What happens now?

What happens now, in one sense, is exactly what you’d expect. Tansis leaves the ship and investigates the local flora (is there anything edible? combustible? usable for clothing or building materials?) and fauna (anything edible? anything intelligent?). He explores the local area, then moves the ship to another part of the planet and explores that area. He works out how to tap a water source and how to purify the water; he works out what he can eat without either killing himself or getting stoned out of his mind (an unexpected hazard), and what chemicals he needs to process it to make it safe, and how he can get those chemicals; he even builds himself a windmill for when the ship’s power runs out.

So far, so Robinson Crusoe in Space – and that’s what this book is, in one sense. But that’s not all that’s going on here, and (I suspect) it’s not what won this book the 1975 Gollancz/Sunday Times sf contest. The other key element of the book is that Tansis’s entire project is hopeless, and he knows this from the start – as do we. If everything had gone swimmingly – breathable air, drinkable water, edible wildlife – Tansis would still have spent the rest of his natural life on his own, knowing that everyone he’d ever known was dead and never seeing another human being. And, of course, things don’t go swimmingly: keeping things going is hard work, and as soon as Tansis seems to have things worked out something happens to throw him off – which may be an injury or may be no more than the start of pollen season. Depression is a constant danger, aggravated by isolation; several times Tansis starts hallucinating members of the crew and arguing with them. Eventually everything seizes up and wears out: including the ship’s computer (which starts giving wrong answers – imagine that!); including Tansis. Only the contact he has somehow managed to make with a local life-form makes his life, and death, feel bearable or meaningful.

John Clute:

Calmly and inexorably, it tells the story of the inevitable death of a man whose spaceship lands disabled on a planet orbiting Capella; the ecology he is faced with is inimical to human survival. That this grim anti-Robinsonade telegraphs the most likely outcome of such an occurrence from the outset has never made the tale popular with readers.

It’s true that you know where the book is going from quite early on; this dispels any thought that life will get significantly better for Tansis, while also unspringing any narrative tension the book might have had. The old joke is that some books are unputdownable and others unpickupable – and I have to admit that this book didn’t exactly leap into my hands. That said, if Logan had gone down the Robinson Crusoe route I’d have felt just as unenthusiastic, if not more so. The remorseless consistency with which he details Tansis’s doomed struggle to survive is genuinely impressive, particularly when you look back on the novel as a whole. The grimness of the main plot is also effectively leavened by the late ‘alien contact’ sub-plot – not because it’s happy (it’s heartbreakingly sad), but because of how it brings home Tansis’s isolation, allowing him (and us) some emotional release.

Shipwreck seems to have been Charles Logan’s only venture into fiction; it’s surprising that the accolades it received didn’t lead him to try again, but perhaps he’d said what he wanted to say. It’s a powerful novel which will stay with me; I couldn’t say I enjoyed reading it very much, but I did – and do – admire it a great deal.

Reviews so far (with * rating and SFBC # where present)

Poul Anderson, The Trouble Twisters (1963, 1965, 1966) #141
John Brunner, Timescoop (1969)
Algis Budrys, The Iron Thorn (1967) #142
Louis Charbonneau, Antic Earth (1967) #133 1*
D.G. Compton, The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (1975) 5*
Michael Coney, Winter’s Children (1974)
Michael Coney, Hello Summer, Goodbye (1975) 5*
Richard Cowper, Breakthrough (1967) #136 5*
Richard Cowper, Phoenix (1968) #147
Richard Cowper, Worlds Apart (1974)
L.P. Davies, Twilight Journey (1967) #134
Samuel Delany, Babel-17  (1966) #140 5*
Harry Harrison, War with the Robots (1962) #138
Philip E. High, Invader on my Back (1968) #148
Damon Knight, Three Novels (1951, 1954, 1957) #139
Charles Logan, Shipwreck (1975) 5*
J.T. McIntosh, Six Gates from Limbo (1968) #144 1*
R.W. Mackelworth, Firemantle (1968) #151
Barry Malzberg, Beyond Apollo (1972) 5*
Judith Merril (ed.), Path Into the Unknown: The Best of Soviet Science Fiction (1966) #131
Larry Niven, Inconstant Moon (originally published 1973)
Kit Pedler and Gerry Davis, The Dynostar Menace (1975)
Frederik Pohl, The Age of the Pussyfoot (1965, 1966) #166
Frederik Pohl, The Gold at the Starbow’s End (1972)
Robert Sheckley, Can You Feel Anything When I Do This? (1971)
Curt Siodmak, City in the Sky (1974) 1*
Jack Vance, The Killing Machine (1968) #135
‘Patrick Wyatt’, Irish Rose (1975)
Roger Zelazny, The Doors of his Face, the Lamps of his Mouth and other stories (originally published 1971) 5*
Chloe Zerwick and Harrison Brown, The Cassiopeia Affair (1968) #149

Key to Star Ratings

5*: you should definitely read this; read the review to see why
1*: you should definitely not read this; read the review to see why not
No star rating: read the review and see what you think

Search like never before

Google are currently advertising a new way of using their search engine. In ‘AI mode’, users won’t see an AI summary followed by a list of URLs with matching text; they’ll see an AI summary and, er, that’s it – although they will be able to ask the AI to expand on its answer and provide more detail.

This may be the worst thing that’s ever happened to online search. If it works perfectly, it will kill advertising-based online media: Google – the world’s leading search engine and universal information broker – will turn into a one-stop shop, a kind of 21st-century Delphic oracle. (Great for the egos of Google management, but terrible for their advertising income, surely?) If it works badly, it will do all of that while also flooding the Internet with half-truths, misinformation and fantasy.

If you think I’m scaremongering, read on. Here’s what happened when I asked Google AI a question recently – a straightforward, factual question.

1. The Ask and the Answer

A few days ago YouTube’s algorithm served me a video – literally; an uploaded VHS tape – of the Magnetic Fields playing live in 1991. The Magnetic Fields have always revolved around Stephin Merritt, and there he was, on lead vocals and electric guitar; there was Claudia Gonson on drums (and vocals); there were Johny Blood and Sam Davol holding up the bottom end, on tuba and cello respectively. And there was… somebody… on bass guitar.

Huh.

I knew that Claudia, Sam and Johny had been part of the Magnetic Fields circle since forever. I also knew that Magnetic Fields albums are mostly the work of Stephin Merritt, as musician as well as composer and singer. A number of people have been regular or recurring contributors to Magnetic Fields recordings – as well as the three I’ve mentioned, there’s John Woo (guitar), Shirley Simms (guitar and vocals) and Daniel Handler (accordion); more recent albums and tours have featured Chris Ewen (keyboards), Anthony Kaczynski (guitar and vocals) and Pinky Weitzman (violin). But off the top of my head I couldn’t think of anyone who’d been credited as a bassist. (Apart from Stephin himself on 69 Love Songs (1999) and 50 Song Memoir (2017), two of the three Magnetic Fields albums whose credits list everything he plays; presumably if there’s any bass on albums with no bass guitar credit, that’s him too.)

So I googled. I got an answer straight away, in the form of an ‘AI summary’ which was helpfully displayed above, and in larger type than, all the boring old search results. It’s OK, though, because the AI summaries include links to the sources Google AI has used. So you get the best of both worlds: the search results are still there, and if you don’t want to read through them and dig out the information yourself, Google has done it for you!

The answer was: Dave Hernandez. Google AI assured me that Dave Hernandez, former bassist with the Shins, had also played with the Magnetic Fields.

Could it give me more detail? Certainly it could! It told me that the Magnetic Fields had a shifting lineup of musicians centred on Stephin Merritt, while the Shins were led by James Mercer. This would have been great if I was doing a homework assignment or writing an article to a deadline, but obviously it didn’t get me any further with the specific question of Dave Hernandez playing bass with the Magnetic Fields. But no matter, there was a link to the source. And the source was this page: a 2010 post on a music blog which closed in 2013. The post presents two dead links to MP3s of the Shins covering a song by the Magnetic Fields, and prefaces them with a comparison between Stephin Merritt and James Mercer:

To all outward appearances, Stephin Merritt is a prickly (to put it mildly) curmudgeon whilst James Mercer is unassuming, shy and friendly. And yet while Merritt has somehow managed to maintain the same circle of Magnetic Fields bandmates and collaborators for the better part of two decades and ten albums (plus countless side projects), Mercer’s Shins have had no small amount of musician turnover over just three albums in nine years. Album number four, which should see the light of day in 2011, will retain only bassist Dave Hernandez from past lineups – or so Hernandez hopes.

But managerial styles aside, both Merritt and Mercer have a gift for pop music and a fixture on The Shins’ 2007 tour set list was early Magnetic Fields single “Strange Powers”, which dated back to 1994’s Holiday

(Digressing slightly, it’s an interesting comparison. There’s never been any question that the Magnetic Fields is anything other than a Stephin Merritt project, dedicated to performing (some of) Stephin Merritt’s songs and with instrumentation largely provided by Stephin Merritt – and yet it’s a rare Magnetic Fields musician who isn’t credited on at least three albums, and several of Merritt’s collaborators have now been working with him for thirty years or more. James Mercer is and always has been the Shins’ singer and songwriter, but his decision that the band was essentially a solo project led directly to him sacking his bandmates, to their understandable dismay.)

But anyway: that‘s the source? That‘s why Google AI is making the (prima facie unlikely) assertion that Dave Hernandez, veteran of the mid-1990s music scene in Albuquerque NM, played bass with the Magnetic Fields (formed in 1989 in Boston MA)? It found an old Web page in which the phrase “bassist Dave Hernandez” (and a link to the Shins’ Web site) appeared in the same paragraph as the phrase “Magnetic Fields bandmates and collaborators” (and a link to theirs) – and it hallucinated the connection between the two. What’s really ironic is that the page wasn’t even accurate: Dave Hernandez played guitar as well as bass on Chutes Too Narrow, the Shins’ second album (2003), and guitar (only) on the band’s third album (2007). As it turned out, the band’s fourth album Port of Morrow (2012) didn’t “retain … Dave Hernandez from past lineups”, but he does guest on three tracks (on guitar). As you can hear from these two guitar solos:

2. Something’s Happening Here (But What It Is Ain’t Exactly Clear)

Back to the Magnetic Fields and their bassist(s). I’d given Google AI a prompt, and it had done what generative AI does: it had responded to the prompt with the kind of thing that usually follows it. And, since there aren’t very many examples of what usually follows the prompt “bassist with the Magnetic Fields”, it had made do – and, not to put too fine a point on it, made something up.

At this point I looked again at that videotape of the Magnetic Fields playing in Cambridge MA in 1991.

Image

There’s Johny Blood on tuba, Sam Davol on cello, Stephin Merritt on guitar, Claudia Gonson on drums  and… I think that probably isn’t Dave Hernandez. Actually there’s an even bigger clue, as you can hear at about 1:26:

In his introduction, Stephin explains the presence of a tuba player by saying that they hadn’t been able to find a bass guitarist (“who can read music”). So the mystery fifth musician is playing a guitar, not a bass (as indeed the YouTube preview image above makes rather embarrassingly clear). The scale of the neck only looks long, in the previous screenshot, because the guitarist herself is relatively small – and you don’t notice that because Stephin, centre stage, isn’t much taller (he’s about 5′ 4″).

So the question isn’t who was playing bass with the Magnetic Fields in 1991, but which (female and fairly diminutive) guitarist Stephin Merritt might have been able to enlist for live dates at that time. I’m guessing it’s Shirley Simms – who, along with Sam Davol, I saw when the Magnetic Fields played Manchester just under a year ago, or nearly 33 years after the gig shown here.

3. What’s In A Name?

Mystery solved! But now I was interested in another mystery, viz. what Google AI was playing at. So I asked it the same question again, and again. Curiously, it quite quickly stopped saying “Dave Hernandez”; in fact, when I repeated the question word for word it rapidly stopped giving me an “AI summary” at all. So I tried some different query-form search terms (“who plays bass guitar with the Magnetic Fields”, “who was bassist with the Magnetic Fields”, etc).

I got some fascinating results. (Not correct answers, necessarily, but fascinating results.) Google AI didn’t seem at all sure what name it ought to give me, but it was certainly going to give me a name; boy, was it going to give me a name. Over eight or nine successive attempts it gave me the following names: Stephin Merritt, John Woo, Sam Davol, Shirley Simms, Chris Ewen, Daniel Handler, Dave Hernandez, Phylene Amuso, Chris Eubanks, Chris Eriquezzo, Daniel Handlin, Daniel McGuire, Daniel McDonald and Daniel MacKenzie.

Who are all these people? Stephin Merritt we know, and the next five – John, Sam, Shirley, Chris, Daniel  – are all current or former members of the Magnetic Fields (although not one of them plays bass). Dave Hernandez we know about. Phylene Amuso is – to my surprise – a correct answer: she played bass on an early single and on the 1992 House of Tomorrow EP. As for Chris Eubanks (no relation), Chris Eriquezzo and all those Daniels, your guess is as good as mine.

Google AI didn’t just spit out names, though. I was told several times that Stephin Merritt played bass on Magnetic Fields recordings – which is true, but in this context could be an educated guess – and on one occasion that he was “credited as such on multiple albums”, which isn’t true. The next most frequent answer was John Woo, who has had a credit on every Magnetic Fields album since Get Lost (1995) – but for guitar, not bass. I was also assured that John Woo “joined the band in 2014”, “replac[ing] Daniel Handler, who had previously played bass for the group”. (Daniel Handler’s first Magnetic Fields credit is from 1999 – four years later than John Woo’s – and he plays accordion.) I was specifically told that John Woo had played bass on Get Lost and 69 Love Songs (he didn’t) and that Chris Ewen played bass on Distortion (2008) (he didn’t, and in fact only became a regular member of the Magnetic Fields with 50 Song Memoir).

Here’s one sample answer, as it appeared:

ImageNone of the three Magnetic Fields members listed have bass credits; I don’t know who Daniel McDonald is, or what’s going on between his first and last names; I don’t know who the guy playing bass in the picture on the right is. Basically I don’t know what any of this has to do with anything.

 

ImageAnother answer was supplemented with the paragraph and picture on the right. The first sentence looks plausible, but “The Magnetic Fields’ bass lines” aren’t ‘often characterized by’ anything. There isn’t a “Magnetic Fields sound” – this is the band that followed an album emulating the Jesus and Mary Chain with one modelled on Judy Collins – and in any case bass guitar is rarely prominent (if it was, somebody would probably get a credit).  The second sentence looks plausible, too, but all it’s actually saying is that Merritt’s songs feature both music and words.

I should also say that at no point did Google AI mention Julie Cooper, who (unlike John Woo) is credited with playing bass on Get Lost.

4. Thought I’d Never See The Day

Google AI’s performance was shockingly bad. An adequate answer to the question I posed would have looked something like this:

The Magnetic Fields is a loose group of musicians formed in 1989 and centred on songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Stephin Merritt. The band has no regular bass guitarist, with ‘bass’ lines often being taken by other instruments (cello, tuba, piano, synthesiser). Merritt is credited as playing bass guitar on two of the band’s albums (69 Love Songs and 50 Song Memoir); the only other Magnetic Fields releases where a bass guitarist is credited are the House of Tomorrow EP (Phylene Amuso) and Get Lost (Julie Cooper). However, most of the band’s releases give no details of instruments played by Merritt, so it is possible that he plays bass guitar on one or more of these.

If Google AI was responding to “who plays bass with the Magnetic Fields?” with “Stephin Merritt plays bass with the Magnetic Fields”, or with “Julie Cooper played bass on the Magnetic Fields album Get Lost“, or “there are no bass guitar credits on most of the Magnetic Fields’ releases”, that wouldn’t be so bad; it would just show that AI results aren’t as good as what a human researcher can pull together in half an hour, and that wouldn’t be too surprising.

What it actually did was so much worse. It’s not just that it gave simple, straightforward answers to a question that doesn’t have a simple, straightforward answer, although it did; it’s not just that it never, ever said “it’s not clear” or “we don’t know”, although it certainly didn’t (and in real life that is very often the correct answer). It gave multiple different answers to a single question; it overwhelmingly gave wrong and imaginary answers; it volunteered additional information, including pictures, which was also wrong and imaginary.

Giving different answers when you run the same search repeatedly would be a massive red flag if you were developing a new search engine, even if all the individual answers were broadly correct. It’s hard to remember this sometimes, but Google are actually in the search engine business; this ‘AI’, which answered the same question about the Magnetic Fields with ‘John Woo’ (wrong musician), ‘Dave Hernandez’ (wrong band) and ‘Chris Eubanks’ (imaginary), is supposed to be an extension and improvement on their search. This level of error and confabulation was typical. Twelve out of the fourteen(!) different answers that Google AI gave were wrong – and seven of those twelve referred to people who either have no connection with the search topic or, more straightforwardly, don’t exist. The other five weren’t much better: the answers that aren’t obviously made up have the same fantastical quality. John Woo is a member of the Magnetic Fields, but it makes no more sense to call him their bassist than to give the role to “Daniel Handlin”: there is simply no evidence to support this, and plenty of evidence to the contrary.

Thirdly, Google AI gave very little background information – and much of what it did supply Imagewas, again, incorrect and confabulated. There is no reason why anyone would write that the Magnetic Fields’ music is characterised by “melodic and inventive” bass lines, unless they were filling space and hoping not to be fact-checked; it’s the kind of thing that might be true of a number of bands, so you might as well put it in. It’s bullshit, in other words. John Woo replacing Daniel Handler on bass takes this logic one step further, from Frankfurtian bullshit to outright confabulation. “Bassist 1 replaced bassist 2” is the kind of thing that you find in band histories; those are two names that belong in the Magnetic Fields’ band history; put them together, job done! Fourthly, speaking of confabulation, what’s going on with the pictures? Who’s this guy? (It purports to be John Woo the guitarist, but it isn’t; it’s not John Woo the film director either.) Come to that, who’s the guy with the red bass from earlier on – and what’s Macca doing there?

I don’t know what kind of half-arsed “is the sky blue?” testing process Google AI went through before it went live (and, as a former IT professional, typing those two words sends a shiver down my spine: they let this go live?). Nor do I know what kind of woodenheaded “I said get it done!” macho top-down management process led to it being pushed out of the door in this state. Most importantly, I don’t know why this has happened – what Google (or Google senior management) were trying to achieve by making it happen, and are still trying to achieve by foisting ‘AI mode‘ on the world. Even if you were a C-suite exec who Just Wants Results And Wants Them Yesterday Dammit, you wouldn’t want these results, surely.

Confession: I actually quite like the idea of a ‘Google AI summary’. By now – twenty years on from the days of ‘folksonomy‘ and ‘Web 2.0‘ – Google really ought to be doing something intelligent with its search results, perhaps by producing something like the indented paragraph just below the last subhead. All that information is out there, after all, and it’s not very hard to find.

But instead of that, what Google have unleashed on the world is a text generator and confabulation engine, which responds to a prompt by producing a whole series of confident assertions, inconsistent from one run to the next, almost entirely incorrect and mostly wildly (but plausibly) fantasised. And this is the world’s leading search engine! It’s as if the BBC suddenly made its entire radio output unavailable outside the UK (OK, bad example). It’s as if there was an automatic update to Windows Media Player which made it unusable unless you plugged in a Zune. It’s as if U2 had released their new album directly into everybody’s music collection, only the album was Metal Machine Music. It’s… tell ’em, Ed.

 

 

 

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started