Information enema required...

Not for the first time I've been overwhelmed by books on shelves. It's usually a moment that attacks me in Waterstones when their schlocky, bathos-addled brand of classical muzak is humming away in the background. Indeed, I put it all down to those strings. Anyway, there I was in Hull's Central Library - a mostly tuneless place - when it happened again. Granted, I'd just been interviewed about the play and was trying to get over that trauma thus was in something of a shaky state of mind. But, as I stood there, reading snippets of the collected works of Anthony Neilson and seeing that wealth of information on the shelves around me, a wealth of information that I knew I could never absorb in its entirety, there it was again, sweeping over me. There must be a word for it. I could probably have found that word if I'd hung around the library. Instead, I popped the Neilson book back in its place and shuffled out of there. Does anyone else feel like this? Or is it just me?

Spring clean...

In a fit of clichéd activity I felt inclined to bring some order to the bookshelves today. Following which, Finn returned to climbing up them. Here's a choice selection prior to them returning to their usual state of disorder/random things piled back on top:

Book off...

During the decade that I worked in the construction industry I don't ever remember taking a book to read on site or in the lobby. I don't remember it because it would never have happened. Even my tabloid of choice at the time - the Daily Mirror - was considered ladylike by some that preferred the more breast-laden The Sun and Daily Star and, later, the Daily Sport. A book may well have been the final straw, an act of macho-world defiance that would have resulted in me being buggered senseless by those accusing me of homosexuality for daring to be bookish. So I opted not to take a book to work to read. Only when I worked in an office environment did I feel it was ok to carry a book into work openly, although I didn't read at the desk. Why would I? I very rarely worked at the desk. I f*cking hate desks. If it was up to me I'd take desks and get them pulped and turned back into paper that could be used for the production of books.

Toby Lichtig wrote funnily at the weekend about reading in the hours of work: "There's always the option of the office itself. A friend of mine used to read under his desk. And I confess I had a job so boring I was reduced to photocopying pages of a novel and pretending to proofreed them. I blush at the environmental implications (I was later sacked). But in an actual, well-earned break from work, who's got the mental strength to curl up next to the fax machine and photocopier and be transported to a different world?"

Generation A...

So, first phase of the operation is complete. I marched, businesslike, to the end of Generation A. Thoroughly enjoyable but, of course, it could never hope to be as zeitgeisty as its predecessor (Generation X), which, as the Telegraph pointed out back in the day, was/is "a landmark book". Indeed, it's a different beast altogether. Enough reviews exist out there in the internetether so I won't add to the interference, aside from mumbling that the whole thing is an interesting - and naturally Couplandesque - take on modernity that stresses the importance of the written word and storytelling. If I could embrace a condition mentioned in the book it would be logo dysphoria - the inability to perceive corporate logos. Marvellous. I'll steer clear of the Solon though - and stick with the books.

Damp dog day...

Soggy, miserable day over in York. Started raining as we headed up the A1079, then we were diverted down the narrow roads that lead from Wilberfoss to Stamford Bridge due to a big road traffic incident, turning the usual 50 minute trip into a two and a half hour journey, and it hasn't stopped since. Parked, as I usually do, close to Rowntree Park but our plans to cut through the park for a quick kiddie-friendly look at the ducks, geese and swans en route to the city centre were scuppered as the park was flooded. In fact, it looked like one rather huge duck pond.

M headed off to here little shindig at the Theatre Royal, York, leaving Finn and myself to take in the delights of the very wet streets. Not sure which of us was grumpier - we were both making grumbly little noises as we moved through the crowds and battled with the plethora of golf umbrellas - and we were quickly both looking - and no doubt smelling - like damp dogs. It was certainly not the most pleasurable time I've spent in this fine city. The European market looked good, mind, and offered a fine selection of food so, naturally, I headed to McDonald's for a Big Mac and a dry off. As the photo illustrates, I think we might have been a little bit late to take full advantage of the Borders stock clearance sale, although I did find a copy of Yukio Mishima's Forbidden Colours for a knock-down fiver, which meant the day wasn't a complete washout. Ho-hum.

Those pivotal moments...

I'd known Mike for about six months when I found myself in his bedroom. It was a crap pile. Stacks of Sight & Sound at the end of his bed. A desk littered with sketches, modelling clay and craft knives. Some mix tape laid on its side, with his clearly indentifiable scrawl all over it (Mike was a lover of Fineliners; his resultant style was somewhat inkblottyreminiscent of Ralph Steadman). He showed me his books. Several of them were protected within polybags. If I'm not mistaken they were filed alphabetically. There was a lot of Terry Pratchett. There was some shit about JFK. Possibly a little volume about Elvis (the memory kinda fades in some areas). There was Douglas Coupland's Generation X: Tales For An Accelerated Culture.

Lessness: A philosophy whereby one reconciles oneself with diminishing expections of material wealth.

Legislated Nostalgia: To force a body of people to have memories they do not actually possess.

Overboarding: Overcompensating for fears about the future by plunging headlong into a job or lifestyle seemingly unrelated to one's previous life interests.

This book was talking to me.

Mike placed the Coup' in a polybag and let me leave the house with it. It's not something, I gathered, that he did very often - hence the over-protective anality of the polybags. But I am eternally grateful for that moment in time, that fine gesture. He got the book back and I went on a never-ending journey.

Out in the streets...

This page intrigued me yesterday, as we wandered the Avenues. It was just laid there, begging to be photographed. Any idea what book it's from? "'What on earth is that?' I asked my mother as I pulled out odd bits of clothing, a dilapidated blotter, books, old boots, gloves and an old cushion.'

Ronnie...

Poor Ronnie Wood. He might be 60 but he's destined to always be the "new one" of The Rolling Stones. I'm currently reading his autobiography, the aptly, if lazily, titled Ronnie. It is not a very good autobiography, and is, indeed, the kind of work you'd expect a recovering alcoholic to produce. Think Ronnie and Keith and Dylan at Live Aid and imagine that kind of shambles in bookform. No sign of a ghost writer, which pretty much explains the words on the pages. Which is a shame - Ronnie sure does have an interesting story to tell. But he seems to have been content just to spray everything out haphazardly, scattering bits and pieces here and there but never really revealing anything we didn't know (and repeating a lot of stuff we do, often in a patronising, ridiculously simplistic manner), nor really offering any anecdotes worthy of inclusion in a 358pp hard back volume. I like Woody but his contribution to the Stones is mainly his 1970s hair, a drunken swagger and as an on and off-stage playmate for Keith Richards. Other than ape Richards' riffology Ronnie's something of a non-entity musically and it appears that he thinks similar thoughts about Stones' founder Brian Jones: "as a musician he was a functional guitarist". Which isn't what the target audience will want to read, I shouldn't think.
Ronnie appeared on Richard & Judy's Christmas Books show today, and did a fine job of reviewing Ian Harrison's Earth: A Visitor's Book. "My favourite numbers are like, three, seven and nine and I opened this book up. I looked up three, and learned everything there is about three, I looked up seven, and learned everything there is about seven, I looked up nine, and learned everything there is about nine. It's a great book." Quite.