Category Archives: Blog

Eddington

Ari Aster’s Eddington, 2025 unfolds less as a conventional narrative than as a sustained mood: tense, uncanny, and uncomfortable. Set in a small New Mexico town still dealing with the Covid pandemic, the film captures a society drifting in and out of coherence, where truth is no longer a shared foundation but a contested terrain. What Aster has crafted is, ostensibly, a black comedy — yet the laughter it provokes is nervous, almost involuntary, emerging from the gaps between absurdity and dread.

At the film’s heart is Joaquin Phoenix (Joe Cross) and his long time personal dispute with the town’s mayor played by Pedro Pascal (Ted Garcia) who is seeking reelection. Phoenix delivers a performance of remarkable fragility as his character is not a grandly tragic figure but an ordinary man, slowly unravelling under the weight of a reality too fractured to contain. His descent is at once personal and political, a mirror of a society in which conspiracy and mistrust seep into every interaction.

Amélie Hoeferle gives stirring performance as a young political radical whose idealism is both magnetic and troubling. She becomes one of the film’s pivot characters — a figure through whom we are confronted with questions of agency, resistance, and the blurred lines between radical truth-telling and reckless provocation.

Threaded through this human drama is a more sinister force: a covert team, funded by a Big Tech conglomerate, tasked with destabilising local resistance to the construction of a data centre. Aster presents this not as speculative dystopia but as a logical extension of present realities.

The imagery is relentless as the community quietly erodes into civic mistrust, underpinned by social media/misinformation, conspiracy theorists, shape shifting politicians and their corporate pay masters.

The film’s progression is one of steady accretion. Aster layers unease upon unease, withholding release until the final act, when tension gives way to outright spectacle. The climax, a violent eruption Rambo style, risks excess, but it also feels earned: a grotesque, almost satirical catharsis, underscoring the absurdity of a world in which paranoia itself has become a governing logic.

Eddington 2025 is, in the end, less about plot than about atmosphere, less about answers than about the sensation of disorientation in an age where truth is pliable and reality negotiable. It is an unsettling work, but also a vital one: a mirror held up to a moment in history where the boundaries between comedy, horror, truth and fiction have all but collapsed. Go watch.

Tom Waits: The Earth Died Screaming

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“The Earth Died Screaming” opens Bone Machine (1992), an album that marked a new rawness in Waits’ career. While his earlier work balanced Beat-poet jazz swagger with blues and balladry, Bone Machine plunged fully into the apocalyptic and the grotesque. Recorded with clattering percussion, improvised junkyard instruments, and distorted vocals, it created a sonic world of rust, bone, and ruin.

This track sets the tone immediately: a macabre march that fuses Biblical doom, carnival grotesquerie, and the sense of a post-industrial wasteland. Released at the end of the Cold War, in a world still haunted by nuclear fears, environmental collapse, and the Gulf War, the song channels late 20th-century anxieties into a surreal end-times vision.

The lyrics string together a vision of humanity’s end in grotesque tableaux: kings and beggars alike swallowed up, lovers separated, death rendered as both terrifying and absurd. Waits doesn’t deliver this as solemn prophecy but as a dark carnival barker, laughing at the futility of human ambition.

What makes it powerful is how it refuses redemption. Unlike apocalyptic art that points to renewal or salvation, this track leaves us in the rubble. The earth doesn’t fade or fall silent — it screams, suggesting not peace but pain, rage, and unfinished business.

At its core, “The Earth Died Screaming” is a parable about the inevitability of decay. Waits sketches a vision of the apocalypse where all hierarchies collapse: presidents, beggars, thieves, lovers, and clowns all meet the same fate. It’s a leveller’s song, where death refuses to discriminate.

But there’s also satire here. The grotesque imagery suggests that humanity’s self-destruction is a carnival act, a spectacle. In other words, we’ve turned the end of the world into theatre. The grotesque laughter in the song mirrors our own absurdity in ignoring environmental collapse, endless war, and greed while we march toward ruin.

Spiritually, the track feels Old Testament — fire-and-brimstone, prophetic wrath. Yet it never gives us the consolation of a divine order behind it. Instead, it’s chaos. Waits replaces religious hope with a grim acceptance of entropy and absurdity.

George Short

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In my early political days, I had the good fortune to cross paths with people of remarkable conviction—individuals whose beliefs weren’t just ideas they carried, but the very compass that guided their lives. Among them was one man who left a lasting impression on me: George Short. He was more than just a politician; he was a living example of what it meant to stand firm in the face of hardship, to believe in something so deeply that no setback could shake it.

George had a way of cutting through noise and doubt, speaking with a clarity that came from both experience and an unshakable moral core. He lived his politics, not as a hobby or a passing phase, but as a lifelong commitment. I often think about how much I learned from him—not just about politics, but about courage, endurance, and the importance of staying true to one’s principles. People like George Short deserve to be remembered—not simply for what they did, but for the integrity and fire they carried into everything they fought for.

George Short was born in 1900 in the tough mining village of High Spen, County Durham. At just 14, he went down the pit, joining the ranks of thousands who worked the coal seams. But he was never content simply to endure harsh conditions — by the time of the great miners’ strikes of 1921 and 1926, Short was an active organiser. His role in those struggles cost him dearly: blacklisted from the coal industry, he would never work underground again.

Determined to keep fighting for workers’ rights, he served as a delegate to the Labour Representation Committee before joining the Communist Party in 1926 — a commitment that would define the rest of his life. By 1929, he was elected to the Party’s Central Committee, and years later he would serve on its Appeals Committee.

In 1930, Short travelled to Moscow, spending a year at the Lenin School and another working for the Comintern, even becoming a member of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. When he returned to Britain, he threw himself into building the Communist Party and leading the unemployed workers’ movement. His activism came at a cost: three months in prison, after insisting on the right to hold meetings at Stockton Cross.

The 1930s also saw him at the forefront of the anti-fascist struggle. After Japan’s invasion of Manchuria, he was instrumental in blocking the Haruma Mara from leaving Middlesbrough dock with scrap metal bound for Japan’s war effort. He helped stop the Blackshirts from marching through Stockton-on-Tees and took on the vital task of organising recruitment for the International Brigade in Spain.

After the war, Short remained committed to the cause of peace, supporting the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and, in later years, joining the re-established Communist Party of Britain. As President of the Teesside Pensioners Association, he launched a successful campaign for free concessionary travel for retirees — a victory felt by thousands.

George Short lived to the age of 94, passing away in 1994. His life was one of unbroken dedication to the struggles of working people, from the pit villages of County Durham to the global fight against fascism.

We need more Georges in our world today—voices of courage, hearts of steel, and a belief that change is worth fighting for.

Being Here: Barbara Walker, The Arnolfini, Bristol until 25 May 2025.

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Barbara Walker’s new exhibition at Arnolfini is a sustained, courageous interrogation of memory, belonging and the politics of refusal. Across drawing, painting and large-scale installations, Walker refuses easy reconciliation — instead staging encounters that demand attention. Her mark-making is urgent and precise; her visual language reinventive, at once poetic and forensic. The works trace personal and communal histories, showing how identity is made and unmade by social forces.

Seen through the prism of the Windrush scandal, Walker’s exhibition acquires an added urgency. The show does not only document injustice; it amplifies the voices and experiences that policies have tried to erase. Walker’s art testifies to the human consequences of bureaucratic neglect and racialized exclusion, yet it is never merely documentary. It is also a celebration of resilience, a repository of memory, and a space for imagining reparative futures.

Visitors will find themselves moved by the emotional honesty of the pieces, provoked by the political questions they raise, and held by an aesthetic intelligence that balances grief with profound hope. This is essential work for our times — an exhibition that asks us to see more clearly, to remember more faithfully, and to act more justly.

Royal Iris

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The Royal Iris, originally named MV Mountwood, was constructed in 1950-1951 by William Denny and Brothers Shipbuilders in Dumbarton, Scotland.

Commissioned by the Wallasey Corporation to serve as a passenger ferry for the Mersey Ferry service, operating between Liverpool and the Wirral Peninsula.

First of its kind, being the first non-steam powered ferry to operate on the Mersey River. The Royal Iris was powered by diesel engines and had a capacity of over 2,000 passengers. Its sleek and modern design, with strong Art Deco influences, made it an iconic vessel of its time.

Serving as a passenger ferry for several decades, she became known for her comfortable seating, spacious decks, and panoramic windows that offered stunning views of the Mersey River. In addition to its regular passenger service, the Royal Iris also played a significant role in the music scene of Liverpool. In the 1960s, it became a popular venue for rock and roll concerts, hosting performances by well-known bands such as The Beatles, The Who, and Jerry Lee Lewis. These events, known as the “Riverboat Shuffles,” attracted large crowds and contributed to the vessel’s cultural significance.

However, as the years went by, the Royal Iris started facing financial challenges and was eventually decommissioned in 1991.

Although plans were made to convert the ferry into a floating entertainment venue, they did not materialize, and the Royal Iris fell into disrepair. Today, she rests on the banks of the River Thames near the Thames Barrier in London.

Elsa von Freytag Loringhoven

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In the fizzing heart of 1920s Manhattan—where cigarette smoke curled above café tables and the clatter of typewriter keys mingled with jazz—there strode a woman who seemed conjured from another dimension. Elsa von Freytag Loringhoven, the self-styled “Lobo,” was not merely a fixture of Greenwich Village; she was its pulse. A German immigrant and fearless Dadaist, she prowled the cobblestones as if the streets were an extension of her body, each step a challenge to the timid architecture of convention.

Draped in a riot of fabrics, tin cans, feathers, and anything else her imagination could bend into ornament, Elsa transformed herself into a walking collage. Her hair, a wild storm of curls, rose beneath hats fashioned from birdcages, kitchen strainers, or whatever defied sense that morning. People didn’t just see Elsa—they collided with her. She was the art, the performance, the provocation.

Her circle included the titans of the avant-garde—Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, Peggy Guggenheim—drawn to her ungovernable spirit as moths to flame. Together, they tested the limits of artistic gravity, launching ideas like fireworks into the New York night. In The Little Review, her poems unfurled like surreal manifestos—equal parts erotic, absurd, and luminous. To pay the rent, she posed for painters and sculptors, her body becoming as much a medium as their clay or canvas.

But Elsa’s true theatre was the street. She staged impromptu performances—shoplifting as satire, darting away with a laugh that cut through the clamor of vendors. She was a prankster philosopher, a thunderclap in human form, an irritant and inspiration rolled into one. The police chased her often; the Village chased her always.

In her cluttered studio, she built sculptures from the discarded and overlooked, turning rust and rubbish into meditations on beauty and faith. One notorious piece, a plumbing fixture christened God, was both joke and revelation, a grenade lobbed at the sanctity of traditional art.

Eventually, the currents pulled her back across the Atlantic—first to a battered Germany, then to Paris, where cafés and salons again made her feel at home. She still modeled, still burned with creative hunger, but the scaffolding of friends and patrons began to crumble. Poverty’s chill crept in.

In 1927, in a small Parisian room, Elsa’s flame flickered out. She left the gas on overnight—whether by accident or design remains a riddle. The woman who once blazed through Manhattan’s bohemia and Paris’s salons vanished quietly into the ether.

Yet her ghost refuses to fade. Decades later, her name rises again, her life a rallying cry for those who believe that art should bleed into life and life into art. Elsa von Freytag Loringhoven remains a patron saint of the unruly—a living reminder, even in death, that the greatest masterpiece is the way you choose to exist.

Talking to Robots About Robots

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I asked an Artificial Intelligence software programme to write a statement on the dangers of AI. This was the unedited reply.

Artificial Intelligence (AI) has the potential to revolutionize the way we live and work, but it also poses significant risks and dangers. As AI becomes more advanced and integrated into our daily lives, there are growing concerns about the potential consequences of its use.

One of the biggest dangers of AI is its potential to replace human jobs. As AI becomes more sophisticated, it has the ability to perform tasks that were previously only possible for humans, such as driving cars or diagnosing medical conditions. While this may lead to increased efficiency and productivity, it also has the potential to leave millions of people without work, which could have devastating economic and social consequences.

Another danger of AI is its potential to be used for malicious purposes. As AI becomes more advanced, it could be used to create autonomous weapons or to conduct cyberattacks, which could have catastrophic consequences. There are also concerns about the use of AI for surveillance and the potential for it to be used to violate privacy rights.

Additionally, there are concerns about the lack of transparency and accountability in the development and use of AI. As AI becomes more complex and autonomous, it becomes increasingly difficult to understand how it works and to ensure that it is being used ethically and responsibly.

It is important that we recognize the potential dangers of AI and take steps to mitigate these risks. This includes investing in research to better understand the risks and benefits of AI, developing regulations and guidelines to ensure that AI is used ethically and responsibly, and promoting transparency and accountability in the development and use of AI. By taking these steps, we can harness the power of AI while minimizing its potential risks and dangers.

ethics

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I was watching a film tonight about ethics, and it posed a powerful question that stuck with me. Imagine you’re walking past a pond, and there, trapped in the middle, is a small child — stranded, alone, with no parents in sight. You look down and see you’re wearing your brand-new Gucci shoes. You hesitate, thinking about ruining them. But the child is sinking fast, slipping below the surface.

Put aside the cold-hearted psychopath — almost everyone would dive in without a second thought, soaking those expensive shoes to save that child.

Now, ask yourself this: if that same child was starving, trapped in poverty instead of water, would you be willing to give £1,000 to a charity fighting that hunger? Would you?

This question lays bare the shallow vanity of consumerism, exposing the gap between instinctive compassion and our everyday choices. It’s a brutal mirror reflecting how we value possessions over people.

He Could Be Wrong – He Could Be Wrong.

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As we age, face the harsh realities of life, lose loved ones, and perhaps start to contemplate our own mortality, we have choices. We can succumb to the darkness of reactionary impulses, which have built up over the years or not.

I leave an evening with John Lydon early with mixed feelings and knowing we have parted ways. Seeking to unpick Lydon today is not a joyful experience. He has long stopped being the once charismatic leader of two charismatic bands that helped shape my personal musical journey.

Lydon’s abandonment of his class politics, which I know winds a few people up, has little importance to me. However, through his physical gesturing, his mocking of Diane Abbot, the U.K. first black female MP, says far more about his current state of thinking than any words leaving his mouth. It’s mocking straight out of the Trump playbook. It’s not funny and simply gives the impression (rightfully or wrongly) of spitefulness. I do feel a sense of unease.

Lydon’s attempts at personality assassinations are predictable, often crude and dull. Refections of his time with the Pistols are old news, regurgitated stories many would have heard countless times before. His contempt for fellow Pistol’s, especially drummer Paul Cook, are delivered like an unconvincing victim who has woken to the news that nobody really cares 40 years later.

Repeating the word cunt. I genuinely believe Lydon is the last person in the room to understand it’s all wearing thin, but he keeps repeating it, time and time again. It’s silly, tedious even. Recollections of butter adverts he made over a decade ago are told as if recent glories.

By far, the best parts of the evening are when he reflects on those he holds close. His parents, brothers and wife Nora. There is a sense of genuine reflection and encouragement for those dealing with loss or faced with the prospect of losing a loved one through the horrors of Alzheimer’s Disease.

Reflections of growing up in working-class neighbourhoods ring hollow now. There is little conviction behind the words. Just an analogue image of dusty memories, fading and recast into the light through a chipped lens of fake nostalgia and patriotism.

Lydon will always have his core fanbase. Tonight it’s an overwhelmingly white, 50+-year-old, male audience. Nothing wrong with this, of course, though one can hardly ignore the reality, like a ripple in a pond, it’s a case of ever-decreasing circles.

In truth, I’m bored; he starts to end the night by instigating an Abba singalong in memory to Sid Vicious. I’m out of here. The pantomime is over.

Notes from People Watching

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He stands there, a Pep Guardiola doppelgänger—if Pep had not seen better days. Slightly dishevelled, thinner, with a nervous twitch that whispers of a thousand secret battles fought with the bottle. His fingers fumble through loose change, each coin a silent confession. Around him, the world rushes by, oblivious to the storm inside him. I watch, caught between curiosity and sympathy. He looks broken.

I order a tea. The server pours it fast into a flimsy cardboard cup, the tea bag bobbing on the surface. “Say when,” he says, tipping in the milk. “When,” I reply. Our eyes meet—just for a flash—and in that brief exchange, something like a sigh echoes in the space between us, a shared moment of unspoken understanding.

Stepping away from the trailer, I clutch the cup tight and settle beside an aluminum-framed chair and its matching table. I place my tea down, along with my phone.

It’s been 22 years since I first landed in Bristol. This spot, just outside the Watershed, has always been my unofficial lookout—a small tea and coffee trailer that serves a wicked banana and chocolate crepe if you’re lucky enough to catch it.

Perfect for people-watching. A theatre of life playing out in real time, if only you looked up from your screens.

Groups of kids swarm by, trading insults I barely understand. Behind the bravado, one quiet kid lurks—awkward, shy, desperate for a place to belong. Seagulls swoop, crying out for crumbs. A wasp buzzes, menacing. Nearby, a man in a worn leather biker jacket stretches out, dragging deep on his cigarette, smoke curling around him like a lazy ghost.

The pedestrian crossing beeps, and a wave of new faces washes past. A young woman in her early twenties halts, fingers running through her long hair. She tilts her head just so, puckers her lips like a fish, snaps a selfie, and moves on—already lost in her own digital world.

The Pep Guardiola lookalike edges closer, scavenging discarded cigarette butts like they’re treasure.

My phone buzzes—a prompt to upgrade to the latest iPhone. I take a slow sip of tea, eyes drifting upward to the Weathervane spinning lazily overhead.

And then—just like that—he’s gone.