tawtalitarian

I’m not a jogger. I’m a runner!

Exercise snobbery for the masses and the predetermined illusion of ability over reality and it’s scabby claws of self-realisation.

In the 70s and 80s ‘keep fit’ became a new vogue activity for the overpaid and under-occupied inhabitants of various western societies. America is the simplest target for this, as it was always the greatest nation when it came to embracing fads, fashions and new hobbies and activities. Nothing wrong with this per se, it’s always a good mindset to try new things, be open to new opportunties and want to expand your horizons.

Where this mentality falls down however is in the blind obedience to advertising, celebrity endorsement and marketing hoodwinking activities. The British are, much to their chagrin I’m sure, suckers for this and will lap up plenty of keep-fit hokum, even after the Americans have had it. So, surely, the Brits should be forewarned. This, it seems does not always mean forearmed.

Step Aerobics, Jazzercise, Boxercise, Circuits, Spin Classes, Yogacise, Dancercise, Zumba. Zumba?!

Jesus Christ, what is wrong with people?

But, the purpose of this blog is not to point fun at the obvious morons who buy into this crap. It is in fact to highlight a strange developement in an otherwise innocuous piece of exercise. Jogging.

People have been going jogging for ages, and good on them. It raises the heart rate, gives your joints and muscles a decent work out, works your lungs, clears your head, bit of fresh air. Well done all round I say. Sure, it can be a bit boring and, yes, you may feel a bit silly, but it’s exercise, not a night out on the town.

Somewhere along the line though people stopped ‘going for a jog’ and, instead, started ‘going for a run’. Really? Are you really going to run? I think that there’s a clear difference between jogging and running and I do not believe most people actually ‘run’. Running is determined, it’s fervent, and it’s urgent. Jogging is not this. Jogging is about covering a certain amount of distance, or time. It makes you sweat and you should feel knackered afterwards, but ‘run’? Come on.

Sure, some people do run. They are usually rangey men who are red in the face, have zero body fat and look like they’ve been running for ten years. Continuously.

Do whatever you want, I don’t mind. But stop saying you’re going for a run. You’re going for a jog. There’s nothing wrong with that, apart from you.

Jeans: I have known

Everyone owns jeans, everyone wears jeans. You’re probably wearing a pair right now in fact, and I bet you have at least three pairs, if not more. Maybe you only wear jeans. Lots of people do.

And that’s the thing isn’t it. Jeans are completely ubiquitous now, to such a degree that I don’t think they’re considered a fashion option anymore, they’re just legwear. But, it was not always so. Oh, no.

If, like me, you’re a child of the late 70s, or even early 80s, take a look at pictures of you when you were a nipper. Before the age of 8 or 10, I’ll bet there aren’t many of you wearing jeans. You’ll have cords on, or canvas trousers, or some other trouser or short. But, not jeans in every picture. Even your parents won’t be wearing jeans. In some they will, but the minority I’ll wager. Britain just didn’t wear jeans. They were for American workers, so why would we? Only rebellious kids in Hollywood films wore them, pshaw.

So it took the 80s to make jeans acceptable and wearable. Mainly because the 80s introduced variation. Where before jeans were blue, they were suddenly different washes of blue, oooh. Then, much later, black! This was so much later that I can remember the adverts for them, featuring Eddie Kidd. Finally white jeans. Hmm.

Now, I know that jeans have lost that anti-estabishment vibe they had in 50s America, and that everyone owns them. Department stores make their own. They’re sold for the elderly and they’ve become established businesses dress in today’s godless, ‘smart casual’ workplace. But, nevertheless, there’s plenty of piss-taking mileage in the cuntage of jeans-wearing out there, I’ll wager. So…

Stonewashed: I could go on and on and on about this look. But it’s basically just a middle-aged man joke now. So, let’s not fuck about and waste time, here’s a picture of Status Quo. Moving on…

Joe Bloggs: This was one of those amazingly popular, then nonexistent brands that appeared in the early 90s. Stone Roses type baggies were the rage and Joe Bloggs became the brand people wore. Then you got them from the market, and people realised they were shit.

Window Jeans: Remember these? Brilliant. Jeans with a big coloured window frame design on the ass. I never had any and still regret it. I literally cannot find a picture of these though. Will update if I can.

White Jeans: So extreme that they can be both awesome and totally shitehouse. I propose these two pictures to illstrate this point.

Ripped Jeans: Another late 80s/ early 90s fad. George Michael started this, Bros finished it. Companies started making jeans with ‘rips’ in. Should always be avoided. Why? It’s gay, and not in a good way.

Drainpipes: I’ve discussed tight trousers before so won’t dwell on these. Can make the wearer look cool, usually make them look like a polio victim.

Baggy Jeans: We’d all like to kick this guy over, and then in. Is it because they are so improbably designed as to be a genuine challenge to wear them I wonder. I think so. I feel the same kind of anger towards people riding unicycles. There is zero practical motive behind this kind of enterprise, other than to make people look at you. And for that reason I should imagine that they’d be grateful of the pinnacle of public attention – a beating.

Black Jeans: Difficult here. I’m a proponent of the black jean. But, I often wonder why. I think they’re really just worn by people to make a point, and it’s the typical ‘I wear black clothes’ point, which is basically juvenile. However, I wear black jeans, so I’m posting a picture of Bill Hicks, and not some total clot instead.

Smart Jeans: The smart jeans wearer is a middle-aged man who should know better. He also does know better, but thinks no-one else realises he looks like Jeremy Clarkson. He will also always have brown shoes or boots on. Hateful. He’s one step away from smart/casual. And not far enough away by half.

There are lots of other variations I haven’t gone into. Because, of course, jeans are many and varied and you’d get bored. You will perhaps also have noticed that I haven’t addressed girls jeans here. Mainly that’s because girls don’t make such a point about them as men do. And girls look ok. Apart from this one.

Bad. Very bad.

The Road – Cormac McCarthy

I first heard of Cormac McCarthy via the film version of one of his books, All the Pretty Horses. A western, starring Matt Damon, it was tight, nicely acted, but it stood out with particularly good dialogue. I reckon I must’ve known the name McCarthy because, when I discovered that it was his book I felt I knew him already. I realise now that that’s because he’s arguably the greatest living novelist in the world.

His western novels, some in the Old West and some, such as No Country for Old Men, set right now, are stark and very very tight. He writes almost as if he’s fasting. He puts the words down that make the point, and doesn’t waste one more. The effect is to feel like you’re reading poetry, it hits you so hard and effectively, in the way distinct poems do. But that is where the comparison ends. I don’t believe Cormac McCarthy has written a line of symbolic text in his life.

The Road is probably his masterpiece. It’s a harsh thing to say about a guy who’s still alive and still writing, but, I think he knows it. Not many great artists know of their greatness in their own lifetimes, so I suppose he’s lucky really.

The story is of a father and son, walking to Mexico, to find warmth and water in a post-nuclear America. The sun, lost behind the clouds, is almost forgotten and the only light is that which the man has for his son. As they sleep in blackened and destroyed forests, wake in greyness and walk onwards, they are pursued by hunger, hopelessness and even cannibals. This is not a book about redemption.

I have only read this book once. I don’t believe I will ever read it again. This is simply because it is far, far to affecting, and I don’t know if I could do it again. I openly wept time and again and often had to stop and just stare at the wall for a while. What McCarthy has done is produce the most devastatingly sad book without writing a miserable sentence or paragraph in the whole thing. It is a diatribe against humanity, and a celebration of its greatest achievement at the same time.

The father’s absolute devotion to his son, the reciprocated adoration of the boy and the inevitable loss of any future is so strong, and so well managed. I cannot concieve of how someone decides one day they are going to write something like this, and then just do it. It’s phenomenal.

Maybe you’ve seen the film. I haven’t steeled myself to yet. If you read the book, it’ll take about 24hours. You won’t be able to stop turning the pages until you literally fall asleep or can’t bear it anymore.

Simply one of the best books of the last 30 or 40 years.

People in Adverts: Part 2

Well, actually, this is really part 3, but that doesn’t matter because no-one reads this crap but me anyway.

Celebrities in advertisements piss me off. That’s a done deal, they just do. They don’t need the money and they trade off of their public affection for this money they don’t need. Well-known people have often promoted products, but it always used to be that they acted as characters, in their capacity as actors, to sell them. Now they say ‘I’m Kevin Spacey, buy this camera’. Piss off Spacey, you mug.

Where I reserve a special pot of bile in my innards though are for those everyday folk, jobbing actors, extras, models or whatever, who are also in adverts. I don’t mean those ones where some bloke who used to be on the Bill turns up, I mean people who are just in an advert. I hate them, because they are turning up specifically to pretend to love the thing they’re advertising and it’s pitifully sad. They are sitting there, out of choice and, with no prior reference to them or who they are, are telling me that they love this shit, and that therefore I should too.

For example.

Cuprinol have a campaign for their domestic wood protection materials. Varnish and preserver to you and me. Not long ago the Cuprinol campaigns were straight-talking ‘Does wood good’ type ads. Ok, I’d think, I get what that is. I might buy it. Now they have a campaign called ‘The Wood Preservation Society’.

First off it nicks the song from The Italian Job and changes the words. Assholes. Secondly, it gets a load of idiots to march around in unison, mouthing along to this crap, and acting like spraying their fence panels and decking is literally the best thing they could possibly think of doing and, doing it with Cuprinol particularly, makes them just about cum in their pants.

Example two:

DFS are constantly trying to convince me that I need to buy a new sofa. They aren’t the only ones though. I can often not believe that the UK economy can support so many businesses that seem to only sell chairs and sofas. Go to any retail park near you and see how many of them there are. It’s astonishing. Add in the bed retailers and you’d think we never spent any money on anything that didn’t cushion us when partially or totally horizontal.

DFS adverts feature young and old, but definitely groovy, families out for a fucking great day, buying a sofa. They leg it about, joshing and larking with each other as they try one dreadful corner set after another. Amazed at the reclining luxury the young mum, with the stylish and pretty daughter, giggle together on the floral prints, while the groovy dad and clean-cut kid man around, being fey-blokey and loving the manly leather 3-piece. Or, it’s got needlessly clean couples, being middle-aged, attempting to appeal to desperate middle-englanders who are clamouring for excitement and fulfillment in their middle-aged lives, just being totally fucking happy on their awful settee. It’s a settee!!

These people are trying their best to show that they love the product, that they love the company. They are attempting to exude the delight and excitement that the advertising companies want viewers to feel that they will also experience when they patronize this business. They are so unbelievably excited about their relationship with the woodstain/cereal/car/insurance/sofa etc that it’s hard to believe that there can be any room in their lives for human relations, emotions or personal connections with other people. No, these wide-eyed idiots are all about the purchase. They only get their high when they’ve got that lawn-feed tightly in their grasp.

The people in these adverts I can’t call actors. In the same way that I can’t call children dwarfs. They might have a lot of similarities, but they’re not what they resemble. What these people do is to absolutely throw themselves into the role that they are given. That’s fine. But the role that they are given is awful.

I don’t know whether they feel bad about what they do. I don’t imagine that the majority give two hoots about whether cynical busy-bodies like me find their life choice to be grimy. But, there must be a few who know. Who know that it’s not gone right for them. Who know that they are winding away their artistry. Maybe they do a bit of stage-work as well, which we just don’t see, and that is their fuel. The thing that powers them. Maybe they’re laughing at the people, in the Coronation St breaks, watching them pretend to love that coffee, those garden shears. I hope so.

I cannot bear to watch their excited faces as they bounce on that sofa, as they glide around that kitchen, as they labour over that dirty saucepan. I become frantic if I can’t find the remote control and have to watch housewives practically develop multiple orgasms at the cleanliness of their hob. The shine on the breadboard. The depth of colour in their roots. Go to hell.

Yes, yes, yes. There are PLENTY of better things to worry about. Yes, there are genocides, miscarriages of justice, famines and torture. Yes, I know that I could better direct my bile. It is, however, equally true that these people could get off of my television and stop trying to sell me the detergent I can’t afford, don’t want and don’t need. And, what’s worse, is they know it too.

People in Adverts

I wrote a typically whingey post a while back that bemoaned the general existence of advertising, and the free-wheeling whoring of their identities that celebrity peoples partake in. I have a particular ire for these toads as they are duping their fans, selling the faith held in the celebrity’s achievements and the things they’ve convinced the world they stand for.

I recently noticed, sickening me further into my core, Dustin Hoffman advertising Sky’s newly expanded television offering. As if Dustin Hoffman really loves Sky, and genuinely equates it to the ethereal experieince of hearing stories at your father’s knee, as he purports to do in the tawdry ad spot. As if he really gets emotional about the very idea of a few extra channels from Murdoch and his horrendous conglomerate of filthy, poorly made television. A few years back Anthony Hopkins did the same tpe of ad for Sky, consequently making me think he’s a shyster ever since. We’ve all seen George Clooney advertising Necafé’s ‘Nespresso’ coffee haven’t we? Where he claims that it’s literally the best coffee in the world? This from a multi-millionaire who lives in Italy. I bet his Italian neighbours think he’s a right cock. Oh, and John Malkovich was in the last ad he did too. Shame John, shame.

For these mega-bucks stars, the fees they get for this stuff probably pays their tax bills for the year, sorts out that swimming pool they wanted in their third home, etc etc. They must get some serious cash for a couple of day’s work. Lily Allen once said that she missed an awards show because she was doing an advert in France for a mobile phone company. She said it was a rubbish excuse, and rubbish thing to be doing but, she continued, it paid off her mortgage. Can you blame her? Not quite sure I can, but she can’t call herself a genuine artist anymore.

Years ago advertising was really localised, and loads of big Hollywood stars including Harrison Ford, Schwarzenegger and Tom Cruise did ads that would only be shown in Japan, thus protecting their integrity in the US. Now, the globalisation of media has destroyed all boundaries, so the ad agencies have stepped up a gear and come up with concepts that the stars feel don’t denegrate their personae. Although, Clooney does look a total bell-end in those Nespresso ads still.

The whoring of celebs in ads, Uma Thurman for Alfa Romeo, Reece Witherspoon for Avon, Eminem for Chrysler, Dr Dre for Hewlett Packard, Josh Brolin for Mercedes, Bill Bailey for Weedol, the list goes on, and is both boring and uninspiring. Hopefully ad agencies will realise that the over-population of celeb images means that product endorsement by people that we can see a million images of every day anyway won’t mean anything anymore.

What really gets my goat these days though, you’ll be on tenterhooks to hear, is regular people in adverts. Oh, and aren’t there a lot of these to poke fun at.

To be continued…

Good Omens – Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

Good books are such a powerful thing for people because they are completely subjective. What you think is fabulous, could leave someone else completely unmoved. One man’s Hamlet is another’s Da Vinci Code.

Terry Pratchett is many people’s guilty pleasure when it comes to their book collections. It’s said that his multi-million selling Discworld books have gone off the boil over the last few, which I’m inclined to agree with, but they are still remarkably clever pieces of comedic satire, dressed up as knockabout fantasy novels.

Neil Gaiman, on the other hand, is at the other end of the career spectrum really. He’s in his 40s, but is really producing better and better work. As one of the world’s most highly renowned comic-book writers, he has produced novels and screenplays and is the justifiably regarded dark prince of quality gothic writing.

And, this is why Good Omens is such and excellent book. Pratchett’s tight plotting and humour is matched and expanded by Gaiman’s own seemingly limitless imagination and ability to weave a gripping and believable narrative out of the most unlikely circumstances.

Essentially it is the story of an angel and a demon, Azariphale and Crowley, living on Earth, supposedly to make sure that their own side is getting its fair share of souls. As it turns out though they actually quite like living here and have found that their own lives, that of a corporate yuppie and antiquarian bookseller, are really quite enjoyable. Furthermore, they’re now friends and meet often to discuss whether anyone else from their ‘sides’ are creating problems, to try and stop them.

At the same time the son of Satan is being born in a hospital that is run by nurses dedicated to the Dark Lord. There’s an accidental swapping of babies and Warlock, a perfectly normal boy is given to an American Senator, whilst Adam, the true dark-one is given to a regular family to live a happy life in the English countryside. His attempts to create the perfect idyllic childhood, like he’s read in his 1950s ripping boys adventures, begin to fold reality as his in-built powers warp to create the fake reality he yearns for. The four horsemen of the apocalypse are on their way. It is the end of days. Oh, and some ancient prophesies of a murdered witch are coming true.

This is barely a smattering of the actual depth of the multi-layering that goes on in this book. The characterization is immense, especially considering the fact that it’s a genuine paperback of less than 300 pages. You completely buy in to every main character, and there are loads of them. It’s funny, clever, telling, sarcastic and satirical, woven with parodies and gags by the dozen. All of this is bound up in a wealth of black-magic, the occult, folklore and general wizardry.

Good Omens is a guilty pleasure for sure, but I think that it’s elevated beyond that. This is a really well written book, at almost every level. If it wasn’t comedy, it’d be considered quality literature. The fact it’s got satire and fantasy mean it’ll never be taken serious by a broader community of readers, but it bloody should be.

Ties

I’ll be honest here and say that I am a tie-fan. I think ties are neat. Look at Michael Caine. Eh? So, this isn’t objective, but it will slate those people who cannot manage this, the simplest of all smarteners. The bad-assest of finishing touches

There’s been a lot in the popular style press, and national press commentary about the death of the tie, about its irrelevance in a modern age. Bullshit. Only lazy people don’t wear ties, or people who are intimidated by the effort and execution of something they’re out of the habit of doing. The simple act of tying a tie.

In the decades leading up to the 90s it was almost inconceivable that a man who hoped to convey a modicum of style and decorum would not wear a tie. But then a gradual, then rapid, decline happened and the cult of ‘smart casual’ took a fearsome grip of people. Men got scared to stand out, and stand up for their right to be smart and great looking.

But, and here’s the rub, it can go oh so very wrong. When it can also go very right.

Thin Ties: Really in the public eye. Quite consistently. Especially with Mad Men showing us real 50s style. However, thin ties have always been the domain of pop stars. Case in point here, take a look at Bowie. Have you ever seen anyone look like such a pasty and geeky little greasy oik? No, me neither. But, look at what the tie has done. Cool.

But, like many things in this sordid world the thin tie has been appropriated by the wretched hipsters. I’m so very angered by these Ramones-a-likes that I cannot even bear to post a photo of some, even though it’d be to poke fun at them. Just picture now a scrawny-legged, knock-kneed, hands-stuffed-into-tight-pockets, $1000 jacket wearing scruff-bag with his thin tie on. Now, go and punch a wall.

Lots of people look good in these, but they don’t look like Bowie.

Fat Tie-Knot: These massive things are pretty much gone now, but there were many a footballer, and many still, who seem to think that this pseudo-gangsterish nonsense is somehow impressive. It is. To other men like this. Who think they’re macho, when they’re actually enormously in love with each other. Windsor knots they are really, but they’re freakish and only worn by power obsessives who want to look like Gordon bloody Gecko.

So, before this post runs away with me and I start talking about kipper ties, paisley ties, joke ties (don’t), wedding ties (awful) or bow ties (for Christ’s sake) I am going to remind those of you who are educated enough to know already, and inform the rest of you poor sods, just how very fucking marvellous a piece of neckwear can be. But, not a tie my friends. A cravat. Don’t try this at home, you will fail. Badly.

That’s the Jackal that is. Gosh. Eh?

Suits

Suits, suits, suits. Suits are great. They can look great, and make you look great too.

Men really do have one of the most fortunate of all dress options of the sexes in the suit. It’s a given that a suit is a smart thing. It defines a man as smart and is an instant recommendation of that person when people see him, especially if you don’t know that person in a suit usually.

I don’t know if you’ll have ever done this but, if you put a suit on for the first time in ages, everyone you meet will say ‘Gosh, you look smart’. It’s weird really. Especially as, if you look closely you’ll notice the truth. And, the truth is, most people in suits look ridiculous.

Seriously, look around the next time you’re in town in the week at people wearing suits. You will almost definitely not see one person under the age of 45 whose suit fits for a start. I know why this is, but hold on for that. You will also see people who don’t know how to wear a suit. Just look at how uncomfortable they actually are, even if they’re all slouchy and ‘Yeah, whatever’ in their suit.

The big problem is that it’s really easy to see someone in a great suit. Or, just someone who looks great in a suit. But, and remember this, 95% of those people are in films or on TV. So, they’ve got someone else putting them in that suit. Just remember that when you put your suit on and you realise that you still don’t look like them.

So, what kinds of suits are there, and how good do they look? Lots, and great is the answer. But, they look utter bullshit on most people. So, why not let’s have a look, eh?

Narrow suits. Now, these are absolutely en vouge, and have always been really, apart from in the 80s and 90s, when suits were MASSIVE. The trouble is that these have now been kind of adopted as a smart hipster look, and hipsters are assholes. As we all know. It really isn’t hard to find someone looking atrocious in a narrow suit, but this guy is a model! Jeez. Lots of cool people wore narrow suits, so you should try it but, if you’re a little over-weight then don’t! We can’t all be Gary Cooper, Sean Connery, Gregory Peck, Roger Moore or the cast of Mad Men.

Long coat suits. Dangerous move for anyone, but very popular in certain circles for some reason. Especially in America, in the black community and in the south. A kind of hangover for white guys from the Old West, and very Scarface for the black guys. Anyway, hard to pull off, obviously. This guy is ridiculous.

Tweed suits. Gosh, tweed, yes please. The bloody epitome of English dapperness, and rightly so. Again though, badly done most of the time. Which is odd as all tweed suits are tailored, so how can they look so shit. Well, this guy will illustrate that perfectly.

Dinner suits. Apparently everyone should own a dinner suit. I don’t. I don’t know anyone who does either, wait, actually I do and they’re both posh lads, and both called Tom. Of course. Dinner suits to me look like people are wearing a costume. Maybe that’s exactly what it is. More to the point aren’t people supposed to wear these to look as good as possible? So, how does this always happen?

So, now, here’s a kick for you. How does Viggo Mortensen look so good in every single suit? I don’t care really. Just makes me want to go and put on a suit.

Valdez Is Coming – Elmore Leonard

We all know a bit of Elmore Leonard, even if we don’t realise that we do. Long before I read his books, I’d seen the films that’ve poured out from his multitude of novels, short stories and screenplays, and it’s hard to appreciate just how much he’s produced.

Born in 1925 Leonard grew up in New Orleans and Detroit at the same time that real gangsters were still on the scene. He spent time in the Navy as well and developed in this time a genuine and long-lasting interest in guns. What this upbringing in the grittiest of American cities gave Leonard was a no-nonsense approach to writing that has made him not only a prolific writer, but also envied and admired by his peers.

Films delivered from the end of Leonard’s pen include Out of Sight, Jackie Brown (from the novel Rum Punch), 3:10 to Yuma, Mr Majestyk, Hombre, Get Shorty, Be Cool and plenty more besides, including Valdez is Coming.

But, lets talk about the book. Valdez is Coming was Leonard’s eighth novel and is as sparsely written and tightly plotted a book you will EVER read. I swear I’m not exaggerating here.

Bob Valdez is a well thought of, but generally disregarded Mexican town constable in a border town in the early 1800s of the old west. Encountering a stand-off surrounding an old shack out of town he discovers the rude, ruthless and self-important Frank Tanner who believes the man in the shack is a killer. Men line up to get the kill shot but, even though he’s dismissed and ignored by Tanner and his men, it’s Valdez who decides to do his job by walking out into the open and talking the man out of the shack. Tanner’s idiotic gunman R.L Davis causes shots to go wild and Valdez kills the man. The man was innocent and inside the shack is his pregnant wife.

This one act makes Valdez, a just and decent man, take on a massive sense of duty beyond his position. He knows the woman has been done wrong and aims to set things right. Burying her husband he promises her recompense for her and her child but, although all the dozens of men who were there agree she’s in a bad place now, they won’t help her. She is a native American and he was black. There is no acceptance of their humanity. So, Valdez decides to approach Tanner, figuring it was he who created the stand-off and he who should see reason and help the woman. He can afford it after all.

Tanner is cold beyond cold and has Valdez put against a wall and shot at for his impertinence. He is pinned in place with Tanner’s men unloading bullets between his legs around his hands and head. Eventually they let him go, seeing him stagger away and laughing. Only the segundo, Tanner’s team leader, has a doubt, recognising something in the fact that Valdez stood, didn’t beg and didn’t complain.

One more attempt at reasoning with Tanner ends up with Valdez being beaten, bound to a crucifix and abandoned into the desert. It’s a final straw, compounded by a fearsome attack on Valdez friend, Diego Luz, whose hands they break and whose children barely avoid rape and murder.

Valdez returns to Tanner’s town. What people are now to discover is that the Valdez they know, the 40 year old town constable, has another side. A killer, a hunter of Apaches, a scalper, a man with skills, resources and grit to spare.

Killing three men in quick succession he takes Tanner’s bride to be and leaves Tanner a message to meet him at a far off mountain. Pay up for the wronged woman, or lose your wife. Taking 14 men with him Tanner pursues, only for them to be killed one, two, three at a time. His men, the segundo especially, gradually lose faith in the wisdom of pursuing this man, fearing for their own lives and failing to see the value in risking themselves for their boss’s wife and not understanding why he doesn’t see reason with this man. At the final analysis Valdez offers to face Tanner and spare the rest of his men. Tanner, his men refusing to draw guns on Valdez, won’t face Valdez and he is left broken with no wife, no men and, more importantly, no respect. The respect he never gave Valdez.

What Valdez is Coming delivers is a morality tale in spades. The key characters are diametrically opposed in their outlooks and there is almost no doubt as to what the outcome of this duel will be. Valdez may be killed, but that’s not the point, for the reader or for Valdez. This is about not judging people, or taking advantage of those judgements. But, really it’s all about reckoning. Everyone has one, will have one, and deserves one.

The plot, dialogue and characterization is spare, tight and rapid. That this is a book about cowboys is irrelevant. There are no cactus, lonely prairies, wandering moons and all of that nonsense. It’s about people and Leonard hasn’t been called the Dickens of Detroit for nothing. These are real people, written from the ground up.

Cars

I’ve never been a petrol-head of any note, and I don’t envisage this changing at any time in my life. It’s not that I don’t care about cars, or don’t see the value in them. It’s just that they aren’t a preoccupation, and I don’t have passion for them.

What becomes almost an obsession for teenage boys passed me by without a shrug. I took my first driving lessons, aged 17, got back into the driving seat a few years later but not until my late 20s did I finally decide enough was enough and I signed up for the third time, did 6 weeks or so of lessons, then passed my test. On the 2nd time of trying. So, now I drive, and it’s boring.

Cars are, as far as I can tell, only good at the extreme either end of the spectrum. A cheap run-around, that has benefits that far outstretch its price-tag, and moves it beyond its failings is a great thing. At the other end of that spectrum are those £100k plus monsters that are so astonishing that they’re really just car-shaped bits of brilliant.

Cars that cost £500-£1500 and pretty much work all the time are great. They usually look rubbish, have no style and very few mod-cons. The heating won’t quite work and the stereo will be properly shit. Except, it will have a tape deck, and this is great for picking up albums for 10p each in charity shops. Bonus! They’re often gas-guzzlers, or brilliant efficient, so it’s dicey there. Mainly though, you don’t have to look after it too much, worry about washing it, or worry about it getting knicked.

Really expensive cars are, I feel, great. They are unnatainable to 99% of the world, and the people who’ve got them are generally too stupid to appreciate them, so I see it that no-one really owns them. That way I place them up there as iconic, or maybe just inspirational things. They’re well designed, and engineered of course, but really just nice looking.

So, what’s the point here? It’s this: CARS DON’T MATTER!

People who save up £5k, £10k, £35k to buy a mid-range saloon, executive tourer, hot-hatch or whatever else, are WASTING THEIR MONEY. It’s a total bloody waste of money, trying to emulate something they can’t reach, settling for something that’ll soak up all of their cash, or credit more likely. Bloody barking mad. Fleet cars, company cars, or very rich people driving mid-range cars, is all just fine. There are three examples, the only examples, of where this is not a total waste of money. It’s also embarrassing for the people driving them, because they are what they believe they are not: pretenders.

It could be argued that any dream will do, but I don’t buy it. Why aspire to own a £12k car you can’t really afford, when you could instead aspire to own a £112k car you can equally not afford? Why long for a brand new TypeR or Golf or A-class or 318 or anything else? They might be comfy and quiet, but you can’t live in it, your family won’t care for more than 10 minutes and only other men, who you will think are a bit sad, will be impressed. Their attention won’t satisfy you. They’ll dislike you, and you them.

So, buy a cheap car. There are loads of them. Or, get given a new car. But do not spend more than £2k on a car. It’s silly, and they look silly, and you will look silly. Silly.