At last, they have arrived. Snug and unassuming in a brown Jiffy bag, they were there on the doormat when I came in from the rain. Neat Japanese characters marked them out at once and I smiled as I shook off my jacket. Few are the days when this simple excitement comes upon me; even birthdays and Christmas don’t guarantee such satisfaction to a cynic wary of last-minute gifts. Now, three months after ordering, my batch of limited-edition reissue jazz-fusion CDs is here. If that sounds painfully pretentious, humour me – my neighbour has a penchant for vintage typewriters.

I’ll admit that in the era of Amazon Prime and vast libraries of music available online, getting worked up about three obscure albums seems a little silly, if not sad. These are the glory days of instant gratification: why wait for your next indulgence? This demand has been applied to every aspect of modern life, from the moped platoons waiting to deliver any dish to the door in our hour of hunger, to the 0% finance deals that save us the tedium of saving for a car. It’s a consumer’s paradise where everything is within reach 24/7. Rome may not have been built in a day but we’ve come a long way since then.

Instant access to products that previously would be available according to season or time of manufacture has made us ignorant of the effort that generates them. What once was prized for the labour that produced it is now judged by its immediate appeal. Yesterday’s purchase arrives today and it will be something else tomorrow. But of all the commodities that we fill our lives with, the digital are the most expendable. Stripped of their material substance, our engagement with them is purely superficial, mediated by electronic hardware that soon becomes outdated. What’s more, digital can be infinitely duplicated, creating an inexhaustible supply.

Before I’m branded as a hot-blooded Luddite, it is important to recognise the innumerable advances that digitalisation makes possible. The abundance of information openly obtainable online is awesome and, in bypassing traditional gatekeepers of knowledge, can be a great force for democracy. As someone who carries in his pocket the complete works of Shakespeare, Howlin Wolf’s back catalogue, and the dictionaries for three languages, I’m hardly in a position to get snooty about digital media. But whilst much has been said on the economic, ethical, and artistic ramifications of this technological development, the way we appreciate different mediums is given less airtime.

I’ve long been a fan of the compact disc. Since receiving a Walkman on my seventh birthday, these shiny plastic plates have brought much joy. Back then, my collection was limited to a single album: The Cream of Clapton. Every night after I’d been put to bed I listened to the entire compilation, from the first song to the last. When iPods came along a few years later, my fondness for CDs didn’t waver. Converting one format to another was straightforward and my iTunes library was simply a digital double of the discs on my shelf. Not only do CDs offer a choice of mediums, but the cover notes often reveal unreported insights to the recording process or (in Steely Dan’s case) outrageous anecdotes well worth reading. It’s also nice to know that if the technosphere falls apart I’ve got a backup of the last 20 years’ musical investigations.

Certainly, the element of discovery is one of the big draws towards physical albums. Anyone who’s spent time flicking through bargain buckets in record shops will know the thrill of buying an album for the artwork or that one track you’ve heard before. With a bit of luck, this stab in the dark is the first step on a new audio adventure more mesmerizing and unexpected than anything the algorithms will push your way. Crucially, the act of purchasing the whole album rather than downloading singles makes us more likely to open our ears to the unknown. We all want bang for our buck and after paying for 10 tracks rather than one, chances are that we will listen to them.

In a way, listening to an album for the first time isn’t so different from reading a book (all the more so when the album has been composed as a complete piece rather than a basic amalgamation of singles). These days, listening to music is often a means of satisfying our tastes by returning to what we already know. Whether on the radio or on our playlists, the same songs are repeated and reaffirm our taste for the familiar. By contrast, on our first encounter with a new album we become absorbed by our interest in the unknown. Just as the narrative direction of a book holds our attention from one page to the next, a similar spirit of exploration can be evoked by music.

Digitisation hasn’t completely put an end to this; DJs play an important role in exposing us to songs we wouldn’t have heard otherwise, often arranged into compelling sets. But the shift away from physical formats also has a tendency to steer us towards individual songs rather than complete albums.

It was this sense of musical trepidation that came over me as I slotted each of my long-awaited discs into the CD player. I’d heard the odd song on a couple of the albums but the rest were a mystery: unavailable online and with only five star Japanese ratings to recommend them. Just as I would for a book or film, I settled on the sofa for the much-anticipated serenade.

Rampant digitisation has made portable activities that once required stationary equipment. In many modern households a laptop fulfils all our entertainment needs, rendering any other audio-visual apparatus obsolete. Smaller still, the mighty smartphone can be book, telly, iPod and a thousand other things all in one.

But whilst a single device can cover a variety of mediums, format-specific kit undoubtedly enhances the experience. Not necessarily because it performs better (whether it’s playing music or films), but because it removes many of the distractions that come with having our activity mediated by the Internet and the external disturbances that listening when out and about entails.

Unlike its compact successors, the hi-fi experience is not a movable feast but one that locks you into a static space and forces you to focus on the music. Nowadays, it’s something of a luxury to devote our undivided attention to a single pursuit. But for all the boundaries pushed by recent innovation, it’s one that is well worth indulging in. Meanwhile I await my next order.

“In a crisis everyone’s a socialist.” It’s a bold refrain that has echoed from commentators across the political spectrum; an observation of governments around the world that are scrambling to mitigate the effects of a pandemic on both citizens and economies. Advocates of laissez-faire deregulation have been forced to embrace state intervention and central banks are (once again) propping up national and international markets. Although it would be a little premature to declare covid-19 as the death knell of neoliberalism, it has certainly illuminated the structural shortcomings of an ideology vociferous against financial regulations.

Yet the remark is more than just a comment on an institutional swing towards socially-inclined policies: it also nods to the neighbourhoods and nations that have been pulled together by a common threat. Whether it’s the huge response to the NHS’s Goodsam scheme or community groups that have sprung up across the nation, we seem to have rediscovered our kinship and there is an infectious spirit of mucking-in together. Events such as the Thursday night round of applause are testament to a palpable patriotism that politicians have been eager to tap into.

As with all crises, this latest scourge has its peculiarities: its entrance onto the world stage was unforeseen and startlingly fast. Yet in many ways the response to this mortal threat has been both rational and predictable. Of course we must rally around health services; naturally communities come together to look out for the most vulnerable; no question we put aside our grander aspirations and hunker down for the foreseeable. This is hardly a mass conversion to leftist agendas: common sense has simply become common.

But in spite of the rare – and, it should be noted, temporary – consensus that we should collectively forgo any behaviour which might transmit the virus; it would be simplistic to equate this unity of action to a worldwide altruistic awakening. As the general populace has adopted the suspension of civil liberties with grim stoicism, shows of self-interest and indifference have become all the more obvious. Cue the zealous finger pointing at those considered not to be toeing the line. Just look at the tabloids that have been quick to vilify dog-walkers, cyclists, and sunbathers.

Certainly we should neither condone nor encourage flagrant displays of selfishness. But this raucous tub-thumping is not only unhelpful; it also carries a whiff of hypocrisy. Many of those who now indulge in self-righteous indignation are conspicuously quiet on other matters of existential import (the WHO estimates that climate change already kills over 150 000 annually).

Furthermore, this high profile proselytising diverts attention from far graver offences against the public interest. Some companies have been slow to furlough staff, putting the onus of deciding whether or not to go to work on employees who live from paycheque to paycheque. Others that have pursued aggressive tax avoidance policies are now seeking government aid. Elsewhere, some multi-national businesses have been asking staff to take unpaid holiday leave whilst simultaneously paying six figure dividends to shareholders. This is only less sensational than stockpiling canned veg because it has long been the norm.

Although there have indeed been occasional instances of dishonourable conduct on the part of a small minority, the furore that these deviations from public decency provoke is indicative of a latent puritanism that divides rather than reconciles. It seems that some among us have been taken by a fit of virtue signalling and positively delight in asserting the moral high ground over those who they judge to have fallen out of step. Vital as it is that we all heed expert and government advice, the worthy policing of relatively minor transgressions does nothing to help community cohesion at a time when cooperation is key.

Many have noted the indiscriminate assault of the virus that afflicts all echelons of society. But far from being a great leveller, the illness shines a light on the precarity that millions deal with daily. Long before being hooked up to ICU ventilators (god forbid), there are many for whom solitary confinement really is the prison sentence it sounds like. While some of us are busy making home improvements and warming to the perks of working from home, domestic abuse, food insecurity, and deteriorating mental health are just some of the resultant ailments that are on the rise. It goes without saying that these overwhelmingly affect lower-income households.

As ever, closer analysis of national unity in the face of a common danger calls for a little more nuance than the binary socialism/conservatism axis on which we typically locate ourselves. It’s true that on the economic front, out-and-out liberalism has failed us. Incapable of caring for all social strata when the going gets tough, the omniscient market has proved to be a myth. Yet this doesn’t directly translate to a more socially democratic revival. We’re caught in a curious cocktail of competing principles that don’t normally hang together. Exactly how the nation will be morally and ideologically oriented in the wake of this crisis remains unclear. But if the 2008 crash is taken as a yardstick for responding to a world crisis, it seems more likely that we gravitate back towards a pre-covid state of affairs rather than implementing a more progressive political programme. As a percentage of GDP, global debt is currently higher than ever. With this debt overhang exacerbated by the pandemic, a return to austerity – and its ensuing impacts on social equality – is to be expected.

We’re all feeling it. The unsettling sensation of long-established routines falling away. Habits we’ve internalised are put on hold as the sequence of daily events is restructured or abandoned entirely. It’s disconcerting for everyone: unforeseen, abrupt, indefinite. Whether it’s the pre-work pilates class or the post-work pint at the local, we’re all missing the moments normally taken for granted. On top of this, an initial lack of direction from the powers that be had many of us scratching our heads and pulling our hair out at the prospect of looming bills and redundancy. Meanwhile, the stream of unanswered (and often unanswerable) questions has plunged the planet into existential quandary.

Each passing day the commitments and conventions that underpin our lives are suspended and the need for certitude and assurance becomes ever more acute. Exciting as improvisation can sometimes sound, we’re creatures of habit. Knowing where we are going and how we’ll get there is a reassuring remedy to the pressures of modern life. Overnight, cracks have appeared in the structural framework that holds society together. The aspirations that guide our quotidian efforts – exams, holidays, weddings, or any number of targets we’ve held in our sights – have now moved beyond reach. Recalibrating to this time of apprehension and uncertainty demands that we navigate a sea of variables and narrow our attention to the basics: food, shelter, health.

Certainly, with the supply chain in disarray and bare necessities hard to come by, keeping stocked-up with essentials has gone from being a menial, mechanical task to a struggle never before experienced by younger generations. Previously tedious elements of the day – commuting or queuing at the coffee kiosk – are now sorely missed. For all the hassle and frustration that these mindless activities might entail, they are nonetheless important times of transition that help us through the day. In these days of reduced movement and isolation, we realise the value of moments that we used to think of as automatic and interim.

Perhaps most perturbing is the sudden merging of formerly distinct environments. In normal circumstances the space for leisure and relaxation, home must now serve as office, school, gym, infirmary… often all at once. The boundaries separating the different aspects of our lives have been blurred, dividing our concentration between a variety of commitments. Working from home has long been possible and collaborating remotely with colleagues will likely not be an entirely new experience for many of us. But the recent imposed change of location exposes the under-appreciated advantages of the collective workspace. For all the inconvenience of stuffy clothes, rush hour, and packed lunches, things get done in a building of busy co-workers. Productivity breeds productivity. Likewise, distraction breeds distraction.  

Caught in the calamity and confusion it’s easy to become demotivated. Business as usual is all but impossible and with the situation changing with each public broadcast, it’s difficult to decide on a precise course of action. As the novelty of this change of affairs wears thin, ennui and despair can quickly set in. And with optimism dampened by each wave of government restrictions and financial hurdles, silver linings become increasingly hard to spot. When they are pointed out – for instance the massive reductions in carbon emissions at industrial heartlands around the world – the mood for felicitation is conspicuously absent. Unfortunately, recent environmental triumphs look more like pyrrhic victories when we factor in the costs to economic and human health that occasioned them.

So what can we celebrate? Unsurprisingly, our appetite for cheer is quelled by impending illness and stretched public services. But amid the gloomy headlines and limits to civil liberties, consolation can be found in the revival of community spirit so easily neglected in the ordinary urban rush. Neighbours previously strangers to each other have been quick to come together. Whatsapp and Nextdoor apps have connected neighbourhoods, offering support with shopping, advice on wellbeing, and a space where lonely or isolated residents can find comfort and companionship (virtual though it may be). Within hours of being created, the NHS volunteering scheme received thousands of applicants. Other charities have been inundated with requests from individuals eager to help in any way they can. Notwithstanding the need for social distancing, the sense of solidarity is palpable and a common bond of camaraderie can be felt in many public areas.

Metropolitan living has often been portrayed as an impersonal experience devoid of social cohesion. Upon moving to London, William Wordsworth described a place where ‘Even next-door neighbours [are] still/ Strangers, and not knowing each other’s names’. This sense of detachment from those around you is something we’ve probably all felt – particularly in cities. It has been exacerbated and encouraged by the neoliberal ideology that champions self-serving individuals above collective groups working together for the common good. The same philosophy is evoked by businessmen who insist upon their “self made” virtues and operate with an attitude of “every man for himself”.

In reality, this rather repulsive caricature is a crude representation of modern humans. With the notable exception of a small number of world leaders, we tend to be pleasant and well meaning in our everyday interactions and regularly indulge in acts of kindness and generosity. But this benevolence has a hard time radiating beyond the personal sphere. When it comes to issues outside our immediate surroundings we struggle to engage and generally choose to distance ourselves from dilemmas facing the wider world. Behavioural scientists use the term ‘compassion fatigue’ to explain how we become almost indifferent to the daily deluge of bad news that affronts us. It’s not that we’re bad people but that we feel powerless to change national and international issues.

Yet with Government now demanding that we change our behaviour, we are forced to consider the consequences of our actions upon society at large. This kind of thinking on a grander scale whilst acting on a local level can counter the ‘empathy crisis’ discerned by sociologists. The challenges we now face make clear the importance of small-scale cooperation for the benefit of entire nations. In such urgent conditions, we are forced to recognise our mutual dependence. Although not desirable in itself, this pandemic is bringing us closer together. Learning to look beyond ourselves and empathise with unknown communities is an undeniably positive fallout of these difficult times. Let’s hope it remains long after normal life has been restored.

December was, for many, a bittersweet month – festivities offset by a hanging of heads for the socially progressive reforms that were not to be. Yet again we have seen that simplicity sells: Get Brexit done. Placed beside its predecessor – Take back control – the progression seems natural; a message so plain that it discourages analysis and suggests that deeds can be done as easily as they are said. The tripartite slogan has an undeniable acoustic appeal: Veni, vidi, vici; Just do it; Snap, crackle, pop. Known in schools as tricolon or ‘rule of three’, it’s an easy trick to score points in your English GCSE. Prominent, powerful, persuasive; since time immemorial our lives have been framed by trinities. ‘Twas ever thus.

Whilst it may be a slight overstatement to suggest that these mantra alone swung the result, their potency is unquestionable. More worryingly, however, is the way in which they were the foundation of otherwise unsubstantiated opinions. Their currency in the political and media spheres was often seen to legitimise the flimsiest of views on national issues. Demands for a more robust justification of exactly why, for example, we should trust people who historically have lied through their teeth would be shot down with a three word incantation, the Swiss Army Knife of comebacks to deflect all manner of irritating probing. This dependence on reduction and disregard for complexity is rife in the media where the measure of an interviewee comes down to their ability to define their position in yes or no answers. In a post-Paxman era, belligerent talk-show hosts supply a stream of “So what your saying is…” and equivalent non sequiturs to gloss over any matter of intricacy.                   

The drive for concision has long been the method of choice to downplay the finer details that stick in the side of populist appeals. The logic goes that if you can’t condense your intentions to a snappy soundbite then you don’t deserve to have a say in issues of any consequence. The flaw in this argument is that it discounts the reasoning that would, in any sensible debate, qualify one’s stance. Intention – those sharp declarations that penetrate public discourse – has been stripped of the more pertinent follow-ups: how? and why? As such we become judged for our intentions rather than our reasons, denied the opportunity to explain ourselves. Misunderstanding and inaccuracy rush to fill the void left by clarification and discussion.  

In one of his more lucid spells, Nietzsche wrote that ‘convictions pose a greater danger to truth than lies do’. With deliberation cast aside, convictions go unchallenged and semi-truths solidify. Political opponents are portrayed with a broad brush, feeding a tribal rationale that leads us away from mediation towards the extremes.It would be nice to think that the period of post-electoral reflection has been spent contemplating these rough characterizations that both the right and the left are guilty of. After such a decisive electoral defeat, now seems the time to go back to the drawing board and re-evaluate our relationships with the “racists and rotters” on the other side. For any leftist who is serious about unifying, rebuilding, and improving, a rejection of these vulgar caricatures is imperative. We can’t allow neighbours, colleagues, and potential friends to be painted as odious mugs. In spite of the simplistic worldviews endorsed by pundits of all political hues, it’s complicated. And it’s about time we faced up to that.     

‘Tragedy is that kind of action in which human beings are shown in contest with the horror of indistinction, facing a world which threatens to collapse.’ So wrote Michael Neill, Emeritus Professor of English at the University of Auckland and Shakespeare scholar and editor. This is one of many quotations surfacing from the millpond of memory in the wake of my final university exams. As with so many things Shakespeare, Neill’s astute comment resonates in the modern context of international dialogue dominated by self-determining demagogues who subject the electorate to ever more divisive rhetoric and split communities into feuding factions. In such a caustic environment, the bonds between colleagues, neighbours, and friends are stretched and even the elasticity of familial ties is tried. A miscalculated remark or frustration vented is sometimes all it takes to ignite indignation and separation. Times are tough and amid climate turmoil, pinched public services, and the ubiquitous B-word, who hasn’t at one point or another imagined themselves a tragic hero doing battle within the Babel din of public discourse?

For those seeking to mediate or negotiate, this battle is harder than ever. Every aspect of modern life has been neatly divided into opposing camps that can be played against one another to the benefit of invested elites. Whether you’re on the left or right, country bumpkin or urbane cosmopolitan, Apple or Android: our differences are exploited and actively encouraged so that we fall into clear-cut categories whose decisions can be pre-empted. These days it’s nigh-on impossible to occupy the middle ground as political, social, and consumerist agendas are calculated on the assumption that if you are of one persuasion then you necessarily must also think X, Y, and, of course, Z. As individuals, we buy into these preconceptions, rarely stopping to question whether we really do fit the profiles foisted upon us from high. And in an environment where any reasoned, fact-based contradiction of the dominant dogma can be dismissed as a “difference of opinion”, objective reality gives way to a fantasy world of fake news and alternative facts.

The papers paint a two-tone society devoid of nuance where we must all identify with one antagonistic party or the other. Politicians preach to allies or enemies who are supposed to be cast from diametrically opposite moulds. And the whole fanfare is relayed to us via social media whose governing algorithms accentuate more extreme content, rather than direct us towards an open space for reasoned deliberation. When we understand that these sites capitalise on the reactions of its users by selling this data to advertisers, it isn’t hard to understand why moderate, pacific discussion is secondary to polemic and controversy. As advertisers realised long ago: angry people click more. Pouring oil on the turbulent tides of public debate simply isn’t in their interest. Meanwhile the calm voice of reflection is drowned out by browbeating ideologues.

Amid such chaos, any attempt to mitigate differences and agree on a course of action that may not be perfect but is better for all concerned seems doomed from the outset. “What’s the point in trying?” we may well ask. Tune in to LBC at any given hour and you can hear points of view seemingly impossible to reconcile, fanatical mantra recited with unwavering conviction. It’s hardly constructive. But in spite of the deafening clamour that pulls the inquiring individual from one pole to the other, we should remember that it is in fact at the personal level that we can resolve this unholy row. It’s not that we must all agree in order to move forward; discord is what defines the individual from the crowd. The problem is the fervour with which opinions are held and the point blank refusal to entertain or even hear any deviation from them. Like broken records the tabloids shout their toxic refrains ad infinitum, as if they speak for all. But we are not the tabloids.

Perhaps it’s asking too much to expect figures of public prominence or national news outlets to have the humility to retract views so ardently expressed. Once entrenched in their bastions of self-promoting sophistry, it can be very hard to clamber down. But for the majority of us who don’t have a national pedestal from which to transmit our two cents worth, it’s the uncomfortable, discordant conversations we have between ourselves that coax us from the binary dicta broadcast by the media. These clashes of opinion take place in the local arena, be it work, home, or just down the local. Heated and impassioned though they may become, these encounters are the vital tête-à-têtes that chip away at preconceptions and steer us towards some sort of compromise. Without them we might all end up Lear-esque caricatures bellowing into oblivion. As with each passing day the scales tip towards the tragic, the middle path might be the only way out of this drama.

‘I have nothing that is mine owne, but my selfe, yet is the possession thereof partly defective and borrowed.’ So spake Michel de Montaigne, French Renaissance philosopher. It’s another pearl from my Shakespeare profs; arcane grandiloquence to your average punter but to swatting English Lit finalists one of those lines that can prise open a 400 year-old play, pointing to fresh interpretations, and a reminder that for all our mod cons, next day deliveries, and bottled water, the old boys can still teach us a thing or two about the human condition. To put this nugget into context, many of the most memorable works of Early Modern drama show characters – typically tragic – caught between two opposing philosophical doctrines. Behind the bloodshed, bawdiness, and betrayal that grip audiences past and present, identity crises are the crux of these plays and fuel academic discussion around the world.

At one end of this metaphysical tug of war is Stoicism, championed by the likes of Cicero or Seneca (appropriately remembered nowadays as chiselled marble busts resistant to time’s assault). This is the side to which tragic protagonists generally gravitate. They define themselves against the world and are acutely aware of their individualism. For them, life is a battle to preserve their uniqueness. They’re tempest-tost, beleaguered by sycophantic servants, and deprived of a good night’s sleep by visions of downfall and disorder. They make no concessions and defend their lonely parapet with monomaniacal fervour. It’s a tough road to tread with danger around every corner. Naturally, this perceived external threat hardens the character so that they become steely and stubborn by temperament, insistent that they are themselves in spite of their surroundings, loathe to contemplate that they might in fact be the product of their environment. 

Tugging at the other end of this figurative rope are the Epicureans. Far more chilled-out than their Stoic counterparts, they’re not fazed by the confluence of personalities and mingling of bodies that confronts modern man. To them, the frontier between the individual and society is fluid and should be accepted as such rather than hopelessly guarded. For all the Stoic’s protestations, they understand that we cannot help but be defined by surrounding society. Our individual identity, they assert, is the result of the human interactions that are the fabric of our lives. Cue Montaigne, who’s opening quote expresses this notion that we are who we are because of the network in which we exist. At a time when our privacy is increasingly encroached upon by seemingly boundless networks, it’s easy to see how the individual is engulfed by the systems that characterise modern life. Like a fly denied its namesake freedom by a spider’s web, we might visualise ourselves at the nexus of a sprawling net of interrelated associations.

But this understanding of our identity mustn’t necessarily be a bitter pill for us to swallow, acknowledging grudgingly that our identity is beyond our control. To take my analogy a step further, rather than picturing ourselves as a sorry fly flailing in that inescapable net of human relationships, we can instead choose to be the spider. I’m not advocating a predatory approach to human relationships – if fulfilling friendships and an enduring love life are important to you, that’s probably not the way to go about it. But a recognition and appreciation of our place within a greater social structure can give us both the confidence and humility to be and accept ourselves.

Unfortunately for me, it took a showdown with a delivery van to teach me this valuable lesson. Despite ingesting lines like Montaigne’s and studying the dramatic consequences of denying that our bodies and identities are permeable and subject to external influence, I had been harbouring a stoic disposition, believing that my individuality was defined against the backdrop of those surrounding me rather than the focal point of exterior forces. That may seem a bit of an overstatement. After all, I wasn’t crusading around London, rampaging against everyone and anything that seemed to threaten my me-ness. But after so long insisting that I would achieve whatever I set my mind to independently, it was certainly a shock to be faced by my acute dependence on a multitude of people who – for love, duty, or sheer goodwill – were there to get me back on my feet when I really couldn’t do it by myself.

Ideally, it wouldn’t take such a physical slap to make me realise just how much we all rely upon our network to allow us to be the people we are. My girlfriend gave me Adam Kay’s This is Going to Hurt whilst I convalesced in Kings College Hospital. It’s not highbrow and it’s not written in iambic pentameter. But its accounts of life on the front line of the NHS are both hilarious and poignant and had me stifling my laughter and dabbing my eyes. To be experiencing first-hand much of what he chronicles made my gratitude all the more immediate. And that gratitude extends beyond the host of healthcare heroes who I might never have met but for a simple twist of fate.  Friends and family, colleagues and past acquaintances not seen for years played a part in the recovery process. I’m lucky to have them.

Rather than emphasising our differences, Epicureanism celebrates kinship. Who knows how many tragedies might have been prevented if the protagonists had heeded its teachings. For my part, I intend to steer on the away from drama, secure in the knowledge that there’s a darn good net(work) there for me should I fall.

When I left school the head of English waved me off into the freedom of summer holidays with two après collège recommendations to pique my errant interest. #1. Suttree: Cormac McCarthy’s chronicle of a down and outer fading to insignificance on a houseboat in Tennessee. I was enthralled and strangely inspired although I think it might have been intended as a warning… #2. Hejira: Joni Mitchell’s haunting ode to the roads she hitched across the States. Perhaps more than any other, this album resonated with my peripatetic impulses and pushed me out the door on the first of many hitch hiking adventures. I adopted ‘Refuge of the Roads’, the album’s closing track, as my anthem, turning the prosaic lines over in my head as I waited curbside for a ride. Like the best books or albums, the end point of a good journey is secondary to the experience itself; to set out with no particular destination in mind is, for me, simultaneously terrifying and liberating. 

I listened to that album a lot during my time in hospital. As I was wheeled from one operating theatre to the next, shuttled between wards barely able to sit up without my head spinning, I would plug in and zone out, once again roll Spain-wards in the passenger seat of a stranger’s car with no idea where I would be that night. Of course, with “obs” (observations) every four hours, it was never long before my nostalgic reveries were interrupted by a thermometer in the mouth and a blood pressure gauge wrapped around my arm. This clockwork routine ensured that any escapism was short-lived. But in spite of the interrupted daydreams, uninspiring décor, and flavourless meals, my NHS immersion set the scene for a journey of far greater spiritual depth than any of my previous continental oscillations. I know, that sounds pathetically sentimental (two weeks pissing in bottles seems to soften you up) but when the external surroundings were so monotone, introspection seemed the obvious distraction[1].

Perhaps it’s unsurprising that my “spiritual” revelation occurred in a trauma ward, far from the byroads and sleepy towns typical of my summer treks. For years I’d been kidding myself that I was somehow impervious to what went on around me and would throw myself at any situation without much reflection. I’ve learnt the hard way that we’re not made of stone (although I have now acquired a fair bit of titanium) but are, in fact, sensitive beings keenly receptive to minor environmental/emotional fluctuations. Now, I’m not that bone-headed to have been utterly unaware of this fact; it only takes the closing scene of Forest Gump to remind me of how easily externalities, however trivial, affect our inner state. But that didn’t prevent me from doing my best to ignore this delicate relationship. I’m certainly not alone in this respect: that quintessential English trait – the stiff upper lip – epitomises this attitude. Yet I realised in hospital that the façade we all put on sometimes runs deeper than blustering British bravado (a favourite of unconvincing politicians). Beyond this the best part of our personalities is also a front: part self-expression, part reaction to what goes on around us. Of course, we rarely recognise our identity as being self-created and remain unaware of its fragility.

To a large extent, our personalities/identities are constructed around the idea of control. Grenville Kleiser succinctly expressed this notion when he wrote that ‘by constant self-discipline and self-control, you can develop greatness of character’. In this phrase the Canadian author articulates the power we have as individuals to influence and shape how we are perceived. Whether this is in a physical sense (changing our bodily appearance) or a social sense (altering how we interact with those around us), how other people think about us or behave towards us is, largely, down to us: screw around with people and they’ll quickly write you off as a jerk; don’t and they won’t. Yet this process by which we make impressions upon others also leads us to see ourselves in a certain light, be it straight shooter/funny fucker/[insert your own descriptor]. Our reputation – how other people see us – is linked intrinsically to our sense of ourselves; a fact much exploited by Iago, if Othello is your bag. But the more secure we feel in ourselves as we cultivate our characteristic attributes, the more oblivious we become to a separate and unpredictable part of our nature.

For want of a better term, I’ll call this the ‘primal’ self. It rarely rises to the surface of our character, nor does it need to. Instead, it lingers in the background, buried beneath the personalities that we develop in day-to-day existence. This concealed part of us is responsible for self-preservation (and probably the whole gamut of Freudian urges that must be suppressed). Like a fight-or-flight mechanism, the primal self passes us by ignored and uncalled-for in our ordinary lives. Yet when exceptional circumstance demands, this other part of us kicks into action with alarming force. Remember the public speaking competition you had to do aged 13 when your voice cracked up in front of the whole year group and you started sweating uncontrollably? Or the scene in Titanic when those upstanding gentlemen, faced with a watery demise, forgot themselves as they forced past women and children into lifeboats. Shell shock or mortal threats can cause our self-image to dissolve and reduce us to shuddering shadows of our former selves. No amount of “get-a-grip” or “pull-yourself-together” will restore your confidence. 

Strangely, a week of fairly intensive surgery following what was apparently quite a large blow didn’t itself tear away my self-identity. The emails I wrote during those first few days of general anaesthetic and blood transfusions document a morbid sense of humour in overdrive, determined to persuade friends and myself that I was fine. It was the post-op comedown that really blew apart my sense of self. Just when I was expecting the elasticity of youth to pull me back to my feet, I instead found myself passing out, seizing up, energy levels crashing, not even able to wash myself or go to the toilet. In a couple of days the Orlando that I’d been building up most of my life was exposed as a veneer, a cut-out of what I thought I could be and how I hoped people regarded me. This is a scary realisation for anyone and perhaps hit me particularly hard since I tend to hold myself with an iron grip, going to almost ascetic lengths in the effort to better myself. Urges or thoughts secondary to the task at hand had been suppressed or channelled in another direction. Not now.

Suddenly the Orlando I knew was flapping in the wind and this primal side was bending and contorting me in ways I could neither predict nor resist. The analogy of a tree struck by lightning, bark riven from the trunk serves as a good metaphor for this split. To compound the problem, I was surrounded by people who I loved and respected and wanted desperately to be strong for. At times I couldn’t keep it together and felt pretty ashamed and pissed off with myself. It was uncomfortable being seen like this. I myself didn’t even know this part of me so for others to see it put me on edge. Of course, this loss of control isn’t an unusual experience and is the body’s natural response, like a self-imposed recovery mode. But in spite of the reassurance and unwavering support of friends, family, and medical staff, it was hard to get over the shock of seeing myself in such a state. Now that I’m on the mend I can again put on my normal personality. There are some franken-scar souvenirs but that primal side has receded. I’ll do all I can to avoid exposing it again but must be thankful that it’s there.

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[1] Technosaur that I am, I don’t have Netflix.

If you’ve still got all your hair and you wind up in hospital for more than 24 hours, you’ve screwed up. Rather than cataloguing the myriad plausible exemptions to this sweeping opener, I’m going to keep my blog on course and need only say that in my case, this is true (and clearly was for several others who’d found themselves in the NHS beds around me). I did screw up, big time, and have currently been in Kings College Hospital for 10 days. I’m not trying to be hard on myself – god knows I’ll take it easy when I get out – but I’d rather be frank in the hope that what goes down here does more than send a fresh wave of “you poor thing”s and “Hope you’re feline better soon” cat cards in my direction[1].

So what actually happened? Slipped doing a bar-top can-can on a weekend bender? Mistook Mr Muscle for Listerine (presumably also under the influence)? Overdosed on hummus and falafel wraps? Those who know me would probably have guessed the moment they discovered I’d been admitted to A&E… In five years a distant interest has reeled me in and I’ve built bikes, toured bikes, raced bikes, and crashed bikes. It’s more than a mode of transport or a weekend spin. Cycling has been adventure, friend-maker, meditation. It has also been money-burner, torture, bone-breaker. I suspect that were it not for the bike I’d have found another crutch, another stick to beat myself with. I’ve always been hard on myself and cycling was just the combination of physical challenge and mental endurance that would appeal to my rather masochist tendencies. Of course, there were amazing moments – crossing France and Spain and racing around Europe (at, I should add, no more than an amateur level and never winning) – that seemed to normalize my hobby and make me just another slightly obsessive, Lycra-clad thrill-seeker. Any sportsperson with performance on their mind will tell you that suffering is necessary to improvement. This suffering is particularly acute when it comes to performance cycling and allowed me to disguise rather than confront issues that I should probably have dealt with long ago. 

On Tuesday 11^th June, the bike was a ride to work: a routine 20km (12.5 miles if you’re scratching your bonce) from Limehouse to Raynes Park public library where I would be teaching a couple of boys excluded from mainstream education. I loved the work, my pupils were like none I’d ever had before and from a demographic I’d be unlikely to interact with otherwise. The journey there was the necessary prelude. This particular morning, leaving at 9am for a 10am start, the unimaginable happened: my steed contracted a painful wheezing cough and the front tyre was flat in seconds. Punctures, of course, are part and parcel of cycling and to be expected at all times – especially on litter-strewn London streets. But I’d had an unbelievable run of luck and hadn’t punctured in a year and a half (or over 12 000km depending on how you want to look at it). Still, these things happen and it was no biggie, I had all the repair kit in my bag. Spanner, wheel off (the rear, of course), tyre levers, out with the old, in with the new, pump, wheel back on, and Robert’s your dad’s brother. No sweat and I was rolling again in 5 minutes.

If I were superstitious I might have read a little more into this sudden change in the wind. I had navigated the continent, sometimes in the most adverse conditions, with my inner tubes emerging unscathed against all odds. It was almost as if Vulcan himself was looking down from the clouds above, bestowing unprecedented strength and durability upon my tyres with his vulcanizing rays… Except I’m not superstitious and all I had in mind was my lesson which I was not going to miss.

So it was that as I cruised down one side of Clapham Common, a bloke in tight commuting gear undertook me in the cycle lane on a flashy bicycle. Go ahead mate, don’t mind me (eyes rolling). The road towards Balham, Tooting, and eventually Raynes Park, is here punctuated with junctions to allow cars from side streets onto the busier thoroughfare. The lights were changing and I thought for a moment that the van in front was going to go for it, sneaking through just as they were turning red. Yet at the last moment the driver thought better of it and braked hard. I needed a little more space to stop and the cycle lane was blocked by aforementioned MAMIL[2]. Not wanting to kick the van I decided to go around the outside, which would give me enough time to stop for the lights. But the devil fools with the best-laid plan and chance would have it that Mr Ocado was doing the rounds and coming in the opposite direction. Clearly wise to the second’s delay between one light blushing red and the other beckoning green, he decided to nudge the gas and cross the junction before the traffic came through behind. Of course, what he hadn’t factored into his calculation was me popping out from behind the van opposite. The gap I’d been banking on shrank as he accelerated towards me. I kissed his wing-mirror then hit the deck. 

I told you I screwed up. As drivers and benevolent passers-by rushed to the gasping body on the road I felt a total idiot. I’d have given anything to hop up, apologize profusely, and take a breather on the pavement. Sadly my right leg had other ideas and my open knee was grinning at my stupidity. I heard “Don’t look at it, you’ll faint” and wasn’t sure if they were talking to me. Obviously I was transfixed but someone lowered my head and my right eye filled with blood. Chrissake. Maybe I’ll later try to piece together my one-eyed version of proceeding events although I couldn’t vouch for their accuracy. It suffices to say that there were blue lights, uniforms, and, miraculously, an off-duty nurse attending the scene and overseeing my transfer from the A24 to Kings College Hospital. Their efficiency was admirable and I was hardly bothered, passed from one emergency service to the next like a fragile package. I would like to round off this post with a word on risk. 

Risk is an inseparable part of existence. Every time we board a plane, cross the street, eat a Mr Whippy, there will be an element of it that generally goes unnoticed. Routine is the great normalizer and with habit comes a disregard for risk. Remember your first Brussels sprout? No amount of papa waving it round on an aeroplane fork would convince me that this green grenade could bring anything but face-deforming disgust. As it turned out, I loved the things and scoffed the lot (and fulfilled the prophecy of an upset stomach in doing so). So too, cycling. People often say that the thought of riding on busy streets is terrifying. This is certainly an understandable concern but I’ve now been doing it for so long that it’s hard to contemplate any other way of getting around and I’ve always loved this part of the day when I’m part of the city’s ebb and flow. I’ve tried a few different kinds of riding and would classify myself as experienced. Commuting was second nature and rush hour didn’t ruffle me. 

Yet beneath this display of competent calm that I’d worked up to, I had become hardened to the real dangers of each journey. I wasn’t a reckless rider and was well aware of the potential pitfalls of the enterprise. But every day is another roll of the dice, however much we kid ourselves to the contrary. In all that we do, there is a law of averages that it’s best not to overlook. And though the probability of having such a prang was small, I should have made more allowance for it than I did – particularly given the mileage I was clocking up.

It still sounds strange when doctors and visitors alike tell me how lucky I have been. Are you taking the piss? I feel like asking. In one abrupt moment, my plans for the coming days and months had gone out the window. I’d had an avocado on the windowsill for 3 days that would have been perfectly ripe by lunchtime – if only I’d made it home. It’s often the small injustices that sting the most. But I’m coming to my senses (about bloody time) and yes, I am lucky. I’ll live and learn.

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[1]  For the record, I should state my immense gratitude for the outpouring of kindness and genuine sympathy. I normally vomit a bit whenever I see one of those posts on social media (normally from rather vain musicians) telling the cyber audience how bloody “humbled” they were to play on X stage in front of Y number of people and what a privilege it is to replay the glory of it to us lot, obviously accompanied with professionally shot photo/video evidence featuring their modest selves. But I do appreciate the compassion that has radiated my way. More on that later. Oh, and those cards really did crack me up.

[2]  Middle-Aged Man In Lycra. At the rate I’m going I don’t need to worry too much aboutreaching this unflattering condition, MAP (Middle-Aged Paraplegic) being more my current trajectory.

Blog     noun

/blɒɡ/

A regularly updated website or web page, typically one run by an individual or small group, that is written in an informal or conversational style.

           …Or at least according to Google. I’ll do my best to fit the criteria. ‘Informal’ sounds good to me though updates may be more sporadic than regular, what with the inevitable spanners life throws into the works. Not being so presumptuous as to redefine the term, my plan was to create an e-space to catalogue observations, half-baked ideas, and the odd university essay that might conceivably interest somebody more than it did my undergrad tutors. It would be home for those documents scattered on memory sticks, notes scrawled on the back of envelopes, forgotten scraps stashed in dusty paperbacks. The perfectionist in me went into a post-degree quest for order and a reference of writings produced whilst in education struck me as a useful tool for writing still to be done, however banal and botched it might turn out to be. The thought of recording highlights from the past few years of learning, travelling, talking to people, and screwing up along the way was, and remains, appealing.

But this conceptual carrot alone isn’t enough to get me going: I can be a stubborn creature and sometimes it takes the stick to whip me into action. This used to be my tutor breathing down my neck to get my essay in by Wednesday lunch, or a lesson that must be planned tonight if I’m to have any chance persuading a class of French teens that there’s more to English than telling me you like to watch movies and eat pizza with your friends (I don’t care). It occurred to me that the public element of a blog might give me the creative kick I need. Sure, there’s a touch of vanity in the hope that people might actually take the time to sift through my spiel. But then vanity is often the root of grand schemes… and spectacular failures. For now I’ll keep as motivation the thought that just maybe distant acquaintances, far-off family, and (god forbid) future employers might now be reading and raising eyebrows – if only in a moment of unusual boredom.

On reflection, I might have got a little over-excited to have finally found a place to gather second-rate essays, rejected articles, perhaps even Valentines’ messages I didn’t have the balls to send. It is now obvious that making the content of this site available to anyone will entail a selection process intended to safeguard prospective browsers from the worst of whatever it is I’ve typed up. Then again, this is the Internet and who doesn’t take advantage the online space to paint themselves in a more flattering light? So whilst this isn’t the digital scrapbook I first had in mind, I hope you appreciate my efforts to spare you the most puerile, fatuous, and hare-brained fragments of imagination. Under such circumstances I can promise nothing more than mediocrity. But if it all becomes too much, someone has surely by now relayed Boris’ latest blunder to whichever social network clicks your mouse:

facebook.com/pg/Memehubcentral

instagram.com/boris.blogoffical

twitter.com/borisjohnson

To those still here, Godspeed intrepid internautes!