Farewell icons of my youthful days

In the world of the arts, some artists matter to us more than others, we recognise their talents, we love and appreciate their work. They enlighten us; they disturb us. Three significant artists passed away last week.

First, Hugh Masekela. His jazz was a sound track for the struggle against apartide. That vile system finally toppled in the early 90s when Mandela walked to freedom. His work can challenge but it's rhythmic and sinuous. I listened to some of his music on YouTube and was astonished by its power and complexity but soon found his more commercial 80s hit that I boogied to back then: Don't go Lose it Baby. Obituaries gave the impression of a restless, driven man but one who had reconciled himself to death. Three score years and ten plus a bit more. What more can we ask for?

Next, Ursula Le Guinn, whose marvellous, generously wise stories made me look at the world through different eyes and changed how I thought about it. A long life, well lived: her work a wonderful distillation of ideas and humanity.

Lastly, Mark E Smith. The kind of alcohol fuelled and drugged out geezer and genius you only find in the North of England. Worn out at 60. Leaving a legacy of strange twisted brilliance on vinyl and MP3. A formidable post punk force who spoke to many of my contemporaries. A little too much for me, if I'm honest, though at 21 I danced away to his spitting, snarling, hypnotic vocals and his band's  insistent, swirling, grinding din. One of about six people; everyone else had run off to the bar. Over the years he built a loyal following. One of my colleagues had followed him since he was 15 and had bought every Fall album - and there were many. On Twitter, writer Susan Hill expressed her confusion at not knowing who he was. Was he  pop star? I replied, explaining he was as far from ABBA as South Dakota is from the sea.

Time for bed. I think I will hunt out my collection of Ursula Le Guin's short stories and allow myself to reflect on how the best fantasy is a mirror to reality. I think she was an anthropologist. Her imagined societies are rich and unusual but always believable and never clichéd. I wonder what she would have made of Mark E Smith?

Red and Twittering

I've changed my page colour and gone all red and vibrant with a hint of cosy. It's redder than my new hair colour.  I've also got into Twitter a bit. It's not all mindless and suits my ever so slightly compulsive streak. So far, I've had three followers. One of them left within a week, the other had a very bizarre web page which seemed like some kind of anti-Semitic cult (I blocked him) and the other is the TES resources page, which must have automatically cross referenced my email which makes up part of my Twitter address. Still, it's quite nice to be followed by the off-shoot of a national institution.

I decide to follow Jeanette Winterson after reading her wise and feisty memoir 'Why be happy when you can be normal'  about growing up with a megalomaniac for an adoptive mother. The book revisits the events which inspired 'Oranges are not the only fruit', Winterson's first novel.  A wonderful book that I would recommend to anyone. In terms of Twitter, it might be viewed as a  bit weird or even sad to be 'following' intelligent 'celebs' like Ms Winterson, Mark Gattiss and the bubbly historian and keeper of Royal Palaces Lucy Worsley but, on the other hand, it's quite fun. Like a sort of virtual dinner party with people who seem  rather interesting, as super Twitterer Stephen Fry might put it.

 I get so many news tweets from The Gruniad that I have to scroll down a long way to see what Lucy's up to: presenting a programme on BBC 4 next week about an eccentric female culinary historian who went to Africa and, later on,  wrote a history of British food.  So it's not all mindless drivel, despite an actor informing his followers, of whom I am currently one, that Virgin Trains smell of wee. Meanwhile Giles Fraser informs me he lost his jacket before appearing on News Night and felt under dressed whilst conversing with one of the brothers Milliband at some fancy reception or other. I'm sure such an interesting cultural life fits in nicely with running an inner London Parish. Whatever, it really is quite diverting to read about the lives of mildy interesting actors, writers and liberal clerics, whilst commuting to work on a packed out bus, while the rain just keeps on raining and I suffer from start of term nerves and wish I existed in a less-exhausting environment.

As for my own tweets, well it's a bit like that Billy Idol song 'Dancing with Myself' but, who knows, maybe one day I'll be famous enough to delight 1,550 followers by commenting on the smell of the Cornish pasty outlet at Euston station as I pass through on my way back up north? Meanwhile, I'll  curl up with 'The Casual Vacancy' and try and have a chilled out weekend.



Dancing with Myself

Twittering the holidays away

Finally I activated my Twitter account but now I've got there what do I do? Is there anyone I want to follow? Why would anyone follow me? Mrs Stephen Fry looked fun but what can one add?

It's obviously the holidays: much as I harbour desires to write a novel, I really do prefer lolling and lazying, watching the magnetic Benedict Cumberbatch playing Sherlock on catch up TV, posting incognito at Ship of Fools and signing up to more internet madness.

I did get two ideas for stories but, as always, cried off. What I really need is to attend one of those courses where they lock you in a room for five hours and get you to read your efforts to other would be writers while some published dude gives advice.