Author: bowlingatvincent

#Books and #writing and all.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ 2 Comments

I know this is kindof niche and I may not be in a position to entirely deny the Cooo, Sales Opportunity factor, but I re-read this (below) and found it mildly diverting. So revisiting.

It’s the transcript of a talk I gave, coupla years back, to Writing Room (writingroom.org.uk) on the ins and outs of self-publishing. Hoping it may be of interest and if not, there are a couple of laughs and the occasional philosophical insight-attempt. With Beautiful Games now unleashed into the wilderverse, and having grabbed a further bundle of knowledge about The Process of Getting Books Out There, it feels okay to piggyback the original event.

To the underslung, I would add, then:

I still really like the whole notion of self-publishing; the freedoms; the Independent Record Labelness; the relative speed of delivering your missive. In terms of practical minutiae, I *now know* that it’s the online behemoths that push for a pre-order period of a month, to allow time for the book files/cover/metadata/whatever to fully load onto their systems. Seems a bit daft in 2024, but this is just how it is. Amazon (e.g.) can put your book up there on Day One but the info about said book, online, may not be correct, or fully described for some weeks. So they call that faff-abart-time a Pre-Order Period and scramble to get things looking right – whilst obviously improving the groovy-‘early’ sales factor.

I have used Grosvenor House Publishing for Beautiful Games, because the people I dealt with were/are tidy and The Dots Will Not Be Joined felt and looked like a kosher book. (In short, happy to recommend). Costs are pretty much unchanged from those included below, other than the increase in prices for copies *to me*, for my book launch and personal supply. This I expected, given the general hike in printing costs, et al, to the producers themselves. Happy to field enquiries on anything around writing or publishing – particularly, obviously, the self-publishing route.

Here’s the new book – https://www.amazon.co.uk/Beautiful-Games-Rick-Walton/dp/1803817763

The rest I think is here…

ON SELF-PUBLISHING.

Hi & welcome to everybody, wherever you’re ‘at’, geographically or writing-wise. I feel like I should start with a patently, refreshingly un-focus-grouped soundbite so here it is: I’m here to ENCOURAGE. I really am.

Am I an expert? Nope, almost certainly not… but I have gone thru this self-publishing thing. So I will and CAN give you some PRACTICAL INFO as well as waffle or spout opinion extravagantly. Ignore all diversions – there will be nonsense and mischief en route – just hold on and I will prove to you I am kosher in the sense of having self-published a book. Recently. You may, should the thing fall into your hands, powerfully dislike THE DOTS WILL NOT BE JOINED and therefore think I’m an utter fraud as a writer but the process would be the same for your fabulous, authentic equivalent.

Brief WHO AM I?

I’m Rick and I’m a writer and a sports coach/P.E. Teacher – mainly the latter, in fact. I’ve always ‘written stuff’ – whether that be songs/poems or bigger lumps of words. Always. For me. For me this is personal, so if you do take away one message from the following kaleido-rant(s) let it be this: I think we write because we can’t stop. The Rest is superfluous (for me, anyway): whether we’re famous and brilliant or mischievous and obscure and daft. (Guess which end of the spectrum I’m waving, madly, from?) The Doing is the thing. Your contribution is the thing. Please create this stuff. You need it/I need you to do it. You make the world better. Get your writing done.

I love Nearly Man/Nearly Person stories. I’ve got some byooots and if we have time I’d love to hear some of yours. Wozzat all abart? I think We Writing Peeps may need to be kinda durable or ‘philosophical’ but we may also need a sense of humour about the madness and anti-meritocracy of all this, yes? Maybe more of that later…

My story is… in god-knows-when my first play was workshopped at the Nat Theatre Studio, in London. It was entirely possible that I was gonna make it: I do actually remember a director saying “Christ, Rick, you’re gonna be SO-O BIG!!” LOLS! Been getting smaller ever since.

I shook hands with the top man there – Nick Wright – over the fact of an upcoming production of one of my plays, then got on with my life. They had ‘wanted me in the building’ so I wrote something else on a second visit. IT NEVER HAPPENED. Not because they realized I was the mischievous impostor/rebellious jukebox I may have been but because the funding was cut for new writing festivals etc. I imagine half of you have experienced something similar – the new stuff, the risky stuff being cut or excluded. I didn’t care. I just kept writing – kept living my life.

Apologies, know this is indulgent but let me stick with this momentarily on the off-chance that this feel somehow relatable and mildly diverting. I’ll mention in passing that a reader at Hampstead Theatre dubbed me a ‘free-wheeling absurdist’ (always wanted to stick that on my passport) and an equivalent at the Royal Court called me ‘the diamond in the dung-heap’ and I think that gave me enough belief… but know what? All that belief/confidence/vindication malarkey… that could be an endless discussion in itself… mainly I was happy, living in Pembrokeshire, with NO EXPECTATION or AMBITION to be somebody – be that kind of writer or public figure.

Have no regrets about this. Never, I swear sought to push open that metaphorical door: never bought directors coffee. Always knew I was a longshot and an outsider because of who I am, how I write. I wasn’t going to change that; they weren’t going to change that. We’re all wonderfully different (and I know this can sound incredibly arrogant but) for me there was and is no conciliation around this.

Know it’s going to sound weirdly against the grain of what follows here, if I say I’ve never considered the public aspect of publishing important. But I really haven’t. This is personal and I fear it will sound insufferably pompous or something… but I don’t, essentially seek or need vindication. I just write. So yeh – uncompromisingly.

THE PROCESS

Started with having the headspace and time to write a book, instead of blogs. (Am an accredited cricket writer and bloggist – have two websites. Have also had articles published in various papers and magazines; sports-stuff mainly. Wisden). COVID made the first tome possible.

Conversations (with folk I trust), who might know, about agents/publishing/stuff I’d need to aware of.

Some publishers INSIST on agents forwarding work: think that’s bollocks but it’s how it is. Didn’t expect to get an agent but googled them and chose a few. Did the same with publishers, at the same time, because a) impatient b) knew my work too ‘left-field/’unstructured’ to land with most mainstream publishers.

Looked hard at publishers, on t’internet and chose about ten, to forward manuscripts. Most want the opening 30 pages, with a chapter breakdown and/or similar highlights package. Took this seriously but opted to present in my own inimitable style, in the expectation of ‘failure’, but the hope of maybe just hitting a like-minded spirit in their camp. Didn’t!

Most publishers take months to get back to you – if they do so. They then pre-warn that any subsequent publication will take a year or more after that. This was intolerable for me, given my book feels contemporary to that 2019/20 moment – was about that moment. Feels urgent.

IN SHORT I THINK IT’S RIDICULOUS (in any case) that it takes 2 years to publish a book. In 2021/2/3? Madness. Simply don’t believe it’s necessary, in the digital age and it was a major driver in pointing me towards self-publishing.

Wrote the book between winter 2020/21 and early Summer 2021 with a view to publishing that autumn. Timing-wise, felt daft not to try to collar some of the Xmas Market. Lols!

 (It had become apparent, from more conversations and possibly email exchanges with publishers, that even with lockdowns meaning half the universe was writing books, self-publishing could happen start-finish in a matter of weeks/a few months. That was the clincher, for me).

So, basically, I didn’t wait for many agents and publishers to respond. I saw an ad on-line, probably under The Guardian banner, probably on the Twitters, for self-publishing via Grosvenor House. I remember asking my good friend Paul Mason if he had any experience or knowledge around this and he said he was aware of other options, but no. Didn’t recommend his agent, neither did the other guy I spoke to. No easy ‘in’: I emailed Grosvenor House Publishing Ltd.

DETAILS AND COSTS.

Abstract: I wanted complete control of my book. I’m a Stiff Records kindofaguy rather an EMI geezer. I didn’t want proofreading or copy-editing services: I was always going to do as much editing and re-writing as anyone but I wanted to make all the choices. Independent Record Label equivalent. Self-publishing makes that possible. It can be thrillingly punky in a way I like.

In July 2021 it cost me £795 to sign up with Grosvenor House. We had inevitably exchanged some emails – you get an individual assigned to you – which prepared the ground in terms of what the writer gets and what the publisher expects. Then you get a Publishing Agreement, (show it!) with just a few pages of contractual stuff – none of which was too intimidating to a newbie like myself.

What the writer has to do – probably not an exhaustive list!

  • Write the manuscript.
  • Produce some publicity/back of the book blurb.
  •  List the book correctly for web searching (metadata – had no idea myself but not over-taxing). Not *actually sure* how vital that is, but they want you in the right box and some people will probably search.
  • Choose or design a cover and internal pics – at £5 per image, from memory. Best part of my adventure: Kevin Little. Somebody I trust, who GETS ME. We talked, I gave him some keys and a picture and away he went. Magic. IT WAS FREE – he understood. He enjoyed it. He brought His Thing. I needed some of his technical knowledge as well as his understanding of me and the book. Find a soulmate in this!
  • Take responsibility for slander/liable/originality etc.
  • Provide ‘an electronic file in Microsoft Word of the book text plus digitally scanned photographs/artwork in the correct format’.
  • Choose fonts and formatting (you’ll get some advice, in my experience). Also matt or gloss, etc.
  • Choose what price you want the book to be.
  • Allow the publisher to distribute sample copies free of charge. (Not sure if this happened, in my case).
  • IMPORTANTLY, THE AUTHOR MUST DO ALL THE MARKETING & ADVERTISING.

What the publisher agrees to do:

  • Arrange and provide an ISBN number – essential, people tell me.
  • To typeset sample pages and send them out to the author for approval.
  • To provide an electronic full proof within 30 days.
  • To assemble a cover – either from material the author provides or from a royalty-free website. (Grosvenor House can, for a fee, design your cover).
  • MANUFACTURE BOOKS ON DEMAND as orders are received.
  • ‘Supply our distributors with your book’s metadata/synopsis’ to ‘all major retailers/wholesalers in the UK and to Amazon.com’. Will list the book with Nielsen Book Data.
  • Make royalty payments twice a year – got £640 for my first!
  • Provide the author with 5 bound and printed copies free of charge. Supply the six national libraries of the UK with a copy of your book.

IMPORTANT NOTES.

Grosvenor House offer services such as editing/proofreading/design. The base rate for that is about £35 an hour but they will offer you specific quotations for particular tasks. They will professionally check-over your manuscript for about £200, in short. I didn’t want that and couldn’t really afford it, given my confident expectation to lose money at this venture. However, I inevitably missed a couple of typo’s and restoring those cost me about £100, post-publication.

The marketing thing is key. You, the author are doing all the marketing. They effectively produce the book and put it on Amazon. You sell it. I absolutely hated the idea that my only realistic option was to sell via Amazon BUT IS THIS IS PROBABLY HOW IT WILL BE.*

EVERYTHING IS DOWN TO ALGORITHMS AND CLICKS (apparently).

Grosvenor House did advise me that pre-publication sales can be major: if a certain number are sold, early doors, that triggers algorithms (or something) that may release your book into actual shops – or get it noticed by actual shops, who then order copies in. THIS DID NOT HAPPEN WITH MY BOOK -I’m a nobody, why would it? But FIND OUT ABOUT THIS STUFF. Lean on the publisher?

*Or by-pass Amazon, maybe… by buying lots of your own books and touting them around bookshops, yourself. (I am going to seriously consider this for my next book). Grosvenor House told me they would sell me any number of my first book at about £4 each – I bought 50, for the book launch.

 Next book I may contemplate buying many more and going on a road trip: let’s do the math.

Haven’t really thought this through but it may be possible to buy at £4 and sell at £10, having persuaded the booksellers to split that remaining money. If you take £7 & the bookshop gets £3, I make that £3 profit per book, for both of you. You may only need to sell 3 or 400, to break even. Could you face that initial expenditure, that risk, that work – that selling? Could that be part of your adventure?

We’re racing ahead. You need to be cute. You also need to be realistic – or not. I simply accepted the near-certainty that I would lose money on this adventure and daren’t buy 400 of my own books – didn’t really want to charge round the country with a car full of books.

My chosen route may have been something of a cop-out, then. I bought just enough books for the book launch, and to place a few in a local hotel and a couple of local shops.

Re-wind. WHAT I DID cost me around £1,000, trying to keep costs down a bit. The Killer Truth is that if you SELL YOUR BOOK FOR around £10 Grosvenor House will pinch £4-plus of that, and so will Amazon or equivalent. MEANING YOU WILL GET A ROYALTY OF (ONLY) £1.40 for every book sold. Outrageous but true.

I bit that bullet and tried from the outset to a) live with the loss but b) push to sell as many as possible.

MARKETING.

Nobody knows who the f*** Rick Walton is. He has no clout, no real ‘presence in the market’. But he knows a man or two that do(es).

I’m a Twitter fiend and have one or two celebrity Twittermates. Or Twitter Big-hitters. Critically for my ego (maybe) and certainly for any sales, both these guys think I’m a decent bloke and an interesting writer. They have many thousands of twitter followers and they both were kind enough to pump the book just a little, on that sagacious platform. The result was I sold about 5-600 books and gathered about £700 back from my outlay.

CONCLUSION.

I loved the whole process of self-publishing. It suited me. Never for one moment did I think it would make me a profit: I was doing it for other reasons. Primarily, rightly or wrongly, I feel there’s something I have to say. It felt like a next step. If the reality is nobody’s going to take me on – no agents, no publishers – so what? I can do it anyway.

It was a brilliant, gratifying adventure; I strongly recommend it. But think about how you might sell a lot of books. You’ll probably need to sell best part of a thousand to get yourself close to parity, dollars-wise, if you do it the way I did.

So who do you know with 300,000 Twitter followers? That’s, in my experience, the way to go. Or what’s your equivalent to that going to be?

Van Gogh: the letters.

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Our view of van Gogh feels so blanketed in known imagery and so ripe with cliches about art, ‘psychology’ and sentiment that maybe we can’t know what’s real. He’s arguably the one we all have some grip on but given the industry of tragedy and romance that time and coverage has engulfed his life and work in, the temptation may be to sit with our collective understanding – that of a man who couldn’t cope with the depth of his own feelings – rather than delve towards unlikely or potentially less satisfying clarity. Why learn more? Don’t we *just know* that he poured himself into his art more wholly and relentlessly than almost anyone who ever lived, and that therefore it figures the dam burst? Aren’t those central truths true enough and big enough?

They probably are… but given the genuine, affecting, visceral enormity of the man’s achievement, maybe we owe him another look. In this case – and does this sound feeble? Maybe? – via the stuff he wrote.

Yup. I’ve gone back to the letters; specifically the Thames and Hudson ‘Vincent van Gogh, A Life in Letters’ which beautifully and skilfully presents 76 of the 820 surviving missives. Chapeau to the editors – predictably all senior figures at the van Gogh Museum of Amsterdam – who a) select well and b) present compelling, authentic, believable chunks of the extraordinary content. There are plates, of course, and many of the letters feature the sketches that the artist so often embedded (and described so revealingly and copiously) within the text. (Guess what? The sketches alone make this an essential read, for their astonishing, three-dimensional but also emotional/symbolic life).

It’s a fabulous, poignant book and a truly historic record. Hard to imagine that there could be a fuller or more generous account of the business of human expression anywhere. The very first bit of puff inside the cover describes it as ‘A literary masterpiece that would be worth reading even if the paintings were rubbish’ – Jonathon Jones, The Guardian – which saves me a line or twelve. All I would add is that all of us who (with or without vanity) wish to be passably cultured should be well familiar with this material. It may define the word ‘seminal’.

The letters prove that van Gogh was an immensely cultured man, as well as a kind of gloriously honest empathist for peasants and The Lowly. His knowledge of literature, music and art, from Dickens to Delacroix via Wagner or Zola or Rembrandt, was remarkable, but also figured, given the family art business and the profoundly religious, rather scholarly, early home environment. Letters to Theo, his brother and saviour-benefactor, are deeply concerned with habits and trends and meaning in art, as well as the endless supplying of materials and living expenses. Vincent was all of the following; a religious ‘weirdo’ (early-doors); bookworm; philosopher and theorist. All to a high level of intelligence. Meaning the notion we may have of a Troubled Artist-of-the-Soil-and-the-Night Cafe is a poor under-estimation. The guy could think.

He could think and he could learn. He learned to draw: look at the sketches! From a late start he scorched or ground himself towards a kind of revolutionary draughtsmanship. Unique: brilliant; technical but deep and soulful and evocative in a way that may be unrivalled. (Meaning this image of him as a godlike but rather fearsomely crude colourist, devouring our eyes with the coruscating Sunflowers or cavorting Cypresses is again a travesty). Van Gogh worked tirelessly to understand structure and perspective and body: he did this knowing he needed it – and probably before he knew how his facility for ‘figures’ might light up the universe of possibilities (and the universe!) in tandem with his colours from the South. He also unquestionably felt that he had to earn the right to be taken seriously – to emulate or follow the masters – by working incredibly hard, with (somehow) invincible integrity.

His correspondence beyond Theo – with Bernard, Gauguin, Signac and others – confirms both that van Gogh was a theorist and intellectual and that this idea we have of him as a tragic failure in public or commercial terms is also an inadequate view. Sure there was no widespread appreciation of his genius or his work. But the artists swapped paintings and drawings, out of mutual interest and respect. And some of van Gogh’s works were hung, publicly. He earned a little money teaching and what we might now call mentoring. If it’s true he was so brilliantly revolutionary with his painting that the world simply wasn’t ready for him then a) this is surely a familiar tale, in the arts and b) this again hardly counts as failure. He was a powerful source and a focus for discussion around art in the contemporary artistic community whilst he lived.

Despite his tremendous feeling for historical giants such as Rembrandt and Holbein, Vincent both rated and respected modernists and those who challenged: but my god they had to it well, and with conviction. He became something of a semi-detached Impressionists, alongside or parallel to the likes of Bernard and Gauguin and despite his being challenging and undiplomatic (or worse), their correspondence alone validates the intellectual contribution the man from the dull grey North made. Of course Gauguin did play a role in the breakdown at the Yellow House (and did flee, arguably rather ignominiously after the ear-loppage) but the two great painters of colour did continue to exchange letters, after the event. Touchingly, van Gogh, having had a genuinely positive review from the precocious critic Aurier, deferred very much to Gauguin’s superiority and importance.

With regard to the ending (that we all feel we know something about), a few thoughts. Look at the letters, look at the paintings. The latter, from the yellow but iconically ‘purple patch’ at the house in Arles, to the ravishing-but-maaaybe-tormented cypresses and the last cornfields, painted in Saint-Remy or Auvers, are amongst the most affecting works of art in any medium. In both locations the artist was very much ‘in recuperation’, post crises. It’s therefore become classically tragic but let’s not that obscure the quality – the qualities – of the painting. It reaches more of us than almost anything in the entire history of art; this despite not being immediately easy on the eye. The mystery around how van Gogh found a gun, and what *exactly* triggered its use *at that time* does nothing to undermine the sense of hurt and of waste, that registers with all of us, even now.

Having re-read these letters I suspect that the family gathering, to discuss a long-contemplated potential escape for Theo from his unhappy employment (and the subsequent setting-up of an independent art dealership) was instrumental to Vincent’s suicide. Both brothers had been hugely anxious for some time about how they might proceed if some new way was not secured. Theo’s hopes lay with a brother of his wife, Jo… but it was not to be. No agreement meant Theo and family remained vulnerable to his own poor health and material angst, and that meant even less stability for his elder brother.

Scared, disturbed and no doubt feeling somewhat guilty and even responsible for much of Theo’s predicament – he had, after all, been utterly reliant upon him for a decade – Vincent shot himself, not immediately fatally, in a cornfield in Auvers-sur-Oise, dying two days later. Theo was devastated. He also succumbed to mental illness (although it is generally believed this was just a part of a medical picture including advanced, untreated syphilis) and died himself, six months later. It was Theo’s wife who published the letters, in 1914 and went on to further champion Vincent’s art.

Without the letters, the art is godlike. But the letters are huge. I deliberately choose not to direct you to a particular place. Read them all.

Films, eh?

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

It’s not the same – they’re really not the same. But I’m going there.

Apocalypse Now, in a cinema in downtown Grimsby, and The Quiet Girl, ‘at Haverfordwest Film Society, last night. The former immediately obvious as a giant; the latter a quiet insinuator. The scale, thunder and ego of the one and the timeless farmyard-backwater of the other. Brando and delirium and slaughter; grass and potatoes and family.

Both will haunt me, or have registered in a way that feels weirdly comparable. They were both palpably affecting.

In Grimbo all those decades ago we walked out shell-shocked in a deeply disturbed silence that defied the cut of conversation or analysis. The heft of the fucking thing left us gobsmacked – 100 people, maybe. That noise; that scope; that insane, thrilling annihilation with or by poetry! Not understood or received in the same way, of course: not to be snobbish but guessing only a handful of us had read Heart the Darkness but… nobody said or *could say* a word, as we traipsed out. Not us punkettes; not the Ordinary Locals. A) Out of multi-level deference to Coppola’s staggering achievement and b) because it felt necessary to slump against the nearest wall first… and – sheesh – recover.

1979, or possibly 80. But the two lads walking out together were as they say(?) changed by the event: how could we not be when it felt obvious we’d just seen the most powerful film ever made? It was like some public/communal de-flowering – and if that’s a dangerous image, who cares? This was a dangerous, wonderful, ruinous, life-changing moment which went beyond ‘the flicks’. However we might express it – with a shrug, with a nauseated heave – we all knew this was a truly rare affirmation of the power of art.

The Quiet Girl doesn’t look to compete with that – or not in the same key. But it does affect. As the bastard-of-a-father angrily stomped to either collect his wayward daughter or (we can only hope) give her up – yup, probably angrily – to the Other Couple, people around me were already raising hands to their faces. As the credits rolled and the lights prematurely rose, nearly everyone was tearful – and some were exposed ‘in bits’. Sobbing. So The Effect was not the same… but the validation, the triumph, the rubber-stamping of the capacity of words and pictures to move folks, to stir them up or down, was there.

Quiet Girl is traumatic despite being something of an ode to the pastoral. It’s all ‘unspoilt Ireland’, except for the unseen but undoubted abuse. It’s cows and hay and loveliness and that thing of handing over – ‘just for a bit, y’understand’ – a child who may be traumatised already and feels like one too many to cope with. Whilst the baby’s being born. ‘Sure y’understand?’

In case you’re wondering, if there is ever a fear that the universe doesn’t need another exposition of any sort on the mistreatment of children then that concern is emphatically and skilfully dumped, here – in fact it’s never raised! – by the compelling nature of the tale and the acting.

This Irish Story (in the Gaelic) looks and feels grippingly authentic, except perhaps for the brief scene where the girl’s potential saviours (Eibhlin and Sean) mistakenly allow her to be watched over briefly by a neighbour. (Have foolishly just read a review of the film, from the Guardian, to grab names/check spellings – forgive me if I don’t spend ages digging out the accents over some of the names – and it completely contradicts what I am about to say about the minor role of Una. Lols. But out with it). Sean, when the child (Cait) is rescued, swiftly and profusely apologises for the error, describing it as an example of his wife’s naive generosity. She even believed in Una. (This we can believe: Eibhlin is a genuinely gorgeous human).

Two things on this: Una is so witchlike the handing-over, even for a short time, didn’t seem plausible, even allowing for the plot-line development in the relationships. And also, for me, Una is poorly-executed. Neither convincing nor darkly funny. Something may be lost in the translation, but she seemed irritatingly out of kilter with the fabulous acting from Cait’s adopted ‘parents’ and from Cait herself. But this is a minor quibble, given my intention here is to thoroughly applaud the first-time direction of Colm Bairead and re-state that this is an outstanding, affecting film. So much so, I might even quote the Guardian, for my deferential, peacemaking final flourish:

‘It is a jewel’.

It’s guitar / it’s guitar / it’s guitar.

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Firstly, they’re just lovely things; the woodiness is often wonderfully attractive to behold and to feel. And the shapes, being both deliberately sexual forms and fitting so well against the body, are kinda lush. It’s easy to fall for, or just really enjoy the feel, never mind the sound of a guitar.

I’m neither a techie nor an anorak and I don’t have money to ‘collect’ or even consider buying guitars that catch my eye. In fact, I deliberately don’t go looking, mostly, so as not to waste energy or tempt fatal expenditure. I can’t and don’t buy axe magazines and only occasionally meander into music shops, although this is partly a function of geography: there ain’t many geetar stores in rural West Wales. I’m also probably in that strum-prone sector of humanity that recognises its limitations: so may not even play anything in a shop, cos That Bloke Over There looks tasty. Feeble-but-true, then; relative poverty and relative shyness are factors. I do love music shops – and probably especially, yaknow.

Guitars are great. I have three, one of which is my bro’s, on long-term loan. That one’s a Spanish/classical job, characteristically sourced from a charity shop. No maker’s name, (not that this would necessarily mean anything), and very plain-looking but sounds really good. Woody and full. I’m a rhythm guitar chord-merchant but sometimes get a decent flow going. A recent return to regular playing has also meant that the softer strings are well-received – lay-offs do mean that acoustics or electrics bite a little.

Historically I’ve been on my Ibanez acoustic but right now the classical feels and sounds encouraging, even if I’m banging out Cure, Radiohead or Talking Heads(!) (It may surprise none of you that I’m using a soft plectrum, mostly, whilst committing this sin against high culture). I can fake some simple flamenco – or could – but (or because) mostly I’m a strummer, not a picker. I’m working on improving the left hand fingering-thing – the riffs, the ‘choons’ – but a) have never wanted to learn to read music and b) thrashing or embellishing chords or just finding a groove is perfectly satisfying. Oh and c) I have a developing Dupruyten’s Contracture in my left little finger, which is definitely starting to impact on twiddles.

I bought my acoustic as an angry know-nothing teenager, in a music shop in Grimsby. It cost £90, a reasonable wedge in about 1978 and, luxury-of-luxuries, it came with a hard case – now lost. Mum bought the guitar because ‘Dad wanted you to have one’. (He had died, tragically, some months before, of a cardiac arrest, aged 44). So there’s unavoidably heavy sentiment around this baby, but I can set that aside to clinically report that this guitar is genuinely excellent; I completely fluked it, having had a fairly cursory play, and genuinely knowing nothing about either makes or quality. It felt like a real weapon, significantly better than all kinds of Fenders or Epiphones or Tanglewoods that I have test-driven, since. I fluked it: it’s beautiful, having that extra ring or energy or soul that top instruments have.

Hilaro-fact: I did get Bert Weedon’s ‘Play in a Day’ with the guitar, before trying to get hold of (or learn) the preferred punkystuff.

Am suddenly struck with a senior moment regarding whether I bought my electric *before* the Ibanez, or not. No: I think I was given a catalogue electric guitar first – Christmas; the one I took on a pushbike to France – then bought the acoustic.

Either way I was in the business of learning Jam/Clash/Pistols/Buzzcocks/A Certain Ratio, maybe. The phase of Bill Nelson worship had passed: this was indeed the Modern World. Even on the acoustic I was knocking out the spittle: maybe a lurch here or there into anthems or ‘great sound’ – ‘You Can’t Be Too Strong’ Graham Parker. The electric was a toy, mind, and that did need sorting.

Manchester was 120 miles or so away but I got it my head that I would surely find an axe that felt like me there, so I went. Solo: bus, I think. Had no clear picture of what £120 would get me (in about 1979) but as it still felt possible at that moment to launch the greatest band in the history of the universe – rivals to Weller/Bunnymen/Costello and even Pil[1] in terms of wildness and fearlessness and relevance and ambition – it would need to be right.

I didn’t know Manchester and I certainly didn’t have the dosh for taxis to flit smartly around the gaff. Long time ago but I think I only found two or three music shops of any interest. What I probably wanted (Telecaster? Gretsch?) was beyond reach. I should have shrugged my shoulders, blamed the capitalist pigs and gone home. But no. I bought a sunburst Antoria Les Paul copy. It’s alright: it looks kinda smart and the bloke from the Undertones had something similar – although no doubt a full-on Gibson. Despite buying a second-hand Vox AC30  – ver-ry Jam and ver-ry Edgy Postpunk Superwallop – I’ve hardly played the fekker for forty years.

The guitar is goodish. My mate Jay (who could actually play) borrowed it and ‘loved the sustain’. Flash git that he was, he’d bought a new Fender strat and, to be fair, had *very generously* done a two-week swap with me: he thought the Antoria was okay. It was. But it never felt like me, not even when it sounded outrageous – when the Vox was attacking the world order via my passable Joy Division riffs. It’s parked by my bed, as I write. I had it serviced. It can sound half-decent but somehow I’ve never quite liked it; even with new Super Slinkies or Ernie Ball’s. Not me – too Supergroupie or would-be-muso.

Now the more I think on this, the more seminal it becomes. In the sense that however mad the next sentence sounds, it could be true, or contain stuff that’s stacked with possibility/regret/weird, wild delusion. If I had found a fabulous, sexy, spirit-animal of a geetar that day, I wouldn’t be here. I would be dead – indie-famous and then dead. If The (Only) Lads hadn’t buggered off to university – or if, less likely, I had found a coupla soulbro’s or sisses who* really bought in*, I might have been at the heart of a punky, spunky, dark and edgy, upful and monstrously-spirited rock and roll band. I would have launched at it and let it consume me. I would have been ‘inspirational’ and a pain in the arse. The drugs and exhaustion would have killed me.

Instead I’m oldish and I’ve had a different ride. Longer. Better. Wunnerful kids and fulfilling work. Giant gaps – years! – where the music that was everything receded. Where I never lost the spirit of ‘Poptones’ or ‘Hit the North’ but different blessings were the ones.

I stopped playing the guitar and wow, the circle turned. I have time. Is this me time? Maybe. Where’s my money at? How long can I indulge this? Don’t know. Don’t know.

Whatever; I’ll grab a weapon and strum, and maybe find some words.

[1] Yeh, o-kaay, they may have come later.

Notes on Nationalism… and porkies.

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In the new age of Tory über-twattery it was a tad deflating to note, as I innocently flipped open ‘Decline of the English Murder’ that Eric Arthur Blair himself was educated at Eton. Jesus. Had forgotten that. But the more I dug in to that collection of disparate essays the more I liked, or re-liked the man.

It’s opinionated; it’s judgemental; it’s prone to the occasional hideous lapse – n-words, daft generalisations – but also chockful of brilliant, even timeless observations about life, politics, philosophy. It’s bolshy in an entertaining way about trends of thought and cultural icons. Almost certainly, it’s prescient regarding the filth that is fake news and that particularly modern (but plainly not) phenomenon of swamping the universe with porkies of a particularly poisonously-charged variety. This in the knowledge that most of the media will give it a platform unchallenged and enough of the people will be titillated by its raw bigotry.

(From Notes on Nationalism, 1945);

‘The general uncertainty as to what is really happening makes it easier to cling to lunatic beliefs. Since nothing is ever quite proved or disproved, the most unmistakable fact can be impudently denied’.

This of course is absolutely the essence of the Bannon and Trump playbook… but also surely redolent of the Cummings Project in the UK, and more recently Braverman’s ‘appeal’ to Confused and Angry, of Grimsby. Yes, Orwell’s essay is specific to nationalism but plainly – and sadly – its reach is into and across the racist spectrum.

I am much taken with the idea that although

‘nationalistic loves and hatreds… are part of the make-up of most of us, whether we like it or not’,

we must and can

‘struggle against them, and that this is essentially a moral effort’.

For me this is a truth and something of an inspiration: that we must recognize some degree of ‘inevitable bias’ and then act intelligently. We can therefore prevent both concession to evil and, through opposition that is self-aware, steer clear of ineffectual, ultimately inactive rage.

‘The emotional urges which are inescapable, and are perhaps even necessary to political action, should be able to exist side by side with an acceptance of reality’.

Orwell is making the case for a generous kind of engagement here, something which decimates the (il)legitimacy and rank ugliness of Braverman’s contemporary posturing. The absence, within the current political discourse, of Orwell’s connection to commonly understood decencies has been profound. And deliberate, surely? We may fascinate over the degree of consciousness exorcised around the fug that is our philosophical vacuum, but not, I think over its prevalence.

If only the likes of Kuenssberg and Peston had the wit, nerve or grounding to challenge the likes of Johnson, Patel and Braverman for their obvious, perennial spite – their badness. The UK might be in a very different place had the direct and essential questions not been confined to honourable margins such as Byline Times, or the Twitter feeds of outraged individuals.

Major journo’s have gone missing. They apparently remain undisturbed by the grotesque distortions around Small Boats. They failed to stir at the whole Rwanda invention, despite it being a manifestly provocative kite-flying operation, designed to delight the most perverse and cerebrally-deficient amongst our rightist brethren. They saw and heard nothing during Partygate.

Presumably it’s just too difficult these days to find balance around moral questions? These people, even those with no ties to ‘journalistic principles’ or obvious stake in the grift of the press barons, utterly facilitatedthe fall into mindlessness. They were lazy, they were cowed. Orwell calls them out, from 80 years back:

‘this, I repeat, needs a moral effort’.

Them’s the rools.

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There probably IS a law that says if you win 6-0 away from home, in a critical game, you should go through. In the same way that if you leg it eight times round Scotland you should get the Elgin Marbles – yeh, those ones – and score the winner. But this didn’t happen for Hempie, or for England. On a perversion-fest of an evening, Bronzie nodded an injury-time ‘clincher’ which didn’t quite clinch and fresh, starry legs somehow didn’t quite freshen. Plus er, Holland.

So the Lionesses, who were ver-ry close to superb, over the last 130-odd minutes of their Nations League campaign, were left with what ifs of a stomach-curdling magnitude.

What if Hemp had tapped in either of those gifts? What if the outrageous James had continued to rage (admittedly in her fabulous, drugged-kitten kindofaway) beyond the hour? What if the swift and intelligent Russo or the surging, willing Toone could have made a blind bit of a difference? But nope. Thrashing Scotland would have to be it. Normally – thrilling. Here – devabloodystating. Out. You. Go.

We can blame the Netherlands for being a) good and b) resolute. We can find moments when either James or Kirby dipped below their level and failed to deliver a killer pass, or Charles misread the obvious, or Stanway was a tad selfish. But mainly we should be saying ‘wow. What drama! What collective effort. What heroic stuff’. England ultimately missed out: but Jesus they entertained us on the way.

Scotland were thrashed. Fair enough. Their level is waaay down on England’s – because of resources both on and off the park. Except that hang on. Wales are similarly a slack handful of goals behind the Lionesses, but they held Germany tonight, so what does all that mean?

 It may mean only that Scotland failed to find the compensatory discipline and energy which ‘lesser teams’ need to latch onto, to offer them a chance. Wales are a match for Scotland, quality-wise: ordinary, to be blunt. But despite having a disappointing, not to say torrid Nations League campaign, they battled like hell tonight, against a German side that on the proverbial paper wallops them five or six several times out of ten. (Good stuff and congratulations to Wales, then). But Scotland.

At Hampden the Scots had only a briefish period of the first half which offered hope or respite. England had gone ahead, deservedly, but the home team produced if not a rally… a flurry or two. Then it was only mild carelessness that stopped England from scoring at will. Hemp’s left-footed pass against the foot of the post wasn’t unlucky, it was a howler – a shocker. And later she found herself around the penalty spot with time to choose a corner: but no. She remained a committed bundle of energy and oozed quality, somehow, on a night when along with James, a hat-trick was surely there for the taking? (She must have felt that? She must be feeling not a little responsibility for England’s exit? Cruelly, for she – Lauren Hemp – is an authentic world star, now).

James notched with a fluke off the defender’s back and then claimed the night’s Sublime Moment with her second. Stood up the fullback, dropped the shoulder a little and eased into space. Curled a sweet one (like she does in her sleep-of-the-ju-ust-fabulous), into the far top bin. Notably – because they knew, they knew – her face betrayed not a flicker as she jogged back to go again. Four nil to the Ingerland at the break but they knew (and were constantly updated) of the requirement to stay three or more goals ahead of them pesky Oranje. Lionesses miss out on the Nations League finals and therefore the GB team (is that right?) miss the Olympics.

The Scotland boss, Losa, apologized to their fans, post-game. Fair enough. They were relatively poor, but out-gunned, patently. Disappointment but no shame. He’s entitled to grumble about lack of discipline, defensively but some of this, inevitably, is about lack of quality – of awareness. Scotland were exposed by better players: you work like hell to avoid that but it can happen.

Is it dangerous to suggest that because of the stage of development that the women’s game is in – improving wonderfully but some years away from the situation where lower-ranked teams can routinely compete – England or Germany or USA or Netherlands *might well* stick five past Scotland/Wales/Northern Ireland? But it’s likely that gap will close over time. Scotland don’t have a Bronze or a Hemp or an Earp or a Stanway (even). Until either those players emerge in their squad or the general level of smarts rises, they have to get organised, battle relentlessly and hope.

Tonight England gave them little hope but their own ambitions were cruelly, dramatically squished. On a night of brilliant football, in fact.

Tel.

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He was a player, a nightclub singer, one of the lads loosening that tie. Oh – and England manager.

He was El Tel. He was the bloke that knew about Sheringham and believed in Anderton. He really probably was a Wide Boy, but most of us didn’t really care because his football ideas were kinda great and any idiot could see that the lads loved him.

Terence. A name of its time and location. Maybe bit sarfy, bit boozy, bit likeably bobby and weavy. Common but also showy – even show-bizzy? Hardly sophisticated, more redolent of nights out or misadventures than nights in over a good book, but (maybe like Shankly/Clough/Bobby Robson?) there was intelligence relevant-to-the-task in the armoury. Acute intelligence: we might even cross over into philosophic intelligence, because Venables, despite sharing in the traditional Brotherhood of Gaffers capacity to intuit, was a shade more modern than those other blokes.

Robson, of course also went to Barcelona, and was also a great and original coach, loved by some very talented, high-profile players. He also managed England, intermittently with real distinction. But Venables, perhaps because he blurred those lines between mentorship and friendship a little more, and still drove playing-styles and formations forward, was unique. Tel – or El Tel – could push or persuade the pattern convincingly. The players did love him and did believe.

There’s rightly been a return to the Netherlands Moment, since Venables departed for that nightclub in the sky. It was a triumph for him and for a beautiful, rather un-English way of playing. The emphatic finish from Shearer, after Sheringham’s fabulous, weighted pass lives long in the memory for a chunk of us. It was the punctuation mark for the shift towards fluency and skill and tactical freedom that Venables stood for and aspired to. He made it possible because of that combination of personal charisma – who better to ‘put an arm round?’ – and a genuinely cultured understanding of strategy. England had done ‘limited’, largely, for decades. Venables brought liberation.

He was lucky to have players, sure. But not only did he select well (and boldly), he got into their heads. It’s one thing to know you’re good enough to play in any league on the planet; entirely another to form a team that looks full of that confidence, however fleetingly. Venables persisted with teams featuring *all of* Anderton/Gascoigne/Sheringham/Shearer/McManaman. At a time when it still might be tempting to view both ‘wide men’ as potential luxuries.

It’s true that his defence looked ver-ry ‘trad England’: Seaman/Neville/Adams/Southgate/Pearce, but both fullbacks liked to fly forward, if only to deliver crosses (asyadid, back then). Besides, the role of these stout fellas – probably the best available, in any case – was to facilitate enterprise up the park, via yer Gascoignes and Sheringhams. Venables did make the Three Lions watchable… and in that daft way of sporty things, this felt important.

Cheers, Tel. xxx

Pic via Daily Mail.

We also did this.

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Of the three of you who might read this blog, two may remember that the raison-d’etre of the mighty bowlingatvincent.com span round the sport/art axis, pret-ty much alternately. Meaning I *really did* try to write something sporty then arty.

This I think was more about gentle inclination than actual cunning planning – although I reckon I was conscious that no fekker on the planet was writing on M U then Frieda Kahlo. That minor dawning was about as close as I’ve ever gotten to Marketing , or Social Meedya Planning. Anyway – apologies – I’ve drifted from that aspiration.

I’m not in a position to promise any meaningful kind of comeback; just that I’m conscious of the drift and *would like* to address it to some extent. (In the (allegedly) Real World, I’m writing another book and pouring most of the creative energy into that… so don’t expect any progress on this for some months. However).

We all have faaaar tooo many WhatsApp groups, yes? I certainly do – and I almost hate it. Who are these people who feel they have to set up a separate group for every micro-section of every ‘team’ or department? (Answer; these people are YOU!) Bollocks. They are bollocks, most of them.

I have eight hundred but need two WhatsApp groups. Maybe three, including family. One for cricket and the other for keeping shit together; real shit, like heart and soul and meaning of everything. (Thankyou, lads). This WhatsApp is the greatest and funniest and richest and most life-enhancing WhatsApp group in the history of the universe. Like yours is, I hope.

One of the four individuals within this magbloodynificent posse sent a Spotify covers version-thang over. Most of it was instantly of us. Meaning it was surefire gorgetastic and appropriate: an easy win. Some of it, less so. I’m going to write about one of the tracks.

We all grew up in and through punk and the glorious aftermath. Joy Division, Bunnymen, Costello, Weller, Fall, Magazine, Clash, Cure, Gang of Four, Talking Heads. Later Pil, Specials and all that malarkey. One of us – *cheesy grin emoji* – still hasn’t grown out of the phase predicated on anger. But guess what? I’m writing about K D Lang.

It was a cover, yes? Guess which one?

Nope – or yeaaaah! – A Case of You: the Joni Mitchell song.

This is not my territory. I’m deeply (punkily?) suspicious of the world of melody, of beautiful projection – of choons. Realise this is utter cobblers, the immediate exclusion or de-legitimisation of everything Paul McCartney and Almost Everybody ever did… but still hold onto that ultrapunk notion that making cute, beautiful-sounding things led us to the wall-to-wall masturbatory shite that was the seventies super groups and most of commercial Pop Music.

Us Angry Bastards are still right to be anti-airhead, anti-vacancy, anti-conciliatory: it’s still not right, not enough, to be a music-maker who wants to be adored for their wizardry or musicality. Not when the world needs improving so much. But hey; I’ve gone off on one…

Torch songs are not my territory. Great, tuneful singing rarely moves me.

A Case of You is about Mitchell’s fine, fine songwriting… but mainly it’s about the singing. It’s next-level gorgeous. Lang can sing but here she is into the sublime, crossing and dipping her toes into the stream that is the piano.

Things ease more than they twinkle: the vocal is parallel then sliding or surging ahead. It’s rich and melancholic but (critically?) somehow ego-less. Lang and the sound crew produce a quiet triumph of technical excellence where the soulfulness is in no sense neutered by ‘performance skills’. (In fact the fekkers make it work, goddammit!) This is High Torch but still manages to be risky and human and genuinely poignant.

Try singing it. The spacing – and the range, obvs – are a challenge. Lang is masterful. It’s a dollop of perfection, the kind of thing you want aliens want to discover when they land next August and find we’ve self-incinerated. Because it’s about us. Lang’s singing is Peak Expression of our capacity to relate and to feel. It captures and vouches for us.

The more you listen the more you hear a very rare mix of control and luxuriant risk. It’s full of blood and wine and maybe damage. A Case of You is not, I think going to change the world but it passes the Punk’s Test for value. It’s a great, full human statement: a complex story we don’t need to unpick. I want those space-travellers to find it and nod in approval.

We humans were lousy but we also did this.

It Goes On…

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It goes on. Painfully; extraordinarily, the crassness of it all being weirdly relentless – almost as though These People are intent on wearing us down.

Building regulations ‘opened up’… in clear, bullish, provocative contradiction to the water crisis. Deals cut for the Barclays; reams of contracts reeking of the same, foul whiff, succeeding the awesomely flagrant track-and-trace and the (useless) protective equipment deals. Remember those? Remember the bee-line to donors and pals? Remember your cash being systematically pilfered? It goes on.

Johnson’s lazy, assumptive greed may have been at the epi-centre of this historic low: but his Cult of Endowment has spread. The modern Tory seems to generally believe that the rules don’t apply to them. They are without conscience and they recognise no authority but their own ability to push things through.

We can’t let their dumb selfishness, their raw, idle corruption and their hatred of others drag us into the kind of desensitized fog that suits their purposes. We really are (and really have to be) better than that.

Zoom in. Our rivers – the arteries of our landscape – are choked with shit. It’s a perfect symbol for the era of Johnson and Gove, Truss and Patel, Mone and Sunak, Braverman and Zahawi and Rees-Mogg: the time when shamelessness, greed and the worst, most indulgent kind of uncaring trumped the authentic work of government.

Add to that list the names of Shapps, Jenrick and Coffey and we have a pret-ty clear picture of the Deeply Crap People who have constituted the party-in-power for more than a decade.

They were murderously incompetent through the pandemic. They were more obviously corrupt around the sickening Covid Fast Lane (for sidekicks and schoolmates) than any government of our lifetimes. Only #theveryworstofus could turn international but also deeply personal family tragedy into a business opportunity for the clan. Only that Johnson tribe (and its flunkies in the media) could squeeze filthy lucre out of that moment.

But it goes on. Via inevitable subterfuge – the disappearing stories, featuring Mone, Harding(!), All That Covid Money – or through the whole, wretched, perennial Tory donors thing. Environmental standards sliding yet again (despite the outrage around our rivers!) because the Tories need to payback the developers. Sunak the smiling void implicated in a zillion convenient outcomes for his family, for the people he needs. Crass, mindless gifting of advantage to industries or individuals that back the Conservatives – even these Conservatives. Just how stupid do these clowns think we are?

It’s possible that the wearing-down of our intelligence (and therefore our resistance) is strategic. The Soul-Dead Robots advising the Tories *really might be* sensing, in their foul, ‘pulse-gathering’ systems, that pressing the Small Boats button or the ‘look, Wokes!’ button hard or often enough might see these charlatans through.

We have to be better than that. I think we are. We have to gather ourselves; protest; use the law – even when the process feels tilted against us. Not only must these Tories go… but they must be held to account.

Pic from Reuters.

Quality will out?

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Better team won? Think so. The first half was a good watch, the second that familiar mix of drama, am-dram, controversy and disjointed play… but Spain unquestionably deserved the win.

Wiegman was stirred into action at the half, changing formation and personnel. Whether you think this was shrewd and positive or belated, given the likelihood that a Walsh and Toone or Stanway axis and a back three would be stretched (if not unhealthily contorted) *by this opposition* will of course depend on the level of your Sarina-lurv. (Mine is high-ish, but Spain have quality, they have intelligence and they have a team shape/’way of playing’ that is going to expose lack of numbers and/or width across midfield. The universe knew this).

England started well; brightly, with Hemp doing that bustling striker thing with notable conviction. Russo was less involved, perhaps predictably, but under-achieved a little on the keeping possession/linking play front. This, and the need for tactical re-organisation, meant the central striker was withdrawn at the break: that will have hurt but it did make sense. Walsh was again present… and yet not; her contribution, like too many of her team-mates, being fitful or ultimately ineffective. It may be telling that the defensive bulwark that is Carter was the Lioness emerging with most credit, on the day.

The story of this World Cup should maybe start and end with the astonishing antipathy betwixt management and players in and around the Spanish squad. Several worldies flatly refused to play under the Vilda regime and yet they not only went and won it but looked like a team buying into something, throughout. They played largely in that groove. It’s an extraordinary achievement for both coaching team and players to be so divided and yet make something this complex (and fraught with variables) work.

The goal was a gem which felt like a rehearsed execution. Bronze gave the ball away, criminally, in midfield. Sure, her comrades had not done enough in terms of making angles for the pass but Bronze ploughed on, greedily, head down, her angst brewing with every yard of error. There were ways out of that mess she chose to ignore.

England’s brilliant veteran has again too often looked like a Huge Talent veering alarmingly between overconfidence and over-thunk misjudgement. Here, as she stumbled towards the centre-circle, Bronze did not look like a player over-doing the reigning-in of her superior gifts and athleticism. She looked a bit daft: she was culpable.

The inevitable concession of the ball preceded the simplest, purest, most ruthless exposure you can imagine. Have ball, head up, go left. Full-back in space (known to be vacated by Bronze). Pin-sharp drive across the keeper. Goal. A truly glorious *routine*.

Carmona’s symbolic, statement, quiet-wondernotch won the game – and rightly, somehow reassuringly so. That it came early may have contributed to the rather unsatisfactory nature of the second half, which was disjointed, stressy and almost bad-tempered by comparison. We saw some fluency again, from Spain, but England were physical – sometimes in a way we might characterise as ‘borderline’ – ‘direct’ and still unable to raise a significant or sustained threat.

James, Kelly and England came on, to little effect: the latter two being frustratingly wasteful when they must surely have been heavily instructed to use the ball with care and commitment. There were fouls and a little exaggeration. There was an hour-long wait for a penalty, against Walsh, for a relatively minor (but obvious) movement of the arm towards the ball. Earps, after some blatantly cynical but arguably successful interference from Bronze, saved.

The referee lost some of her nerve and control as the half proceeded and the stuttering and shapelessness began to dominate the football . Bronze should have been booked. Hemp and Stanway and some of the opposition should have been booked, for clumsiness and/or that now ubiquitous ‘breaking-up’ of the game. Paralluelo, (if the letter of the law, blah-di-blah) should have been sent off, for kicking the ball away, having been booked earlier. (That might have mattered).

The Lady in Black opted out, not enough to spoil the contest, but, in a competition where one of the major plusses has been a marked improvement in the admin, this was unfortunate. Penso was lucky, in a sense, that her drift appeared to be non-instrumental. The team in red found more space and more angles than the team in soft blue. They looked more likely to extend their lead than England did to nullify it. In short we got the right result.

Yup. In sport we want the best and most entertaining teams to win tournaments, yes? Spain may have been a narrow second to Japan on the watchability front, but they brought a particular, highly-developed quality to this that no-one could match. So good luck to them. I hope they enjoy their separate celebrations.

England, meanwhile have had a good tournament, in which they have ‘max(x)ed-out’, by playing well once or twice, and ‘finding a way through’ on the remaining occasions. (Such is tournament football). More importantly, they will undoubtedly have inspired the next generation. They have players and are likely to remain a force.

Spain, with top, top players *outside of the current squad*, may find themselves building a dynasty.