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August 31, 2014

Magteld had ambitions right until the end. On a shelf in my living room is a double box set of the last series of Breaking Bad, still wrapped in its cellophane. I’d ordered it on the final Friday, blissfully unaware her life had just over 72 hours left to run, and looked forward to watching it with her the next week, once she had recovered from her first round of a new chemotherapy regime.

We watched Breaking Bad at the rate of one episode a night. Perhaps it seems odd for a terminal cancer patient to become engrossed in a drama with a terminal cancer patient as its protagonist, but TV drama was one of her great passions, and one she could still enjoy in her wheelchair. She’d considered writing a blog about what it was like to follow Walter White’s Icarus-like rise from the point of view of someone with cancer, but time was against her. As an observer of both, I saw parallels between the progress of Walt’s illness and his burgeoning career as a drug dealer: a rampant aberration that consumed him from within, changed him essentially and ravaged his life.

When Magteld’s cancer returned in January she made it plain she had no interest in her prognosis. It was the only piece of information she refused. She gorged herself on the details of her illness, possible treatments and their side effects. She knew the chances of her surviving for long were small, but refused to think in those terms. What she feared most, I think, was fear itself: we talked a lot about the future, and how uncertain it had become, and always came back to the point that the worst possible outcome would be to linger for years, paralysed by the dread that her end was imminent. We didn’t know how much time she had left, but we knew how we wanted to fill it: with walks on the beach, glasses of Prosecco at Scheveningen pier, perhaps a trip in a camper van to the more picturesque corners of the Netherlands – a last summer filled with golden memories. As it turned out, even those hopes evaporated before they could hit the ground. But they were a source of strength while we had them.

Only once did she dwell on the impending eternal blackness – quite unexpectedly, as we sat having coffee in Glasgow. She accompanied the question with a disarming smile, as if she’d just asked me to pass the sugar. I wondered later how much time she spent thinking about it, and what conclusions she came to, and why she didn’t share them more openly. Was she afraid to give form to her fears, or was her instinct to protect us from the raw horror of it? Neither of us was religious or saw any merit in deathbed conversions. I maintained the best approach was to concentrate on living a good life so that if any god showed up for the final reckoning I could make a plea in mitigation. That was about as reflective as we got.

She knew, too, how she wanted to see out her last moments, with me and the boys at her bedside, once the rest of her family had been dismissed. She spent her first weeks in The Hague in a hospice, because she was too weak to live in our house. Generally a hospice is the final stop on life’s journey, but she saw it as a place to gather strength. She spent her waking hours at her writing desk, organising the children’s new schools, or chatting with the volunteers, so that by the time I first saw her, a week later, she could give me chapter and verse on all her new companions. And after five weeks she discharged herself from the hospice and moved into the house she had found for us, three months earlier, when she was still able to climb the stairs.


The end arrived with such blunt speed that we almost missed it. But even in her last hours her determination was undiminished. The duty nurse happened to have a supplementary training as a Reiki therapist and offered Magteld an energising massage. Despite her weakness Magteld shook her head vigorously. At lunchtime she was in a hospital bed, wearing an oxygen mask and breathing coarsely, but alert and responsive. I told her father to take our eldest son home to have a break. Home was only 15 minutes away and she seemed stable. But soon afterwards Magteld began going downhill rapidly. She sent her parents away with another shake of her head. I came in and asked if I should fetch the boys. She looked up and nodded limply. I realised later that the look in her eyes, for the first time, was one of resignation tinged with horror. She knew.

I hung on for half an hour while my father-in-law performed an about turn. Then I led our younger son into the room. Magteld’s eyes were closed, her head tilted back, her mouth open. The dials and gauges all told the same story: the end was closing in like an offshore storm. I panicked. I had sent our son away just at the moment when she had decreed he should be with her. Her breathing became more laboured and slow until it was a gurgle. Spit bubbles formed between her lips. She was drowning in her own phlegm.

Her breathing stopped. Just then the curtain billowed open and our elder son appeared. I shouted at her: “He’s here.” And Magteld summoned the energy to suck in two more shallow, rasping breaths. Her eyelids flickered. “She’s looking,” whispered the nurse. And then, her final wish made good, she fell still.


August 18, 2014

Grief is cyclical, I keep reading. The first year is the worst, a succession of broken milestones – the first birthday without her, the first anniversary without her, the first Christmas… and so on. But it doesn’t come in cycles so much as waves, building up on the horizon before crashing and surging towards you, leaving you breathless and disoriented.

The hardest emotion to deal with in the beginning was not anguish or grief, but relief. The fear that had been my companion for a year and a half was suddenly gone. The night Magteld died was the first time in months that I managed a full night’s sleep. I had come to dread every twitch and murmur from the other side of the bed, fearing it would be the start of the end. The last weeks of her life were a blur of mundane chores: making breakfast, pouring water, fetching medication, lifting her into the wheelchair, lifting her out of the wheelchair, helping her into the bathroom. Getting up three times a night to fetch water, or medicines, or the pear ice-creams that she devoured, a dozen a day, to soothe her throat. And all the time that lurking awareness that this was the better option.

 The relief I felt on waking that morning dissolved into guilt, which aggravated the sense of devastation. The end had come, suddenly and violently, yet I was still here, and the boys were sleeping upstairs, and life just went on, on a kind of autopilot: wake up, coffee, breakfast, school, a bit of shopping, a bit of typing, a bit of TV (it helped that the World Cup was on), a sketchy thought now and again in the direction of work. 

After a while I noticed people were drifting back to their old lives. Their work, their friends and their families. It was good to watch them find solace in their familiar routines. But at the same time I was deeply, madly jealous, because that option was closed to me. My old life was Magteld. I couldn’t go back to it. I had to somehow devise a new one, even though I barely had the energy to plan a trip to the supermarket. Her illness had given me a premonition of old age: the frailty, the fear, the exhaustion, the experience of witnessing someone’s strength and vitality ebb away. Cancer had enslaved us. But her absence triggered a devastating sense of isolation. If I’d felt helpless before, it was nothing compared to the looming vortex that threatened to sweep me away now.

A few weeks later I was taking some packing boxes out to the recycling bins. I’d almost finished feeding the crushed cardboard into the container when an elderly man appeared beside me in a rage. He spluttered that the bin I was using was a private container he shared with the local hardware store, and not for general use. As I stammered an apology, he wagged his finger and accused me of deliberately flouting the rules. I picked my dignity off the floor, hauled the cardboard out of the container and took it home. 

At first I was baffled and enraged. But as I thought about it, I started to understand the old man’s point of view. I knew what it was like to sit indoors for hours on end, wrestling with mortality, feeling misunderstood, isolated and vulnerable. I realised how daunting it must be to watch the world go by and know that it is totally oblivious to your pain. And feeling at the same time the terror of succumbing to it. To hear in the echo of every footstep the dread that someone might come along tomorrow and decide I could no longer cope. How easy it must be to fall into a downward spiral of bitterness and hostility, where every encounter with a stranger is weighed in terms of its potential to humiliate you.

David Attenborough once said old age is not for cissies. I believe him. It’s not a pretty place that we’re all heading for. After reflecting on this, I went to the florist around the corner and bought the old man a plant as a neighbourly gesture. I included a note with a brief but polite apology. The next morning the doorbell rang. It was the old man, wearing a warm, effusive smile that transformed him. It was only then that I realised I had acted out of solidarity. We were, after all, both single men in the second half of life, trying to keep one step ahead of fate.


July 3, 2014
Magteld sepia

It’s just over a month now since Magteld went away. Thirty-eight days that have gone by in such a haze that I often suspect time has gone haywire. The house that the boys and I moved in to nine weeks ago is already packed with history: the two weeks we spent going back and forth to the hospice, the two weeks we lived here as a family and celebrated Euan’s birthday, and the last five weeks, when we’ve had to cope with the shock and aftermath of Magteld’s abrupt departure.

I say ‘went away’ in the absence of any more suitable words. She died, obviously, but that fails to cover the impact of her loss. The day she died, when the boys and I stood by her hospital bed and watched her take her last breaths, seems etched in history, already distant, like a picture in a school textbook. The frantic days afterwards, of arranging the cremation and writing and translating eulogies, and drinking prosecco in the sunshine in the back garden, in keeping with her last orders: all this too is locked away in the past. But in other ways she is still present. I still leave her half of the bed unoccupied; there are three dressing gowns hanging by the door (Magteld had a summer and a winter one) and drawers full of her clothes; her shoes lined up neatly on the floor, her jewellery in a box on her bedside cabinet, next to her iPad and the books she will never finish. None of it has had time to gather dust.

This staged withdrawal is in many ways the hardest thing to deal with. It defies reconciliation. A few weeks ago I chucked a punnet of mushrooms out of the fridge and realised I’d bought them the last time we went to the supermarket together. How did these mushrooms manage to last longer than my wife? I wondered as I flung them furiously into the bin. Every time I call a bank or a utility company or a government office to tell them what’s happened I come off the phone dazed and exhausted by the sheer effort of articulating the words: she died. I tick boxes marked ‘one-parent family’ and ‘widowed’ and shove the papers in the envelope in haste, before the grief becomes endemic.

It’s commonly observed that death is not an event but a process. Like an earthquake: there is the immediate impact, the chaos and disruption, followed by a long, grinding process of recovery. Grief is always there, lapping at the shoreline and occasionally breaking through in waves before retreating just as quickly. The need to let go clashes with the urge to resist anything that offers proof of finality: I cannot entirely banish the absurd idea that I should keep her possessions in order, ready for the day when she strolls back in the door, a bemused smile on her face, and asks: “Where did you think I’d gone?”

The first things to go were the last to arrive: the wheelchair and Zimmer frame she was given just before leaving Glasgow, which meant that, curiously, nobody who knew her in Scotland ever saw her in the chair, while those who met her during her short time in The Hague had never seen her out of it. Only a month earlier we had gone to Edinburgh, for our copper wedding anniversary, and walked for nearly two miles through the city’s crooked streets. Hard as it might sound, I hated her disability. I despised what the cancer had reduced her to so swiftly: a cracked caricature of a healthy young woman who couldn’t get out of bed or use the toilet without assistance. And I can say it because she hated it too, and our shared loathing mutated into some fearful rows. On the first night she stayed in our house – Magteld’s house, the gorgeous, spacious apartment she found for us – we woke in the middle of the night and fought like cat and dog. It escalated to the point that she started hitting me with her arms, by now so crippled by cancer that she couldn’t raise them above the elbow. I remember the desperate, awful, pathetic (in the true sense) slaps, but I can’t for the life of me remember what the argument was about, and that only deepens my shame. Is this the start of the process of forgetting? And is that why I find it so hard to say goodbye to her clothes and shoes?

I came across a book lately: Klaas ten Holt’s The Complete Widower, by a Dutch newspaper columnist who lost his wife to cancer and wrote about the aftermath. (You could call it fate: I call it the human instinct to seek order in chaos. But let’s not quibble: the important thing is I bought it.) In one of the first entries Ten Holt describes how he has to fight the urge to call up the first woman he can think of “in the hope that she’ll stay with me and keep me from this debilitating loneliness”. I was reassured by that, because all through Magteld’s illness, and especially in the days after she died, I often felt like jumping into the arms of the nearest female friend and pleading with her to take me away from all this horror. And I can see how that could be misinterpreted. Even now that I know she will never again complete the other half of our bed, it feels like a betrayal. Even though she said to me, a few months before she died, that I deserved to be loved. Yes, really: my dying wife, in her final months, was trying to ease the pain of living. That’s another reason why I can never replace her.

Flag days

June 17, 2014
Dutch Flags flying in the street on Liberation Day, May 5.

For a nation that’s supposed to have raised itself above petty nationalist sentiment, the Dutch have a curious affinity for flying the flag. Since moving to The Hague less than two months ago I’ve lived through four official flag days and a host of unofficial ones. Red, white and blue flags flutter from balconies, from the roofs of shops (the hardware store round the corner has three six), from restaurants and cafes. When teenagers pass their exams they ‘hang the flag out’ in celebration, often with their old school bag perched on the end of the pole. The first herring batch of the season is landed with much pomp and ceremony in mid-June, on a day known as “vlaggetjesdag” – Flags Day – when the Dutch congregate on the quayside in Scheveningen to eat raw fish with onions, drink beer and potter around traditional market stalls without buying anything. And, of course, there is a football tournament on at the moment, which means streets are festooned with orange bunting, ribbons, banners – and flags.

This being the Netherlands, the etiquette of flag-waving is meticulously regulated. There is even a page on the Dutch government’s website dedicated to the question: “When can I hang out the national flag?” The short answer is “whenever you like”, but the full text runs to 700 words detailing the difference between “limited” and “extensive” flagging, the buildings where flags are obligatory, and the correct proportions for the standard (a ratio of 3:2, should you be inclined to obtain one). Flags should not be raised during the hours of darkness, touch the ground or impede the flow of traffic. Because if there’s one thing even more sacred to a Dutchman than his flag, it’s his bicycle.

The flag is flown on the birthdays of the king and queen, their daughters, Veterans’ Day at the end of June and, perhaps most poignantly, Liberation Day – May 5 – which marks the end of the Nazi occupation in 1945. The day before is known as Dodenherdenking (Remembrance Day) when all the victims of war are remembered, and flags are flown at half-mast. And yes, the Dutch have a protocol for that as well:

“If the flag is to be flown at half mast, it should first be fully raised. Thereafter the flag should be slowly and stately lowered until the middle of the flag is at half its normal height. The flag is then secured to the flag line. The flag should not be tied. On lowering a flag from half mast it should be slowly and stately raised to full mast before being taken down in the same manner.”

Vlaggetjesdag at Scheveningen - the ceremonial opening of the herring season.

Vlaggetjesdag at Scheveningen – the ceremonial opening of the herring season.

It’s fascinating to move from a country where any display of national flags prompts dark mutterings and gnashing of teeth about “nationalism on the rise” to one where flag-waving is seen as an unashamedly joyous gesture. To quote the government’s website again: “The Dutch flag is the symbol of the unity and independence of the Kingdom of the Netherlands”. It would be easy to conclude that the Dutch flag is less tainted by its history than others, but to do that you have to turn a blind eye to the Netherlands’ grim colonial escapades in Indonesia and elsewhere. What is true is that the Dutch have come to associate their flag with moments of liberation –from Spain in the 16th century, Napoleon in the 19th century and Hitler in the 20th. Hooligans, isolationists and religious zealots have been unable to claim it as their own.

The other curiosity is that while most households seem to own a flag, I’ve yet to see one for sale. Are they handed out on the last day of secondary school? And why are they all so clean and impeccably preserved? I imagine that on May 3, the day before Dodenherdenking, the Netherlands reverberates to the thrum of washing machines as every Dutchman and woman over the age of 25 diligently washes, irons and presses their flag ready to hang it at half-mast the following morning (but not before dawn, obviously).

A Dutch flag with a school bag at the end of the pole to denote a student who has passed their exams.

Dutch teenagers celebrate passing their exams by hanging their school bag on the end of the flagpole.

Perhaps the answer lies in the instructions regarding the colours, which are specified as “vermilion, clear white and cobalt blue” – I can only assume there are special washing powders to preserve the correct shade. The good news for migrants is that other national flags can be flown alongside the Dutch banner, but heed must be paid to the correct order, which is decided by the first letter of the country’s name in French. Yes, French. That means that Scotland (Ecosse) should properly take precedence over the Netherlands (Pays-Bas), which sounds like a diplomatic incident waiting to happen if we Scots vote for independence in September (both countries, incidentally, would trump the Royaume-Uni, but defer to Angleterre). In any case, I’m storing this information away safely, in preparation for the day when I finally track down a flag stockist.

Correction: This article originally stated that the hardware store close to my home had three flags flying from its gantry. In fact it sports six pristine, well-manicured tricolors. My apologies to the owners.

Magteld Darroch-Jansen (1976-2014)

June 1, 2014

Magteld Darroch-Jansen

My beautiful, dearly beloved wife passed away on Monday, less than two years after being diagnosed with breast cancer and eight weeks after our family moved to her native Netherlands. This is an edited version of the eulogy I delivered at her cremation yesterday, May 31, in The Hague, with an English translation below. Read more…

Alpha Papa: Norwich sticks it in the back of the net

August 16, 2013
Cromer pier and town, viewed from the east.

Cromer pier, long overdue a supporting role in a major motion picture. (picture: Gerry Balding)

For a native of Norwich, one of the secret joys of watching Alan Partridge: Alpha Papa was seeing how my home city looked on the big screen. More specifically, I grew up in the North Norfolk hinterland which Alan has called home ever since his primetime career exploded in the moment it took to punch a television executive in the face with a semi-stuffed turkey. Norwich and Partridge have become inseparable in the public mind over the last couple decades, but it wasn’t always thus. During the chat-show years the city was little more than a totem for Alan’s little-Englander provincialism: a modestly appointed town of no great resonance which he absurdly promotes as the centre of the universe (summed up in the pithy assertion: “Norwich is an attitude”). The city had to wait until the Christmas special for its first cameo role, a whistle-stop tour of landmarks including the cathedral cloisters (Alan’s favourite jogging-cum-negotiating spot), the famously pedestrianised city centre (scene of a “bloody big fight”) and my birthplace, the venerable Norfolk and Norwich Hospital (since demolished).

The early episodes of I’m Alan Partridge was largely filmed in Hertfordshire: I felt slightly cheated when I found out, having spent hours trying to identify the stretch of the A11 that Alan strides along while singing the theme tune from Goldfinger, or the bit of ringroad where he makes his fateful decision to invest in tungsten tip screws. But as the series have gone by, Norfolk’s landscape has become part of the Partridge furniture. One of the treats of Mid Morning Matters is the way East Anglia’s ungainly yet evocative placenames (Hickling, Terrington St Clement, Spixworth) are woven into Partridge’s rambling monologues. (Impressively, Coogan has managed to dodge the many pronunciation pitfalls lurking on the map such as Happisburgh, Costessey and Great Hautbois*). Yet the exact location of North Norfolk Digital has always been disconcertingly vague: Wroxham? North Walsham? Cromer? Surely not Fakenham?

I’m always amused to hear Norwich’s civic leaders asked if their city feels slighted by the existence of Partridge. The jokes are clearly at the expense of the character, not the city, though that hasn’t stopped a few humourless local councillors taking umbrage. It’s more as if there’s an extra gag written into the backstory specially for Norvicensians. It goes like this: Partridge is a universal misfit, and that extends to his home town. His constant absurd efforts to big up Norwich founder on the city’s indifference to self-aggrandisement. When he stands in Norwich Station listing the stops on the way to London (Rejection, Disappointment, Backstabbing Central, Shattered Dreams Parkway) he’s rewarded with not so much as a sideways glance. The signs at the boundary (as featured in Alpha Papa) proclaim: ‘Welcome to Norwich, a Fine City’. To me that’s always summed up the city’s sense of itself: it doesn’t go in for puffed-up chest-beating or in-your-face marketing. A fine city, self-confident but unpretentious. If you think you’ve got better places to be, get yourself off there.

In Alpha Papa, Norfolk at last claims a proper supporting role. The film-makers deserve much credit for making the most of the location’s dramatic potential. Cromer Pier, with its old-style rotunda theatre and ornate Victoriana stacked up on tall, jutting cliffs (Noel Coward take note), is a natural movie star that’s waited too long to be discovered. The equivalent, perhaps, of a once-promising Hollywood starlet who went on a downward spiral of drink and drugs but can still do a convincing turn as a dottily  appealing mother-in-law. It stages the opening shots, featuring waves crashing into weathered breakwaters, and the tragicomic denouement. Similarly the coastal towns, with their fading Victorian seaside splendour, meandering clifftop roads and caravan parks, perfectly fit the downbeat-thriller tone. Even the mismatched architecture of the city centre, where the 1930s City Hall scraps for attention with the medieval flint-fronted Guildhall and the clutter of the market stalls, suits the crazy-paving plot. Alpha Papa is characterised by a kind of kitsch nostalgia: for old-school hostage movies, radio roadshows and leather jackets. It’s a yearning for an England we didn’t think we’d miss and wouldn’t really want to return to, but acquires, in retrospect, an appealing simplicity. And Norfolk’s gentle, unassuming landscape, with its flashes of savagery round the edges, is the ideal setting for such a journey. Partridge has truly made Norwich his permanent nest. May he never migrate.

* Pronounced respectively ‘Haysburgh’ [silent ‘p’s], ‘Cossie’ and ‘Great Hobbis’.

Politics, an unavoidably twisted affair

August 5, 2013
The winding staircase around the tower of the Church of Our Saviour in Copenhagen

The winding staircase around the tower of the Church of Our Saviour in Copenhagen. (Picture: Katrin Lorenzen/ Flickr)

One of Copenhagen’s most famous landmarks is the tower of the Church of Our Saviour with its external helter-skelter staircase. The church itself is a Renaissance colossus, an elegant brute in the Dutch baroque style with Greek and Italian inflections, and it boasts northern Europe’s largest carillon, but it is the tower specifically that captures the public imagination. It owes much of its charm to an urban legend inspired by the peculiar detail that the staircase winds in an anticlockwise direction. This is peculiar because in Renaissance times, in popular culture, left-turning spirals were associated with the devil. The architect of the tower (but not the church), Lauritz de Thurah, is said to have been so furious with himself when he realised his mistake that he climbed the spiral staircase, invoking Satan with every step, and hurled himself to his death from the top.

The story is demonstrably bollocks. De Thurah died peacefully in his bed seven years after the tower was finished. I know this because the legend was recounted as part of a canal boat tour of the city I went on. Yet the ease with which it is can be disproved has not diminished its appeal. The church tower is one of two Copenhagen landmarks on the route that are so famous that the canal boat actually pauses beside them to allow tourists to take photographs (the other is, of course, The Little Mermaid). This interests me. Our tour guide fed us the whole story of the church tower and its fabled bungling architect, complete with the detail that he actually died peaceably some years later, because 21st-century tourists, being somewhat more sophisticated than their predecessors, are supposed to revere irony above superstition. I think this sense of intellectual superiority is misplaced. The fact that people still gain enjoyment from the ludicrous but colourful story of the suicidal architect reveals, I think, something significant about human nature.

Also while in Copenhagen I was coming to the climax of Adam Thirlwell’s novel, Politics. I was enjoying it. I know I was enjoying it because it was changing the way I thought about things. Exceptional books have that effect on me, like Zadie Smith’s White Teeth or the novels of Milan Kundera, a writer Thirlwell acknowledges as an influence. One of the characteristic features of Politics is its intrusive narrator, who tells the story in a highly didactic, fastidious and downright irritating manner. Often he suspends the action at a vital moment to digress about the Russian revolution, disputes in Czech revolutionary circles or Stalin’s avuncular telephone calls with intellectuals he will later stitch up good and proper. These digressions are important but profoundly annoying at the same time. As this paragraph perhaps is for you. Were I still a pretentious literature student I might reel off half a dozen impressive-sounding names for this narrative device, many of them culled from magisterial works of criticism such as Eric Auerbach’s Mimesis (a work I often cited in my undergraduate essays without ever taking the trouble to read it). Instead I’ll fall back on my own terminology and call it a Pain In The Arse.

There is a lot of sex in Thirlwell’s novel, but it is constantly interrupted by less pressing matters, so that despite being adventurous by most conventional standards, it doesn’t feel in the slightest bit erotic or sexy. I should have hated the novel and its opinionated, self-satisfied, prurient, disingenuous, tedious pain-in-the-arse narrator. But the weird thing is I loved it. And I loved it, I think, for the same reason I loved the story of the architect of the Church of Our Saviour in Copenhagen. It defied me to enjoy it against my better judgment.

For some reason the absurd tale of the architect’s non-suicide prompted another, quite different, urban myth, to float to the surface of my mind as I was boarding the plane home from Copenhagen later that day. This one is about a passenger on a jumbo jet who calls over the stewardess just as the flight is about to take off. The woman is very agitated and demands to be moved to a different seat, even though the entire economy class section is full. “You can’t possibly expect me to sit next to this man here,” she fumes. When the stewardess asks why, the passenger replies: “Because he’s black! How can I spend the next seven hours sitting next to a black man?” Nobody says a word, not even the shocked and stunned man she is demeaning, so she continues with her racist tirade, oblivious to how uncomfortable all the other passengers are becoming and what an egregious persona she is displaying to all the world. When she is finished the stewardess smiles and says: “Just a minute, madam, I’ll see what I can do.” And a few minutes later she comes back and says: “Madam, I’ve spoken with the captain, and he’s decided that the only way to deal with this situation is by way of an upgrade.” “Good,” says the woman, an appalling smile smeared across her face. “So if you would like to step this way, sir,” the stewardess continues,” there is a seat waiting for you in First Class. And the captain has asked that you receive a complimentary glass of champagne in recognition of this inconvenience.” And she gestures to the black man, who gets up, strides towards the front of the plane without so much as a backward glance to his racist neighbour who is still standing, fuming and open-mouthed, in the centre of the aisle, surrounded by silently smirking travellers, all of whom can’t wait to get home and spread this story around their circles of friends.

This story, like that of the church tower and the architect, is almost certainly bollocks too, though it’s not so easily disproved. I’d argue that that doesn’t matter: the point is that it’s a highly appealing story even so. What’s interesting is that we relate to it in a different way than to the story of the architect. Both stories are about knowledge and judgment. The architect is supposed to have killed himself because despite his skill and expertise in his professional field he commits a basic, catastrophic error that brings about his ruin. We enjoy the story because despite his elevated position, we can feel superior to him. Only someone ensconced in the ivory towers of academia could have overlooked such a fundamental piece of popular superstition. In the story of the racist passenger, the person using his skill and judgment is the captain of the plane (or possibly the stewardess, if you believe she acted on her own initiative and merely invoked the captain’s authority as a cunning device).[1] The captain acts like a benevolent dictator, summoning his worldly wisdom to identify the true victim in the scenario – the blameless black man – and punish the woman for her imagined grievance so that she loses all credibility in the eyes of her fellow passengers (none of whom, you’ll have noticed, actually bothered to leap to the man’s defence initially). All of us, I think, fancy we would have been as courageous and intellectually nimble as the captain in this wholly fictional story. He appeals to the good side of ourselves. Whereas the architect appeals to the mean side of ourselves: we envy his status and proficiency, and his unreal but literal downfall prompts a pang of Schadenfreude.

But that’s not the point either. The point is that both stories remain hugely appealing even when we either strongly suspect, or know for sure, that they are untrue. We think of ourselves as reasoning beings, but much of our enjoyment – indeed, much of our emotional lives – involves suspending reason. It’s what makes it so hard for us to agree on anything, even when the evidence points strongly in one direction. And that may solve the puzzle of why Adam Thirlwell’s novel Politics is so enjoyable – or at least, why it was for me. It’s a novel that contains a lot of unsexy sex and some rather fleeting political ruminations. Neither the sex nor the politics is satisfying on its own. And it’s all told by a pedantic, wearisome authorial narrator who seems to have been created for the specific purpose of spoiling both aspects. But the juxtaposition of the sex and the politics is done artfully and with wit, so that I, the reader, was led on a leash, scowling all the way like the architect on his imaginary journey up the anticlockwise staircase, or the racist passenger as she watched her nemesis retreat towards the First Class section of the cabin, towards its denoument. It was one of the most disquieting, original and pleasurable reading experiences I’ve had in ages.

There is another reason I think Politics works. A lot of people will disagree with this theory, and I suspect Adam Thirlwell would disagree more vehemently than most. But that doesn’t invalidate it in my estimation. Politics is, both because of and in spite of itself, an intensely political novel. It was published in 2003, and so written in the first half of the New Labour era. Tony Blair came to power promising a democratic revolution in politics that he termed the Third Way. It was supposed to be an end to the old confrontational politics of the Cold War and era: not Left versus Right, but a fusion of the two that sought its legitimacy in pragmatism and practical outcomes. There were to be targets and mission statements and performance reviews and all kinds of managerial innovations. But it didn’t eradicate the old ideological disputes at all. It just made them much duller. It was a revolution in style that left the fault lines of politics intact. Blair simply wallpapered over the cracks (in what now seems a richly ironic detail, wallpaper was at the heart of one of his government’s first serious controversies when one of Blair’s cabinet ministers, Lord Derry Irvine, was criticised for extravagantly redecorating his official residence). That’s what Thirlwell illustrates in Politics. On the one hand he reduces the ménage à trois, generally considered a decadent and ambitious arrangement, to the level of a mundane kitchen-sink drama, just as Tony Blair in his pomp made political debate as riveting as an accountants’ convention. And yet the inherent flaws in the sexual trio remain unresolved (and I won’t spoil the book any further by spelling out how they affect the characters’ fortunes), just as New Labour failed utterly to make politics any more honest or straightforward. The Pain In The Arse narrator portrays himself as a sweetly reasonable mediator who will make everything clear, but his machinations just fuck the story up. In both sex and politics, pragmatism is offered as a solution only to end up complicating things still further. All that redeems him is the writer’s skill in deploying him. The entire novel is a brilliant and subtle political parody. It says that politicians who endeavour to take the politics out of politics are the most dangerous politicians of all. That’s what I got out of it, at any rate. You may very well disagree.

[1] Incidentally, I don’t see anything sexist or meaningful in the genders of the complainant and the victim. You could plausibly swap them over. It just allows attentive listeners to anticipate the twist by picking up on the stewardess’s use of the word ‘sir’ a few moments before the man rises from his seat. Award yourself a glass of imaginary champagne if you noticed it.


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