I’m a novelist, journalist and film maker interested in Neuroscience, Conjuring, Hustles, Deception, Illusion, Delusion and the nature of Love.

This is how the TLS summed me up:

Puns, gags, witty observations, surreal flights, there is a laugh of some sort in every line… A quip for Brill is the Cleopatra for which he will give up the world and consider it well lost.

And that’s a fair cop… which is more than you’ll find in The Wire.

Now, with the publication of my second novel How To Forget this is a pretty exciting time. What’s below may not be my life, but it’s a blog of events and tangential thoughts that grind the optics behind my own peculiar views.

Marius Brill

Affairs of State

“Minister caught in flagrante” is such a well-known meme that few failed to recognise the truth in the Little Britain sketches featuring Norman Fry MP at the gates of his mansion, standing awkwardly with his rictus smiling family, reading a prepared statement for the press, “… at that moment I slipped on a glacé cherry and ended up inside one of the men… As far as I am concerned that is an end to the matter.”

In fact this cliché has become so notorious, no MP would dare to repeat it for fear of lampooning the sketches.

Yes Minister!

Now the apology, the statement about mistaken infidelity and asking for privacy while your wife stands by you, as if your sad explanation really held water, is long gone. A statement of regret no longer follows the political peccadillo. The fear of an outcry about loose morals, or dodgy ethics is from a bygone age. After the Referendum and in the reality of Trump, politicians, well Right-Wingers at least, have woken up. They’ve realised that that silent “moral majority” which they once feared could oust them at any moment, is just a fantasy. Were Profumo around today, he wouldn’t be resigning in shame, there’d be campaign posters with Mandy and Christine claiming “Profumo’s sticking (it) up for England”

The silent swathe of voters who will judge you on ethical standards are no longer a majority. Mary Whitehouse is dead and we see the real political price of austerity. Morals are expensive. Honourable conduct, paying your fair share, paying taxes, owning up to, or recompensing for, your errors, resisting cheating the system; it’s a luxury few can afford and our political representatives reflect this. The majority now are chancers and Del-boys, the self-interested, the poorly educated and the gullible crying out to be fed fantasies like “Sovereignty” or the reason you can’t get jobs is not because (judging by the state of protestors who roll out to support Brexit) you’re beer-swilling fast-food fat leery idiots, but because foreigners are stealing them.

“Course it’s kosher PPE”

The newspaper that capitalised most out of moral outrage, The News of The World, fell victim to the last one. It had become an anachronism; in a world that’s lost its moral compass, the weekly diet of vicars caught in bed with choirboys was no longer a sustainable product.

If you get caught doing something stupid, immoral or corrupt: lie, deny, fail to reply.

Which explains why the Johnson Technique is so effective. If you get caught doing something stupid, immoral or corrupt: lie, deny, fail to reply. When that no longer works: never explain clearly, never really apologise, try to make a bad pun about it or say something in Latin then, most importantly, double down on it; which makes it all look intentional.

So when Mostyn-Owen left Johnson because he allegedly cheated on her with Wheeler, he just raised the stakes and married Wheeler instead. And when she failed to respond to him allegedly cheating with Wyatt, he nakedly kept poking the bare: Fazackerley allegedly, then Macintyre allegedly, then Arcuri allegedly and it was only when Symonds fell for the mop-haired harmer that Wheeler finally spun out.

There’s never an apology, no breast beating about a slip of judgement, a stain on virtue. It’s all Piaf and Non, je ne regrette rien.

Jennifer Arcuri ©The Sun

You don’t apologise for infidelity, you make it more interesting, you up the stakes. Caught with one? Grab two. English Rose getting a bit thorny? Use tax-payers’ money to bed an American pole dancer. Hancock with Coladangelo or Gove with, perhaps, his redacted superinjunction are just following Johnson’s lead.

We seem to have lost the critical ability to correlate a man who blithely cheats on his wife with one who is not going to think twice about doing it to the electorate.

Two questions never fail to emerge when these political groper-dopes are revealed. Why can these men not keep it in their pants? And, why do smart, intelligent, attractive individuals fall for these monsters of ego?

The clichéd answer to the first question is that with great power comes great libido. All that authority goes to the head, upper and lower. 

“Because power is such an aphrodisiac,” wrote Sarah Vine, never afraid of a cliché, in the Daily Mail, “it doesn’t take a huge leap of imagination to see how you can go from being happily married to the kind of person who gets caught so unfortunately on CCTV.” A few days later, following a tiny hop of imagination, she announced her separation from the reptilian, thrusting, power broker Michael Gove. Now the world awaits in trepidation of that CCTV footage emerging. Hoping it isn’t straight after breakfast.


There is a reason why most politicians have the sort of looks that ring bells in Notre Dame. Politics is the only popularity contest on earth in which ugly people can succeed. So those show-offs hungry for stardom or mass validation, without the looks to consider careers as pop stars or actors, teem into politics.

If you’ve gone through life looking like Matt Hancock you’d be flattered by the sexual attention of almost anybody with a motor response. Nobody is wondering why he might be attracted to fit, tanned, beauty Gina Coladangelo. But who can look at the Clark Kentesque millionaire Oliver Bonas founder Oliver Tress and not wonder why she would prefer being licked by that folicly challenged panting Labrador.

Tress and Coladangelo

Victorian novels were full of handsome wealthy cads exploiting naïve poor, but clearly hot, young women. But women like Symonds and Coladangelo don’t need the cash, and clearly aren’t doing it for the looks. Could it be the sheer naked ambition and drive of these intense rats that draws them to them? Are they the ultimate bad boys?

If we no longer have the urge for moral rectitude to keep our opportunistic power-crazed political representatives on the straight and narrow. What will? It was never going to be Hancock’s infidelity, or moral looseness, that did for him. It wasn’t even the catalogue of errors that saw hundreds of thousands die or the apparent corruption that saw his mates (and Gina’s brother) profit from often untendered supply contracts. It was breaking the distancing rules that he himself created and an electorate resenting it; wishing that they had had the balls to ignore the rules. It was like Al Capone being caught for Tax Evasion.

Even if we just want to dismiss snogging the tax-funded aide as a bit of saucy fun, we need to remember: these things don’t come out of nowhere. There are always serious behind the scenes negotiations before they do. Balls are firmly gripped. The question we all should be asking whenever these scandals break is: what did he do to try and keep this quiet? What was leveraged? What terrible things has this person already done in order to stop this shame?


Will the Twenties Roar Again?

It was fast cars, parties and dancing ‘til dawn, there were bright young things, flappers and jazz. The 1920s have an allure of life lived at full speed; of glamour, giddy joy and sexual liberation.

It was a time to celebrate being alive, because if you were still breathing in the Summer of 1920, you had just survived six years of one of the greatest human death tolls the world has ever seen. Not only had World War One killed 20 million, but the Spanish Flu that followed took anywhere between 50 to 100 million lives worldwide. If you hadn’t been burnt or buried yet, you were one of the lucky ones, you felt immortal and after years of restrictions and fear it was time to party.

The optimistic meme du jour is that we now sit on the cusp of another roaring twenties, following the deaths and restrictions of Covid. When this all ends we will party, enjoy life and appreciate freedom like never before and all this will kickstart the economy, hailing another golden age.

Unfortunately, some massive assumptions are being made. The first is that Covid will somehow just stop and not keep mutating, and secondly, that there are social, cultural and economic similarities to a century ago.

To begin with, the 1920s only really roared for the One Percenters. Both the partying and the cultural explosion of that decade was almost entirely within the domain of the wealthy and those sponsored by them; there are relatively few accounts of what it was like to be working class, though we can probably assume that it was what it’s always like: bloody awful. We know Western economies were devastated, but with German war reparations and then the US Dawes Plan the tax aftershock was buffered; so if the age didn’t exactly roar for the majority, it did begin to purr.

Today, unless China admits culpability, there will be no bail-out this time. Brexit and Covid have cost us billions which will only be recouped from one source: our own pockets.

WWI took the lives of mainly young people whilst the Spanish Flu often took the fittest, so in the 1920s the depleted workforce meant competition for staff increased; workers could expect better pay and conditions than ever before.

In comparison, Covid has mostly killed retirees or those approaching the end of their working lives, which means pension pots will be healthy and some will get to shift up the career ladder early, but the general workforce will be less affected this time. That said, Brexit has seen a drop in EU workers so possibly we too will see less people chasing more jobs than pre-Brovid. Even so, through these crises almost 700,000 more people in the UK, including 120,000 children, have been plunged into poverty.

In the 1920s literacy rates in the population were high. The second generation to benefit from the 1880-90 Education Acts (mandating compulsory and free primary education) could pursue more white-collar careers doing less manual or menial work (Downton style). Mechanisation leapt ahead through war manufacturing, so tractors and farm machinery became better and more affordable and farm workers less essential. Rural communities withered while cities burgeoned. Night clubs filled as village fetes failed.

Fast forward to 2021, and white-collar City work is dying. The financial markets are migrating to the EU whilst the new East India-style companies, the Too-Big-To-Tax mega online corporations, employ armies of coders and data analysts unfettered by geography. Meanwhile our 21st century literacy threshold has been reduced to 140 characters, as our education system demonstrates an abject failure to imbue critical thinking in 52% of the population. There is a new diaspora of lockdown survivors and zoom workers, no longer willing to be cooped up to compete in an imagined rat race, heading out to the country again. This time the roaring will be in Parish councils as village parking spots become the hot potato of 2020s Britain.

Not just wealth but health, in each era, differs dramatically. Spanish Flu left survivors feeling invulnerable. Conversely Covid survivors, even those with mild symptoms, may see a raft of conditions emerging and persisting. The auto-immune system has been attacked and numerous life-long disorders could be triggered.

In the 1920s healthcare was private, and if the Government continues to undermine the NHS, it will be again sometime in the 2020s. Penicillin was only discovered in 1928 so mortality from illnesses was relatively high. Now, growing up in a welfare state, we assume that everyone has access to healthcare, but the NHS is so poorly managed and so badly funded it will increasingly find itself having to prioritise some patients over others, until dissatisfaction ushers in a new insurance-based private healthcare system. Then, if you’re poor and get a debilitating condition, you can expect to suffer it for the rest of your life. So possibly, roaring in pain may be one similarity between both eras.

In the 1920s equality was woeful. Until 1928 women had to be over 30 to vote, and could only do so if they owned property or were graduates, while any man over 21 was eligible. A hundred years later women can vote but struggle to break glass ceilings. Financial inequality, the difference between the very poorest and the very richest, is worse today than in the 1920s.

So yes! The twenties can expect some roaring. For most of us it will be in agony or disbelief, anger, fury or despair. There’ll be roaring at the inequality, the misgovernance, the cronyism, the corruption, the spin and the wrecking of our best public institutions: the BBC and NHS.

Rich Kids of Instagram

And as we roar, unheard, a glamorous tiny group of ultra-rich dim young things will keep partying like there’s no tomorrow, high on life and class A drugs; they never stopped roaring around. The “rich kids of Instagram”, the louche offspring of billionaires, zooming about in private jets and fast cars, always somewhere between the Caribbean and the Maldives. They haven’t been slowed down one jot by Covid. Their parents are feted donors to the parties in power and they do, and come and go, as they please. They are recorded on social media rather than by their pet authors like Evelyn Waugh or Anthony Powell, their revolution is technological rather than cultural, but they’re roaring around the planet just as Waugh’s characters roared around England. “Masked parties, Savage parties, Victorian parties, Greek parties, Wild West parties, Russian parties, Circus parties, parties where one had to dress as somebody else (…) all that succession and repetition of massed humanity… Those vile bodies.”

This article first appeared in print in



The time, according to you, will be:

Vacillate or Vaccinate?

I had to do something.

After a year of war-like rhetoric, waged against an invisible enemy, Covid had killed one in every 200 people over the age of 50. In late December, there was at last a call to arms. All citizens were expected to take, at least, a couple of shots.

Now, baring arms is not just the patriotic, globally responsible thing to do, it massively reduces our own chances of dying… So why are we facing such resistance to the vaccine?

From missile defence to chicken nuggets

We wage wars so often, perhaps they’re just a fundamental part of being human. They bring out mostly the worst in us, but also, oddly, the best of us. It is, unfortunately, against a background of killing that most of the greatest advances of human civilization have been forged. Although we have only existed a fraction of the time that the dinosaurs lived, we are now pre-eminent as a survival species; so when human lives are in the balance, man’s ingenuity seems boundless. Most of the technologies we now take for granted: computing, space exploration, pain-killers, microwaves, Wi-Fi, antibiotics, GPS, mass air travel, non-stick cookware, were only made possible through a growing pile of corpses inspiring properly-funded science, and individuals, to push themselves and their ideas further.

In this “war” against Covid, we now have hyper-advanced vaccines which, under normal funding schedules, might have taken decades to develop, but have been created, trialled and approved in months.

Nobody declined the use of radar in WWII because it had been “developed too quickly”. Nobody in WWI was hesitant to eat food from a new-fangled ‘tin can’ because there might be mind control substances put in it by the Government.

“But we’re exempt.”

“But we’re not at war,” the anti-vaxxers argue, “the threat of Covid has been over-hyped. People are dying of their comorbidities but Covid is being blamed. This is not a desperate time, no need for desperate measures.”

But you know it’s war because, clearly, the first casualty has been the truth. The figures speak for themselves. Yes, most people dying have other health issues, but they were not imminently fatal. Covid is not only the accelerant that culls the old and vulnerable; the chronic problems it leaves for many survivors could precipitate a healthcare crisis like no other, far more likely to cripple the NHS than a run on ventilators.

The generation who grew up during WWII could see the parallels and 95% have dutifully taken the vaccine. But as the vaccine’s target cohorts got younger, the more “hesitant” they became. Whole communities that are, generally, marginalised are more likely to believe the social media of peers than the mainstream press. Suspicion abounds. Almost a quarter of people aged 80 and over of Pakistani descent in Bradford, refused the jab.

And they’re not completely wrong, the mainstream media stokes confusion, agitating the political ping-pong with the EU about vaccine availability; with some vaccine-poor countries citing negative trial data in order to manage the expectations of their own populations. On top of that, the pharmaceutical manufacturers themselves, vying for market dominance, are briefing the press against each other.

This has caused perplexity among potential vaccinees who, even if they accept the vaccine as “a good thing”, feel entitled to choose the brand based on the very partial stories they’ve read. As the efficacy of the different brands is still technically moot, the trial data is rarely comparable, and patients delaying their appointments to get the vaccine they fancy is dangerous, there is much to recommend offering the vaccines as blind ‘Standard Issue’; like the weapons assigned in WWII: Lee-Enfield or Remington 8, you took what was available to save your life.

Even in our ‘Information Age’, nobody refuses the flu jab or MMR because it was, or wasn’t, made by the company that produced the blue pills for stiffies.

In WWII, at least the fifth columnists who sowed seeds of doubt had a goal: to see Germany win. But now, doubt is sown for its own sake; the only goal is disruption in that echo chamber of paranoia known as social media. Trust in ‘The Establishment’, represented by a wholly inadequate and venal Government, is in tatters while faith in truth from the press has collapsed thanks to the murk of Murdoch and the reign of ‘fake news’, Disrupter-In-Chief, Donald Trump.

The chasm between those who understand the basic concepts of science, so are able to trust in the development of technologies they don’t fully comprehend, and those who will believe in gossip and rumour, is greater than ever. The flat-earth anti-vaxxer argues that trusting in science which you don’t fully understand is the equivalent of belief in gods/faith/religion. But facts, however obscure, which build on the scientific facts we do understand – checked and peer reviewed – are still facts.

“Science is constantly proved all the time,” Ricky Gervais once said on a chat show. “If we take any holy book and destroy it, in a thousand years’ time, it wouldn’t come back just as it was. Whereas if we took every science book, and every fact, and destroyed them all, in a thousand years they’d all be back, because all the same tests would [produce] the same result.”

These are indeed desperate times and this may not be a conventional war, the enemy may not be other humans, but we have the bodies mounting up, we have the truth being sapped away, and now we have the arms.

I had to do something. Even if it was just to avoid that awkward “What did you do in the great Covid Outbreak Daddy?”

I signed up to the front line. And instead of spending my lockdown blissfully finalising my latest hilarious novel (previous ones available here) I did battle with the NHS gatekeepers, the most ferocious of which were the endless Mandatory Training Modules: Data Security Awareness, Equality, Diversity and Human Rights, Conflict Resolution, Moving and Handling, Safeguarding Adults, Preventing Radicalisation, Safeguarding Children, Information Governance…

This won’t hurt

Dutifully I jumped through the hoops, did the training and took the exams, which are, largely, just common sense in multiple choice: “A patient has had to wait for over an hour for his appointment and damages a waiting room chair in frustration. Do you a) invoice him for the chair, b) ignore him and hope he goes away, c) listen to the patient’s complaint, sympathise with the situation, speak calmly, apologise for the delay and contact the doctor to get a better idea of an Estimated Time of Appointment for the patient, or d) punch his lights out?” I answered conscientiously, imagining a practice that was still using a waiting room or even seeing patients face to face.

I had to do something. So now I vaccinate. In this war, I wear the uniform plastic apron, I load my syringe and pierce flesh with metal. It’s non-stop and exhausting and wearing, and with the hundreds who pour through the hub (every one potentially a carrier), risky. And like any war, the worst part is watching a fat, dysfunctional Government, responsible for the worst civilian death toll in history, taking credit for the battles fought by volunteers and the low-paid troops of the NHS. But, you cannot vacillate. You have to do something.

This article originally appeared in print in


On Reflection

Some things are just really hard to love, even though you’re supposed to. Most turn up at Christmas. Racist relatives, scented soaps, the Queen’s speech, Brussels sprouts. And then, especially in January, the hardest thing to love is your reflection.


thank you for 3M I’m speachless 🖤 Ib @molchanovamua !! #fyppagee #makeup #contour

♬ SugarCrash! – ElyOtto

If we were happy narcissists, in love with our reflections, Instagram and TikTok wouldn’t have filters. Reflecting is hard. It gets easier with age, not because we’re any less painful to look at, we’ve just got more to look back on than forward to.

New Years, like funerals and waking up handcuffed to a strange bed next to a dead body you’ve never seen before with a bag of Nicaraguan fairy dust tucked in your knickers, is an apt time to reflect.

Is reflection, the examined life, a meme? Most sentient creatures learn from their mistakes so it seems instinctive, nature rather than nurture. But, with language capable of communicating extraordinarily complex notions, humans, almost uniquely, can learn from each others’ mistakes. I say, “can” because if there’s anything the last few years have taught us, with the rise of populist leaders and science scepticism, we clearly consider it optional.

But, here we are on the brink of 2021, of Brexit and, apparently, the resurgence of the American Civil War; along, pretty much, the same geographical and ideological battle lines. The big reflective question is. How on earth did we get here?

It begins

It’s twenty years since the event that kicked off post-modern history: 9/11. When we watched the planes disintegrate into the towers, everyone knew it would change the world, we just weren’t sure how. An inkwell of writers speculated, but only now does it seem possible to piece things together in a string of, what seems, almost inevitable events. It’s a story about two whopping lies and why losers matter more than winners. It starts with the end of history.

As the last century drew to a close, Liberals were convinced that they’d won the political ideological argument. Francis Fukuyama wrote assuredly, in The End of History (1992), that, following the Cold War and collapse of the Soviet Union, humanity was reaching “the end point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government”. But with capitalism underwriting this system, that confidence now seems painfully, naively, blind to the billions of pesky losers, the poor people left behind or slaving in the sweatshops of globalised consumerism. Being moderate and, superficially, universal, Liberals believed they had solved the age-old political pendulum swings with a balancing act. In fact, the balancing was so well done, voters often complained they couldn’t tell the difference between the parties. Remember that? Liberals forgot a lesson from history: as soon as any political philosophy becomes dogma, however benign, there will be those, less heard, invested (and investing) in its downfall.

Perhaps then, more surprising, is it took nearly a decade before the planes crashed into New York and Washington.

America, under attack, lashed out in two directions. Vengeance was a war in Afghanistan against Al Qaeda, the perpetrators of the atrocity; even though three previous British and one Russian invasion proved it would cost a lot and win little. America’s second front, predicated on a lie about ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’, was a more economically rewarding war in oil rich Iraq.

BBC Journalist Andrew Gilligan all “sexed up” Photo: Reuters

When Britain signed up as co-combatants it not only inspired the largest protest march in UK history but set the wheels in motion for our present state. The “sexed up” lie, once exposed, irrevocably tarnished Tony Blair and, by association, his reforming New Labour initiative. His “third way”.

In 2008 another lie, that poor people’s unrepayable debt can be endlessly resold – the so-called Sub-Prime market – collapsed, as did the banks that fed off it; creating global economic chaos and the final nail in the coffin for the liberal conservatism of New labour, now redubbed “Neo-liberalism”.

From the Coalition to Brexit, the UK became a microcosm of the West’s descent into right-wing populism. Fearing that they too would lose their more extreme voters, the Tories leapt away from the middle ground to embrace Nigel Farage’s xenophobic UKIP policies whilst Labour were left squabbling. What made this so much more disastrous than before was not the Tory services, benefits and tax cutting, billionaire enabling, policies (they do what they say on the tin) it was how far they could go with it because the losers, the left, had descended so far into factionalism.

It turns out that the two-sided political swing system was there for a reason. With decent opposition, someone to fear they might lose their jobs to, politicians behave. Checks and balances prevent extremes. But, after the crash, without the usual equilibrium, extreme social policies like “austerity” went largely unopposed and fiscal responsibility meant not investing in outside chances like preparation for a pandemic.

The Blair brand was so despised in the Labour Party, “moderate” became a swearword and a more extreme left emerged. First “Red” Ed Miliband fought off his Blairite brother and then the joke stalking horse in the race for his replacement, the ultimate, back-bench, dyed-in-the wool, happier-being-radical, Jeremy Corbyn won in a bitterly divided Labour leadership contest; helped, allegedly, by a guerrilla campaign mass sign-up of temporary, secretly Tory supporting, members. Installing a donkey to lead the lions.

It was Corbyn’s inability to support any side in the Brexit vote, before or after, his chronic charisma-less unelectability and, his fan club, Momentum’s mass-delusion that he, and they, could win a General Election, that split the Left almost fatally, allowing the Right to do its worst.

Meanwhile in America, Obama, a black man presiding over a country far from having resolved its race issues, caused a new Confederacy of poor and poorly educated Libertarians and wealthy Republicans to find solace together and make, for the sake of unity, a desperate throw of the dice promoting a popular TV personality as leader: Donald Trump.

Now, with more Americans having voted for this venal narcissist than have ever voted for any president before, with the exception of Joe Biden, his real legacy, especially now as a loser, may only just be starting: the world’s superpower tearing itself apart, finally enabling a new dawning of the Eastern Empires as the world’s next dominant civilizations.

So on this auspicious new year, when we reflect on how we got to this divided, difficult, often uncomfortable, usually uncertain, dismal pass, even without the pandemic, we’ve got to ask: was the real malign influence the opportunistic populist winners?  Or, are we here because those who believed they had won the world, didn’t know how to lose?

In the end, of course, we are where we are. And, however tantalising, we can’t just stare at the mirror on the ceiling. There’s got to be a key to the cuffs somewhere on the corpse. It’s time to get dressed, cover the body, and sell the fairy dust.

This article first appeared in print in


Huggin’ Joe

From the early 19th Century to the end of the 20th, the sure-fire way to make Britons feel awkward was to embrace them. Much hilarity was had by Europeans feeling us assume a living rigor mortis the moment they put their arms around us. Like headlamp-hypnotised rabbits we would freeze in the confusion of emotions not knowing the correct form, feeling let down by a lack of protocols for the situation and, of course, a strange feeling inside that it actually feels quite nice.

Embrasse moi!” says the open armed Breton to which the buttoned up emotionally repressed stiff-upper-lipped Briton can only reply, “I think you’ll find its pronounced ‘Embarrass Moi.’

The hug is a prehistoric meme, a socially constructed behaviour passed down through generations, altering as society changes. The physical drawing of someone close to you was always a demonstration of trust. “I will share your germs as if you are one of my family.” And, if someone wanted to stab you in the back, you were giving them every opportunity.

After the Industrial Revolution it became a victim of society’s neediness for social boundaries and to codify public behaviour; apparently to give the aristocracy a condescending laugh and a way to distinguish the nouveaux who, without the studied knowledge of etiquette, would never be allowed into the true upper classes despite their brass. Hugging was something filthy, or worse, foreign, while the polite bow or the slightest touch of the hand was all that was necessary.

Few will forget the strained attempt David Cameron made to demonstrate caring Conservativism politicising the embrace in his Hug-a-Hoodie campaign. But one of the more delightful things that emerged from the 2020 US election (You, dear reader, have the advantage over me: I write this before, but you’re reading it afterwards) was signs that American genius in political storytelling was not actually dead; all thanks to some hugs.

As the campaigns came to a head, almost all of Joe Biden’s publicity videos, and many photos, showed him hugging or embracing someone. And you just know that, woefully short of popular policy ideas and representing the party that may well have to introduce a hated lockdown and raise taxes, some very smart people got together and asked: “can we just think of a gesture, something we can show our candidate doing that Trump could never do without seeming creepy?” As it turned out, the answer was the same gesture that all of us, the entire Covid-wracked world, are longing to do. Hug. To hold someone we love. Win or lose, Biden’s publicity people hit the right note. Biden hugged the stammering kid while Melania pulled away from Trump’s awkward fondling; and no one could witness Trump kissing Ivanka without remembering his boast that if he weren’t related to her he’d be dating her.

Biden even did a photoshoot for Popular Mechanics which featured a black and white image of him kissing his errant son Hunter. The unfortunate Trump supporter who tweeted the image with the caption: “Does this look like an appropriate father/son interaction to you?” became in an instant internet meme as thousands reposted with witty ripostes. What father wouldn’t want to be able to kiss their child? At any age. It was almost as if the Biden Campaign had planted these images to bait the right. If so. Genius.

For a country with such a short history, America always seems to be wrestling with its past, including its puritan roots. BC, Before Covid, hugging and kissing as a greeting had been on the rise there, and here, with the millennial generation adopting it far more widely than previous generations. “A measure of how rapidly the ritual is spreading” said a 2009 The New York Times article with almost Salem-like suspicion, “is that some students complain of peer pressure to hug to fit in. And schools from Hillsdale, N.J., to Bend, Ore., wary in a litigious era about sexual harassment or improper touching — or citing hallway clogging and late arrivals to class — have banned hugging or imposed a three-second rule.”

We have no idea to what extent Covid, and our strategies to cope with it, will have long term on community mental health, especially for the young people living through this. Will this create a generation of children who struggle with intimacy as adults? We had already given them phone screens to put up between themselves and others before the virus, and then came the Perspex screens.

And what will we lose if hugging is lost for another generation? A 2015 Carnegie Mellon University  study found people who perceived greater social support were less likely to come down with that coronavirus, the common cold and, they said, the effects of hugging explained 32% of that beneficial effect.

Hugging releases oxytocin, known as “the bonding hormone” because it promotes attachment in relationships, especially prevalent in mothers and their new-born babies. Higher oxytocin levels are associated with lower cardiovascular and sympathetic nervous system reactivity to stress. It’s also found to diminish inflammation following acute stroke and cardiac arrest. A 2005 study of premenopausal women found that those who got more frequent hugs had higher oxytocin levels and lower blood pressure than peers who didn’t get as many hugs.

And yet, I recently attended a meeting, no hugging, no touching, four of us socially distanced, three of us wearing masks. Within a week we had all diagnosed positive for Covid-Sars-2. The effects of the virus were various and not pretty, but far worse was the guilt. I came down first so I’m sure it was me who brought it to the table. So then, when you start to think that just your presence in a room could hurt or even kill, the argument against intimacy becomes compelling. For the moment then we will just have to live with the dream Huggin’ Joe was selling. One day we will be able to throw our arms around other people, draw them close, feel their chest against ours, their hands on our back, their strength, their breath, their physical essence and just not kill them.

This article first appeared in print in


The one thing you need to get rid of right now to become happier, more successful and more attractive.

Gorgeous celebrities swear by getting rid of this one thing. It’s the one thing holding you back from your true potential and the Kardashians (only mentioned here so I can exploit Search Engine Optimisation and use a glamorous photo of Kim) may have never had this one thing in the first place.


But wait, it doesn’t come that easy. Bearing in mind this article will also be online and Google’s mutant algorithms pay for the amount of time you spend reading over-promised clickbait: you’ll have to digest an entire preamble about how I myself became happier, more successful and so devastatingly attractive I actually had to borrow the picture of this guy just to slow down all the proposals so steamy I don’t have to turn the central heating on until at least mid-September.

Sorry. This paragraph will also not tell you “the one thing”. Rather, it will annoyingly tease you to pique your curiosity and keep the suspense going even though, by now, you’re probably thinking “really?” Am I actually going to learn something that will improve my life or is this just trying to sell me something? And that’s great because that’s scepticism. And scepticism is healthy. Right? Well, maybe.

But, by the fourth paragraph you’re in danger of thinking this article’s premise might have been a tad oversold, this is getting a longwinded, and it’s probably not going to be worth the effort. Oh and there was that other article you were going to look at too. So right now I’m going to have to tell you that that “one thing that you need to get rid of” is exactly the same thing that made you give this article just four paragraphs to come up with the goods before looking elsewhere.

Gotcha. Paragraph five, sucker! You’re still here and I still haven’t told you and, honestly, having written this far, I’ve new respect for all the clickbait Medium-style list writers who have to pad their articles rather than just go for:

The two simple things you can do right now to lose weight.

  1. Eat less
  2. Move more

… and be done with it.

But weight isn’t “the one thing” … I mean it’s another thing you could get rid of; driven home, if you were reading this on most online platforms, by the five ads you would have already had to scroll past targeting people eating at their computer screens, feeling unfulfilled and suffering early mid-life crises. You would have had to endure gods, with way better teeth, sharing beautiful food, or sailing under azure skies or, if you had my particular micro-targeted cookies, somebody who’s life has rather dubiously been changed by a food processor.

Ye Gods

But here’s the reward for your endurance, this is the “the one thing”. Buried in some text so you couldn’t just cheat and skip down here. The “one thing you have to get rid of” to improve your life immeasurably, is doubt. Doubt holds you back like a mate in the pub when you’re pretending you’re actually hard enough to take on a pint spiller.

People unplagued by doubts are demonstratively more successful than the rest of us who fret and think twice. Doubt is the real curse of the human condition. Eve plucking the apple wasn’t, as Milton would have it, “Man’s first disobedience”, but just an act of doubt. Don’t eat from the tree of knowledge? Why not? One tiny bit of disbelief and you’re out of Eden. But then disbelief negates God, religion and anything else for which there’s no solid proof and, it seems, is inherently human even if, like teeth, neck muscles and a dread of Mondays, it’s something we develop rather than are born with.

The one thing that characterises the most successful people is a lack of self-doubt; blithely surging forward whilst the rest of us wonder if what we’re doing is good enough.
We develop doubt to question the world and try to work it out. Unfortunately, after questioning the world we start to question ourselves and that blithe assurance of youth becomes the crippling self-doubt of broken dreams.

No Doubt

Even so, just five years ago I would have sung the praises of doubt from the rooftops, even while doubting my footing, a loose tile or the mess I might make if I slipped. Because by questioning the world we protect ourselves from conmen, spivs, bamboozlers and almost anybody on QVC. I was proud of my scepticism, it seemed the perfect answer to the crazinesses that belief can lead you into. In the face of rising religious fundamentalism, desperately trying to remain relevant in a fracturing world where “God” was no longer the most popular answer to “why?”, the end game of the enlightenment, scepticism, was the intelligent antidote to belief. Habeus Corpus – you believe in God/fairies/fate/karma/the 4.20 to Waterloo actually arriving at 4.20? Then show me the proof, bring me the body, step off the platform. Question everything.

But, in a few years, what was the preserve of those keen on intelligent debate has quickly diversified and become attractive to a broader population; fuelled by the plurality of opinions on the internet and “alternative facts”. But these neosceptics are less prepared to understand the limits of the perspective.

Scepticism has been hijacked by dumb people thinking that it makes them look smart. 10,000 of them turned up at Trafalgar Square at the end of August to protest about facemasks because they doubted the existence of Covid-19. They cheered at speeches by conspiracy theorists and a man who believes the world is run by people who are actually lizards. And if you no longer believe the media, or books, or experts, or government, or plausibility well, really, it’s as good a theory as any.

Scepticism was engendered to enable the scientific approach. Doubt, test, evidence, know. And, if you can’t test and find evidence for everything that you encounter in life, trust the sceptics who came before you and did do the tests.

Michael Jackson

So sources become important. If you don’t believe that NASA put a man on the moon or that every one of the thousands of companies that are employed to put satellites into orbit actually use the same model of a rotating orb planet to make your GPS work or deliver your Sky TV; if they are all covering something up and cannot be trusted then, then yes perhaps the earth is flat.

The growing movement of flat earthers exposes everything that’s wrong with neoscepticism because they have a very real answer. “I can see that the earth is flat.” Which means that it’s up to the person who is disagreeing with what you can see with your own eyes to prove that something different is going on. Which is very difficult.

When scepticism was an intellectual stance it was understood that you stand on the shoulders of giants. Trusting your source is not the same as a blind belief. Yes a Christian trusts the source material in the bible. But a sceptic trusts other sceptics who have actually done the research/science and if necessary they can source their research and, if they absolutely need to, repeat the experiment themselves.

But doubt is easy to cast when your audience is emboldened and think they’re smart because they can question. So when Cummings walked into the rose garden, when the Russians started tweeting about Brexit, or Trump, all they had to do was seed a little doubt knowing that there are enough idiots who believe that they are “free thinkers” on social media to do the rest.

The neosceptic delights in challenging any presented fact and offering alternatives however implausible. The loss of faith in the “Mainstream Media” and accountable news sources has turned scepticism, the child of the enlightenment, which should have brought forth a rational world, into a monster that allows Russia, and those in our own Government, to sow discord, disinformation, confusion, and random thinking. And as long as we all disagree with each other we can’t agree to depose them.

The “one thing you need to get rid of” turns out to be the one thing the whole internet connected world could do without: “doubt”. But if faith isn’t the answer, where the hell do we go now?

A version of this article first appeared in


Only Disconnect

It was a sad day when Hammersmith Bridge closed. I still can’t get over it. And, right now, no one’s allowed under it either.

There’s always a little hiatus between societal change and its impact on our physical world but the symbolism of the closure of Hammersmith Bridge was so obvious, half a world away, The New York Times declared “London’s Bridges Really Are Falling Down.”

After admitting they stole the headline from a small girl’s placard protesting the closure of the bridge, they argued that crumbling Hammersmith, London and Vauxhall Bridges, as well as creaky Tower Bridge getting stuck open a couple of months ago, were apt metaphors “for all the ways the country has changed after a decade of economic austerity, years of political wars over Brexit, and months of lockdown to combat the pandemic”. Since then Wandsworth Bridge has also joined the queue of single lane, worker free, conefests.

But the metaphor goes much deeper. “Building bridges” is, of course, the idiom for peace and understanding; making connections, compromising and appreciating other opinions. But, there is no place for bridge building in an age of outrage and division, of shouty confrontation and discord. The quiet art of tolerance seems as archaic as needlepoint, whittling and dialling phone numbers… with a dial.

My generation saw the loneliness of the world and ached. We created the technology to connect us all together, imagining a borderless world where empathy and understanding would reach out across the globe. We thought that assumptions of the inferiority of others were just irrational xenophobia – once we could reach out and talk to each other as individuals, instead of just being represented by the politicians we elected, class and national differences would dissolve and we would discover that there was “far more that unites us than divides us.” This was the line the optimistic, moderate, Labour MP Jo Cox used in her maiden speech. One year and 11 days later a nationalist Brexit supporter divided her with a knife and a bullet.

Thirty years of the internet and it turns out that other people actually are hell, and our neighbours really are the humongous tossers we always suspected they were. But now we have to see it all the time in posts and tweets and cringe worthy TikTok routines. I can no longer bear witnessing the hourly pontifications of idiots and selfish neo-fascist halfwits, but HM Government and the Trump Administration insist on dominating the TV news. Then on social media they are joined by a chorus of determined Katie Hopkins-lite outragemongers who bristle with indignation at the wearing of masks or the audacity of immigrants trying to paddle across the busiest shipping lane in the world.

Equally, there are any number of right-thinking individuals who cannot bear the liberal, “bed-wetting”, wooly opinions of people like me. We have built bridges to the rest of the world only to discover that we are far more comfortable with our assumptions of superiority than having to accept others as equals. Who would have thought?

So, in what has become an over connected world, we troublesome humans are trying everything we can to disconnect again. Many have secretly welcomed the Covid lockdowns as a time out from having to manage all the idiots in our lives emboldened by having found a community who agree with them, albeit online. Our anger at everyone who cannot think like us is driven by géphyraclasm, the instinct, the need, to demolish bridges.

A bridge too far?

The reason why Hammersmith Bridge will languish for years, or even fall into the tideway, is because it has become a living embodiment of our grave new world of conflict and disconnect. A left-wing council (Hammersmith) unable to afford to fix it and a Transport Authority (TFL) haemorrhaging money in a go-to-work-from-home new order, are unable to convince an adversarial right-wing government to help stump up the cash. And of course they have bigger fish to fry, or are hoping too if their Brexit fishing-rights quota-bartering succeeds, rather than placating a few nice Barnes residents heading north to get to the shops, doctor and work, and a few thousand school kids heading south to get to their schools on foot. Even if that does prevent traffic gridlock, reduce pollution and promote social harmony. Bad will, misunderstandings and a lack of willingness to connect mean London’s second most beautiful bridge is likely to be demolished or simply collapse.

Joseph Bazalgette, Man of iron

Even the bridge’s construction bears metaphors for these ungiving times. Instead of bendy steel, that gives a little as things need to shift, Victorian sewer and tunnel maestro Joseph Bazalgette, engineer of the most magnificent sideburn to handlebar moustache constructions, built Hammersmith Bridge using stiff, unyielding cast iron. Which means that the bridge has not so much expanded and contracted over the years but cracked. And, as Hammersmith Councillor Stephan Cowan pointed out, it means “we would not be given any notice, it wouldn’t bend first then fall, it would just snap.” Another metaphor for the modern mind on social media.

Bazalgette’s bridge replaced an earlier one that, according to Wikipedia “was no longer strong enough to support the weight of heavy traffic”. Back then, a temporary bridge was built while the present one was constructed. So it is not beyond our abilities; only our will.

But Hammersmith Bridge bears a further burden of symbolism. It is London’s only bridge which, crossing from south to north, steps down in prosperity rather than up. Barnes on the south side is a wealthy leafy enclave, much of it owned by two of Britain’s most expensive Day Schools, where there are large villas once popular with BBC executives able to cross the bridge and motor up to White City’s Television Centre in minutes. Hammersmith, on the other hand, is the proud home of a Primark and some of London’s most deprived estates. Where once a bridge stood to bring the two together, now a two hour bus ride is the best that can be done and a mooted ferry service won’t be ready until spring 2021.

A symbol of disconnectedness in a plague time, when connecting with other people is deadly, and when Britain is trying to disconnect from Europe and Scotland from England and an over connected world discovers it is actually more about divisiveness, and we long to disconnect from our screens, Hammersmith Bridge’s current state has one last twist of metaphoric karma. It even reflects the UK’s Brexit attempt to dismantle the Good Friday Agreement. If the bridge does fall, or is taken apart, it will only be finishing the work of both the IRA and the Real IRA which tried, and failed, to blow it up no less than three times. They recognised the publicity value of such a beautiful icon falling into the waves, cutting off the many Irish pubs and homes in Hammersmith from the sound of willow on leather on the green at Barnes.

Few structures carry such a heavy weight of symbolism, as well as traffic trying to avoid Putney to get to the Kingston bypass. But as we disconnect, and our bridges fall, take heart. Perhaps we are like the walker who comes to a river and finds there’s no bridge and it’s too dangerous to swim. She sees a man on the opposite bank and shouts to him. “How do I get to the other side?” The man raises his hand to his mouth to shout back, “You’re on the other side.”

A version of this article first appeared in

Short Url: https://tinyurl.com/y3qyp74m

It’s Time to Talk about Stupid

Last week a friend showed me a phone message from his daughter. He asked me, “What does ‘idk’ mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. He looked at me with despair, “Oh my God, no one does.”

True story. And I assure you it absolutely wasn’t me who was the actual idiot in that story. And I’m definitely not deflecting my own stupidity on to some mystery ‘friend’ because I can’t stand the embarrassment. I mean I’m not stupid. Stupid is always other people or, if in myself, a momentary lapse.

If you think it might be stupid to read an entire article about stupid, think again. Because the way you think about stupid actually underpins your entire worldview.

“Always one” might be an underestimate.

Stupid’s a really simple judgement to make. Almost anyone who annoys you is, clearly, stupid. Most of the people who voted the other way to you, especially if your side lost, they’re verifiably stupid. But there’s nobody self-identifying as stupid, or standing up for stupid people, or campaigning for the rights of the stupid, there’s no country of Stupidia, or belief in the tenets of stupidity or (sorry eugenicists) even verifiable stupid genes. So do stupid people even exist? If they don’t, how come there’s always someone in front of me trying to push the door labelled “PULL”, or parking their car directly over a bay indicator line in the Tesco car park, or ignoring all the signs of a pandemic for weeks resulting in the deaths of tens of thousands? If no one is stupid how come you encounter stupid every day; or every other minute if you happen to use social media?

My First Theory of Stupid, as a liberal minded young man, was that there were no stupid people, just people who, having been denied a decent education, lacked the tools for critical thinking. In this act of arrogance, I managed to be both patronising and, of course, stupid as it meant all those privately educated Upper Class Twit of the Year, Hooray Henrys, couldn’t be idiots; which of course they were.

But then, I believed that anyone could be a Wittgenstein if only they had the right teachers, a loose grasp of grammar and suicidal tendencies. I’d baulk at the use of the S-word bandied around by smart-arse students to describe the majority of people who hadn’t made it to their ivory towers. Yet they had endless proof of stupid: the banality of anything ‘popular’ or ‘commercial’, Noel’s House Party, Beadle’s AboutThe Sun’s vast circulation based on vocabulary for six-year-olds.

Blobgenstein or Mr Witty?

Unable to defend the existence of Mr Blobby, my Second Theory of Stupid was to imagine a continuously fluctuating chain of rational people having stupid moments. Stupid was an ever-changing floating population with no fixed abode, like tourists or drivers for whom, when not touring or driving, there are constantly others to take their place. There’s always a meaningful cohort of stupid, just not always the same people.

And if we all take turns being stupid it’s a great equaliser, we all can be stupid. Except on TV or in the movies, where stupid is massively over represented by men. From Peter Griffin and Homer Simpson to David Brent and Ozzie Osborne stupid bloke role-models are aplenty while the last of the dizzy blondes was spotted sometime back in the 70s when phrases like Dolly-Birds were poptastic. I suppose it’s a small price to pay for being front of the queue in the patriarchy – because all us men certainly have the constitution to roll with constant ridicule and definitely aren’t almost twice as likely to commit suicide as women.

Role Model

I clung to my stupid theory for decades and even justified the Darwin Awards which claimed to celebrate “Evolution in Action” by recognising those who died stupid deaths, improving “our gene pool by removing themselves from it.” So Garry Hoy a Toronto lawyer who thought he should demonstrate the strength of his 24th floor boardroom’s “unbreakable” windows by throwing himself against one, just chose the wrong time to have a stupid moment. And the Texan teenager who decided to play Russian roulette with a semi-automatic, unwittingly changing 6 to 1 odds to 1 to 1, was probably drunk or something.

You are what you see.

Why was I so desperate to deny the existence of stupid people? For the same reason any good liberal denies there are evil people; only ordinary people driven to do bad things through desperation, mental illness or bad experiences. Just saying that someone’s stupid, or evil, is to ignore the whole person. You’re not asking who they are, but what they are. And if there are people who really are just stupid then we’re not all created equal. In which case, could some people really be superior to others? And if there really is a hierarchy of humanity on a scale of stupid/smart, what about other scales based on race or gender or whether you see a blue dress or a gold one? Would it be possible then to assign a value to different people’s lives? And if you could, then eventually, slavery and the holocaust become just societal opinions that were justifiably valid at the time. Like the buffoonery of Boris Johnson, stupid presents itself as a benign and affable joke, but it’s the touch paper which, once lit, blows the whole liberal perspective sky high.

James O’Brien, the LBC talkshow host and author of How to be Right, a handbook for arguing modern liberal politics, ties himself in knots trying not to call anyone stupid. For years he has listened to endless callers who voted for Brexit talking about sunny uplands whilst simultaneously admitting that their own lives will, and have, become poorer and harder under the new regime. But spare your opprobrium, says O’Brien, for the “spivs, charlatans and con-men” who sold honest hardworking people the Brexit dream. “Compassion for the conned, contempt for the conmen.”

I clung on, dear reader but in the last few years my own belief has been swept away by a tsunami of stupid: Love Island, AntiVax, Brexit, Prime Minister Boris Johnson, Made in Chelsea, the return of Flat–Earthers, President Donald Trump, Prime Minister Boris Johnson, Faith in Corbyn, the 5G Coronaspreader Conspiracy, Herd Immunity, Barnard Castle Cummings not Goings, Prime Minister Boris Johnson, every evening Hancock’s Daft Hour, Covidiots, Face Mask Rebels and Prime Minister Boris Johnson. According to a YouGov poll at the beginning of this month, “One in six Britons would refuse a coronavirus vaccine.”

How could these things be true if there are no permanently stupid people?

Stupid has popped my liberal cherry. It has driven me from other people’s lives more effectively than social distancing. Now I feel like an extremist who counts bodies not lives. Now, if I’m willing to admit that there are, simply, stupid people, there are also people I can define by their greed, or their xenophobia just to dismiss them. People for whom my life is too short to be bothered to look for, or appreciate, their saving graces or all their dimensions, or real characters, or their life stories that might show how they justifiably grew from being wide eyed children, with a sense of right and wrong, in to rabble-rousing would-be tyrants or insidious money hoarders. My desire to understand, appreciate, love even, has been eroded by the never-ending deluge of dumb. There are people now who I’ll simply dismiss as venal, or manipulative. And then there are all those people who buy their snake oil, who recite their empty mantras, who believe their “fake news” and the “alternative facts” and their conspiracies.

Ask yourself.

Who are they? Or is it what are they?

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Good Grief

So, cautiously, you emerge from a London lockdown – or maybe a Durham one – blinking at the sun, and the first question is: who’s in line for all the cash you’ve saved not going out for two months? A hairdresser for sure, a bartender would be good, maybe a physiotherapist after the long confinement, and who knows? Perhaps a personal trainer? But you can be sure the one person you’re not going to need is a poet. Right? Does anyone ever, actually, need a poet?

Which is why, however little poetry there is in money, there’ll always be even less money in poetry. Like the handbag dog, it was invented as a plaything for the rich and educated, a gewgaw never intended for anything as base as trade. Poetry was, for centuries, mostly a game of wit and peacockery for the over-leisured or those pretending to be; a diversion based on ancient narrative techniques designed to make long stories or songs easier to remember before writing, or even paper, were things.  And, although 18th century social aspirants like Alexander Pope tried to monetise verse, poetry was only really democratised in the early 20th century after the 1870-80 Education Acts spawned a first generation of literate poor. The voice of the working class finally found metrical form but never the elusive brass farthing.

Financially savvy poets set their words to music and became rock stars but, every now and again, there are times in our lives when music just feels cheap or manipulative and no prose is adequate. Times when our emotions are overwhelming and we struggle to find an art form that actually reflects the power of our feelings.

Then, poetry, in the economy of language, the sparseness, the grasp for simple essence, creates holes, spaces for memories and context to slip in, fashioned by its audience as much as its creator. It somehow touches us by giving us less; allowing us to be more within it. Some experiences are so universal and yet so personal that only poetry can get close. Love. Yes. That’s one of them, but loss. Especially loss.

Nothing does death like poetry. Tragedy is its stock-in-trade; a time of war, revolution or pestilence is a payday for poets. At every graveside, at each chapel lectern, suddenly everyone needs a poet. A scrap of paper is unfolded and someone else’s words, tumble out; because no words you find yourself will ever encapsulate the love, the person, the life that’s gone. Poetry, without the music, has a gravitas all of its own, it’s rare enough to sound important and says so much by saying so little. When master of the tear-jerk comedy Richard Curtis, had to face the funeral in his Four Weddings script, he didn’t reach for lyrical Joni Mitchell but pukka poet W.H. Auden. “He was… My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.”

Every poet knows it and every one worth their salt has attempted the abstract encomium, the eulogy to the unknown dead person, the mention-no-names, no specifics, one-size fits all, blankity blank, ‘fill-name-in-here whom now we mourn.’ From Shakespeare’s, “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.” to e e (no relation to Dominic) cummings’s “and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart / i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)”, they’ve all worked the graveyard shift.  It’s not an easy gig either. Can you think of a full rhyme for the word “gone”?

Right now, for an unprecedented number of us (the highest per capita in the world), in the easing of lockdown – courtesy of the Dominic Cumming’s scandal soother – there is no jolly trip to the beach or furious protest. Right now unparalleled numbers of us bury our dead. Right now the demand for poetry, to grasp for a semblance of what grief means, is at its zenith.  Right now, with 60,000 excess deaths above the seasonal norm, we are little more than a nation in mourning.

Some of us will find poems to address our dead: “You left us peaceful memories. Your love is still our guide, And though we cannot see you, You are always at our side.”

Others will talk as the dead: “Death is nothing at all, I have only slipped into the next room…”

Still others will acknowledge the legacy: “Not, how did they die, but how did they live? Not, what did they gain, but what did they give? These are the units to measure the worth Of a person as a person, regardless of birth.”

But sadness tinges all the poems and the saddest thing about almost all funeral poems is that they are a trick; at the sort of celebration you’d never book a magician for. They are pretty gift paper wrapped around a turd, a lie made saccharine, because almost all are only in the second stage of grief (the one that comes after shock): denial. A denial of loss. Auden’s Funeral Blues and Roger McGough’s Let Me Die a Young Man’s Death are rare exceptions.

A funeral poem is like a brief exercise in cold reading, DIY Mediumship; exploiting the grief of the audience, summoning up an afterlife, putting words in the dead’s mouth and using vague but powerful sounding statements, which could apply to anybody, to encourage the listener to supply the context and believe they see the specifics in their lost loved one. It is smoke and mirrors.

Most funeral poems conjure an afterlife in the form of a posthumous sentience, “I am not gone, only sleeping” or as a heavenly continuation or, for the less spiritual, an eternity in the memories – or the hearts – of the living. Even Robert Test’s totally rational poem in praise of organ donation is called Remember Me – I Will Live Forever.

Like a drunk standing up at an AA meeting with a Special Brew in hand, the funeral poem is a simple disavowal of the one fact that is in front of everybody. Death is final, it’s just about the clearest finality we have. Almost none of the hundreds of poems that will come up, when someone is asked to “say something” and Googles “Poem for a funeral”, will actually address the dead elephant in the room: the “loved one” is gone, finished, never coming back.

No ghostly hand will take your hand. No windblown field of wheat will echo the sigh and lost breath. No eyes will appear in the twinkling of the stars. Your sister, mother, father, brother, teacher, lover is never, ever coming back. Everything in your life changed the moment they stopped breathing and it will hurt, really hurt – and for as long as you live, the memory of them will never be just a happy one, because it will always always sting, maybe less over time but it will never go.

With the most devastating citizen death toll this country has seen in a century, one the Prime Minister claims to be “proud” of, there’s not a person in the land who has not either lost someone or felt the need to comfort someone they know who is grieving.

With just 5% of the country sporting antibodies for Covid-19 at this point there are many many more deaths on the horizon. There are no words which will make this feel better, which will stop the pain. You not going to need a poet, you’ll need a hairdresser and, even more, a bartender.

In memory of Sue Ward Brill 1931-2020 poet, writer, actress, mother.

(who would have been disappointed at the lack of jokes)

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