goodrichard.com

We should not be defining ourselves simply by the logo on our cars. In doing so, we hand our identity and our self-worth over to companies whose existence are geared not towards quality of life, but towards profit.

Source: Neil Boorman, Bonfire of the Brands

We’re all attracted to a certain product because of its brand. My allegiance to Volkswagen is a long-standing one, and I don’t really know why, for me, the German company’s products stand wing mirrors above cars offered by rival manufacturers. It’s even more of a brand thing when other, cheaper, VW Group products from Skoda and SEAT are as good as the more expensive offerings from their parent company. You are, quite literally, paying for the badge.

It can be argued that Neil Boorman’s book, Bonfire of the Brands, is more relevant now than when it was first published. A story of one man and his quest to live a brand-free, and arguably more ethical life, it hit the book shelves last year.. But, the values and self analytical quests contained within it fit snugly with the credit crunched and unnecessary spending world of 2008.

Boorman was a brand charlatan before writing these 244 pages, with logos plastered over everything he owned, and touching every part of his life. Of course, they appeal to all of us for all sorts of different reasons, but believing that brands had come to stand for much more than the quality or origin of the products as they did when the first branded goods were sold over a century ago, Boorman set out to find out why.

Arguing that although advertising messages bombard us from every street corner, every TV and cinema screen, and every magazine and newspaper, Boorman states the obvious in that we don’t have to adhere to the ‘consume more’ and ‘this will make your life better’ messages. And that’s before the non-ethical values that perpetuate from the ‘more, more, more’ and ‘got to have that’ society are brought into play.

Boorman’s analysis of the effects brands have on society is well-researched, and it turns from a quest searching for the answers to how brands work, the effect they have on the consumer-driven society, and how they control us, to a deep-thinking self analysis. He discovers his brand addiction manifested itself at an early age, and is something he has almost hidden his real self behind for most of his adult life.

Anecdotes and entries are interspersed with brand histories, Boorman’s own therapist reports, and his research, which turns up some interesting theories and questions. One such thought is that consumers believe the lies and messages beamed out from advertising so much that it almost brainwashes them into buying that product or service. With similarities to propagandas of war, that product or service may enhance your life, but did you really need it until you saw the commercial on TV or in the press?

As the title suggests, in the ultimate act and the last stage in his branded life, Boorman burnt £20,000 of his logoed goods on a high-profile bonfire in central London. From then on, he pledges to live brand-free for at least a year, untouched by the empty promises most branded goods offer. As well as the preparation for the sacrificial fire itself, the reader is taken on the author’s journey to find more ethical ways of buying clothes, sourcing food, and even mixing homemade cosmetics.

Some would call Boorman’s burning of his branded possessions and this subsequent book headline-grabbing voyeurism, but it’s not only enlightening, but engaging, too. Largely written as diary entries pre and post-bonfire, Bonfire of the Brands equips the reader with at least some of the tools he or she should need, if a brand-free or brand-reduced lifestyle appeals.

Starting as a blog at the beginning of his self analytical journey, Boorman’s book is mostly an easy read, and while buying brand-free T-shirts and food at overpriced markets won’t make a difference in the bigger picture, the book is at the very least an insightful and thought-provoking essay into the world of commercialism and sociology.

• Bonfire of the Brands: How I Learned to Live Without Labels by Neil Boorman, Canongate Books Ltd 2007, ISBN 978 1 84195 987 0

The opening bars of Johnny Pearson’s Piano Parchment theme tune, and the line ‘Darrowby 385’ are iconic, as should be the animal names of Boris, Clancy, and Tricky Woo. The Yorkshire Dales and James Herriot are inseparable, you can’t mention either without also thinking about TV’s All Creatures Great and Small. Adapted from Herriot’s books and based largely on his life (the characters were based on vets at Herriot’s first practice, with Helen being his real-life wife Joan), the Sunday night BBC series from 30 years ago is fondly remembered.

I think my own love of the programme lies in the fact that I used to want to be a vet when I was a small boy (indeed it might have actually been the series that made that subconscious decision). I didn’t become one of course, but did toy with the thought again quite recently, but the eight years of veterinary training soon put paid to any ideas of driving about the countryside wearing checked shirts, cords, and shiny shoes.

Following on from the films All Creatures Great and Small and It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet, and from 1974 and 1976 respectively, the BBC’s TV series is the most well-known of the on-screen adaptations. First broadcast in 1978, it made household names of Robert Hardy (Siegfried Farnon), Christopher Timothy (James Herriot), Peter Davison (Tristan Farnon), and Carol Drinkwater (Helen Alderson, later Herriot). Timothy became without doubt the most-loved and most famous on-screen Herriot of all.

Christopher Timothy is the most-loved on-screen Herriot (©BBC)

With the beautiful Yorkshire Dales as a backdrop, the series was never to going to be anything but a success. Add in well-acted and scripted scenes, gentle and often humourous stories, and a prime-time Sunday evening slot, and it’s no wonder the show is revered three decades on.

Nothing much happens in each episode (although we recently had one with James’ marriage proposal to Helen, and acceptance, and a preview of the wedding), and that, I suspect is one of the reasons why it works. We find the same thing with the later 1980s Howards’ Way, too. TV execs wouldn’t allow that these days, and would pack each programme full of interwoven and complicated stories.

All Creatures’ interior shots filmed at BBC Pebble Mill, Birmingham

Running for three series, from 1978 to 1980 and with specials in 1983 and 1985, a further four series were broadcast from 1988 to 1990, with 90 episodes in all. The end of the first run saw the storyline cover the outbreak of the Second World War, with the subsequent end starting the second run. The later series saw Oxo commercial mum Lynda Bellingham cast as Helen (but good though she was, it’s Drinkwater – a stage name surely – who will always be the face of the part in my mind).

All Creatures Great and Small ended when all of Herriot’s material had been used, and there were no more stories left to be adapted. Now finally available on DVD, it can charm a whole new army of fans, while appealing to Seventies kids like us, who remember the original broadcasts, and our reliving our childhood Sunday nights.

Sainsbury Centre for the Visual Arts, Norwich

Having to collect the second replacement Pure DMX-60 from Norwich on Saturday afternoon, we thought we’d soak up a little culture in the process. The Sainsbury Centre of the Visual Arts on the UEA campus was where we ended up.

One of around a hundred university museums open to the public in the UK, the Sainsbury Centre is as interesting for the building itself, as for the Robert and Lisa Sainsbury Collection contained within it. Indeed, the aluminium, glass, steel, and plastic structure holds a strange and bewildering fascination for fans of modern architecture.

Opened in 1978, it was designed by Lord Foster, and was his first public building, pre-dating his later Stansted Airport terminal by three years. A prefabricated modular structure, the long building appears to be one vast space inside, with a structural skeleton, devoid of structural pillars, and bathed in both natural and artificial light.

It’s all very cleverly done, with the internal surfaces of the building appearing to ‘hang’ from the roof. A partially-underground ‘extension’, the Crescent Wing, opened in 1991 and solved the problem of much-needed office, storage, and workshop space.

The last major additions to the original site were an additional gallery, studio area and shop, which were all placed off a central corridor in 2006, linking the 1978 and 1991 buildings internally.

Although not making for great pictures, reflecting the early February sunshine in its two glazed ends and inviting the outside world in, the view of the study area and the natural world outdoors almost makes you want to get out your books again. The café was equally light and bright, too, and an atmosphere of calm pervaded across the interior space, and the entire site as a whole.

With the surrounding campus outside providing a very different (with a European) influence, we felt as if we were trapped in a strange and alien world - but, a world in which we spent a surprisingly enjoyable afternoon.

Legendary novelist Daphne du Maurier has long been held in high esteem for her tales of Cornish folk, and though not her masterpiece (Rebecca is widely regarded as du Maurier’s best work), Jamaica Inn certainly does nothing to damage her reputation for finely-crafted stories of thriller and suspense.

I’ll let you in to a secret. Jamaica Inn is actually the first du Maurier novel I’ve ever read, and the first book I’ve been able to concentrate on and get drawn into for quite some time. It’s gripping from the start, and considering it was written over 80 years ago, du Maurier can still show other writers how it’s done.

Set in Cornwall in the Victorian era, the book tells the story of young Mary Yellan from Helford, who goes to Jamaica Inn to live with her aunt and her husband. With a dark and brooding reputation for sinister goings-on, the inn itself has as much character as the humans portrayed within its walls and dimly-lit passages.

From the moment Mary arrives by stagecoach at Bodmin Moor on a wet and windy winter’s night, the story grips you, and as it unfolds, it clings to you, so that simply putting it down isn’t an option.

Du Maurier obviously had talent, as her second novel certainly doesn’t skimp on the details. Almost every nook and cranny of Jamaica Inn is described so well, that when I visited the real-life building on a sunny day in early September, I was disappointed by the tourist trap it has now become.

Rumour had it that a young du Maurier was inspired to write the book after getting lost in thick fog while horseriding and seeking refuge at the inn. A local vicar is said to have entertained her with ghost stories and smuggling tales, erstwhile becoming inspiration for one of the more enigmatic and mysterious characters in the book.

Along with the inn itself, the beautiful Cornish countryside is scripted in such vivid (and sometimes desolate) colour too, that the surroundings, like the inn itself, play as much a part of the story as Mary and the family and smuggling gangs that surround her. Her uncle, Joss, is a particularly nasty piece of work – his brother less so – and is well-deserved of his fearful reputation.

Slowly unravelling the horrors that Jamaica Inn has seen and continues to see, she confides in a local vicar, and her uncle’s brother, but is there really anyone she can trust?

Discovering and becoming part of the bloody and violent smuggling stories herself, Mary longs to draw attention to the wicked tales that are kept secret within the corridors and locked storage rooms of her uncle’s feared drinking establishment.

A compelling read, du Maurier brings each scene to life with her descriptions of settings and human emotions, leaving little to the imagination. And that’s why this book shines.

So little work is needed to set the scene that you can enjoy the story and follow its twist and turn-filled journey wholeheartedly, all the time enjoying the interaction between the characters and their relationships, and seeing how they (or how you think they) fit into the story.

Rebcecca is sitting on my bedside shelf, waiting to me to open its covers and begin reading its tales. On the basis of Jamaica Inn (and the promise of an even more wondrous and accomplished book), it won’t have to wait long.

goodrichard.com rating:

Expensive wasn’t necessarily best at MPH

We broke our own ‘let’s-not-visit-London-at-the-weekend’ rule on Saturday, and hopped on a train down to the capital to see MPH. Nik and I had free tickets worth £33 a pop, so we thought it worthwhile to tolerate another day another day on the trains to see some spectacular cars.

Once in the city, though, getting to Earl’s Court wasn’t easy. I had foolishly forgotten my Oyster card (which frustratingly needed a top-up anyway), and so we had to battle the tourist queues in order for me to buy a one-day travelcard. The Liverpool Street ticket machine lines of people weren’t moving, so we ended up walking to Bank, where broken down machines weren’t encouraging, and the negative thoughts usually encouraged by our weekday commuting trips to the capital started to creep up on us.

Ticket purchase done, the Central and Piccadilly line Tubes whizzed us through the underground network, where we met with comfortable crowds at Earl’s Court, and stands of expensive shiny cars. The highlight of MPH is a live show, which with presenters Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May is what a live edition of BBC Top Gear would be like.

The 75-minute show featured handfuls of automotive models wheeled out in front of an enthusiastic several-thousand-strong crowd, and a frenzy of action, games, and stunts. It was enjoyable – and loud – and with pyrotechnics to rival budget movies, was a very visual experience.

The ‘Prestige Motorshow’ (a hall of static display cars) was less exciting, and after an hour of weaving between the crowds and cooing over old Fiat 500s (our favourites of the whole show), we jumped back on the Tube and headed back into the centre of town.

A stroll to Borough Market made it our first stop, where we sidestepped and peered at all sorts of fresh produce stalls. Offering locally and speciality-sourced breads, cheeses, fruit and vegetables, fish, meat, mushrooms, and olives (and olive oil), among other tasty-looking items with which to fill the Borough Market hessian shopping bag, it’s very much a tourist market, as the throngs of ethically-minded buyers proved.

Borough Market baklava or balkava?

Spotting a stall specialising in the near-Eastern ground nut, honey, and pastry delicacy of baklava, we bought a bagful to munch on. I had never tried it, but as Nik had enjoyed more than his fair share while in Greece, I was curious to try it for myself. It’s very sticky, and very, very sweet, but served well as a dessert to follow lunch.

Walking down to the Tate Modern, we were curious to see Shibboleth, the 167m crack which runs the whole length of the old turbine hall at the South Bank museum, not only because part of a London landmark had been sacrificed to make it, but also to see exactly how Doris Salcedo’s vision of racism had been interrupted.

The bewildering Shibboleth at Tate Modern

It was very impressive, though largely from a technical viewpoint. We still weren’t sure if it was art, and quite how it represents racism, but it’s definitely worth going to see, before it disappears in April. Starting as a hairline opening at one end of the gigantic hall, it steadily grows to a gaping chasm, and is as shapely as a crack can hope to be. Like many other curious visitors, we dipped our hands or feet in its contoured internal walls, and so well shaped are these, the bottom of the crack is never visible. It must have taken ages to sculpt it.

Louise Bourgeois’ Tate Modern spider a little creepy-crawly

I was a little disappointed by Louise Bourgeois’ fearsome-looking spider overlooking the Millennium Bridge and gazing toward St Paul’s, though. Still scary against a cloudy and grey November sky, and looking like it’s about to scuttle off and attack the City, it wasn’t as large as I had imagined it would be. This was maybe a relief, for someone who doesn’t like spiders all that much.

Our final stop of the day was the Design Museum, to see the Zaha Hadid Architecture and Design exhibition. Ultimately, I was expecting more from the Iraq-born designer. While the showcase was an interesting mix of buildings, furniture, and other objects, the buildings weren’t recognisably buildings, having a very organic, if geometric appearance.

Renderings were joined by sketches which resembled paintings, bringing architecture and art together, while a fair few of the buildings shown hadn’t been built, but were competition winners, or Hadid’s visions of the future.

Even the smaller exhibition of Matthew Williamson’s past and current colourful catwalk glories couldn’t hold off our gradual tiredness, though, and we headed back to Liverpool Street for the train home having enjoyed our weekend day in London.

And as we zizzed up the mainline with weary legs and feet, we were looking forward to going home. But, as fireworks climbed into the darkness of the night sky around the moving train, we were a little gladdened that for once, we hadn’t stayed local.