Obituary; Part Two

Mishmash Bookshop we have long been in the habit of placing a small sign in the window when one of our heroes dies. The declaration of our good wishes will help pave their way to heaven, we hope; people might come in and feel they have found a kindred spirit; and it might bring us some karma, or kudos.

It’s been noticeable in the past few years that many of those ‘retiring after a good innings’ have been the cultural innovators who inspired the baby-boomer generation. In 2006, Joseph Barbera followed his partner William Hanna to the cartoon studio in the sky at a time when animation has the cinematic respect it deserves. The Godfather of Soul, Mr. James Brown as he called himself, died a few days ago, a man who genuinely did create a new music. No JB; No funk. That simple.

But I wanted to single out one creative genius for you to bless; Mr. Ahmet Ertegun. The owner of Atlantic Records, he presided over two influential periods in American music.

Firstly, Stax/Atlantic Soul was the only stable of musicians that could look Motown in the eye. Sam and Dave, Aretha Franklin, and Big Joe Turner recorded for him through the 50’ and 60’s; Booker T Washington’s MG’s were the de facto house band.

Secondly, he personally signed the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin; AC/DC and Stone Temple Pilots recorded for him. He gave the green light to arguably the two best rock albums of all time; Back in Black, and Four Symbols. He died after slipping and injuring himself back stage at a Stones gig; Jimmy Page gave the world the sad news himself.

Oh, and he brought soccer to the USA by creating the New York Cosmos, because he loved football so much.

Andrew Mishmash

Obituary; Part One

At this time of year most journalists will write a short piece on what they consider to be the sad losses of the past twelve months. Anecdotes about deflated politicians will be wheeled out once more to demonstrate that, with their demise, society has lost a link with an older, more moral, age. This lazy approach to writing applies as much in the blogosphere as in print. Here at Mishmash Bookshop the most deeply regretted death of all is a sport; Pro Tour Cycling.

I first got interested in cycling in the 1980's when, working as a porter in a residence full of Spanish students, I followed Stephen Roche as he battered his way forward to take the Tour de France on the last day, and by the narrowest ever margin, from Pedro Delgado. I have loved the Spanish people’s commitment to the sport ever since.

I went to Dublin for the infamous start to the 1998 Tour, where supporters cheered the Festina team onto the podium to sign on for the race despite having been arrested for drug smuggling the previous day. I saw the roll-out the following morning [which felt more like a mystical religious experience than anything I have witnessed in a church] and stood next to Garret Fitz Gerald , the retired Taoiseach, as an equal penitent novice, to see Mario Cipollini and Marco Pantani off on their forty days in the wilderness.

Lance Armstrong straddled the Millennium years of the Tour de France. He took seven consecutive wins between 1999 and 2005; and this after recovering from two deadly bouts of cancer. He still splits the sport along lines that are neither professional, nor national, nor generational. His fans [and I am one of them] will tell you he is the hardest working champion in the toughest sporting competition on the planet, bar none; his detractors complain he is an elusive drug cheat who has , somehow, ruined the sport for everyone. And then Lance retired…

This years Tour looked to be the most openly contested in almost a decade. From a field of about eight serious contenders for the maillot jaune, two stood out. Jan Ullrich, for whom the domination of Lance Armstrong had served as an alibi for always coming second; and Ivan Basso, lead rider in former champion Bjarne Riis’ new Team CSC. CSC were revealed by an interesting cinema bio-pic, Overcoming, to have a guiding principle of mutual support, rather than the usual internal competitive hierarchy. And they seemed, for cyclists, to be relatively opposed to le dopage.

But on the very eve of the race, both Basso and Ullrich withdrew, having failed drug tests, along with fifteen other riders. They could make their way to the front without the internecine power struggles, it seemed; but not without the EPO and the steroids. The Tour was devastated, but opted to carry on with the few remaining moderately well-known riders. It limped on for the duration, and was won in the late stages by American Floyd Landis; and then to cap it all Landis failed two drug tests within days of his victory. I turned my back; if you asked me I couldn’t have told you who the maillots recipient wearer was [in fact I had to check – it was Oscar Pereiro].

I won’t return to supporting cycling again, unless there is a huge cultural change in the teams, the management, and the sponsorship regime. I just couldn’t sit watching the helicopter shots, arguing the toss between my heroes and my son’s, or discuss team tactics with Catalan taxi drivers, while it’s about cheating. The sport is effectively deceased, and leaves a swathe of grieving fans behind it.

Andrew Mishmash

You Better Watch Out...

You can't beat the emotional experience of the primary school nativity play. It would be a hard heart indeed that didn't smile at all those well scrubbed faces, singing carols learned phonetically from Miss.

Last year The Wee Guy was Boss Reindeer, and had a line all of his own - "Hey reindeers! Stop playing and come and get ready!".

This year he and his compadres had more of a toy spear-carrying role in a slightly older and more complicated show. But they made their way through Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, and Santa Claus Is Coming To Town with great aplomb, and the joyful tears flowed aplenty.

I was struck by how much of a life he has built for himself in the past few months. He has friends we don't know, skills we haven't encountered, and thoughts we haven't been told. At his school, we are an adjunct to his world. And that's pretty cool for a four year old. Well done, matey!

Andrew Mishmash

Camp Science Fiction Movies

We all have guilty pleasures [does that have to have capitals and a copyrights sign now?] and one of mine is bad sience fiction movies.

Of course you've all heard about the shower curtains in Plan Nine From Outer Space; but if you get the chance to see Fantastic Voyage on a decent screen you won't be disappointed by the "wow" lecturing, or by the oil-film psychedelia. The Incredible Shrinking Man is that tried favourite, the post-nuclear holocaust warning, with echoes of Gulliver, Robinson Crusoe, and the worst closing monologue ever.

So I wasted [i.e. derived no productive benefit from] a couple of valuable hours this afternoon watching David Lynch's Dune. I'd seen it before of course, and the enormous talking jobbie [which now looks presciently like a Damien Hirst vitrine] that holds the universal monopoly rights on wormhole travel haunted my dreams for years.

Despite having the most disjointed script, and the maddest producer ever, Lynch managed to gather round him and impressive cast. Jurgen Prochnow, the Captain from Das Boot; Linda Hunt, the only person to win an Oscar for playing a character of the opposite gender; Max von Sydow, Sian Phillips, and a youthful bouffant Kyle McLachlan. But it wasn't until the final credits that I realised the girl playing Alia the telepathic wunderkind [looking like Regan MacNeil in a hijab] was the nine year old Alicia Witt.

I have to admit to being completely besotted with Miss Witt in the TV show Cybill during the 90's when she remodelled the role of Kevin the Teenager into a pouting moue, alabaster skinned, fiery redhead. And up against Cybill Shepherd this was no mean feat. Men of my age who find themselves strangely attracted to the kid's cartoon Jane and the Dragon may now understand their uncomfortably kittenish feelings.

She hasn't done much film work recently, and has presumably settled into a quiet life of trying on slinky tops and pouting into mirrors...

Andrew Mishmash

Alan "Fluff" Freeman 1927 - 2006

Just a brief and heartfelt farewell to Alan Freeman, radio innovator in excelsis, who died last month.

Fluff - note DJ's had real nicknames then, Mr Ice/9mill/Killa - hosted the national countdown show in some form for over forty years. Consequently there aren't many fans on Planet Rock who haven't at some point made his show a regular tune-in.

Which is not bad for a failed opera singer from the colonies whose entire schtick was four phrases;

1. Pop pickers

2. Awlright?

3. Stay bright

4. Not 'Arf!

So that's the show over - Peely, Fluff, and TV on the Radio [who interviewed my Granny twice] are spinning the Wheels of Steel at the great Traffic Light Rock Night in the sky. See you when we get there.

Andrew Mishmash

Political Trivia

Generally I find politicians a pretty detestable bunch. To think that we are represented by the likes of Jack Straw [who counts Pinochet and Mugabe among his friends], bare-knuckle thug John Prescott, and the thoroughly unpleasant Barbara Roache. But some of them are worthy of our attention.

Oona King was in Mishmash Bookshop last week. I am pleased to tell you she is a thousand and one times more gorgeous than "that" George Galloway. And she bought a copy of the Rothmans Football Handbook. Form an orderly queue please, gentlemen...

Frank Field was the last customer I served before hurrying off to assist at my son's birth; he never walks past the door without asking after The Wee Guy. "Too clever for government", say the commentators; too rare altogether, say Mishmash.

When I get to work early enough, I often pass Denis Skinner in Tothill Street. "Good Morning, Mister Skinner!" I shout, in my top-hat voice; "Moornin'" he scowls back at me. He had a quadruple bypass last year and was back at work within weeks, representing his own constituents, and the left in general.

Mayoral candidates frequent the shop too. Ken has the longest arms of anyone I have ever seen. Steve Norris asked my colleague Dave if he might borrow a handkercheif. Susan Kramer [despite being an international banking lawyer] looks like your jolly auntie who teaches silversmithing at the County F.E. College.

I bumped into Tony Blair earlier this year; walking round St James's Park on the morning he had to tell Tessa Jowell to choose between her job and her husband. "Oh Look", I thought, "there's some old bloke who missed his last train home and slept on a bench. And he looks like Tony Blair..."

Andrew Mishmash

Augusto Pinochet 1915 - 2006

Here is truth.

"You have sinned against The Lord; and, be sure, your sin will find you out."

Numbers 32;23

Andrew Mishmash

Come In, Come Out Of The Rain.

The quality of pop music in Britain goes through a pretty regular cycle; a zenith when Scottish bands are the best in the world, and a nadir when they are not.

It's pretty easy to cite examples and case histories. Bay City Rollers invent glam pop. Skids invent punk. Big Country invent cliff-top rock, then sell it on for stadium use. Cocteau Twins invent shoegazing. Jesus and Mary Chain re-invent punk. Lloyd Cole takes cultural literacy to the 7-inch single. Glasgow en masse creates celtic blue-boy soul. Primal Scream invent ravedancebluesrockthing. Franz Ferdinand re-cast the lot as their own. Any obs? Answer came there none.

I have recently discovered the fantastic website The Great Jock 'n' Roll Single, which aims to build an authoritative chart of the best 75 scottish singles of all time. There's a discussion forum that tries to sort out questions that have floored many a pub music fan; when did the Simple Minds get to be so pish? John Martyn - better with or without legs?

It is clearly written by obsessives, but remains accessible and is especially good if you share the authors' tastes; late 1980's soul-flecked pop from Glasgow. So Blue Nile, Big Dish, and Postcard Records get the lion's share of the plaudits. But for me, it's still Sam and Dan, The River Detectives, sounding fresh as ever, the celtic Everly Brothers with the Springsteen heart.

I would heartily recommend that you go there and take a flip through the best jukebox in the world.

Andrew Mishmash

This Is Shame! This Is Shame!

Brendan Gallagher reports this morning in the Telegraph that it was the All Blacks themselves who refused to do the Haka at Cardiff Arms Park on Saturday; Brian Moore blames the WRU for demanding that they could sing their anthem last.

I was taught the Pacific Islands Haka by Fijian players John Kama and Mick Saku when I went out for my father's army side, The Hameln Saracens [popularly known as The Drowning Rats]. The current Pacific Islands tourists made their own war-dance challenge to the Irish on Sunday, but it didn't save them.

The cliched advice repeated to us as young players - take your game to them, eyes on the ball, give it to the extra man - never stops being true. Unfortunately both the All Blacks and the WRU have forgotten the one about the difference between winning and taking part. I say a plague on both your houses. Your marketing money, your childishness and your lack of decent manners have spoilt the game. My game.

Andrew Mishmash

Kamate! Kamate!

I’m awarding myself a momentary reprieve from my week of Caledonian posting in honour of Saint Andrew. And I’m doing so to let you know how disgusted and angry I am with the Welsh Rugby Union.

If commentators are to be believed, the WRU told the All Blacks they could not perform the Haka before their match with Wales yesterday. And I want to know why.

The Haka is the Maori war-dance shown to adversaries before a fight; it has the same chivalrous quality as throwing a gauntlet. It announces that those present on the field of battle are champions of a country, and asks the opponents to send their champions. It is a promise to behave honourably in combat; it is not an insult.

Several years ago the All Blacks, on their regular British tour, took up on the half way line at Twickenham to show the Haka to the England team. The English captain took his fifteen to the far end of the park, where they turned their backs on the challenge from the Maori warriors. Such was the offence given by this that, having trounced the English, most of the All Blacks refused to shake hands on the way off the field, and did not take part in the post-match festivities.

A fortnight later the All Blacks came to Murrayfield. They took up position on the half way line, and found themselves eye-to-eye, one man each, with a tall, unsmiling Scots champion ready for battle. And as they joyfully chanted "Kamate! Kamate!" [trans. This is war! This is war!] they knew they were meeting with men of honour and gallantry. Then, of course, they trounced us too.

My very good friend Dr Bruce Dalbrack has argued most eloquently on his website for an end to the Haka on the grounds that it gives an unfair psychological advantage; I think the Scottish standoff disproves this. The rugby ‘tradition’ that provides the largest advantage is the dreadful pre-match song adopted by the Irish side; coming after both countries national anthems, it can leave the visitors standing stock-still on the receiving line for five minutes, slowly seizing up.

I think the Welsh Rugby Union havecome to an ill-considered decision, which threatens an unpopular precedent; the All Blacks want to show the Haka, the fans want to see it, the players want to face up to it. The Haka ergo should remain; can we get on with the game now?

Andrew Mishmash

My Hen Laid a Haddock...

I have occasionally said to one or two of my nationalist compatriots that my favourite National Anthem is the Welsh one, Land Of My Fathers. "Her warriors are gallant and brave; her poets of great renown", says the powerful refrain. And while I watch Scotland's First XV put up a gallant fight against Australia's, I thought I might take a moment to explain.

When I was young I loved my rugby union football; I still think it is the finest sport in the world. In the late 1970’s though things were even better. The game, from top to bottom, was still amateur; the gentlemen who pulled on their national colours [and no shirt sponsors either, just a crest] did so for no other reward than their mother’s pride.

In those days, Queen Victoria School’s pipe band, cited by many as the best juvenile band in the world, played before every game at Murrayfield; and quid pro quo the School had access to a plentiful supply of “schoolboys’ enclosure” tickets. This area ran as a perimeter round the field of play, with the long, sloping terraces behind. Murrayfield nowadays tops out at a capacity of about sixty thousand, and has trouble selling out. Back then, before the re-development of the 80’s, it regularly held crowds of one hundred thousand. The trick, from a schoolboy’s point of view, was to get onto the terraces with the adult supporters. There one could ask men for cigarettes, pester French visitors for wine from gourds, and learn to swear.

The Welsh came to Edinburgh every second year, and brought with them the best rugby players in the world. They rucked, mauled, kicked and ran with fearlessness, stamina, and a beauty often missing from the modern, professional game. And the Welshmen could sing; winning, losing, or as an inspiration to their champions; but they sang loudest with Land Of My Fathers. As my pipe band struck up the notes, fifty thousand of them would come in, in tempo and in tune. Their song, in their own language, rises to a huge climax; and as this chorus rang all around my national stadium, I felt, in the truest sense of the word, terrified. It stuck in the throat to have to sing God Save the Queen after that.

And having sung their hearts out, the Welsh, with players like JPR Williams on the sheet, would usually hand their hosts an instructive thumping.

Andrew Mishmash

It's Your Flag, So Fly It With Pride!

In 2003 the Scottish Parliament took some time out from it's programme of hard work to decide on the official colour for the National Flag of Scotland.

This flag, generally known as The Saltire, is the oldest in the world, and celebrates the legendary defeat of Athelstane of Anglia by King Angus of Scotland. According to the tale, Saint Andrew appeared in a dream to Angus, and assured him victory in the morrow's battle. On rising, the Scots soldiers saw the cross of Saint Andrew in the sky, confirming his promise. Since this victory the Scots have gone to battle under this banner.

A millenium later, Saltires had been getting darker in tone for some time, and, in a curious reversal of cause and effect, had almost become the mid to navy blue used in the Union Flag. The Parliament settled on a colour called Pantone 300 for the field of the flag; this was lighter than had been expected, and there was some substantial muttering among those who, perhaps, didn't know the legend.

But now that it is determined, I like it. I walk a little taller when I see the Saltire, and I like to see my flag flown in unexpected places. A few years ago I saw it, alongside a Lion Rampant, flying on someone's front lawn in Martha's Vineyard. Americans have a fine tradition of respect for their flag, and I think that as a nation waiting to be a country, we Scots are nurturing such a respect too.

Next up; The National Anthem.

Andrew Mishmash

Whit a guy! Whit a guy!

It's about a week to go 'til St. Andrew's Day, when I will, as usual, wear the Kilt, shout abuse at sassenachs, and drink irresponsible amounts of alcohol, all in the name of my cultural heritage.

So over the next few days [and there's a modicum of optimism triumphing over experience coming here] I will be posting about how fantastic are Scotland, the Scots, and all other things Caledonian.

But I wanted to start on a down note by personally attacking something called Steve Richards. Steve is a journalist [of sorts] and works for The Independent. He might well be a nice man, who buys his mother flowers on her birthday and the like; and I don't know what country he comes from, but I suspect it starts with 'E', ends in 'ngland', and has 'patronising bastard' in between.

In his article Watch Scotland yesterday we see some tired old bigotries; watch out for the Scots, a tricky and mendacious rabble, subsidy junkies, but in the end they know what's good for them; kissing English arse. If he said the same thing about Nigerians he'd be arrested.

Richards belittles First Minister Jack McConnell's plans to boost investment in Scotland by cutting corporation tax as parochial; and four times refers to him as Jack McDonnell. Not a crime; just pisspoor journalism. Or perhaps Steve is in the habit of mis-spelling the names of heads of governments.

You might want to contact him at s.richards@independent.co.uk and let him know just what a prick he is; you might think he knows already; you might think that if he doesn't he is beyond help. But having dumped my load, I'll accentuate the positive from now on.

Andrew Mishmash

Trippelganger!

I was sitting around the verandah not so long ago [in Planter's Order of course, it being a Tuesday] reading The Just So Stories, and listening to The Enigma Variations, when I was suddenly reminded of a claim put to me by my very good friend Hugh a few years ago.

Hugh's longstanding contention was that Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936], Sir Edward Elgar [1857-1934], and Lord Robert Baden-Powell [1857-1941] were not individually Britain's greatest writer, composer, and child-rearing expert; but that they were one and the same person.

His evidence was not entirely convincing though - he simply asked whether one had seen any photographs of them together. I think I vaguely recall this being called ponendo non potens in the Philosophy Department's course Deductive Logic for Beginners.

Thinking that the information super-highway might be the ideal medium for empirical testing of Hugh's quirky epistemology I took a speedy recconoitre and found that - By Jove! - he is irrefutably correct!

Andrew Mishmash

I Can Sing A Rainbow Three

I haven’t been contributing to the blogosphere as frequently as readers may have liked; at least I haven’t been doing so on this blog, but I have been picking fights with writers elsewhere.

But I'm back – and firstly want to tie up the remaining issues around the spectacular rainbows above Camberwell. You will remember I wondered why rainbows should be so bright above South London’s number one murder hotspot.

I have had a fascinating reply from Douglas [no matter that he is my uncle and a bit brainy] and quote it below;

"Your grand rainbows are, almost certainly, due to the amount of airborne particulate in the air over the conurbation, carbon in particular. Carbon refracts the visible red in the spectrum more than the other colours. Red is generally the easiest of the rainbow colours to see in the sky, an effect that is added to by the inner, second rainbow having its colours reversed and therefore the two red bands nearest one another. But carbon is the key. You can carry out a simple experiment that is an analogue of the refraction of light through a saturated atmosphere. Take a clear glass bottle, fill it with water and add a few drops of milk to make it cloudy. In a darkened space, shine a bright, white light through the colloidal suspension towards your eyes. You see the light slightly bluish. Shine the light through the bottle from the side (at right angles to your line of vision). The light now has a pinkish tinge. The blue light has been refracted least and the red most, just like in a rainbow."

I have to say I am one of those Dads who love this kind of experiment; ripping open self-seal envelopes in the dark, and hitting sugar cubes with a hammer, are the fun way to learn. It's sad that the current political climate bars us from making small, safe, garden fertiliser based fireworks in the back garden. Welcome to Blair's Britain...

So my thanks go out to Douglas for his solution; Poincarre's Conjucture coming soon I hope?

Andrew Mishmash

L/Cpl Johnson Beharry VC

In the decades following the Second World War, British boarding schools provided good retirement jobs for veteran servicemen. My rural Perthshire alma mater was singular among these; it was still a Ministry Of Defence establishment. As a result, I grew up in the company of war heroes; I was taught chemistry by a Lancaster crewman; learned metalwork from an artificer on HMS Hood, hospitalised with peritonitis before the ship’s tragic last sortie. The fly-fishing group was mentored by a tweedy old Free Polish Army Captain, much rumoured to have been in Colditz; the School Commandant was a retired Brigadier awarded an MC for holding the lines during the terrifying retreat from Osterbeek, during Operation Market Garden.

Last week the Metropolitan Police Military History Society was taking an evening trip to see the Victoria Cross decorated soldier Lance Corporal Johnson Beharry speaking. A London bookshop had arranged the event for about 80 people. I was looking forward to hearing his story, and perhaps shaking his hand afterwards. At the last moment the event was cancelled, due to lack of public interest. I was disappointed and angered by this.

What Johnson Beharry and my old schoolmasters had in common was a sense of duty, and of comradeship. It seemed their courage had come almost as a surprise to them, and they were humbled by it. I haven’t got round to reading Beharry’s book yet [hint!] but I have seen him say he “couldn’t have looked his mates in the face if he hadn’t done his best for them”, which I think expresses the same sentiment. It’s the counterpoint of Hannah Arendt’s ‘banality of evil’ argument – the most ordinary of men rise to the occasion when they and their comrades are under fire.

I feel if London can’t get eighty people to listen for an hour to this charming, funny, and courageous young man, it is a shameful condemnation of our TV celebrity society.

And to Lance Corporal Beharry we say this – Well played, Sir! We hope your future service is as exciting as your time so far. But with fewer bullet-holes, eh?

Andrew MishMash

Pause For Reflection.

Over the past couple of months this blog has changed somewhat. Originally envisaged as a marketing tool for Mishmash Bookshop, it soon became more of a sounding board for issues affecting the business. From there it branched out into...well... just my take on life, and passing some hopefully entertaining comments on the world.

I've been looking at other blogs quite a bit, and I think we stand up. Personally, I like the literary ones, the quirky stuff, and the sites that look to push their readers' own thinking a bit. I don't like the titilating rubbish, and I don't have lot in common with malaysian teenagers and their shopping habits.

I would point you in the direction of two blogs today. The first is from a local community site about Camberwell. There was another of the all-too-frequent shootings earlier in the week, but this one seems to have given people more of a shock. Camberwell, I have to tell you, is a fantastic place.

The second is the well-honed-opinion blog of Dave, who has recently opened a watch shop in Broadway Mall. He's clearly a fascinating bloke, and I wish him all the very best in this new venture. I think he'll need it.

Andrew Mishmash

I've Started... And You're Finished!

For some reason I missed last week's Mastermind, and only discovered later that the round winner's specialist topic was Led Zeppelin. The myths about The Zepp are astounding - Faustian Satan worship; personal airliners with a shark tank in the back; diets comprised of Jack Daniels, M&S trifles, and grade-one heroin. Mishmash Bookshop are, naturally, big fans.

I wanted to see how I might score against MM's specialist question setters without the benefit of revision; but also wondered how many of the myths would be cited as fact.

But I freely admit my past performance on TV quiz shows has not been garlanded with laurels. A few years ago I took part in Channel Four's Fifteen-to-One, produced and hosted by the polymath William G. Stewart. Unsettled by the experience of wearing make-up for the cameras I dried completely.

WGS: Which honorary scientific post is currently held by Sir Martin Rees?

[thinks ok right there are two aren't there one is the astronomer royal and the other is...]

Me: Chairman of The Royal Society!

WGS: No, Sir Martin Rees is The Astronomer Royal.

WGS: Which Asian city is served by Chek Lap Kok airport?

[come on drew robert's dad built that runway* and at the time they were living in...]

Me: Kuala Lumpur!

WGS: No, the correct answer is Hong Kong.

I sat down, cheeks aflame, my career as TV brainbox sharply curtailed.

Andrew Mishmash

* Robert's Dad was in fact building the new monorail in Kuala Lumpur, after finishing the runway at Chek Lap Kok airport.

Purple and Orange and Blue...

Several people have been kind enough to respond to my earlier post, asking why the rainbows over Camberwell are so vibrant and frequent.

Many have pointed out that Camberwell has a Rainbow Street, named after the Rainbow Cottage where 19th century poet Robert Browning was born. Unfortunately there seems to have been no literary citation of the multi-coloured marvels, even from Browning himself.

Incidentally, both Browning and his wife Elizabeth Barrett had mixed race, scottish and jamaican heritage. This is more common than you might think. Every time I walk the streets of Camberwell wearing my kilt, even more so in Brixton, I am greeted by caribbean men who tell me with great pride that they have scottish ancestors.

I wondered longtime why this might be - a desire to ally with percieved anti-english rebellion? or to get on up in a skirt? or to match Malcolm X's pride in the same lineage?

Me, I think it's to do with the way Scots travelled the world in the early 19th century. Young, single, well-educated Scots went out into the New World, India, and Africa as cartographers, engineers, men of commerce, doctors, ministers, and artists. Not as Viceroys, Generals, and Exisemen. Consequently they would have spent much more time in the company of the local population; and doubtless finding them interesting, amicable, and socially alluring...marriages, alliances and a reluctance to return to [say] Dunfermline must have followed close.

In short, it was a Scottish Empire, but the English taxed it.

Andrew Mishmash

Crimes Against Literature

I read with much amusement that the Home Office's Top Tackdog, Doctor John Reid, plans to ban convicted criminals from publishing the memoirs of their exploits. He intends to trackfast this legislation too, so watch out!

This comes as a classic redtop-led kneejerk response to recent rumours that paramilitary murderers, released into the community by the Good Friday Agreement, have been paid substantial cash advances by UK publishers.

So it isn't [honestly, guv] about winding up disgraced tories Jeffery Archer and Jonathan Aitken, although clearly there will be no tears shed at the Politburo if those two perjurers are stripped of their royalties. It's about stopping some very nasty criminals from benefitting financially from their crimes.

The most prevalent UK publisher of hard-man autobiographies is John Blake. I've read some of their stuff, Guvnor, Pretty Boy, Chopper and Bronson; it's not very edifying, but it does sell well south of the river. What's more, it is in general written by men who have served their sentence and been released. And whether we like it or not, and read it or not, they should be free to ply their wares, shouldn't they?

The task of codifying this legislation will be a nightmare. Will it be retrospective; and if so will there be a rule of limitation? Will booksellers run the risk of imprisonment for selling a copy of The Ballad of Reading Gaol? Or Papillon? Or Jimmy Boyle's A Sense of Freedom?

Mishmash Bookshop suggested some time ago to friends of ours at 'the Yard' that the Metropolitan Police should have a literary division. A few coppers could sit around on an overstuffed leather banquette, cross-referencing charge sheets with galley proofs from this month's violent bestseller. If the subject claims to have 'blagged' a bank robbery that remains unsolved, the response is only a phonecall away.

Or perhaps we could 'come to an arrangement' with the various firms to extend the 'East End Omerta' to cover the West End publishers.

Andrew Mishmash

Help! Help! Help!

Regular reader and occasional contributor Mr W has quite a problem on his hands - he is, if stories are to be believed, personally responsible for almost all of the current IT boom in Scotland's youth.

That's not the problem tho' - he desperately needs a fan to replace the broken one on his Dell Dimension 8100. And Dell can't - or, we secretly suspect, won't - help him. A most unfortunate Mr W, then.

So if anyone reading this has either a spare fan, or a Dimension 8100 with a "frazzled front end" and a working fan, lying about the place, do please give him a call.

More of the usual half-baked opinionated nonsense coming later.

Andrew Mishmash

That's Greenock Mean Time!

I have just heard on the news that the Local Government Association - and here I'm assuming that's the LGA for the generic Englandandwales - have reported that the return from British Summer Time [BST] to Greenwich Mean Time [GMT] at the end of the summer is directly responsible for the deaths of some 450 people, mostly killed in car accidents during the evening rush hour.

They have suggested that the United Kingdom should stay on BST through the autumn and winter, and go to BST-plus-one in the spring. Meaning that England and Wales would go onto Central European Time [CET], and always be one hour ahead of GMT.

They propose that there should be a three-year experiment to evaluate the comparative benefits of the scheme. This experiment was tried before between 1968-71, and resulted, according to ROSPA, in the deaths of 2500 people per year.

Any plan to put the whole of the UK onto CET means that Scotland, especially the fine northern parts thereof, would be plunged into darkness until lunchtime for half the year. Of course as a dyed-in the-harris-tweed Nationalist I don't have a problem with my country deciding on its own practical time zone; in fact I'm pleased when politcs allows us to consolidate our differences. But it would be a practical nightmare for the good citizens of Berwick, or St. Abbs, or Dumfries.

These kinds of arguments get kicked around almost every weekend the clocks change; largely because news is quieter at weekends and lobby groups post their reports then to improve their audibility.

But surely - joking apart - you couldn't have Greenwich Mean Time that never applied in Greenwich!

Andrew Mishmash

PS I have just remembered that HM Forces need not be concerned with this pettyfoggery as all operations anywhere in the world are conducted on GMT - militarily known as Zulu Time. But you knew that, Andy McNabb fans, didn't you?

King of Kennington?

My favourite film of all time is City Lights by Charles Chaplin. I have seen it dozens of times and still dissolve in floods of tears when the Flower Girl realises that the Tramp.... well, this isn't a spoiler site, so see it for yourself.

When Jean-Luc Godard - a film director I won't call accessible - said "film is a footnote to Chaplin" it was City Lights he was talking about. Chaplin did it all; wrote it, directed it, acted, designed the gags, and bedded most of his leading ladies. In doing so he invented much of the cinematic grammar that still applies today, like lap-fading, establishing shots, and crossing the line. And all before tea-time.

I read Chaplins autobiography many years ago, and didn't really like it. But now, living in Camberwell, and having a bit more experience of mortal and financial highs and lows, I'm profoundly moved by the opening chapters. The constant grinding poverty that Chaplin, his brother, and their mother suffer is horrifying, and not all three of them survive it.

Unfortunatley, at the point where Chaplin goes to America and starts to make some money, he gives up on the abuse-lit horrors [and who can blame him] and therafter delivers a blow-by-blow account of how charming everyone he meets is, how well his films sell, and how much money he is earning.

This weekend I think I might go out and about to see if I can find the garrets, workhouses, and factories in which the fons et origo of cinema grew up; pictures to follow if I can find them.

Vincent van Gogh lived a couple of hundred yards from our garret too, and I might well make a similar pilgrimage of his sites next - springtime trip to Arles anyone?

Andrew Mishmash

The Last Post by Max Arthur

The Metropolitan Police Military History Society [of which Mishmash Bookshop is a cheerful member] had a very interesting visit from the war historian Max Arthur earlier this week. Max read from, and talked about, his book The Last Post, which came out in paperback recently.

The Last Post is a collection of interviews with veterans of the First World War. At the outset there were twenty-one of them, and during the writing of this book, sadly, seventeen of them died. Of the four now remaining alive, only one saw active service. It is as Max says, a conscious effort to record their histories before it's too late.

I have been a great fan of Max’s Lost Voices series for a number of years. I think his hands-off and transparent style suits the subject matter - the day to day mundane nature of life on military duty, interrupted by short periods of terrifying violence and often by death.

Max contributes almost nothing written to the books himself; but he clearly brings two very great skills to his publications. Firstly, he must be an extremely good interviewer. He spoke about this towards the end of his talk, and revealed his secret technique - "ask about their childhood, and then just let them talk, and hold their hand as you listen".

Secondly, he is very obviously a discriminating editor. One of the problems with academic history is that it treats all facts as equally important; but the lay reader wants something more narrative, that will convey the peaks and troughs. Once he has the raw material, Max knows which of Tommy Atkins' tales will shock you, which joke will amuse, and which will bring on tears of empathy or of regret.

Max is a very entertaining reader [no doubt deriving to a great extent from his earlier fame as an actor] and brings a vitality to the words that cannot come from the page alone. It was useful too to have his brief descriptions of the interview scenarios that you don't get in the books; like one of his respondents sitting up in bed in his pyjamas, and wearing a tricorn hat.

Last year the last surviving Australian soldier of the First World War died; the news was carried on the front pages of all the national newspapers. I hope ours are respectful enough to do the same.

Andrew Mishmash

Trouble at t' Mill...

Some of you may have seen the sad news over the weekend the Terry Jones has been getting treatment for cancer. Apparently the treatment has gone well and he is recovering. Jolly Good.

Jones, you will recall, directed the Monty Python movies Holy Grail, Life of Brian and Meaning of Life ; and later developed a career as a serious [well, serious for a Python] TV historian. The requirement that all television historians should have a 'trademark silly walk' allowed Jones the opportunity to walk with the aid of a cane, much in the manner of Sir Richard Attenborough in Jurassic Park.

The sharper-eyed newshounds among you will have noticed that Jones' bedside vigil was being kept by his "pretty blonde 21-year old swedish girlfriend". Said the Mirror.

Mishmash say;

Jonesy - well played, not bad for a boy from Colwyn Bay, isn't it!

Gentlemen of the Press - you just can't help yourselves, can you?

Andrew Mishmash

Red and Yellow and Pink and Green...

When I'm not hard at work in Mishmash Bookshop, I retire to live in the beautiful south London village of Camberwell.

One of the many truly astonishing things about Camberwell is the quality of it's rainbows.

During this afternoon's heavy showers, followed by sunshine, I knew we would be in for a treat, and I wasn't disappointed. The shot above is from last year, and doesn't do them justice. It was taken looking east, over the village, from Myatts Field Park.

Now, I was educated in Scotland in the 1970's, so I know what a rainbow is. They are caused by sunlight is being marginally refracted through the water vapour in the air. The reason you can see 'twin' rainbows in the best examples is that the refraction is happening in a converging pattern towards you, and the slower red light bends into the centre. So that box is ticked.

But my question is - Why, after a fair amount of rural life, and a lot of mountaineeering both in Scotland and abroad, does Camberwell have the most vibrant rainbows I have ever seen, and the most regular occurance of the twin rainbow?

I have thought long and hard about the effects of poor air quality, the temperature, the southern boundary of the long-gone Thames flood; but I just can't figure it out. So can anyone either explain this phenomena, or at least point me towards any historical resourse that will confirm it?

I will buy the most convincing respondent a pint in Camberwell's fantabulous Sun and Doves.

Andrew Mishmash

Shut Up! Damn! Already!

Walking past the newspaper stand this morning I saw the headline on the Times - Prince in bid to save Briton on Death Row.

For a moment I thought [as perhaps you just have] that the royal personage in question was His Purpleness, The Minneapolis Midget, Prince Rogers Nelson.

No such luck. The poor sod on Death Row [always capitalised, like a residential address] will probably go to his grave having just been asked what he does and how far he has come today by everyone's favourite socially awkward posh bloke, with a different name for use in each country he owns.

If I was on Death Row - and hey, these things happen overseas - I would want Brian Blessed speaking up for me, in character, as Vultan, Prince of the Hawkmen from 1980's camp movie classic Flash Gordon.

Or Stephen Berkoff, as Brian Blessed, as Prince Vultan.

Andrew Mishmash

Le plus ca change...

We note here at Mishmash Bookshop that the fragrant Louise Bagshawe has been selected via the notorious Conservative Central Office ‘A-list’ system to be the prospective candidate for Corby. Conservative Central Office is less than fifty yards from the front of our shop – start to feel like the world is getting smaller? And it is above a Starbuck’s – claustrophobic?

Prior to winning Tory X-Factor Ms Bagshawe was a writer of racy romantic fiction for modern girls – ‘chick lit’ as it is known in the biz. And because her successes in this project were not all that her publisher had expected, all of her titles have been remaindered, and we sell them by the bucketload. Especially to gay men for some reason.

But this is the second time in Mishmash's short and chequered career that I have fallen back on selling the early literary slush of a politician more famous for being infamous, than for representing their constituents.

In the mid ‘90’s the top-selling book in our Glasgow remainder bookshop was Helen Liddell’s Elite. Ms Liddell [almost always referred to as ‘Stalin’s Granny’] had just started out on her car crash of a political career and was none too pleased with us when we started promoting the literary failures of her past; I vaguely recall a lawyer’s letter landing on our MD.

I think Ms Liddell eventually ran out of friends to the extent that she was posted to Australia to act as High Commissioner; a kind of political transportation, but not, sadly, for the term of her natural life. Perhaps, since each of her official incumbencies seemed to coincide with the abolition of said offices, the Aussies thought her appointment might accelerate their eventual independence.

The trick to this – I humbly submit – is to make it as a politician, whatever that involves, before you engage in the ‘evening and weekends’ profession of scribing under-performing fiction. Ms Widdecombe and Ms Currie will no doubt leap to back me up here. Of course their work, too, was remaindered – it’s appallingly written – but the advances from the gullible publishers are so, so much bigger, darling!

Have a literary weekend – I’m off out with the Wee Guy.

Andrew Mishmash

We're Nearly Famous Now!

Victoria is a funny old locale for bookselling [and I pause here to allow those of you who live 'off' to raise a brow to our St James's Park address, but it’s really the same place]. At first it seems a bit barren; but on close inspection, and with a bit of judicious gerrymandering, it's actually quite productive. Literally speaking.

Iain Dale started Politico's just round the corner, and last time I lifted the lid it looked like he was creating a Tory TV channel and becoming a web based media baron.

Random House aren't so far away that you couldn't go round there and make inappropriate comments at them during your lunch hour.

And just across Victoria Street from Mishmash Bookshop is the delightful Friday Project [whom I here pause to emphasise are nothing at all to do with the execrable after-hours bilge that is TV’s Friday Night Project].

The Friday Project is a small, funky, blogfan type publisher that looks to utilise the best emerging technologies like the internet, podcasts, e-books, that sort of thing, to run alongside print media. Most famous for employing Scott Pack, the erstwhile “most powerful man in British bookselling” [sorry Scott but it could be worse; “real name Katie Price” for instance] TFP was actually up and running for a while before he joined them a couple of months ago, bringing them more into the reading public’s gaze.

They have got a very good website too, with three very informative and entertaining blogs; Scott P's very own Me and My Big Mouth, The Friday Thing and London by London. Of course everyone in bookselling reads MMBM every day, despite Scott’s recent protestations. TFT is just coruscatingly rude about pretty much everyone, and LBL is a fantastic hotch-potch of opinions and ideas from just about everyone left standing in London.

Last week they picked Mishmash Bookshop for their Intermezzo Londoner interview bit – boy was I surprised. In amongst the entry level celebrity glitterati, you can understand our flattered glee. You can have a read of LBL's latest issue here. Then take a look at the other Friday Project stuff. And next time you are in Victoria [or at least the St James’s Park end] pop into Mishmash Bookshop and buy a book or two.

Routemaster Bus Sale!

As you know, Mishmash Bookshop's home is on the ground floor of Transport for London's headquarters building. Consequently we spend a fair amount of time chatting to the various boffins visiting 'from upstairs'. And what a nice bunch they are too, generally.

About two years ago rumours started circulating that the world-famous Routemaster buses were to be finally and irretrievably decommissioned. And when the noise of weepin' and wailin' settled, one of my friends at TfL gave me the contact details to buy one - "change out of three grand" he said. Sounds like a bargain!

Now, the cloakroom girl at my favourite style-bar, who used to be Hell's Angel Property in New Jersey [and you don't skimp on her tip], said all the patches used to buy decommissioned police Harley D's two at a time so you could cannibalise them. Or Frankenstein them. Dude, whatever.

So we thought about buying a pair, cut-and-shut them, kitting the result out as a rolling bookshop, and taking it round book-free bits of London on a huge grant from Bookstart, followed by a summer tour of the West of Scotland, Cliff Richard style. Sadly 'tho, we realised that, living in London, it would cost a king's ransom to stable them for January and February. I even suggested to my sister that she could have the grooviest greenhouse in all Falkirk, but she was having none of it. Too bad - we'll just have to stay static in St. James's Park Station.

But while we were researching the possible changeover to bookselling by bus, we discovered the following amazing facts;

1. Strictly speaking, Routemasters are only those buses entering service from summer 1959 - spring 1968.
2. All the windows are the same size, thereby effecting much speedier repairs.
3. You don't need a PSV licence to drive one [as a mobile bookshop]. Or for that matter an HGV licence.
4. The brakes were left over from RAF Halifax bombers from WW2. Which is why you used to get thrown forward every time the driver slowed down.
5. Routemasters don't have a chassis - an astonishing innovation in the 50's
6. The last Routemaster ran on 9th December 2005, on route 159 from Streatham Hill to Marble Arch via Westminster. I was on it and can report it was uncomfortably slow and stuffy, and everyone’s damp coats smelled of mothballs. Lovely.

You have my full permission to recycle these trivia jewels as your own; but beware any groups of associates who might feel the repetition thereof lowers you in their estimation. But for those of you genuinely interested in the history of London Buses [and not just the Routemaster] I should point out that we are down to our last few dozen copies of John Reed's classic book [see top], and it's still only £2. Once it's gone, as they say, rather tautologously, it's gone.

So get down to Mishmash Bookshop as soon as you can – “Hold tight please!”

Andrew Mishmash

...and no "Enter Sandman" either...

I’m sad to see the NMPA and the MPA have recently written to the lovely Olga to tell her to leave and desist from leading so many young men [and Dads] astray.

So what’s all the fuss about?

Essentially the music publishing biz [or the sorry bunch of lawyers who effectively run it] is moving to close down ‘tab’ sites in much the same way as they have tried to close mp3 sharing sites in the past. Olga is the biggest of these ‘tab’ sites. ‘Tab’ is short for tablature, which is a kind of comic-strip chord notation for the musically illiterate. By which I mean non-reading, as opposed to just lacking in taste….

This news comes hard on the heels of a recent report that sales of entry level guitars like Squire, second hand classics like Telecasters and Les Pauls, and costly investment items like Gretsch and older Fenders are all going through the roof.

To a large extent this is because the guitar is back in fashion for pop music and the kids are lovin’ it - Kaiser Chiefs, Artic Monkeys, Arcade Fire etc have seen to that. But a substantial part of the increase in guitar and amp sales is to the kind of middle aged dads [not using the word crisis here] who twenty years ago would have bought a gas guzzling sports car, hit the golf course, or joined the Masonic lodge. Now they get that Rickenbacker semi they always wanted and learn to play ‘Hey! Mr Tambourine Man’ from – you guessed it – a tab site.

Now there are arguments either way about the rights and wrongs of tab sharing sites; take a look at the comments on the BBC report and you’ll see what I mean. Essentially the publisher’s argument is that distributing free tabs decreases the potential income of the artist; which, on the surface, seems fair.

But tab sheets are almost useless without a recording of the original as a reference, so it should go without saying that any would-be Jimmy Page will have that in his walkman or iPod. And the tab user would never have bought the sheet music anyway; tabs, remember, are for people who can’t read music. So it looks like the lost income argument is flawed, at best.

Like many businesses, the music publishers clients [the artists] are distinct from their customers [you and me], and therefore have different agenda. But in these days when in practice there are really only three or four entertainment companies, it strikes me that the publishers should see themselves as part of a bigger picture. Pearson Media or Bertelsmann surely know that if I download the tabs for Stairway to Heaven then it’s likely I’ve already got the guitar and t-shirt to match; where their music publishing loses out, their guitar sales and online service provider stands to gain, perhaps by a healthy margin.

Meanwhile, those of you out there with teenage guitar heroes [even middle aged teenage guitar heroes] living in the loft, you might find yourself hearing a lot more amateurish racket than you have been!

Andrew "Blackmore" Mishmash

Blogger's Special Discount Offer!

Just a quick post today to say how astonished we have been at the response to the blog. It's been fantastic when our regulars come in to say they've been dropping in on it and making helpful comments.

As a big "THANK YOU!" to all of you who are following the blog [i.e. you!] we are offering a further 10% discount on all paperbacks, childrens titles, and hardbacks too - in fact everything in the shop.

Just come in, choose your books, and say to the handsome bloke behind the till that you've "been blogging" and claim your extra discount!

[A small favour tho - please do ask before we ring them through or my accountant gets huffy!]

So come one, come all, and bring all your friends too. Mishmash Bookshop is big enough for all of us - I hope!

Andrew Mishmash

Spectacular Childrens Illustrated Book Sale!

As any parent can tell you, the quality of children’s publishing has improved immeasurably in the past few years. This is not only true of older childrens books like Harry Potter, Alex Rider, and the Northern Lights trilogy; the change is even more remarkable in illustrated titles for the under-fives. So no more Janet and John and the Blue Peter annual - we here at Mishmash Bookshop prefer to spend our time catching up on the latest adventures of the Nutbrown Hares, Maisy Mouse, or Chimp and Zee.

We’ve just taken delivery of a load of fantastic young children’s illustrated titles; mostly from our favourite kids’ publisher Walker Books, and also some from Myriad, Bloomsbury, and others.

We tend to stick to Walker for our children’s section as no-one else has their consistent high standards both in terms of their appeal to young readers, and also in terms of their production quality. They seem to have a real skill for matching writers to illustrators, resulting in beautifully balanced books that will give continued reading pleasure for years.

So we now have dozens of full colour titles in stock by Kim Lewes, Joyce Dunbar, Charlotte Voake, Anita Jeram, Shirley Hughes, Martin Wadell, Debi Gliori, and the Wee Guy’s personal favourite Jez Alborough.

And at this point of course we should remind you that [as you know from reading our last post] our Successful Summer Sale has been extended for a further two weeks [or so] and all the new children’s stock is flying off the shelves at a smile-inducing £2!

And so with no more ado I should say to you its time to get on down to Mishmash. The Bookshop. In St. James’s Park station.

We look forward to welcoming you [and your cheeky ankle-biters] soon!

In The Future Everything Will Be Smaller. And Digital!

It has been drawn to our attention that there have been a number of complaints about the Mishmash Bookshop Weblog; specifically that it has largely been about topics other than bookselling. And we admit that it has up until now been little more than a convenient outlet for witless half-baked opinions on brutalist architecture and kids telly. But this will change!

Our long-term plan for the blog - [and its still anyone’s guess what the long term is in IT] - is to have twice weekly posts delivering news about the shop, review some new titles we have in, let you know about upcoming promotions, some charts, leak rumours from the trade rags, maybe an online book club..... Always spiced up with our immoderate opinions on life in London, what’s wrong in the world, and 80's culture. Ambitious? Yes, but first, as 'Laughing' Lenny Cohen said, we take Manhattan.

And with this plan clearly at the front of our tiny but fecund minds, we will make the next post about the huge delivery of illustrated children’s titles that have just arrived in the shop. That’s Mishmash Bookshop. In St. James’s Park Station.

Summer Sale Extended!

Usually the August Bank Holiday bookends [see what I just did there?] the summer season and each of us will have personal touchstones that we use to celebrate it; The Charity Sheild match, oysters to start every meal, Notting Hill Carnival... And of course all retailers' heads turn towards the run-up to Christmas. But we don't care about any of that!

Mishmash Bookshop are very pleased to announce that we will be continuing our hugely successful Summer Sale for another two weeks!

We just feel that there may be lots of you out there in Westminster who [despite my twice-a-day leafletting and three months to call in!] havent yet taken the opportunity to drop in and get yourself something for only £2 from our huge selection of paperbacks and childrens illustrated titles. And indeed it might be just the right time to start squirrelling stuff away for Christmas. Piles of it in fact....

So spread the word; don't keep such good news to yourselves. We look forward to welcoming you soon.

Andrew Mishmash

Apart from books ....there's always beer!

Japanese Animated Movies

So I took the Wee Guy to see Howl's Moving Castle at the weekend - remember he is three and a half and it's two hours long - and he enjoyed it immensely. He really loved Spirtited Away too, when we watched it at home on DVD awhile back.

But I'm afraid I just don't get japanese animated films. They seem to be entirely made up of middle, and the opening scenes and denouement are really just there to bookend the random linear narrative structure. So I just think "Is that it?" Or is it supposed to be simply about the skill and beauty of the drawings?

I know there are films that very famously only have a middle - Reservoir Dogs for instance - and I'm not saying I like them any the less for it, but I find it hard to take that kind of spin on animation. Give me Belleville Rendezvous anyday - and it's about cycling too.

I'm also struck that both Howls Moving Castle and Spirited Away are concerned with the central character struggling to regain something that has been stolen from them - youth or their name - and so seem to me to be about situations and our reactions to them. Whereas we in the west are much more likely to see dramatic resolution in terms of the moral learning of the characters - Finding Nemo anyone?

Or maybe - like science fiction literature- its about these very ideas. I really enjoyed the play on the four parallel universes in Howls Moving Castle, the hero physically melting with depressive angst, the continuous interspecietal shapeshifting in both movies. But I felt let down by the almost Pythonesque denouements; the momentary realisation that one character was the same person who rescued another from drowning ten years ago, or is a long disappeared prince from a country that hasn't made a prior appearance in the movie. It just seemed trite, and Thomas Hardy, frankly, did it better.

Somehow I come to the conclusion that it's not about anything other than what the Wee Guy gets from it - some popcorn and two hours of superhero shenanigans; so I feel almost guilty that I have been looking too hard. I can't deny that I enjoyed both films a lot.

By the way the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton is one of the best picture houses in London, and regularly wins awards confirming this, but don't ask for a latte before lunchtime - unless you want it for lunch, in which case you'll be well sorted. How hard can it be? And when I asked if I would be quicker going across the road the girl said "yes probably". Try "yes definitely" honey!

Andrew Mishmash

This is the Station!

This is St. James's Park Station at 55 Broadway. MishMash Bookshop is on the ground floor of the mall inside.

This view is from Tothill Street, and is essentially the view of the approach from Westminster Abbey. Just out of shot on the left is New Scotland Yard, the police station that isn't; and I'm sorry to say that in shot on the extreme right is Basil Spence's horrific brutalist monstrosity 50 Queen Anne's Gate, that was until recently the home of The Home Office. Basil Spence died [of shame no doubt] shortly after it was completed in 1976; and it was that building which prompted Norman St. John Stevas to complain that Spence had now ruined two London parks, having designed the new Buckingham Barracks opposite Hyde Park. Which is probably the one thing I can agree with Lord NStJS about.

By the way you should note how filthy the otherwise stunning 55 Broadway building is. That's because Transport for London are too lazy, mean, stupid and philistine to keep it clean. These headquarters, and the astonishing clarity of their design, once reflected the optimism and pride that the railway pioneers quite rightly had in their project to modernise the very nature of working and living in urban London. And Transport for London have done more to brutalise the legacy of their predecessors than Basil Spence ever did. Thats what I think.....

Andrew Mishmash

Here's where we are...

We are located in the Broadway Shopping Mall, which is a “compact and bijoux” collection of coffee bars and independent businesses on the ground floor above St. James’s Park Underground Station in Westminster.

The building itself is rightly famous as the headquarters of Transport for London, designed by Charles Holden in the 1920’s [I promise a further opinionated blog at some point on the fascinating history of the building and its friezes]. It looks not unlike the monolithic hub edifice in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, and was the tallest structure in London when it was built.

This means we are across the road from New Scotland Yard, the most famous police station in the world; we are round the corner from Buckingham Palace, home of the most famous lady in the world; and one minutes walk away from Westminster Abbey, which thanks to The Da Vinci Code is probably the most famous church in the world.

At lunchtime we can set our watches by the chimes of Big Ben, the clock on the Houses of Parliament; we are surrounded by the minor government departments that keep Britain ticking; and we are a stones throw [although I would not advise an empirical test] from St James’s Park, which used to be London’s leper colony.

And so here we are, three hundred square feet of bookselling empire, in possibly the most prestigious and powerful few hundred square yards on the planet. So now all you have to do is come and buy some books…

chirpy but technologically outdated bookseller attempts to engage with contemporary electronic superhighway

Today i have been working out how to have a myspace... space. It all looks like jolly fun and I find I am already getting things called "friends". No matter that I didn't spend eight years in scotlands coldest and most violent boarding school with them, or four drunken years in academia; they are counted in with those longstanding soul-mates. Come one come all.

Myspace say I have to insert a photograph [but cant find the slot in the back of the typewriter boom boom] and now find that I really don't look like the svelte debonair model of my daydreams. Yes, chaps, you know the one that starts with Susan Sontag calling to ask for theatrical design tips and ends with Peter O Toole teaching you how to mix a margerita. In fact i look a cheerfully opinionated bookseller who is carrying just a couple of pounds too much, in his early thirties......

Anyway this is all part of a general upgrading of our IT presence as I understand it to be called [in my time it was a slightly disappointing Led Zep album] so that we look more like a professional company. Perhaps the fact that you are reading this means you can scoff; but please dont. Drawing attention to the faults of others is almost as bad as drawing attention to oneself you know.

We look forward to astonishing you in due course

Have a pleasant day

Andrew MishMash