tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-141163122011-04-22T03:55:14.223+01:00What if we are not, after all, destined for greatness?Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.comBlogger331100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1161196110887783962006-10-18T19:24:00.001+01:002009-01-02T11:58:02.437Z

Where I was the weekend before last? Who wants to know? Because I could have been anywhere. Could have been back in Ireland, for example. Could even have been at a wedding. It’s all possible, you know. Look, if you want to ask me if I was at my sister’s wedding in a big house in County Monaghan, why don’t you come right out and ask? It’s not like I’ve got anything to hide. How did my sister

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1160758192005851522006-10-13T17:47:00.000+01:002006-10-13T18:08:35.870+01:00

Maybe dial-up wasn't so awful after all. True, dial-up is a drain in so many different ways, but at least it imposes discipline. Like the older lady eyeing up the dessert trolley, you gaze at song downloads and video on demand and flash plugins and think: Ooh, I can’t have that. Do you know, if I took a piece of that I’d be up all night. You go ahead, have some, you’re young, you’ll be able for

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1158944735168317752006-09-22T18:02:00.000+01:002006-09-25T11:25:24.700+01:00

Pleasure Island. You’ve got to remember. Out of Pinocchio? Take a moment to dredge it up. Because it's way down there, buried deep in your psyche, one of the great, uncontested stories at the base of you, like the Nativity and Tommy Cooper dying and the Big Snow of 1981. That was the year you turned eight, and also the year you decided to get your fledging consciousness organised, and stuffed it

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1158162268130546632006-09-13T16:40:00.000+01:002006-09-13T16:44:28.196+01:00

They have a perfume, you know. They do. You can buy it in Superdrug. There is a poster of the couple in the shop window, in a sophisticated yet saucy pose, apparently inspired by the cover of the Mastermind boardgame. Victoria presses up against her husband and gives her signature look- Blue Steel!- the kind of pose that’s meant to accentuate her cheekbones, but ends up giving her face a freakish

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1157557368952249672006-09-06T16:40:00.000+01:002006-09-06T16:47:27.316+01:00

London on a fleet, breezy morning. Everything in this sidestreet is bleached and sun-dazzled, like an image from an old polaroid. And this is how the city seems: like library footage, something called up at short notice from the archives to fill the space left by my office job. The houses are sturdy, two-storey, fronted with pale yellow bricks, with plaster porticos hugging the doors and bay

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1156373954003798412006-08-23T20:57:00.000+01:002006-09-06T16:48:15.820+01:00

Different trees, you notice, have different ways of burning. The olives burn like lanterns, the flame nested deep inside their hollow trunks; you can see the warm orange glow through knots and spyholes in the wood. The palm trees burn like roman candles, the fat flame on top of the trunk sending a cascade of sparks down through the fronds and onto the ground below. And as for the pines, they burn

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1155397650865545702006-08-12T16:07:00.001+01:002006-08-24T16:59:07.916+01:00

The kids, they don’t understand. They don't. Acting so proprietorial about the internet, with their MySpace and YouTube and iTunes, as if they had just happened upon this cool abandoned factory in the woods, and decided to kit it up as their clubhouse. They don't know that the internet is ours- we watched it grow, we built it up, those are our initials etched into its roofbeams. Of course, things

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1154864108619733812006-08-06T12:17:00.000+01:002006-08-12T12:04:03.616+01:00

I have this problem with estate agents. I kind of like them. I like their assumption of the style of Wall street – the dress sense, the sharky patter, the moral laxity– without any of the substance of Wall Street– like the money, say, or the power, or the responsibility. I like their earnest pantomime, the way they project their performance somewhere beyond our shoulders, as if they’re stars of

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1154698867604929542006-08-04T14:28:00.000+01:002006-08-14T01:30:09.023+01:00

Sometimes he dreams it is the war again, and he is being chased by soldiers through the streets of Paris. He ducks into an doorway, pulls off his rough coat with the paper star and turns it inside out. He is surprised to discover that the lining is smooth and elegant, and he walks out past the baffled soldiers with the swagger of a true aristocrat.His best songs are sustained puns, two things at

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1154362985596200282006-07-31T17:08:00.000+01:002006-08-01T17:36:15.906+01:00

It’s about time for my driving lesson. Every Tuesday evening, I sail through South West London, bobble headed at the wheel like Noddy in Toytown, while in the bucketseat beside me, Iqbal grits his teeth and pumps the pedals like a lunatic. Iqbal is an observant Muslim, and anytime we’re caught in traffic, I try to tease out his views on some of the pressing issues of the day. “What’s it going

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1133216143992000142005-11-28T22:58:00.000Z2005-11-28T23:30:08.006Z

Yeah. I know. Moving Sideways hasn't been moving very quickly or very far over the past few months. It had got to the stage where it was going to take a stern intervention from a concerned friend to get it back on its feet, so I was pretty darn happy when Catherine, one of the blog's most loyal readers, volunteered to come round this way and kick things off again. Catherine's been talking up the

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1133217933572265232005-11-28T22:29:00.000Z2005-11-28T23:24:39.970Z

A lot of people going to see Matt Dillon in Factotum will watch his antics with detached amusement and a wry smile, marvelling at his complete refusal to pull himself together: the low-paid jobs, the constant boozing, the stream of women as feckless as himself. But I guarantee that some people will have a tiny shiver of recognition and might be reminded of a certain time and place or a certain

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1129987742939502432005-10-22T13:09:00.000+01:002005-10-24T00:16:22.296+01:00

"So," your friends say. "You've interviewed the old bastard? Tell us: what's he really like?"You want to tell them this: he is nothing like they imagined. For a start, he is astonishingly vain. For someone whose ugliness is legendary (every cartoonist knows the tiny biretta, the heavy jowls, the sour gash of a mouth), he takes uncommon pride in his appearance, which he considers "noble" and "

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1129073610358574162005-10-12T00:07:00.000+01:002005-10-22T14:45:26.270+01:00

The first real party since you got back home on R&R, and it’s just your luck to spend half the night at the buffet bar, deep in conversation with a pawn. Of course, you can’t ignore the pawns, they are everywhere tonight, and some of them no doubt play a useful role, serving drinks and opening doors and escorting knights onto the dancefloor and suchlike. This fellow introduces himself with a

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1124936648142794042005-08-25T00:15:00.000+01:002006-08-06T12:16:43.530+01:00

On Sunday morning, I meet up with Dick and Diana in town, and we talk about movies. Diana says that under the dictatorship in Spain all remotely suggestive scenes were deleted from American films. When the films were restored, after Franco’s death, it was often impossible to find the original voice-over artists, and the new scenes were re-dubbed by whatever younger actors were available. This

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1123811334176943562005-08-12T02:29:00.000+01:002005-08-12T20:11:35.696+01:00

Read a newspaper for a year or two, and the columnists' voices will move into your head- discreetly, like Borrowers, making their homes in unused mental space. You don't have to particularly like them- you don't even have to believe in them. A friend of mine was convinced that Guardian cookery correspondent Heston Blumenthal was actually an April's Fools Joke that the paper had quietly continued

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1123791084520198432005-08-11T20:49:00.000+01:002005-08-11T21:11:24.526+01:00

I'm normally suspicious of name writers with blogs or websites; half the time these are barren publicity tools, taking advantage of a ready audience. But Jonathan Lethem's new site is classy, well-stocked and completely the reason I haven't posted yet tonight...

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1123547559142418012005-08-08T23:26:00.000+01:002005-08-09T01:32:39.150+01:00

What do you look like, walking around London in your hat?You look like a travelling evangelist; you look like you play for Jesus’ team.You look like a juggler, or busker or street magician. When you walk onto the tube, you look like you have strange vaudevillian designs upon everybody in the carriage.You look like you’re waiting for comments. A teenager in a stretch limo sticks her head out the

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1123110959939520472005-08-03T23:23:00.000+01:002005-08-04T00:19:44.066+01:00

Read parts one and two first.The audience, for the most part, was a treat. In the front-row, a clutch of Duke Montana wannabes, clear-faced psychology graduates primed for a career in trash TV. Behind them, a larger than normal delegation from the local Active Retirement society- a gang of lean-jawed old Americans who rattled with laughter at every mortality gag. And at the back, your regular

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1122731235387649042005-07-30T14:44:00.000+01:002005-07-30T14:47:15.396+01:00

Read Part One here.My name is Henry Neville a.k.a Harry Neville a.k.a the Phantom Manager a.k.a Dead Guy. I've been dead for three years now, and a celebrity for two. My column is syndicated in a number of top-selling newspapers nation-wide and my book "Dead Head- 10 Top Tips for Management from Beyond the Grave" has spent 5 weeks at or around the top of the Amazon On-Line Mind-Body-Spirit

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1122503458730634742005-07-27T21:57:00.000+01:002005-07-30T13:39:43.196+01:00

Today's front page headline in the Daily Express reads: "Bombers Were ALL Spongeing Asylum Seekers". I don't know what I find more depressing: -the kettle-whistle glee of the whole enterprise (you get the feeling that the Express couldn't be more thrilled if it discovered the bombers had been trained and tooled up by a sleeper squad of one-legged lesbians),- the open invitation to readers to

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1122450620821738262005-07-27T08:48:00.000+01:002005-07-27T08:50:20.826+01:00

Once or twice a year I might encounter them, my fellow graduates from Chicago GSB, and each time round it's much the same charade. I'm in the business lounge working on a presentation when a face across the aisle suddenly clarifies and shakes itself into focus. "Hey Ronnie," I might say, or "Hey Donny," as the case may be, or possibly "Hey Milt"."Harry- it is Harry?" they will say. "But I heard

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1122232199295272342005-07-26T00:01:00.000+01:002005-07-26T21:55:17.566+01:00

Recovered this when clearing out the hard drive of my old, busted computer. Its a very short story I wrote within a year of moving here. London to me then was little more than the sum of its museums, but I was smitten nonetheless. Apologies to both my regular readers who've seen this one before...Simon was a boy who matched things up. Anna thought it was because he came from a broken home. He

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1122333979271212412005-07-25T21:01:00.000+01:002005-07-26T22:06:20.146+01:00

So what do bloggers do when the danger recedes? Where's the event glamour, the sense of nations' destinies in flux, when all you have for material is the dullard jumble of everyday life? Last Thursday night, after the second wave of bombs, I was up till all hours posting about my own panic and mass panic, and drawing sweeping conclusions about the nature of terror and bravado. I said a lot of

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121972649896359762005-07-21T19:23:00.000+01:002005-07-22T01:21:51.730+01:00

"It's confirmed now," said the assistant at W.H. Smith's as he handed me my change and receipt. "I just heard it. Three more bombs gone off on the tube."On my way out of the shop I was already on my mobile, firing off emergency texts, texts that sounded like Radiohead album titles (im ok are u ok), to everyone I knew before the networks went down. When I got my first failure notice, it felt like

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121809955439604432005-07-19T19:29:00.000+01:002005-07-20T08:20:17.400+01:00

So: I shark into Westminster underground, past a row of Evening Standard posters that read: "Sniffer Dogs to Patrol Tube", duck through the ticket gates- and walk straight into a detective out patrolling with his sniffer dogs. It's a photo op, of course. There's a news cameraman spread out on the ground before one dog, encouraging it to snuffle at his lens; he wants the final shot of the report,

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121727662292801732005-07-18T23:36:00.000+01:002005-07-19T00:01:02.300+01:00

To: "the kids" From: Martinvandervelt@deadmail.comSubject: Last wordsYou will, I'm sure, remember the moment before I died, when I motioned you all closer with my hand, held your gaze in mine for what seemed to be an eternity, and whispered: "The emeralds are in the glove compartment". Just a quick note to say: I've no idea what I meant by this. You know those comments that come into your head

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121551143361669232005-07-17T19:02:00.000+01:002005-07-18T21:00:27.990+01:00

There is a scene towards the end of Batman Begins where Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale) must feign boorish drunkenness in order to rescue his party guests from danger. He stands up to deliver a speech, which rapidly turns into a bratty (if accurate) rant against parasites and arrivistes, sending everyone spinning out of the room, ripe with indignation. Once the guests are safe, Wayne turns to face

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121376341612149252005-07-14T22:22:00.000+01:002005-07-14T22:34:26.076+01:00

To: Mikemoore25@yahoo.com, moored11@yahoo.com, "work", "school", "friends" From: Mary_moore@deadmail.comSubject: FW: fw: fw: FW: Pass this on to 15 people OR ELSE...Guys,I didn't!!!MAttachment: gypsycurse.doc (17Kb)

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121284162112560462005-07-14T08:47:00.000+01:002005-07-13T20:49:22.113+01:00

To: Buddies, "Mom", "Steven P.", Workmates, "Jojo"From: Stephanie_Adamms@deadmail.comSubject: Hi all!! Can you believe it????? I just got here and it turns out they have the net!!! Now I can mail you guys from beyond the grave!!! Is that amazing or what??? No, I couldn't believe it myself. It IS amazing. Wow. Other than that I've no real news. TtylSteff

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121123790701673022005-07-13T00:05:00.000+01:002005-07-13T22:17:36.820+01:00

First up, welcome to the blog. I hope you like it. It's supposed to be funny, mostly, though this entry just happens to be incredibly po-faced. The title for the blog is from a song I love by Jubilee Allstars, and the motto comes from a song-title by Joan of Arc (perhaps fittingly, the song itself is enormously underwhelming.)When I first planned this blog, just over a week ago, my main worry was

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1121121421419173502005-07-11T23:33:00.000+01:002005-07-12T00:05:14.156+01:00

To: Ariel-cummins34@lycos.comFrom: Anne.cummins@deadmail.comSubject: haunting moments My dearest daughter,You know the way sometimes you're testing the water for a shower, and there seems to be a shiver in the air, even though a thick mist has already gathered on the medicine cabinet mirror, and just then you sense a ghostly presence in the room, right behind your shoulder, bathing all your

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14116312.post-1120392915849770942005-07-03T13:14:00.000+01:002005-07-05T21:12:17.993+01:00

To: all staffFrom: T.R. Barney, CEOHere at Thunder Lizard Incorporated we remain upbeat about the longterm economic outlook. Those freak electrical storms and solar flares can't go on for ever, and we're confident that the thick pall of smoke covering the Earth's surface will disperse by the middle of next quarter. Still, the slowdown has given us a perfect opportunity to take stock of our

Ben Goodnoreply@blogger.com1