Critic Cal

On a bad day on the inside of my head, of which there were many, my arms were the arms of a gorilla. On better days, they were the arms of a man. On no day at all did they pass as the arms of a female teenager, or indeed a female anything. Except maybe a female gorilla. This was just one of the many many points on which I failed to meet the spec. I was desperate to bring myself up to it somehow ... but how? Not a clue. I'd picked up some hints about things  not  to do. For example, attacking the excesses with razors precipitated an increase of future excesses. So ... what exactly? If anyone of my acquaintance was an expert on the subject, they kept that shameful fact appropriately quiet – but, even if I'd known whom to approach, I doubt it would ever have occurred to me that such a drastic measure as asking was a legitimate option. So I just dragged my gorilla arms around with me, one on each side. And, along with them, the weighty consciousness of them. They (and ...

A thing that I made for  Sophia Network's Poetry Month  ...                  JARRING                  ...that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.                 She was always giving him lip                 these days; she used                 to hold her peace, at least, he mused.                 He was the pain in her neck that would                 not lift; she’d left   ...

I used to watch a lot of films. We married in a liminal age; a time when people still rented DVDs, but selected them online and had them home-delivered like a very slow and ultimately inedible pizza. As frugal students we made meticulous use of our LoveFilm account, steaming through as many acknowledged must-sees of the cinema world as the speed of Royal Mail allowed. But I got old; fidgety; conscious of the finity of hours and more greedy to create than to consume. I'd like to say that I preserve my sapped appetite for screen time for the cream of the cinema crop. That I ponder over the Watershed program in careful search of a foreign language arthouse opus worthy of my next quarterly big screen pilgrimage. That I attend in solemn state supplied with fine red wine and an elegant Moleskine notebook in which to neatly print my cannily-observed remarks for later contemplation. But the sad truth is that my selection criteria has descended to "whatever's free on Amazon ...

I am endlessly intrigued by allusion to Jesus in literature. Intentional or inci-/accidental, affirmatory or critical – it all expands on the conversation; all highlights and reinforces the permeation of his shaping presence in reality. There's lots of examples to choose from. Writers, it seems, are themselves endlessly intrigued by him – at least, within the largely Western, recent centuries' traditions that encompass most of my reading choices. It's the subtle instances that most delight me, like the following scene in the pleasingly quirky  White Noise  by Don DeLillo [1]... The family of college professor Jack Gladney – along the rest of their town and the inhabitants of the surrounding region – are displaced by an 'airborne toxic event'. They are temporarily housed in an abandoned scout camp. The place is rife with uncertainty; rumours of varying degrees of extremity proliferate; concrete information is scarce. Anyone boa...

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.  (William Shakespeare, Sonnet 18, c.1609)  Was ever arrogance so eloquent! He's basically saying, "Look, love, you're a bit of alright. And I can write, right? In fact, I'm a big-shot playwright. Will's words won't wilt, I'll warrant you. Some centuries' time this rhyme'll be a rite of educational passage for school kids up and down our Scepter'd Isle and where'er else our native tongue be known." Only, he's Shakespeare, so he's saying it in words so Shakespe hear ianly splendid as to render them self-fulfilling. (Well, four hundred years and counting, at least ... so far, so good). Many of Shakespeare's sonnets are pre-occupied with the idea of immortalisation through the written word. The fact that most are addressed to a man (scholars are unable to unambiguously conclude that the relationship was a romantic one but much o...

When The Snowden Revelations first broke in late May 2013, I couldn't help but notice his date of birth: June 21, 1983. A mere 20 days away from my own. Which means that we were both of us in the messy process of turning 30 when it happened. My experience of said process inclines me to conjecture that it may not have been altogether without bearing on his decision to go public. A costly act of selfless bravery, or a desperate bid for significance ahead of a conspicuous personal landmark? Or, if my own (far less internationally consequential) attempts at 'meaningful' adult life are anything to go by, a complex blend of both ...                 A CRITICAL AGE                 And it came to pass in his thirtieth year                 He found t...

And the scribe and plutocrat brought unto us a man stated in obscenity; and when they had set him in the press, they say unto us, Reader, this man was stated in obscenity, in the very act. Now Murdoch as a rule commanded us, that such should be panned: but what sayest thou...? What we  did  sayest said more, I suggest, about us than about the Prime Minister [1]. How delighted we emerged in the emergence of such unparalleled grounds for disgust! Twitter was awash with pork puns, suggestive pics, quips about the Pig Society, and a derogatory spoof account,  conspicuously followed by the UK Russian Embassy; someone inevitably had the genius idea of putting the word 'gate' at the end of the descriptor of the implicated creature, thereby concretising the allegation as an official political scandal; my favourite societal prognostician , Charlie Brooker, had to publicly clarify that no, he had not heard any such rumour when he penned Black Mirror episode ...