INTRODUCTIONS
Here are the introductions for my books:
HELL BENT FOR LEATHER (2004)
ROCK ME AMADEUS (2006)
HOW TO BE A BETTER PERSON (2009)
How To Be A Better Person
My house, Brentford, west London
Tuesday afternoon, during Countdown
The phone rang.
Unlike a lot of people, I like it when the phone rings; it might be something exciting: somebody with some money[1], or good news, or a friend inviting me down the pub, or my agent with heady news of lucrative foreign rights sales[2].
Usually it’s none of those things; usually it’s someone in a call centre, often a call centre somewhere on the Indian subcontinent. Their name is Keith, even though their name’s not really Keith, it’s Tajinder, but the powers that be demand they anglicise their names to make you and me feel more comfortable. I hate these cold calls as much as the next person (every time I hang up I make a promise that I’m going to go ex-directory) but I always try to be polite and hear them out, before explaining firmly that I’m not interested in a free mobile phone or anything else thank you very much, sorry, no really, goodbye now, sorry again, cheerio, goodbye! I make it cheery so as not to make them feel rejected or bad about themselves. Then I feel bad about myself for five-to-ten seconds before getting on with whatever I was doing before, i.e. waiting for my agent to call with news of lucrative foreign rights sales.
So the phone rang and all this went through my head again. Maybe, at last, it’s someone with some money! I snatched at the receiver excitedly.
‘Hello?’
‘Am I speaking with the homeowner?’
The heart sinks.
‘Yeesssss.’
‘My name’s Sue and I’m calling from the NBCS...’
The Nautical… Bird…. Canoeing… Society?
‘…that’s the National Blind Children’s Society. And we’re looking for volunteers to collect money in their own neighbourhood, delivering envelopes and then a few days later collecting them again. Would you mind helping out?’
My mouth opened to say no thanks but then my untrustworthy subconscious lurched into action: deliver a few envelopes on my own street? Go and collect them afterwards? Why the hell not? In a moment of sudden madness I heard myself unexpectedly pronounce: ‘Yes, why not. I think. Yes OK. But hang on, erm.’
‘Yes?’
‘Alright then.’
‘Great. Just give me your address and I’ll pop it all in the post. Instructions are all included. Thanks.’ And she hung up.
I was immediately flooded with wave after wave of delicious, self-righteous serotonin. Somewhat pathetically, I felt an urge to text some of my friends, informing them what a wonderful and selfless thing it was that I had just agreed to do. I imagine this was a similar sensation to having just had one’s bank details expertly stripped by Tigger-esque charity muggers down on the high street: feeling a little more buoyant in your soul but with a slight yet distinct sense of unease. Did I really want to do that? Have I been had somehow?
Sadly, this kind of reaction to having done something even vaguely altruistic is these days the rule rather than the exception. Most of us lead incredibly selfish lives – straight-ahead, blinkers-on, me, moi, ich, looking out for number one. Lifelong shortsighted self-interest is wholly acceptable here in the early 21st century, indeed often positively encouraged by our inescapable double-barrelled godheads: consumerism and cynicism.
I am a consumer. I am a cynic. But I would like to be less so. I believe that being a ‘good person’, with all the responsibility and possibly hard work that might entail, is fundamental to leading a full and rewarding life. I’m not religious, so I have no spiritual dogma going down here - it’s just a yin and yang thing: cause and effect, effect and cause - a unity of opposites. You get what you give. The love you make is equal to the love you take. As you can see, I have started to regurgitate pop song lyrics, probably in a consumerist and cynical way. And all this pop-cultural meaninglessness clogs up the parts of the brain that presumably used to – back in the olden days - be filled with hale and hearty doses of fraternal philanthropy. We used to be nicer. It’s true - our grandparents insist; or at least they would if we ever listened to them. Nowadays we can’t because they’re in a care home, as this makes our lives easier. Is this the world we created?[3]
We children of the 70s and 80s certainly do less for other people than our parents’ generation did and, indeed, still do. Part of this has to do with the fragmentation of the community, a process hurried along by Margaret Thatcher and her infamous line: ‘There’s no such thing as society – only individuals’. Licence to ill, in other words. More cynical is the less-famous-yet-eviller-still Thatcher quote: ‘No-one would remember the Good Samaritan if he’d only had good intentions; he had money as well.’
This state-sponsored selfishness was unprecedented; it branded into the nation’s consciousness a deep ideological fissure. The great myopic goldrush had begun; a goldrush barely even mediated by over a decade of Labour government - indeed they positively encouraged it. And it’s too late to force this particular genie back into its bottle now – the genie is a hedge fund expert and has assured his dominance by wiping out magic lanterns through relentless speculation on futures trading. Sigh.
My own parents were always active in their community and elsewhere. My mother was a teacher and Red Cross volunteer. My late father would get involved in good deeds locally if there was a drink in there for him somewhere (anything pub-sponsored, for example). This giving of themselves to the community-at-large defined them and others like them, and continues to this day. It conferred a sense of innate Goodness; of wisdom and trustworthiness - proof that there was such thing as society after all. In being fundamentally unfashionable myself, I feel it’s my generational responsibility to attempt to preserve this unfashionable attitude. By taking my foot off the egocentric gas, could I possibly become a bit more (although not too much, thanks) like my parents and less like…well, me?
As an archetypical, work-shy writer who does nothing but sit on his arse all day[4], I have quite a lot of spare time, probably more than most people. In the chaotic metaphysical and moral fallout I am experiencing post-NBCS phonecall, I have come up with an idea of how to spend some of this time: a programme of self-improvement through volunteering. Because volunteer work – i.e. working for zero financial reward – is a far more structured and measurable way of leading a ‘better’ life than just giving beggars money or helping mothers with pushchairs up flights of stairs. By volunteering, you contribute to an organised infrastructure functioning exclusively in the direction of the Greater Good. I want what follows to be an honest portrayal of these multitudinous, righteous labourings. I give myself two whole years – two years of part-time volunteer work; two years of getting properly stuck-in. Not reportage: rather, earthy immersion, genuine participation and involvement - and cynicism (even pub-sponsorship) begone. Consider this a kind of learn-as-one-goes instruction manual - of fatigue-free compassion; of idealized citizenship; of inevitable humiliation, failure and deluded hubris. A step-by-step live journal documenting the attempts of a charitable neophyte to better himself and perhaps even those around him too, through enlisted benevolence. I want to prove Margaret Thatcher[5] wrong. All over again.
As a structure for this prolonged course in re-sensitization, I plan to utilize that traditional methodology of the vice-afflicted – the Twelve Step Programme; although having just perused the actual Steps, I have decided to ignore their specific exhortations, since for example ‘Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to other human being the exact nature of our wrongs’ (Step 5), and ‘Sought through prayer and meditation improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His Will for us and the power to carry that out’ (Step 11) seem to me somewhat long-winded and, to be frank, frightening. And it’s fear – this extant paralysis of idleness - that I’m so keen to move beyond.
By the end of this tough, anti-ennui regime, I hope to be in a position where I’ll be able to answer these two, crucial questions: can a thirty-something middle class Englishman become a better person through volunteering? And might a prolonged prescription of selflessness deliver enlightenment even to a foul-mouthed commoner such as myself[6]?
A week after the phonecall, the NBCS envelopes arrived. On the front of each was a pretty, smiling, wonky-eyed albino girl, surrounded by Harry Potter books. ‘A Brighter Outlook’ promised their slogan. I didn’t really understand, so instead I decided to count the envelopes. There were forty-two. Isn’t forty-two supposed to be the answer to the meaning of life, the universe and everything? It was a brilliant omen.
Well, I never delivered the envelopes. I couldn’t be arsed.
I’m not going to patronize you, OK?
[1]This has never happened.
[2] This has never happened either.
[3] This just happens to be a songtitle as well; and unfortunately it’s a Queen one. Things can only get better. Oh God, make it stop!
[4] Please note, however, the relentless self-loathing, self-disgust and inevitable self-abuse that comes with this fiscally-challenged career choice.
[5] And Geoffrey Howe.
[6] I asked my mother what she reckoned and she replied, ‘I doubt it very much.’
Rock Me Amadeus
My name is Seb Hunter, and I’m an addict.
My vice is popular music.
And I’m old enough to know better. I still buy the NME every week, and I
have to hide it underneath my Guardian so the newsagent doesn't take me
for a paedophile. As well as this early-adolescent staple, every month I
buy The Wire, Uncut, Mojo, Record Collector, Word, a few guitar magazines,
Classic Rock, and Q. I read them all, cover-to cover. The occasional music
magazine that I don’t buy, I stand in your way and read in WH Smiths
anyway.
I spend the majority of my disposable income on popular music. As well as
going to gigs, I buy, on average, four or five CDs every week, both old
stuff and new releases, and I rake the internet half a dozen times a day
for the latest popular music news. If the drummer out of Stereophonics
breaks a wrist mid-tour, I know about it within an hour, even though I
loathe Stereophonics, and have not, nor ever will, buy any of their music.
One unfortunate side-effect of this is that I still dress like an
indie-obsessed university student circa 1992. After being clocked that I’m
well beyond teenage, I’m looked at oddly in the street. Shouldn’t he have
grown out of looking like that by now? I confuse and frighten
schoolchildren. I don’t even have the excuse of being in a band any more -
I’m happily married - so nor am I attempting to snare chicks. The only
place in the world I’m still cool is at certain popular music venues,
after a couple of drinks, in the dark.
None of this is particularly unusual. My ilk and I are a recognisable
flock in the great Venn diagram of social tribes. A sallow cluster of
twilight-chasing thirty-somethings, our tedious, repetitious tales have
been cast many times over. What’s unusual in my case, is that I am about
to renounce the whole caboodle. Turn my back on everything I know and
love, and say farewell to pop.
I don’t know much about classical music, although I have, on occasion,
pretended to. In the company of somebody grown-up, listening to the radio,
they might cock their head and muse, softly,
‘Isn’t this Grieg?’
I’d feel compelled to cock my head too, and thoughtfully reply,
‘Mmm, you might be right.’
‘Or, perhaps, Debussy?’
‘Yessssss. Maybe even…’ I would pause, appreciatively. ‘… Chopin?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Yes, right, sorry.’ Then they’d turn the radio off, so that Henry Kelly
couldn’t go on to prove them mistaken. But they only said something in the
first place because they felt the need to reassert their cultural, moral
and discretionary superiority anyway, so I should have known better than
to attempt to join in. But I so want to join in. Why, just because I like
popular music, should I be so comprehensively watermarked as an
intellectual retard? There’s been enough popular music around now for the
likes of me to have remained entirely within its walls; indeed, I’m pretty
sure I can carry on with it for the rest of my life and not have to push
too hard at the edges. There’s been so much to satisfy and entertain us
that there’s been no need to investigate our snooty, superior cousins,
down there in the glassed-off basement in HMV.
I want to know what’s down there. I want to know what’s going on behind
those doors, now that I’m just about old enough to be trusted not to
spontaneously start moshing, or breakdancing, or – good Lord - singing
along. Growing up, classical music was the ultimate aspirational art form
– you had to try and raise your game in the presence of it. Classical was,
we were solemnly informed, the absolute pinnacle of human expression; no
explanation necessary - just trust us on this one. I want to know if it’s
worth all the effort. Because effort seems to be a big part of this;
they’ve made getting into classical music difficult on purpose; they’ve
made it look like the most boring thing in the whole world so that we
never come sniffing. They want to keep us out. Well I’m sorry, but I want
to come in. I love music, you see? And I’ve reached a stage in my life
where it’s time to try and love classical music too, even if it doesn’t
particularly want to love me back.
So my suitcase is packed, and I’m ready to say my goodbyes. In just a few
hours’ time I’m going to be moving through to the anti-matter: the adult,
empyreal world of classical music. My mission is to feel as passionate
about classical as I do about pop, and I’ve decided that the only way to
properly achieve this is to stop listening to popular music altogether; at
least until I come to the end of my voyage. I’m going to start at the
Beginning of Musical Time and consume, one-by one, the mystical riches
conferred upon me from raw frontline exposure to symphonic choral
braggadocio. Concerto modulation and diatonic magnificats. Harmonic
variations on polytonal madrigals. Fucking opera for chrissakes. I can
hardly wait to be blown away by virtuoso performances from the greatest
orchestras on earth playing the most venerated composers’ most lauded
masterpieces in the world’s most humbling concert halls. Before breakfast.
After breakfast, I’ll sit at Mozart’s old harpsichord and, having
sufficiently soaked up the heady, powdered wig-like vibes, knock out an
aria or two by myself. Then, having enjoyed a sophisticated lunch in a
baroque Wolfgangstrasse kirchenhaus with a batty impassioned composer with
a sweaty comb-over, I’ll weep silent, bitter tears over a Honegger piano
concerto before - after a meditative half-hour on a higher plane of
Viennese consciousness - drifting off to a peaceful contemplative sleep,
closer than I’ve ever been to a deep and profound understanding of the
complexities of the Human Condition. It’s that simple.
So, I sit here and I take a deep breath. As a concept it sounds pretty
straightforward. I’m not scared yet - I’m almost excited. But then I think
I’m probably in deep denial of what all this is going to take: rock ‘n’
roll only needs three chords; classical music just has too many notes.
Classical music, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Seb Hunter and
I’m ready to go cold turkey. I’ve come to join you. Please, let me in.
Maybe it’s time to grow up a little bit.
Hell Bent For Leather
I was in the pub with my friend Andrew and the conversation turned to What
specialist subject would you chose if you were to appear on Mastermind? He
came up with the very good point that in order to proceed to the later
stages of the competition, you would need a store of different specialist
subjects for each new round. But as the heats progressed, the standard of
fellow competitor would rise, so not only did you have to prepare - we
guessed - four rounds' worth of different specialist subjects, but you
probably needed to gamble your weakest in the early rounds and save your
best one 'til last. We imagined the dreadfulness of early round
elimination on some hastily cribbed topic, with our fountains of knowledge
sitting primed and unused. So assuming there actually are four rounds,
including the final (and yes, we’re taking huge liberties with our levels
of general knowledge here), Andrew chose:
1st round: Bob Dylan
2nd round: Samuel Beckett
3rd Round: Tennyson (yes, he’s a fop and a nonce)
Final: The Beatles.
He really likes the Beatles.
In response I rushed to install my beloved Beach Boys at the top of the
pile and started to ponder my remaining three stages.
“Can I have Brian Wilson as a separate round?”
"Definitely not, or I'd have John Lennon.”
“Oh, I see.”
It was then that a horrible truth began to dawn. It grew in my brain until
I couldn’t hold it in any more. Although I am indeed very good on the
Beach Boys and, indeed my hero Brian Wilson, there was a subject that, if
I was honest with myself, I knew more about than any other. And it wasn’t
big, or clever, or cool, or relevant to anything at all useful in my or
indeed anyone else’s life (unlike Brian of course). I covered my mouth
with my hand.
“Heavy metal,” I said quietly.
“What?” Andrew appeared confused.
“My number one isn’t the Beach Boys. It’s Heavy Metal.”
“Really? Heavy Metal? As random as that? No focus or specification? Just
the whole thing?”
“Yes.” My head hung in shame. “The whole goddamn thing.”
"You never told me about this before."
"It's kind of a secret," I muttered.
“So if you got to the final of Mastermind, you'd sit there in the black
chair, and when asked for your chosen specialist subject, you’d calmly
reply ‘Heavy Metal’?”
“I'm afraid so.”
“That’s fantastic!”
It was true. And this book is all about what I have learned, and my own
charmless stabs at emulation.
And hey, before you say anything - I’m not proud.