Most people are familiar with Desert Island Discs – the tracks you can’t live without, that you’d take to an island with you. But what about books? Most serious readers have favourites they return to again and again for the sheer pleasure of them…
Knut Hamsun
Mysteries
Arguably the first novel of psychological realism and the book that transformed Hamsun from a 19th century Romantic into a real 20th century man. It’s odd, deliberately ambiguous, and often maddening. But strangely addictive.
I was introduced to Hamsun when I was 20 by a Norwegian I knew in Leeds. We sat and talked about him one Friday night; he was a new name to me when I was hungry to absorb fresh literature. The next day I went to a small independent bookshop by the Poly and found a table full of a new translation of this book. It seemed like synchronicity. I bought it, and the rest is history.
William Boyd
The New Confessions
Boys does the big book, the fake biography (or autobiography) so well, but this is something special, his first venture into the territory, the tale of an ambitious British film director who’s an iconoclast in the days of silent pictures, first during World War 1, then later in Berlin during the Expressionist era. He tells his tale brilliantly and knowledgeably, his character absorbing and egotistical, and very, very human. Although Boyd has been far more feted for his later work, much of which is superb, he’s never done the big book quite as well or enthusiastically as this.
Annie Proulx
Accordion Crimes
It’s hard to single out one of her books, but this is almost a mix of short story and novel, with an old accordion as the main character – a variant of the tale of a penny we had to do in essays at school. She conjures up times and places beautifully, with wit, grace and sympathy. A masterful writer, there’s real music comes out of this novel. It’s a beautiful read, with the passing of time a subtext, and the way the face of America changes – yet in some ways doesn’t change at all. It’s not a city book, but one that clings, as much as it can, to the country. And you don’t even have to like accordions to love it.
Louis de Bernieres
The South American Trilogy
A cheat, I know, three books in one, but they do go together. Remarkable, sustained storytelling and suspension of disbelief. He creates a world in some unnamed South American country peopled with the ribald and magical. It’s Borges and more, that magical realism, and utterly convincing, warm, and with a compassionate heart; it’s hard to believe it’s written by an Englishman. The good guys win in the end, but it’s the journey that counts, and who can resist the big black cats that always smell of chocolate, or the macho man who refuses to dismount from his horse. Maybe there’s a lesson here, maybe not. Ultimately it doesn’t matter, and starting it over again is always a joy.
Peter Høeg
Borderliners
Difficult to known which of this man’s books to pick, but this gets the nod over the better known Smilla, which is a wondrous tome in its own right. There’s an intensity here that’s moving, the sense of the outsider and the children who have this yearning for freedom in a bureaucratic, prescribed state. The translation is very, very good. It’s not an easy read, but that’s part of the joy. He’s certainly one of the greatest contemporary writers (with the possible exception of The Woman and the Ape), and this is a good place to make his acquaintance. The Quiet Girl mines faintly similar territory, but this does it in a less fantastical fashion.
Joanne Harris
Chocolat
A book for the times you need magic in your life. Disregard the movie, this is so much better, a place where the reader never thinks the unlikely couldn’t happen, and where the mundane can become mystical. Vianne Rocher is one of the great fictional creations, a witch, maybe, but also an ideal to fall in love with even thought her feet are very much of clay. The nearest analogue, just for the uplifting feel, is the movie Amelie. Most of Joanne Harris’s books are great (including the more sombre sequel to this), but this is simply carried on a tide of real magic.
Michael Ondaatje
Divisadero
He’s known for The English Patient, and most of his other work has been ignored, which is a shame, as he’s one of the most poetic writers in the English language. Part coming of age novel, part meditation on American in a supposed golden age, This doesn’t carry the sepia romance of The English Patient. It’s a book that glides, and only reveals it many layers through multiple readings. The language flows like a sunlit stream, Anna is remarkable, and the whole thing pulls you into its dream.
Christian Jungersen
The Exception
A book that seemingly made hardly a ripple in its English translation from the Danish original. That’s a pity, because Jungersen creates female characters better than any man I’ve read. Not just one, but four of them. In this sort of whodunit-thriller, he alternates their voices in a way that truly messes with the reader’s head. New revelations from one woman change the way you think of the others, leaving you unbalanced. It’s majestic writing and truly wonderful characterisation, all quite bravura. And it’s certainly a book you need to read several times.
Sunday 26 September 2010
Friday 24 September 2010
Submitting A Book And Starting A New one
Well, the second novel in the Richard Nottingham series is now with the publisher. She’ll be back on Monday and a few days after that I expect the verdict. A good one, I hope, but who can ever really know? All that faith in myself, in my writing, is put on the line. It’s a little like waiting for the result of an exam where you think you’ve done well, but you’re not really sure, and the outcome is out of your hands.
As my publisher has sold out to a larger (but happily not large) publisher, this book is particularly important. Not only does it have to please her, but the new bosses, too. They plan on keeping the imprint and the current writers, but there’s always that caveat – as long as we like the book.
In the meantime, ever the optimist, I’ve written the first thousand words of the next book. The idea for it has been in my head for a while, cooking away on the back burner. In some ways going to it without any real break from the second volume offers a sense of continuity. I don’t have to take the time to put myself in the heads of the main characters; it’s already there.
That doesn’t make it easier. I have 1,000 words written. Whether they’re the right thousand words remains to be seen. But they’re a start.
As my publisher has sold out to a larger (but happily not large) publisher, this book is particularly important. Not only does it have to please her, but the new bosses, too. They plan on keeping the imprint and the current writers, but there’s always that caveat – as long as we like the book.
In the meantime, ever the optimist, I’ve written the first thousand words of the next book. The idea for it has been in my head for a while, cooking away on the back burner. In some ways going to it without any real break from the second volume offers a sense of continuity. I don’t have to take the time to put myself in the heads of the main characters; it’s already there.
That doesn’t make it easier. I have 1,000 words written. Whether they’re the right thousand words remains to be seen. But they’re a start.
Wednesday 15 September 2010
Electric Eden review
Rob Young
Electric Eden
Electric Eden is subtitled ‘unearthing Britain’s visionary music,” and the back of it promises that Young “investigates how the idea of folk has been handed down and transformed by successive generations.” All of which would be nice if it was true.
It’s a hefty volume, and at £17.99, not a cheap one. Still of the basis of all that, and the good reviews it’s enjoyed, it should make for an interesting read. However, when the opening chapter covers Vashti Bunyan’s 1960s hippie journey and her music as emblematic of visionary English folk it all becomes a little worrying. Her first album was a pleasant enough piece of hippie music making. But it didn’t tap into any deeply British spirit, or at least no more than plenty of other bands of the period with Utopian dreams.
It’s a book that throws a lot of information at the reader, talking about musicians famous and obscure. It’s not just everything except the kitchen sink; it’s everything including the kitchen sink, taps, plug and water pipes. Young some clever turns of phrase, and some areas he knows very well. But if this book is supposed to be about the folk process, it quickly shies away from that central idea to the point where it seems to have little real thesis at all.
If anything, it seems designed to give Young a chance to talk about people he admires. So there are sections on Nick Drake, Fairport, the various stages of Ashley Hutchings’ career, Led Zeppelin, Julian Cope, Comus and more. He impressive and insightful when discussing the early 20th century composers, several of whom collected folk songs (although Percy Grainger barely warrants a mention, curiously), and he offers a reasonable look at Ewan MacColl and his do as I say, not as I do idea of folk music. A.L. Lloyd is a recurring presence for part of the book.
It’s true that with Liege and Lief (and “A Sailor’s Life,” recorded before it) Fairport Convention upended folk music, bringing new people to folk music. Those who’d sung folk songs in primary schools suddenly reconnected to it in a different way. And with the folk revival on the 1950s folk had made its real comeback after being placed on a dusty museum shelf.
It’s after that where Young seems to really lose his way. Nick Drake was a great singer and songwriter, but was he really part of folk music? And what about Black Sabbath, who get a page of two? A long section on the Incredible String Band makes perfect sense, but there’s no mention of John Tams, whether in his early Derbyshire career, in Home Service or since. You can make a good case for the inclusion of Julian Cope and discussion of the film The Wicker Man, but not so much for some of today’s underground – especially when the folk music of the last 20 years gets little more than half a page near the end.
It’s arguable that since, say, 1990, there’s been an even great connection between the folk tradition and music making than at any time before. People are pushing folk in new ways, and they’re not just the Imagined Village (who do crop up on Young’s radar). Where, though, are Bellowhead or Jim Moray, or any of the other dozens of acts who are working new magic in the tradition?
This book promised a lot and tries to blind with its deluge. However capable and well written it is (and there are plenty of factual errors in there), ultimately it doesn’t deliver on the promise. Oh, and by the end you'll be sick of the name Mighty Baby, which seems to run under everything like a subtext.
Electric Eden
Electric Eden is subtitled ‘unearthing Britain’s visionary music,” and the back of it promises that Young “investigates how the idea of folk has been handed down and transformed by successive generations.” All of which would be nice if it was true.
It’s a hefty volume, and at £17.99, not a cheap one. Still of the basis of all that, and the good reviews it’s enjoyed, it should make for an interesting read. However, when the opening chapter covers Vashti Bunyan’s 1960s hippie journey and her music as emblematic of visionary English folk it all becomes a little worrying. Her first album was a pleasant enough piece of hippie music making. But it didn’t tap into any deeply British spirit, or at least no more than plenty of other bands of the period with Utopian dreams.
It’s a book that throws a lot of information at the reader, talking about musicians famous and obscure. It’s not just everything except the kitchen sink; it’s everything including the kitchen sink, taps, plug and water pipes. Young some clever turns of phrase, and some areas he knows very well. But if this book is supposed to be about the folk process, it quickly shies away from that central idea to the point where it seems to have little real thesis at all.
If anything, it seems designed to give Young a chance to talk about people he admires. So there are sections on Nick Drake, Fairport, the various stages of Ashley Hutchings’ career, Led Zeppelin, Julian Cope, Comus and more. He impressive and insightful when discussing the early 20th century composers, several of whom collected folk songs (although Percy Grainger barely warrants a mention, curiously), and he offers a reasonable look at Ewan MacColl and his do as I say, not as I do idea of folk music. A.L. Lloyd is a recurring presence for part of the book.
It’s true that with Liege and Lief (and “A Sailor’s Life,” recorded before it) Fairport Convention upended folk music, bringing new people to folk music. Those who’d sung folk songs in primary schools suddenly reconnected to it in a different way. And with the folk revival on the 1950s folk had made its real comeback after being placed on a dusty museum shelf.
It’s after that where Young seems to really lose his way. Nick Drake was a great singer and songwriter, but was he really part of folk music? And what about Black Sabbath, who get a page of two? A long section on the Incredible String Band makes perfect sense, but there’s no mention of John Tams, whether in his early Derbyshire career, in Home Service or since. You can make a good case for the inclusion of Julian Cope and discussion of the film The Wicker Man, but not so much for some of today’s underground – especially when the folk music of the last 20 years gets little more than half a page near the end.
It’s arguable that since, say, 1990, there’s been an even great connection between the folk tradition and music making than at any time before. People are pushing folk in new ways, and they’re not just the Imagined Village (who do crop up on Young’s radar). Where, though, are Bellowhead or Jim Moray, or any of the other dozens of acts who are working new magic in the tradition?
This book promised a lot and tries to blind with its deluge. However capable and well written it is (and there are plenty of factual errors in there), ultimately it doesn’t deliver on the promise. Oh, and by the end you'll be sick of the name Mighty Baby, which seems to run under everything like a subtext.
Saturday 11 September 2010
Terrorism in America
I lived in the US when 9/11 happened. Like so many others I watched in shock and horror as the planes hit the twin towers and they came down. I blamed Al-Queda, but I never blamed Islam.
Now, however, it seems that Bin Laden and his people have got exactly what they wanted as so many on the right in America seek to demonise Muslims. They wanted to create division and war, never mind how they did it. They’ve apparently succeeded. Those who claim to be looking for America’s honour have actually become the terrorists, albeit unwittingly in some cases. They’re setting the scene for jihad.
Terrorists seek to rip a societal structure apart with fear and hatred. They have their goals and they’ll achieve them at any cost, including lies and gross distortions of the truth. And this is exactly what’s happening in the United States today. Those at the top, like Newt Gingrich, are manipulating people who don’t want to think for themselves into a spirit of hatred and intolerance. All it serves is their own ideals. Except it doesn’t. All it does it serve the divisive cause of Al-Queda. Gingrich, and all those raising their voices in protest against Islam, those stabbing Muslims and setting fire to mosques, are nothing more than terrorists themselves.
The curious thing is that no one seems to have said it. They call it patriotism, but all too often that’s a distorted lens, one with blinkers, and the last refuge of a scoundrel.
The invasion of Iraq by troops from the US gave Al-Queda a bonanza of recruits. It was a horribly botched job that’s cost many, many thousands of lives, and still does as terrorists set off bombs with alarming regularity. In Afghanistan, as history has proven, there will be no victory.
But there is already one victory for Al-Queda, in the US. Whenever anyone wants to brun Q’rans or prevent the perfectly legal building of an Islamic cultural centre in New York, terrorism wins another small victory. The problem is that the people don’t see it, that they’re allowing terrorism to fester on their own doorsteps, cloaked in the name of patriotism.
Ultimately there’s no difference between a Terry McVeigh or a Pastor Jones or a Gingrich. They all seek to rend the fabric of American society. They and all their followers are nothing more than terrorists.
For those who don't know me, I lived in american for 30 years, from 1976-2005. I'm not a Muslim, my son is American, and one of the reasons I left to return to the UK was that I was very disturbed by the direction American was taking while Bush was President.
Now, however, it seems that Bin Laden and his people have got exactly what they wanted as so many on the right in America seek to demonise Muslims. They wanted to create division and war, never mind how they did it. They’ve apparently succeeded. Those who claim to be looking for America’s honour have actually become the terrorists, albeit unwittingly in some cases. They’re setting the scene for jihad.
Terrorists seek to rip a societal structure apart with fear and hatred. They have their goals and they’ll achieve them at any cost, including lies and gross distortions of the truth. And this is exactly what’s happening in the United States today. Those at the top, like Newt Gingrich, are manipulating people who don’t want to think for themselves into a spirit of hatred and intolerance. All it serves is their own ideals. Except it doesn’t. All it does it serve the divisive cause of Al-Queda. Gingrich, and all those raising their voices in protest against Islam, those stabbing Muslims and setting fire to mosques, are nothing more than terrorists themselves.
The curious thing is that no one seems to have said it. They call it patriotism, but all too often that’s a distorted lens, one with blinkers, and the last refuge of a scoundrel.
The invasion of Iraq by troops from the US gave Al-Queda a bonanza of recruits. It was a horribly botched job that’s cost many, many thousands of lives, and still does as terrorists set off bombs with alarming regularity. In Afghanistan, as history has proven, there will be no victory.
But there is already one victory for Al-Queda, in the US. Whenever anyone wants to brun Q’rans or prevent the perfectly legal building of an Islamic cultural centre in New York, terrorism wins another small victory. The problem is that the people don’t see it, that they’re allowing terrorism to fester on their own doorsteps, cloaked in the name of patriotism.
Ultimately there’s no difference between a Terry McVeigh or a Pastor Jones or a Gingrich. They all seek to rend the fabric of American society. They and all their followers are nothing more than terrorists.
For those who don't know me, I lived in american for 30 years, from 1976-2005. I'm not a Muslim, my son is American, and one of the reasons I left to return to the UK was that I was very disturbed by the direction American was taking while Bush was President.
Friday 10 September 2010
Desert Island Discs
Desert Island Discs. It’s a programme that’s run forever on Radio 4, where people get to select eight discs they’d take with them to a desert island. It makes for a great game, but it’s also a chance to whittle down your music collection to its absolute essentials, to those pieces that touch you in a ways others simply can’t. So I thought I’d do it and surprised myself. No punk, no real world music, although I love them both.
Spem In Alium – Thomas Tallis (Oxford Camerata recording). One of the most sublime pieces of scared vocal music ever penned. At motet for 40 voices in eight choirs of five, it was Tallis’ English response to a Dutch 40-voice motet. It contains all manner of codes and clues within, something for musicologists to puzzle out. The listening pleasure, especially on this version that has plenty of space, is sublime and enveloping. It’s a piece to sink into, one that transcends both space and time.
Solid Air – John Martyn. From the time a girlfriend first played me some John Martyn in 1972 I was a fan and I bought this as soon as it appeared the following year. Written for Nick Drake it’s since become a favourite of the chill out crowd, but its magic is in how restrained everything is. The feel is slightly jazzy, but the folk undertone is ever-present, Martyn’s vocals curling like a tenor sax over the top. Music can transport you, can fill you with a place and this does that for me.
The Ship Song – Nick Cave. I’d always admired Nick Cave’s intensity, but I’d never really been a fan until I heard this at 4.30 one Saturday morning in Seattle while delivering papers (long story). It’s direct, but still wonderfully allegorical, a love song that speaks from the heart with real emotion, never devolving into easy sentiment. That makes it the very best love song I know, and when my heart is full it’s one I want to play.
Man Of The World – Fleetwood Mac. For my money, Peter Green was the best British guitar player of his time, and this disc has heartbreak in just two notes of his solo; he expresses so much with so little. There’s so much of an ache to this song, along with some lovely chord changes, that the melancholy simply flows. At this time Green was on the edge of falling apart, and maybe this was his cry for help, or simply his elegy to the world he was leaving behind as he drifted into some other place.
Clock Of The World – Krista Detor. The newest favourite, but it’s not a choice of the moment. The way all the parts fit together make this an almost perfect song. The lyrics are enigmatic, with the meaning just out of reach, but in some strange way they make absolute sense. Add to that some sublime – yes, even angelic – harmonies and the piece sounds pretty damn perfect. Detor is a remarkable talent, one of the very best to come along in years, never maudlin but with a direct reach to the heartstrings and a sense of art.
Fratres For Violin And Piano – Arvo Pärt. Pärt’s vocal pieces are beautiful, but there’s something about his Fratres that seems to reach back to Bach with their mathematical precision. They sound nothing like Bach, of course, but they range from angular to lyrical in the course of a few minutes. They’re thought provoking and challenging, rather than music to just listen to. Music should involve the listener and draw in the ear and the mind. Ultimately these are disquieting, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Norsk Rheinländer/Plink-Plonk – Haugaard & Høirup. In 2003 I was commissioned to write a piece on Danish music for a magazine and spent some time there, falling in love with not only the music, but the place. I’ve been back pretty much every year since and written extensively about Danish folk music. I’m grateful to have made many friends there, among them the duo of fiddler Harald Haugaard and guitarist/singer Morten Alfred Høirup. They no longer play together, but this fairly early piece is stunning, a gorgeous rendition of a traditional dance piece followed by some harmonic pyrotechnics in the fiddle. It’s a thrilling, highwire piece, a demonstration of virtuosity, but one that never fails to delight me in a childish way (and the subtle guitar accompaniment is lovely). Selecting one piece of Danish music was almost impossible, but this own out.
The Dear Irish Boy – Martin Hayes & Dennis Cahill. Another fiddle/guitar duo, this time Irish and American. Hayes is a rarity among musicians, a person who deconstructs what he plays and takes the listener to the foundation. This slow air is almost like a sonata, and in his hands certainly more complex than a two-part folk tune. It’s majestic in its simplicity, a piece of music to leave the mind and the heart full. Not only is it a reminder that skill doesn’t mean playing fast, it’s music made by the heart, and an extended sublime moment.
Spem In Alium – Thomas Tallis (Oxford Camerata recording). One of the most sublime pieces of scared vocal music ever penned. At motet for 40 voices in eight choirs of five, it was Tallis’ English response to a Dutch 40-voice motet. It contains all manner of codes and clues within, something for musicologists to puzzle out. The listening pleasure, especially on this version that has plenty of space, is sublime and enveloping. It’s a piece to sink into, one that transcends both space and time.
Solid Air – John Martyn. From the time a girlfriend first played me some John Martyn in 1972 I was a fan and I bought this as soon as it appeared the following year. Written for Nick Drake it’s since become a favourite of the chill out crowd, but its magic is in how restrained everything is. The feel is slightly jazzy, but the folk undertone is ever-present, Martyn’s vocals curling like a tenor sax over the top. Music can transport you, can fill you with a place and this does that for me.
The Ship Song – Nick Cave. I’d always admired Nick Cave’s intensity, but I’d never really been a fan until I heard this at 4.30 one Saturday morning in Seattle while delivering papers (long story). It’s direct, but still wonderfully allegorical, a love song that speaks from the heart with real emotion, never devolving into easy sentiment. That makes it the very best love song I know, and when my heart is full it’s one I want to play.
Man Of The World – Fleetwood Mac. For my money, Peter Green was the best British guitar player of his time, and this disc has heartbreak in just two notes of his solo; he expresses so much with so little. There’s so much of an ache to this song, along with some lovely chord changes, that the melancholy simply flows. At this time Green was on the edge of falling apart, and maybe this was his cry for help, or simply his elegy to the world he was leaving behind as he drifted into some other place.
Clock Of The World – Krista Detor. The newest favourite, but it’s not a choice of the moment. The way all the parts fit together make this an almost perfect song. The lyrics are enigmatic, with the meaning just out of reach, but in some strange way they make absolute sense. Add to that some sublime – yes, even angelic – harmonies and the piece sounds pretty damn perfect. Detor is a remarkable talent, one of the very best to come along in years, never maudlin but with a direct reach to the heartstrings and a sense of art.
Fratres For Violin And Piano – Arvo Pärt. Pärt’s vocal pieces are beautiful, but there’s something about his Fratres that seems to reach back to Bach with their mathematical precision. They sound nothing like Bach, of course, but they range from angular to lyrical in the course of a few minutes. They’re thought provoking and challenging, rather than music to just listen to. Music should involve the listener and draw in the ear and the mind. Ultimately these are disquieting, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Norsk Rheinländer/Plink-Plonk – Haugaard & Høirup. In 2003 I was commissioned to write a piece on Danish music for a magazine and spent some time there, falling in love with not only the music, but the place. I’ve been back pretty much every year since and written extensively about Danish folk music. I’m grateful to have made many friends there, among them the duo of fiddler Harald Haugaard and guitarist/singer Morten Alfred Høirup. They no longer play together, but this fairly early piece is stunning, a gorgeous rendition of a traditional dance piece followed by some harmonic pyrotechnics in the fiddle. It’s a thrilling, highwire piece, a demonstration of virtuosity, but one that never fails to delight me in a childish way (and the subtle guitar accompaniment is lovely). Selecting one piece of Danish music was almost impossible, but this own out.
The Dear Irish Boy – Martin Hayes & Dennis Cahill. Another fiddle/guitar duo, this time Irish and American. Hayes is a rarity among musicians, a person who deconstructs what he plays and takes the listener to the foundation. This slow air is almost like a sonata, and in his hands certainly more complex than a two-part folk tune. It’s majestic in its simplicity, a piece of music to leave the mind and the heart full. Not only is it a reminder that skill doesn’t mean playing fast, it’s music made by the heart, and an extended sublime moment.
Monday 6 September 2010
Blair's Book Signing - The Non Event
So Tony Blair has cancelled his London book signing. According to him it’s to stop any strain on the police force and avoid “hassle” to people. Funny, though, how it comes shortly after protests against him when he showed his face in Dublin.
For all his supposed concern for the public resources (not that it seems to bother him that taxpayers for out millions for his security) it seems very likely that he’s finally realised just how large the protests in London would be and he doesn’t have the guts to go through with it.
He’s smug enough to say that it’s not as if he needs to go and sign books. His tome is selling well enough as it is. However, those sales only kicked in after he gave his advance and royalties to charity – a masterstroke of PR from his spin doctor. And, according to some sources, one that will additionally save him plenty in taxes.
My admiration is more for the woman who tried to perform a citizen’s arrest on him in Dublin, and there will doubtless be plenty of others eager to do the same whenever they get the chance.
Perhaps the greatest irony is that Blair, one of the people responsible for the dangerous destabilisation of the Middle East, should have been appointed as a peace envoy there. And he’s proven to be someone who’s saying we shouldn’t rule out military intervention against Iran. Quite obviously history was never one of his good subjects as he seems incapable of learning from it. Even Bush has enough sense to keep a low profile for several years.
For all his supposed concern for the public resources (not that it seems to bother him that taxpayers for out millions for his security) it seems very likely that he’s finally realised just how large the protests in London would be and he doesn’t have the guts to go through with it.
He’s smug enough to say that it’s not as if he needs to go and sign books. His tome is selling well enough as it is. However, those sales only kicked in after he gave his advance and royalties to charity – a masterstroke of PR from his spin doctor. And, according to some sources, one that will additionally save him plenty in taxes.
My admiration is more for the woman who tried to perform a citizen’s arrest on him in Dublin, and there will doubtless be plenty of others eager to do the same whenever they get the chance.
Perhaps the greatest irony is that Blair, one of the people responsible for the dangerous destabilisation of the Middle East, should have been appointed as a peace envoy there. And he’s proven to be someone who’s saying we shouldn’t rule out military intervention against Iran. Quite obviously history was never one of his good subjects as he seems incapable of learning from it. Even Bush has enough sense to keep a low profile for several years.
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