The Slaying Of Cecil The Lion

The Lion Kill...Hakuna Matata?

Social media is today spattered with outrage and anger over the sad demise of Cecil the lion. After the initial flood of emotional condemnation a new group of apologists and defenders has emerged, with many arguing that legally established hunting parks actually increase the number of lions because this ensures that many more lions are being bred, albeit specifically for hunting.

I would like to respond to that.

I have always understood that a misunderstanding of the power of incentives can lead to unforeseen consequences. Take the story I heard as a child about a cobra problem in India during the Raj. The local commissioner dealt with the snake epidemic by paying a bounty for any cobra skin handed in – thinking this would encourage the locals to hunt out and kill them.

What actually happened was that cobra farming began and quickly took off with the farmers breeding cobras purely to kill and skin them for the bounty – much easier than killing them in the wild.

Soon the commissioner was paying way more than anticipated and the cobra population hadn’t changed. So he immediately stopped the incentive – and then the cobra population really changed.

It doubled!

The farmers had released all their now worthless cobras into the wild…

Responding to incentives and unforeseen consequences.

So, should we actually encourage hunting so more lion breeders spring up to profit from it and thus increase the endangered lion population? Well, this too definitely works. Google it. Some argue it has saved the White Rhino.

Just before you applaud this triumph of contrarian logic, here is a thought experiment. Suspend your moral outrage for a paragraph or so. Imagine for a moment that our children suddenly became endangered, being murdered and raped at a staggering rate by paedophiles, and that there was suddenly a shortage of children as a result. It could be argued that setting up paedophile centres where these people could act out their depravity legally would actually increase the number of children because it would be profitable to meet the new demand. Baby farms would boom.

Would any sane person even contemplate this as preferable to just getting rid of the paedophiles?

So what is the difference? Well, hunters hunt for fun (not food, just fun) and paedophiles rape for fun (not procreation, just fun) – so far, so similar. The difference is in the treatment of the victims. The hunter’s victim is seen as having no inalienable right not to be hunted because it’s a lower level of sentient creature than a human child, which does have an inalienable right not to be raped and murdered…at least in theory.

So perhaps it is not about responding to incentives - perhaps it is about morality and rights?

Interesting that it is a debate very close to the main divide in political argument – the right believe in free markets  (incentives) whilst the left believe in a strong state (protection of the vulnerable).

That’s the debate – what actually does define humanity, that is the act of being humane, in the 21^st century? Is it a capitalism that condones granting the right to breed lions for profit, and by so doing assuage the bloodlust of hunters? Or is it a system that seeks first to protect our fellow creatures from the worst of ourselves?

Cecil the lion has perhaps achieved more in death than he ever could have in life.

Inequality Matters

"All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others" - George Orwell.

On Thursday 6th April 2014 Debbie Abrahams, MP for Oldham, rose in the House of Commons to highlight a shocking failure of the coalition Government's welfare reforms. She described in harrowing terms how a diabetic ex-soldier had been found dead in Stevenage shortly after having his benefits stopped. He was surrounded by job applications and, according to the post mortem and subsequent police report, he had an empty stomach having not eaten for days. He was penniless ,without even enough money to run the fridge and keep his insulin cool. It was a shocking moment prompting over 200,000 people to sign a petition demanding an investigation.

The soldier's story broke shortly after the exposure of a Jersey based tax avoidance scheme enjoyed by, amongst others, comedian Jimmy Carr. Prime Minister David Cameron accused Mr Carr of being "morally wrong" and called on him and all those involved to repay the tax avoided. The FCA also issued statements about challenging similar schemes in future.

Without a hint of irony the Government then appointed Sir Philip Green to look at ways of saving more money in the Public Sector (he was apparently telephoned in his £16,000-a-night villa in Barbados to be asked, but I cannot confirm this). Green belonged to a growing number of Establishment figures who had been avoiding much more than Carr for years and had regularly avoided Corporation Tax through several ingenious avoidance schemes established by the 'Big Four' accountancy firms.

Hang on though, that's OK isn't it? Isn't that what we financial professionals are paid to do?

Many Financial Planners have pasted quotes from past legal case summaries into their reports to justify how sound tax planning is not only legitimate but essential for financial security - and most would be affronted if any link between benefit cuts that led to an unfortunate soldier's premature death and legitimate tax planning was implied. Rightly so...but in an age of austerity, where money is tightest, they are undoubtedly linked; and more than that they highlight the growing sense of unfairness and inequality that threatens not only the lives and well being of millions of the poorest but also the very structure of our own industry.

I would argue that growing inequality has eroded many of the values our great profession was built on. I believe it has negatively influenced many basic aspects of the advice process including managing risk, anticipating investment returns, the provision of real financial security and the general affordability of advice.

You won't need me to point out the problem. The recent Oxfam report highlighted how the richest 1% are close to owning more than half the world's wealth - but more significant in that report was how vastly unimaginably capacious the wealth of the top 0.01% has become.

Since the late seventies, when the Free Market theory of Economics returned to favour, the control of the Money Supply has ensured that when wealth separates it leaves a cruel wake. A growing strata of the now Uber rich has to be balanced by a new underclass of the poor and this has been the case almost everywhere: divides between continents, countries, regions and even within cities.

The city of Nogales straddles the United States-Mexico border in Arizona and Sonora. Those in the Northern part are in the US, those in the South are in Mexico. The differences between the two are frightening. Average wages in the North are around $30,000 a year. In the South they are closer to $10,000 - in the same city. Infant mortality is higher in the southern sectors and life expectancy is considerably shorter...yet only a fence divides them. Nothing highlights globalisation and its inherent inequalities quite so starkly.

Our industry grew out of helping those people like the families in the south of Nogales. The home service tradition of United Friendly, Pearl, Prudential and others allowed people of lesser means to access a financial system that gave them the potential to save, with their money protected, and enjoy investment style returns over time. Even the premiums were collected at the door weekly and recorded manually in books. The books were prized, cherished and guarded.

I suggest that today very few of our industry would waste much time in south Nogales. These days we have dropped words from our company names like "Friendly" and they have been replaced by monikers more appropriate for the modern financial world like "Wealth Manager". It is clear where priorities lie. Avarice has triumphed. Greed is indeed good.

Change happens and evolutionary economic theory propounds that you must adapt or die. We have all adapted. That's business. Maybe even good business.
But are there other unseen threats from inequality and unfairness?

You may have some knowledge of the "Six Degrees Of Separation" principle explored by Stanley Milgram in the 1960s which suggests that things are often more closely linked than we think. Milgram sent 160 letters out all over the USA at random asking people to send them on to someone who they thought might know the address of a named stockbroker in Boston. Most letters made it having been re-sent 5 or 6 times.

Why does that matter? Well, with so much data available to so many of us now you might be forgiven for thinking that constructing a safe portfolio for a client with appropriate non-correlated assets is easier than ever? Achieving a healthy degree of separation between asset classes in the investor's interests just a matter of astute selection using computer models?

Well one recent example shows just how vulnerable we all are now. The Hunt family in the US sits squarely in the top 0.01% of the richest in the world. They are, amongst many other things, cattle ranchers and use the futures markets all the time to protect their valuable investment in Beef. When the market moved against them recently sending the price of Beef down unexpectedly they faced margin calls on their futures positions. The figure was in the billions. To cover the call they sold furiously...in the Silver market. They took some of their widely diversified wealth and focused it.

So wealthy were the family that their significant foray created a correlation between Beef and Silver in the markets. Smaller investors paid the price. This distortion was caused, quite simply, by too much investment wealth being focused on too few people. They literally cornered the markets they were in.

This danger is now omnipresent, as the few families with the power and influence to match that of the Hunt family use their wealth to protect their own interests in a similarly focused way.

Best estimates by economists suggest that the gap between any two financial institutions today rather than being around the 5.5 degrees of separation of Milgram's time is now more like 1.4...We saw the effect of this in the banking crisis of 2007 and 2008 and indeed with several so called "protected" products afterwards.

The Free Market argument is that a rising tide lifts all boats. Give money to wealth creators and they bring factories, jobs and prosperity. They pay taxes, invest in communities and fuel innovation and technological improvements. The rich get bigger slices of the pie but everybody benefits from a bigger pie.

Yet thirty five years in to Milton Friedman's great economic social experiment this argument is being exposed as illusory. Never mind that for traditional smaller equity investors the FTSE100 index remains stubbornly below its 1999 high or that many of the old guarantees - with profits, defined benefit pensions, guaranteed annuities - have been replaced by lightly regulated riskier alternatives. It is even bigger than that.

Deregulated markets have benefited owners of capital alone. Stratospheric rises in executive pay have been unchallenged following the suppression of trade unionism and growth in global collaboration between elites. Corporations can get richer quicker with less regulation whether that is by sacking workers more easily, paying them less, exploiting the environment or just by having an unchallenged monopoly. Worse the introduction of private corporations into lucrative public services has seen unprecedented public spending of boom time receipts on schools and hospitals end up, not in the accounts of teachers and nurses, but in those of chief executives and share holders.


Since the 2010 election, five years of austerity has subsequently taken unparalleled amounts back out of public services and the State, cutting welfare, education and health even at a time when billions more have been made available and used to buy up securities from troubled banks under the guise of Quantitative Easing. This blatant re-distribution upwards, albeit in the belief that it will deliver results eventually, has been accompanied by political rhetoric suggesting the pain is spread evenly.

So are we really all in it together?

In fact inequality grew in 16 of the top 20 countries up to 2013 following the financial crisis. Growth has stalled. Inadvertently policies intended to produce wealth and bake a bigger pie have actually half-baked a smaller one and given most of it to the wealthiest.

The question becomes: as advisers who do we help and who should we help? As explained above, even our wealthier clients are vulnerable, unless of course they are fortunate and wealthy enough to sit in that group which owns the largest slice. Inequality puts pressure on the individual's ability to save. It leads to reductions in demand as households struggle to afford goods...so corporate profits fall, followed by share prices and then investment returns.

Then on a selfish level there is the "tarnished by association" issue as advisers become vilified as belonging to the same group as the avaricious bankers paying huge bonuses from taxpayers bail-outs. It's a tough time to be an adviser.

When IFAs moved to fees it was welcomed and heralded as the re-birth of our industry as a profession - we are all New Model Advisers now. Yet in doing so we created a vacuum of advice, neglected some of those who always needed our services most and abandoned an efficient cross-subsidy system that allowed excess profits from some clients to be spent servicing the less profitable.

Our world has changed over 40 years. We have swapped a world of relationships with the hard-working looking to save for a better future, offering carefully structured products designed to give reassurance and reasonable long term returns at the expense of flexibility and transparency and embraced one of post-Black/Scholes investment analysis, stratified sampling, an infinite fund universe, rapid arbitrage and transparency that obscures more than it reveals.

We may even stand accused of perpetuating inequality, though that is perhaps a step too far. Nevertheless inequality continues to gather pace and the poorest are turning to extremist politicians, radical imams and islamists, even anarchy to find some hope.

One outcome of course is an off-the-scale correction. A seismic financial event so catastrophic that it will literally re-draw frontiers and see the death of the Free Market as a viable economic policy. It has happened before. History tells us that great inequality normally ends painfully whether it be empires collapsing or last century's two great global conflagrations that led to the establishment of our own modern welfare state.

As advisers we each have a contribution to make by shunning immoral tax avoidance schemes, working in less affluent communities to assist them with saving for the future, encouraging ethical investment, lobbying for better product design and demanding more shifting of risk from the shoulders of clients onto the shoulders of companies that are better equipped to cope.

I often think of that poor man dying alone in a cold flat. One of the best advisers I ever recruited was an ex-soldier. He had seen the worst of humanity and felt qualified to share in the best of it - he saw honour in helping others in adversity through objective unbiased financial planning. He saw it as a noble challenge.

One challenge which I am certain we are all equal to.

Well perhaps some more than others.

Talent shows “The Voice” and “Britain’s Got Talent”

Have reality shows finally replaced religion in the hearts of the British?

This weekend I finally succumbed to the persistent cajoling of my two youngest to share in the questionable pleasure of watching the above shows; two perfect examples of the genre described as the reality talent contest.

I am no stranger to these shows, as my other blogs will confirm, but it is fascinating to track how they are evolving and re-inventing themselves, in pursuit of ratings that are fragmenting as fast as the number of channels available.

It appears that the excesses of The Dear Leader Simon Cowell’s Caligulate lifestyle are finally catching up with him, and that the bright star of his Imperium, whilst not yet collapsing into a Black Hole, may well be in the early stages of becoming a Red Dwarf. I do not understand people’s admiration for this person – surely one look at his smug arrogance is repellent, in the same way that a baby does not need telling to avoid stroking a wasp.

Anyway, new talent show “The Voice” is definitely a part of his legacy and I watched it on successive nights this weekend to give it a fair chance.

“The Voice” is based around the premise that every person auditioning does so without any possible prejudice based on appearance, as the four judges choose blindfolded (not literally) and therefore solely based on “The Voice” and nothing else. This is the first lie of course, as the producers and researchers have obviously selected every contestant beforehand, no doubt with an eye for the greatest disparity between their singing talent and their appearance, to emphasise the show’s purpose.

I missed this process sadly, but apparently it involved the judges with their backs to the stage hitting a large red button when they decided they liked the singer – at which point their chair revolved, presumably like a James Bond villain, and they struggled to contain their shock at the singers’ revealed appearance. I would have liked to have seen that. The fact that they buzz for a good reason, rather than to reject them, is the BBC’s Ying to Cowell’s Yang.

This accounts for the array of rebuilt faces we saw including guest Cerys Matthews, who clearly employed a plastic surgeon about as adept at cosmetic reconstruction as I am at assembling an Ikea flat-pack. Do these people have mirrors?

The Judges themselves are interesting. Artist and producer Will.i.am has the appearance of the boy who forgot his homework and has been made to sit at the front of the class, constantly glancing furtively to his left to see if anyone else knows the answer to a question. Next to him is Jessie J, the singer who comes across as the slightly too enthusiastic clever girl who knows all the answers and constantly bobs up and down hoping to be picked by the teacher.

Add to this the slightly bemused Tom Jones (yes that Tom Jones) who looks like he is trapped in a Bring-Your-Grandad-To School-Day nightmare, plus the lead singer of Irish band The Script (who have only been famous for about three weeks) Danny who spends most of his time bobbing his head forwards and backwards like Quagmire in Family Guy – and there you have them : the judges!

What are they judging exactly?



Well when I watched it was Karaoke Cage Fighting basically and so repetitive and formulaic it became excruciating. Each contest was topped and tailed with that most nauseous of confections the “back story” and the team’s judge bleating on about how hard the decision was…Every time… The same way…They didn’t even change the vocabulary they used.

As the show’s primary and noble premise is that only the voice should be judged, this farce seemed unnecessary but it apparently passes for being entertaining because these “battles” with their suspiciously well orchestrated harmonies and choreography, are currently top of the most popular viewing lists on iPlayer!

That said, the judges were at least genuinely denied any glimpses of their acts beforehand which is probably a creditable change to the format. However it has, perhaps inevitably, meant that septuagenarian Tom Jones has ended up with a team that looks like it belongs somewhere between a Gay Pride march and a Flintstones/Scooby Doo theme party night.

The contestants are so scary in so many different ways I imagined most of them in a HP Lovecraft story. I am not just referring to their appearances or their fashion posturing but to their characters – obsessives, manic depressives, self harmers, fantasists and deluded narcissists apparently. This is our version of the Victorian Freak Show that Cowell invented but more of that later.

So “The Voice” continued with the bone-numbing intellect-sapping vacuity of winnowing these wannabes down to five per team and the whole process goes “Live” next week. I can hardly contain my ambivalence.

As for the winners of each battle, well even duos were allowed it seemed – thus questioning the title of the show somewhat. I am guessing they won’t win. Many of the results were controversial on our sofa, though not with me I would add. That was the moment I got a glimpse of what this show is about and the secret of its success – talent and music are irrelevant, this is designed to capture a nation already inebriated on reality TV shows and give them more of the same, so they sit together arguing and debating and hopefully, and somewhat ironically, forgetting their own personal reality for a while in the process. It is the opiate of the masses, the distraction from rebellion, a palliative dispensed by media.

So will I watch “The Voice” again? Probably not but never say never, as Manchester City fans are fond of saying at the moment. The BBC is meant to educate, inform and entertain and this show clearly appeals to number three.

I got to the end of “The Voice” spectacularly underwhelmed and a little bored and despondent.

My ordeal was not over yet – I now had to sit through the equally execrable “Britain’s Got Talent” with Old Beelzebub himself now occasionally joined by various attractive women judges who seemed to appear, morph and then disappear again (but then this wasn’t a movie and continuity is not really attempted so ho hum). David Walliams plays the stooge good cop and his charisma and talent are not wasted. He was, however, far better in a Roald Dahl documentary the following evening.

Again the myth is peddled that the events in this show are all spontaneous rather than a carefully contrived manipulation. Case in point is the trio of vocalists filmed from their car dashboard getting lost on the way to the audition. Now presumably that was done afterwards unless every single contestant was filmed getting to the show by producers hopeful that at least some of the footage would be useable? This is Cowell all over, and he is very good at getting away with it.

The trio were actually very good, and I hope they get more widely heard as a result, but I suspect you leave your credibility in the wings when you walk onto the stage of these shows as surely as Michael Jackson did when he walked on to that Pepsi advert film set.

Then there is the mob mocking of contestants when they are a little eccentric or just plain terrible. Presumably Cowell instructs his pro-consuls to find these victims and keep from them the fact that they are awful so he can reveal it himself before a grateful nation? Can he be any more despicable?

Almost as bad is the patronising of a clearly terrible act, putting them through to the next round because of novelty value. Tonight it was someone who reminded me of Maria Pracatan from the old Clive James shows. This is pointless bullying, however well-meaning.

Here again is the Victorian Freak Show. The amazing, the scary, the horrific and the amusing all wheeled before a paying crowd and then discarded as quickly – sometimes even after they win.

We all watch because it has become OK to be entertained like this but I always find myself imagining Shane Meadows’ powerful movie “Dead Man’s Shoes” when a boy with learning difficulties, desperately trying to belong, is bullied to the point of suicide and then avenged by his guilt-ridden special forces trained brother. If only the Paddy Considine character could dispense of Cowell as easily as he does the gang members in the film.

Britain’s Got Talent should be called Britain’s Got Talons. It is Jeremy Kyle without the unsettling social realism. We have become decadent.

What have these two shows taught me? Not much. Perhaps that being a morbidly obese, self-obsessed, supine narcissist with no fashion sense does not make you a bad person as long as you can sing well enough to be a commodity.

Religion survives by selling the joy of subjugation, the very essence of abjection. I am not sure we need it replicated – but we perhaps need it replaced.

Amen to that.

The Pinch - Baby Boomers and Bust

David Willetts – “The Pinch: How the baby boomers took their children’s future – and why they should give it back.”

In a 44 year period in the town of Leighton Buzzard 900 properties changed hands, but only a third of these were between people in the same family. The rest were bought by purchasers from further afield – evidence surely of the vibrant home owning society we all live in.

When was this? Oh, between 1464 and 1508! Britain has, apparently, always been a home owning society of smaller nuclear families.

This is just one of the highly satisfying little nuggets of information in this beautifully researched account by Tory MP David Willetts on how those born between 1945 and 1965 have got a pretty generous slice of the financial, cultural and political pie at the expense of those born afterwards, and why.

Willetts is a rare public intellectual who consistently stands apart from his coalition colleagues by virtue of his obvious probity and analytical prowess. In this book he postulates that the baby boomer generation owes a debt of reparation to the young, likening them to a hunter-gatherer tribe with an acute demographic problem.

Imagine Homo-erectus living in an earlier tribal community. There are the elderly and the young who need taking care of and then the fit adults who provide for them. If, by some freak event such as a series of mild winters or an increase in food stocks, the providers have a slightly better time of it and the population of the young spikes upwards, what happens?

Well, when the abundant young turn into providers they will comfortably be able to support their elderly but what if the number of new tribe members being born falls again? Who will provide for abundant adults in old age when there are suddenly more elderly mouths to feed and fewer replacement adults to feed them?

This is Willetts’ central argument, and it is so well made that you feel inclined not to quarrel with it. He suggests that, on average, every baby boomer will have taken out from society about 118% of what he or she has put in, and that such a boom trails an inevitable bust.

He recreates the “tribe” scenario today – imagining a household where there are husband and wife, two children and an elderly mother all living under one roof. The husband is in well-paid full-time employment; the wife works part time and looks after the children and the elderly mother.

This household is, he argues, akin to the welfare state. The man’s earnings pass to four dependants across three generations and even if he is quite well off he will not feel affluent.



Willetts weaves it all seamlessly into his central narrative that fortune has tracked the boomer generation like a stratified sample fund. When they were of school age, spending on schools went up; when they bought their houses, mortgages had tax relief and property rapidly increased in value; when they hit their peak earnings years tax rates fell, and the coffers bulged so much that many employers bestowed generous final salary pensions on everyone, sweetened further by contribution holidays and index linking. How much of that was true for the generation that followed?

BY 2050 over 50% of the UK will be over 50. The same over 50’s already own 4/5ths of the country’s wealth. There is a flash point here. The boomers will be so abundant they will have real power at the ballot box – tempting politicians to pander to them further. This creates horizontal cultural links, between members of the same generation, rather than vertical ones across generations. That will leave a disaffected youth, over taxed and under rewarded. It is a cocktail for catastrophe.

The conclusions David Willetts reaches are not 100% water tight, but the journey to get there is a hugely enjoyable one. He is, after all, a right of centre minister and I felt justified being a little sceptical of any politician’s motives writing a book proposing large scale social change!

Yet for all that this book is very informative, concise and well written. Economics students will relish the sections on Keynes, Schumpeter and Marx whilst sociologists will salivate at all the well-organised data.

It’s a book I can recommend highly.

Beautiful Mathematics!

For many the very mention of Maths brings them out in a cold sweat and induces either ambivalence or an instant switch off! Why is this? I have always found that Mathematics has a beauty and even a fundamental perfection that can be every bit as thrilling as studying a poem or a painting – and yet so many people never experience this.

Don't misunderstand me - I am no professional Mathematician! I just love the beauty of playing with numbers and shapes.

The first time I remember this happening to me was at primary school. We had a maverick head teacher who just wouldn’t be tolerated today – his name was James Denny and he was a rotund, peppery but jolly Scot who would, on a whim, call the whole school together and teach them something en masse! The other teachers would be expected to just stop what they were doing and join him in the assembly hall.

One of these lessons taught us to count up to 31 on one hand using binary (I had no idea what binary meant at the time, but looking back I see that is what it was) the thumb was one, the index finger two, the thumb and index finger was three, the middle finger alone was four, middle finger plus thumb five etc. We all heard a story about a strange woodland elf that Mr Denny had met and who taught him this secret way of counting! Try it – it’s fun!

From this I discovered the rainy day activity that is Pascal’s triangle – my brother and I used to create these for hours. You know – you start at the top with 1, beneath that you write two more 1s and then continue down where underneath every pair of numbers you write the sum of the number above – so row 3 would be “1, 2, 1” and row 4 would be “1,3,3,1” and so on for whatever size the paper is. Fascinating patterns appear even if your writing has to get very small!

But the best fun of all is Geometry. Say the word “Euclid” and you get blank expressions (or ones of abject horror!) most of the time – but he is like the father of Mathematics in so many ways. His theories mean that even today every schoolgirl and boy has a compass and ruler in their Geometry set – and with them can draw almost any shape, angle or plan. Greek mathematics has endured in a way Greek Philosophy and Literature has of course, but arguably in a more prominent role.

What about Pythagoras? The sheer stultifying brilliance of the formula that expresses the relationship between the sides of a right angled triangle is so rewarding – first when you first try it out but then, if you go that far, when you learn how to prove it! The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. Less well known is if you draw semi circles on each side of the triangle, or pentagons, the same is true! In fact any proportional shape will have the same relationship.

Plato showed how there are only five “solids” that can be generated by regular shapes – the Tetrahedron from a triangle, the Cube from a square, the Octahedron from the triangular pyramid, the Icosahedron from the triangle and the Dodecahedron from the Pentagon. Great for using as die in role playing games!

From here I remember exploring tessellation – basically using a repeating shape to “tile” an area! Some shapes tessellate easily but actually any four sided shape, if inverted exactly, can create a shape which will tessellate! That is pretty amazing in itself. Some of the most beautiful mosaic patterns in the world employ this principle. Interestingly, Islam where graven images were banned still created artistic beauty with mathematics in the tiled floors of mosques from Istanbul to Baghdad – in fact the Islamic nations were well ahead of the west in Mathematics for centuries.

Jack once told me that there are two types of tessellation – essentially with one you can ‘pick up’ a section, move it around and match it exactly somewhere else, and another type where this is impossible. The first is known as periodic tessellation and for years mathematicians tried to discover an example of nonperiodic tessellation. The person who achieved it was known in another field – it was cosmologist Roger Penrose with his “Dart and Kite” pattern shown.

There is no section of this pattern that is ever exactly repeated yet it tiles perfectly! Wonderful… Some even suggest that Islamic mathematicians may have discovered this 1000 years earlier…had religion not poisoned their progress we might have had the Internet in the time of Shakespeare!

Ahh, the beauty of Maths! Hardly even a scratch on the surface…

Favourite Art - L'Umana Fragilita by Salvator Rosa

'Conceptio Culpa, Nasci Pena, Labor Vita, Necesse Mori'

I first saw this piece when I was about 20 years old, and I remember I admired its obvious dark qualities but very little else. I think it was for a creative writing project, and it may have been seen on a glossy page in some text book or catalogue. I barely even bothered to decipher its symbols or translate the Latin inscription – but it obviously touched me in some deep way because when I saw it again years later in the Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge I was reminded and drawn back in.

At the time of my second viewing I had grown older, had children, had lost my Father and was increasingly identifying with Eliot’s “Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock” and Philip Larkin’s “Toads” as contemplations of ageing and the wasting of one’s precious and too brief time alive on working for, or pleasing, others. So on the second occasion I sat in front of the painting for several pensive and ponderous minutes and just…thought.

The painting, which I have returned to on several occasions subsequently, between meetings, after appointments, before seminars, is so obviously a product of personal tragedy for the artist Rosa who lost many of his family to plague the year before it was completed in 1656 - but it reflects most poignantly of all the fact that he lost his son, Rosalvo. It is the imagination of the moment of this loss that is captured in the scene, and yet, at the same time, it is as if all grief and futility is encapsulated within it.

The title means “Human Frailty” and the painting shows the mocking, leering angel of death sealing a contract for the life and soul of young Rosalvo who is portrayed as too young even to form letters on a page with a pen. You can almost trace a demonic Christian cross of light from the angel’s wings through the child’s arms. He sits, oblivious, on the lap of his mother, and on the page is written in Latin “Conception is Sin, Birth is Pain, Life is Toil, Death a Necessity” giving the most lucid understanding of Salvator Rosa’s state of mind. I read that he wrote to a close friend in a letter “This time Heaven has struck me in such a way that all human remedies are useless and the least pain I feel is when I tell you that I weep as I write”.

The moment your children are born you live with the almost constant terror of losing them. In the same way that their birth completes your life's purpose, their premature death must surely destroy it. I am certain that the grieving Salvator shed many tears onto this canvas and I still find it awe-inspiring that he found the courage to create it.

Objectively, the main reason I really love this painting is that it combines that raw, visceral emotion with perfect artistic precision in structure and imagery. There are several symbols of death scattered around the scene – a knife, a death mask, a bursting bubble, the Roman God of death Terminus. The light is used to great effect. The faces of the characters are haunting and memorable. Every detail rewards study and contains profound references and explanations. Most of the allusions I got from subsequent study, but the image is so strong it really does not require much interpretation. It is quite simply what art should be – a means of communicating something tangible, or intangible, about what it means to be human - a glimpse of the numinous that transcends faith or belief.

Whenever I take life a bit too seriously, I often think of that cold bony hand gripping the young child’s wrist. Death too early was an ironic fact of life in 1656 of course, the artist himself died at just 57, and most life was nasty, brutish and short - but I manage to believe that the message of gloom contained within this work can be turned into a hopeful optimism, even if just by my vowing to make a little bit more of every extra day I am granted and finding precious moments of human interactivity that prove the inscription, albeit occasionally and too briefly, to be over stated.

A short story I tell my youngest daughter.

Amazing!

Once there was a little girl called Charlotte who was very clever, very curious and very brave.

Her teacher, Miss Burgess was a colourful, smiley young girl who wore striped tights and loved telling stories. She had a big shelf behind her desk with all her clever teaching books on it with titles like “How to think in shapes and numbers” and “Count the stars”.

One afternoon Miss Burgess handed the children their Maths books to take home for the weekend.

“Now remember children, you mustn’t work any further than the page I told you” she said “Or your brains will be full!”

After the class had gone Charlotte went over to the shelf of books and looked at the ones on the top which were covered in dust and very thick. They had gold lines down their spines and old fashioned embossed letters. Checking that nobody was looking, she climbed onto Miss Burgess’ desk and took down the first book.

It was titled “Very Clever Maths” and was full of pictures of revolving spheres and levers and graphs and shapes and other things that made Charlotte’s eyes widen.

She slipped the book into her bag and ran to catch up with the other children.

That night, with a torch under her bed clothes, Charlotte read the whole book and then did all the test questions at the end so that the next morning she could show her answers to Miss Burgess.

At first her teacher was very cross that Charlotte had taken the book but when she read the test she said:

“Amazing!” and ran off to show the Head Teacher.

“Amazing!” said the Head Teacher and ran off to show the Governors.

“Amazing!” said the Chairman of the Governors and took it to show the Mayor…

When the Mayor saw Charlotte’s hard work in the Maths test he decided he had to show the Prime Minister.

“Amazing!” said the Prime Minister and set off at once for the United Nations where he read out the results of Charlotte’s Maths test to all the nations of the world, and they all nodded to each other smiling and clapping gently. All agreed that it really was amazing.

That night as Charlotte was doing her homework there came a knock at the door. When she opened it there were five scientists dressed in white lab coats, each with spectacles and a clipboard and all scribbling away attentively.





“We are from NASA the space people!” said the tallest one with the bright yellow tie “come with us!”

So Charlotte followed them to their shiny rocket ship, which was parked in her back garden and they flew her off to NASA’s base in the United States of America.

The scientists took Charlotte into a big room where there was one desk in the middle and lots of others in a big circle around it where even more scientists sat, all with glasses and clipboards and bright coloured ties.

“Please” said the man with the yellow tie “Can you try and help us? We want to land a space ship on Mars but the Maths equations are just so difficult!”

Charlotte looked at the piece of paper he handed her and scratched her chin “hmmm…” she said and then sat down at the desk in the middle.

“It’s quite easy...look” she said and explained the equations to the scientists whose eyes were getting wider and wider. Then suddenly they all began shouting “Of course!” and “Eureka!” and “That’s it!” and ran back to their own desks in feverish excitement.

This continued for some time. Then, at last, the scientist with the bright yellow tie stood on a chair and shouted “We’ve done it!” and all the other scientists stood up and applauded Charlotte who did her best curtsey, in recognition of their kindness.

“How can we ever thank you?” said the scientist with the yellow tie.

“Well, you could give me a ride home” said Charlotte.

And they did.

It was several months later when Charlotte and her classmates were all gathered around the screen in her classroom watching the first ever humans landing on Mars. The astronauts bounced and wobbled about in their big space suits and planted a flag, and lots of famous people on Earth gave speeches and clapped.

The day came for the ship to come home. The last astronaut was just about to board the shuttle when he stopped and began scratching something in the dry, red dust on the planet’s surface. Nobody knew what he was doing.

He climbed in and slowly the great space shuttle lifted off to rejoin the Mother ship and return the astronauts safely home. As they began to lift off, the astronauts switched on a camera on the bottom of the shuttle. It was looking back down at the surface of Mars, so everyone could see.

And there, written in the dust, were the words

“Thank you Charlotte!”

“Amazing!” thought Charlotte (…and continued working on her idea for a ship to fly to the stars!)

X Factor & The Beatles is like Peaches & Diesel...

X Factor – Oh no…

If you drew a giant smiley on The Haywain by Constable you could not have insulted our cultural heritage more profoundly than the X Factor mob did by covering Beatles songs this week. The whole thing was reminiscent of those horrible seaside specials in the 70s when camp dancers gyrated around a Blackpool pier lip-synching to crap pop songs. It was absolutely appalling.

What is it with Cheryl? Do some men actually fancy her? If so, it must be domestic abusers looking for a guilt free punch-fest. When she does that pathetic hurt look I am usually being pulled off the TV, blood streaming from my knuckles. I loved when she was attacking Wagner for revealing her council house origins – like she keeps those well hidden!

So what of the show itself and the performances? Well the highlight for me was when I thought West Life had all died in a car crash but it turned out that was just an advert for their new album shown during a break. Ah well…

Five soppy boys singing “All You Need Is Love” was my start point without a harmony in sight. They pout, bob, sway and sing badly destroying an anthem like the puppets in Team America destroying world heritage sites. Disgraceful…oh and Stretch Armstrong came on Sunday and said he wanted them to win!

Rebecca Ferguson, who is undoubtedly talented, is being slowly caricatured into a cross between Sade and Macy Gray and her version of Yesterday was obviously really terrible but only one judge was brave enough to say so. It was awful – a travesty and a shame because I think she can be a good recording artiste in time if she can escape Cowell’s clutches.

Then there was Katie Weasel or whatever her name is whose only claim to fame with me is she takes my mind off punching Cheryl Cole when she appears. Her warbling “Help” was like an advert for genocide and when Simon called it “genius lyrically” well I nearly choked on my cup cake…she didn't write the lyrics you pothead she sang them! Badly. I really hope he dies in a Hotel fire, as Morrissey would say.

Then Mary did Shirley Bassey doing Something, a truly amazing song by George and one of my favourites, which was interesting – a bit “Stars In Their Eyes” really. Which could be said of the whole show actually.

Even Matt Cardle looked out of his depth which is a shame because again I think he could be a good performer given free expression and time. Come Together is a great song but only when sung by John Lennon. Which leads me to…

Point of order – Imagine is a John Lennon song recorded post-Beatles so it can’t be on Beatles night. (And who the hell chose “Hippy Hippy Shake”? The judges do nothing for their credibility with these errors.) I was actually less frightened in The Exorcist than I was at the thought that she was about to start rapping the Imagine lyrics...if she had I would have got in my car, driven to London and beaten the Great Satan Cowell to death with a rusty spanner, I swear I would have.

The mini-me Cole blubbed her way through Sunday when she needn’t have worried, not being black she was always going through. Cowell tried getting rid of Paije a week before putting him on first to play on poor viewer memories, but they gave the thumbs down to that twitchy bloke with the quiff. Hah!

All that and Wagner the protest vote believing his own bullshit and Louis thinking he has a fan base!! So funny – when he got through on Sunday I recorded Cheryl’s expression and replayed it a hundred times whilst punching the screen. Excellent therapy.

Anyway the circus continues and I will be watching mindlessly like the rest of the country. Ho hum…

Praise for “The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists” by Robert Tressell

Few novels can really claim to have had a wholly transformative effect on the reader but in the case of this one I can totally understand the cover statement by Ricky Tomlinson that this book changed his life. It certainly informed mine, much like Orwell's "Down and Out in Paris & London" and "Road to Wigan Pier" did.

It's creator, Robert Noonan who took the nom de plume of Tressell to avoid recriminations, sadly didn’t live to see it published. In the introduction he vouches for its accuracy and claims it is all true which gives every scene added resonance.

It charts a year in the life of a group of working class painters and decorators in Edwardian England who suffer unspeakable poverty and suffering as they attempt to survive the cruel realities of post-industrial capitalism in a fictitious town of Mugsborough.

Into their midst comes a well-read activist called Owen who attempts to teach them how they are being exploited by the capitalist system – memorably demonstrating in one scene the “great money trick” using bread divided up into pieces. The men are scornful of Owen blaming their ills on immigrants, tariff reform or free trade and decrying socialism as an evil to be condemned.

I had to constantly remind myself that this novel actually pre-dates The Suffragettes, The Russian Revolution, The first Labour Government and The First World War and excuse many of its more subsequently discredited notions on that basis. That said, many of the books central criticisms of the Western Capitalist philosophy could be equally levelled today.

Tressell does not hold back in his condemnation of the Edwardian employers. Hunter is the feared foreman, referred to variously as Misery and Nimrod, who can cut the men off at any time – they are, however, entitled to an hour’s notice! The owner, Rushton, is another tyrant who happily has the men working in freezing temperatures with poor tools and only the fear of loss of income as an incentive.

Yet Tressell understands that a system where everyone chasing the same contract must seek to undercut the other bidders is inevitably doomed to fail. He almost sympathises with the men forced to drive their employees as slaves to squeeze profit from each job – many of the scenes explore this convincingly.

He highlights poverty and the lack of help and support from the authorities in a more straightforward manner than say Dickens does, but despite being true the narrative does not suffer from a lack of story-telling. It is, at times, maddening and moving in equal measure.

All ages and classes are covered and Tressell uses names for his characters that are laugh out loud funny at times. Bodger and Leavit, Sir Graball D’Encloseland the MP, Mr Sweater and Mr Grinder the employers, Slyme the immoral cad and even Dr Weakling the only voice on the council who attempts to speak against corruption and self-interest but always fails.

The book is optimistic in the end but the irony is that Owen, who is Tressell, contracts TB in the story but ultimately survives to meet with some good fortune.

Robert Tressell was not so fortunate dying young, another victim of the system he sought to change.

The original manuscript can be viewed on-line at the TUC website complete with Noonan's alterations and notes. It is very readable and a fascinating artefact of the class struggle.

Worth a look this Xmas if you need something different!

Horror & Gore!!

Watching the Psychoville Halloween Special recently reminded me of just how much I love the Horror genre. I hit seventeen at the perfect time – the VCR had arrived in the UK and some of the most creative horror movies from the 60s and 70s could be watched late at night after a trip to The Three Horseshoes in Stukeley, preferably in groups of four or five.

I grew to love Horror from that moment onwards. The genre appeals to the visceral core of what it means to be human. The fear of death in all its forms, the struggle with terrifying ordeals, the nature of self, religion, independence and even child abuse – all have been covered in Horror movies and the teenage impressionable me was lapping it all up in the late seventies. Here then is my Horror Top 10 covering all the films that I first saw on VCR and still watch today.

10. Psycho – the original “slasher” serial killer movie has to scrape onto the chart mainly because I still really enjoy watching it so much. That scene on the stairs still gets me as does the final denouement. A classic

9. The Shining – OK Jack Nicholson is a bit over the top, but the way the film deals with the twin themes of domestic abuse and isolation is still masterly. The techniques used look a bit passé but the sheer brilliance of the direction makes up for it.

8. The Ring – Japanese version of course and truly chilling from the very start. The last scene seems to break the fourth wall by crawling out of the TV twice – the second time into your own lap! Fabulous.

7. Halloween – Michael Myers cutting up baby sitters and their boyfriends…but only if they have had sex. Innocent Laurie is ultimately spared and of course he himself can’t be killed, just as immorality can’t be killed. The film is dated but still has a brio I love and is always worth another viewing.

6. Suspiria – Fantastic Italian Horror with ground breaking special effects at the time and a genuinely disturbing underlying theme of separation and exclusion.

5. Zoltan, Hound of Dracula – slightly quirky vampire movie but the dog steals the show as a monster somewhere between the Baskerville Hound and the Alien. Superbly terrifying at the time and still worth an evening’s viewing

4. The Wicker Man – so English and so ground breaking with its plot based on paganism and ignorance laced with escapist independence from the rule of law. Edward Woodward screaming “Oh My God!” still makes my blood freeze and makes you think of ethnic cleansing, executed hostages and brutal murders in the name of religions.

3. Dawn of the Dead – The prophetic fable on consumerism. Watch it now and you could just as easily be out on a Saturday at the local Debenhams or John Lewis. We are all the Zombies now and this film tried to warn us. Superb.

2. Blood on Satan’s Claw – a kitsch hammer classic made memorable for me by the full frontal nude scene where “Angel” reveals her loyalty to the Dark Side, which disturbed me greatly as a teenage youth. Wonderful.

1. The Exorcist – As America feared for the morality and sanity of its youth, William Friedkin produced the ultimate stroppy teenager to play on all those suppressed anxieties. Yet there is more to the plot than that – the voyage of Father Carras is by far the most interesting aspect of this film and the scenes where he interplays with the devil inside Regan are the most enduring and terrifying.

You can if you wish, give points for trying to the following: The Omen trilogy, Rosemary’s Baby, The Hills Have Eyes, Scanners, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Last House On The Left, Nightmare On Elm Street and The Thing.

Oh for the golden age of the VCR!!

X Factor draws me in again...

OK So I watched a recording of Saturday’s X Factor last night to give it a fair chance.


I wish I hadn’t. Actually that’s not true – I do have some fascinating revelations!

The first is that Louis Walsh is basically a one sentence robot with a good eye for the bizarre. Last year the strange twins became “Jedward” and actually sustained the public’s interest for a few months even after the series ended, and he looks like he is doing it again with Wagner who resembles that Native American who always decried the war with the White Man in Lee Van Cleef films and ultimately died in a hammy way involving a brunette and a tomahawk.

Louis basically says “You look like a Pop Star. You dress like a Pop Star. You sound like a Pop Star. You are a Pop Star!” to a different person every week. The irony is he sits next to Danni Minogue who also looks like one, sounds like one (at least whilst she is only talking) and dresses like one but never actually WAS one. Go on, name your favourite Danni Minogue hit. Exactly.

Is Cher Lloyd an anagram of “Cheryl Doll” with an “l” removed? Call me old fashioned, but do street rappers come from early evening light entertainment shows now? She is bizarre to say the least and is a bit like The Monkees were to The Stones. I keep expecting a drive by shooting to splatter Simon Cowell all over the rest of the panel as Jedward try and reclaim the hood.

Cheryl of course is being criticised for her lack of connection with TreyC or whatever she is called. Well, we all know why that is don’t we? Count your blessing TreyC and for God’s sake don’t let her follow you into the toilets. Mind you she shouldn’t really have dressed like that Red Dwarf in Don’t Look Now.

Cheryl Cole has perfected that look that seems to say “Run Bambi – Man is in the forest”. All that’s missing is the satisfying gunshot and the Emperor of Exmoor saying “sorry Cher, Cheryl cannot be with you any more”. Was that too much to ask on a Halloween special?

Then there is Simon. Like Caligula’s plebeians the audience wait for his thumb on each act. He looks to the side, does a strange hand gesture, says something ambiguous and then…the coup de grace. Close up of the contestant looking like Simon just confirmed that the early diagnosis of advanced pulmonary cancer was incorrect and in fact was only a chest cold. Simon then names his horse as a Senator, enjoys fellatio with a goat under the desk and the poor across the country pay extortionate phone rates to support his Frankenstein Boy Band rather than, say, buy vegetables.

What really annoys me is that there is some talent in there but it is being restricted and exploited for the Cowell Corporation rather than nurtured and developed. Rebecca Ferguson and Matt Cardle will no doubt be forced to sing songs by some idiot like Robbie “Save My Career For Old Times Sake Boys?” Williams when they should be learning the trade of song-writing so they can genuinely survive in the real world beyond Dermot’s shoulder. Alexandra Burke and even Leona Lewis totally depend on getting good songs and without them, and their youthful looks, they will soon fade.

Highlight of Saturday night TV for me? Harry Hill’s Wagbo, the love child of Wagner and Mary Byrne…genius!

Why do we watch these programmes? Well, I think it’s because everyone is rooting for their favourite and the thing becomes competitive and therefore entertaining. I regularly hear the words “who went out on X Factor/Strictly/Big Brother?” shouted across a bar or hotel lobby in the way they would enquire about the outcome of distant battles a century ago. I guess I will just have to keep watching to see who triumphs...come on Wagner!!

Seeing another Human Being Die.

I come from a family of Police Officers for whom the sight of a recent sudden death is not an uncommon experience. I suspect that my huge respect for them, and my certainty that it is a job I could never ever do, stems from an incident in my childhood when I witnessed somebody actually die – for the only time in my life so far thankfully.

I was about eleven years old and I remember it was a spring day because the daffodils were out on the road opposite the shop where I had just been to buy some football cards – a weekly ritual for me in those days as I squandered my generous pocket money.

Served immediately after me in the shop, with some cakes and other treats I seem to recall, was a lady of the village known to me as “Miss Lappard”. My father had taught us all to always address adults in such a way no matter how familiar they were. She was not particularly familiar and I remember that on that day she was dressed in unseasonal dark colours and that apart from being clearly quite elderly she was otherwise fit and well as she passed me on the shop steps to return to her house just 60 yards away.

She was returning to her home which had been there for considerably longer than she had, standing by the busy main road which divided it from the village, a road even older than the house – one that had Roman origins and ran straight past Great Stukeley but which was, nevertheless, busy and fast.

In his essay “A Hanging” George Orwell describes the execution of a Burmese native by the British Imperial Judiciary during his military career. The most poignant moments for him are first when on hearing that his appeal has failed the condemned individual urinates in his cell where he stands, out of pure terror, and the second when as the same prisoner walks the short distance to the scaffold in bare feet he carefully steps to one side to avoid a puddle. To Orwell this trivial unconscious act underlined the brutal significance of taking the life of a perfectly functioning human being.

For me, at least looking back, I remember a similar significant moment as Miss Lappard stepped off the kerb carefully to avoid tripping over with her bag of shopping – carefully placing one foot after the other to avoid a slip or twist of an ankle. Once safely on the road she simply stepped out towards her home…

The image that stays with me to this day is that mass of dark clothes flying into the air on the impact of the car and the following silence. Even now I do not remember a car stopping or a driver rushing back to her – I just remember that heap of clothes and the realisation that a human being had just ended their life in front of me.

I stood there, motionless for a few seconds probably rapped by terror and childhood curiosity, and then ran back into the shop to find an adult. Time changes things of course, but the basic details have remained vivid I think.

I think that, at that moment, my own mortality suddenly became real and my adult self was born.

The Trouble With Organised Religion...

OK – I have no problem with people of faith at all. If anyone has a belief they strongly adhere to and which informs their life then fantastic. I just don’t agree with them and resent the fact that those views are always given credence and integrity by our institutions. As an Atheist, here are ten things about religion that I have a major problem with:

1. Dictatorship. Most religions presuppose a deity who is basically all watching and all knowing and judging. The ultimate Big Brother. Step out of line and you’re toast. That, and the fact we are all apparently born into sin and will die with our sins to answer for, makes it a pretty bad deal.

2. The Old Testament. Basically condones fratricide, genocide, slavery, incest, rape, murder and a few other nasty deeds in the name of religion. Please.

3. Proselytising for charity. If you care and want to help fantastic but don’t make it all conditional on faith or worship.

4. Miracles. Metaphors are fine, but don’t pretend that the universal laws are suspended just to make a point every now and again.

5. Denial. Of dinosaurs and the Earth being more than 6000 years old. OK maybe only the most extreme believers hang onto this but it is so irrational it undermines any attempt at serious debate.

6. Certainty. Anyone who has it is dangerous – and I include fellow atheists in that category. I admit I cannot prove non-existence of a deity but I happen to think that extraordinary claims require extraordinary proof and the burden of that proof de facto rests with those who would use their belief to interfere in the lives of others.

7. Rituals. Some are fine – hatches, matches and despatches are social glue – but the high ceremonial extremes with incense, chanting and snake-wrestling are just plain silly and outdated in every form in every religion. Plays to the Paganism gene in us all and is just risible.

8. Sex obsession. Why is religion obsessed with sex – how you do it, who with and why? Celibacy, Virgin births and miraculous conceptions are in most religions proving, fairly clearly, that they were written by men with a fear of female reproductive organs.

9. Directives. Why does God hate Pigs so much? Why be even bothered what meat we eat? Our universe may be one of billions and our galaxy one of tens of billions all carefully designed and coordinated by someone who cares if we have pork for lunch? Honestly.

10. Subjugation. It’s a key objective in the Koran (convert, subjugate or destroy) and in the Old Testament. Religion has, for centuries, hindered scientific development. Without Islam the Arabs may have had the Internet by the 1800s at the rate they were progressing. Today whole societies are kept back by medieval doctrines and dogmas embarrassing to anyone of intelligence.

There – I feel better now!

Mercury Music Prize Winners The XX - A truly great album.

The XX


Remember how it feels to be in love? I mean obsessively irrationally nothing-else-matters crazily in love? Then having that love shattered before your eyes like a broken snow globe and all the feelings of powerless pain and anguish that followed? If you can, then you will find The XX album an experience to savour.

Musically it is ethereal and quirky at times, but from the instrumental introduction onwards this is an album that wants to be seen as genuine, the real deal, but it's also an album to listen to closely and all the more rewarding for it. A decent bass woofer would be useful too as some of the production rumbles up from Hades.

Many of the songs take the form of a dialogue between two parties in a failed or failing relationship and the broad sweeps of the music underpin and symbolise the emotions of each piece – particularly in "Fantasy" and "Crystallised" . You feel, at times, as if you are reading the secret diary of a young girl who has had her whole world destroyed by misplaced love but somehow is still trying to cling on. At times the depth of pain in the voice reminded me of The Blue Nile. It is universally moving and yet totally genuine and personal at the same time.

There is poetry in these lyrics too. “Shelter” reads like a simplified Sylvia Plath or Stevie Smith with a relevance and poignancy echoed in a delayed single string guitar refrain that eventually sees the song segue into the more accepting finality of “Basic Space”. You feel like a secret voyeur on a disintegrating relationship – think “Picking Up After You” by Tom Waits or The The “Infected” album.

The highlight for me is “Infinity”. The male vocal implores the protagonist to “give it up” whilst she responds “I can’t give it up” over and over again like a text conversation stuck in auto-send. All accompanied by some “Wicked Game” guitar.

The last track, "Stars", does hint at redemption for both with its acceptance of sometimes just letting things happen slowly. A wonderful denouement.

These are not songs to strum and sing round a camp fire. You can hear New Order, Chris Isaacs, Velvet Underground , Tori Amos and Bowie if you listen hard enough. The end result is a thoroughly satisfying album that is deserving of its plaudits and whilst they have said they have no plans for another, it would be fascinating to see what this band grows into.