Review: The Penal Colony

This is the story of Anthony Routledge, a former surveyor wrongly accused of murder and condemned to spend the rest of his days on the on the bleak island of Serte, where Britain’s worst convicted criminals have been abandoned to fend for themselves.

Following his initiation he is accepted into ‘The Village’, a semi fortified peninsula within the boundries of which a group of prisoners have formed a society based on rigid protocol and hierarchy. Beyond its boundries  the ‘Outsiders’ exist in a state of perpetual tribal war.

Routledge learns to fulfill his duties and to insulate himself from the bluff formality of his companions with an icy indifference but as war with the Outsiders looms he discovers that doing what it takes to survive in the Village will also involve putting his life on the line to defend it in a bloody war to the knife.

Herley’s rich prose places us firmly in Serte’s rugged, windswept landscape. It puts us on uncomfortably intimate terms with the moral degeneracy of the Outsiders and it allows us into the secretive almost monastic life of the Village.

We are also privy to Routledge's ruthless self examination as he makes the painful journey from despair through, isolation and loneliness and finally to acceptance and inclusion in a plan to escape the island.

Bringing together the darkness of Orwell’s 1984 and the savagery of Benchley’s The Island, the Penal Colony is more than a chilling read, it is an unsettling examination of our own base instincts for survival.

Why I go to Frankie and Bennys

In 1924, at the age of 10, Frankie left Sicily with his parents and moved to “Little Italy” in New York. Within a year of moving, the family had opened a restaurant, which is now co-managed by Frankie's long-time friend Benny. The business was taken over by Frankie and Benny in 1953, and combines popular American food with traditional Italian dishes. Or so the story goes.

In reality it was not started by Frankie and Benny and it cannot trace its lineage back to New York in the 1920’s either. Even my four year old son Nicholas knows this isn’t a real Italian restaurant.

The  last time we went the food wasn’t that bad though, they do a pretty decent cup of coffee too and if going there doesn’t exactly make me feel as if I’m walking to onto the set of Goodfellas, well, Brewers Fair (which is just across the car park) doesn’t exactly make me feel like Laurie Lee in Cider with Rosie either, afterall, this is Strathkelvin Retail Park.

I ordered Spaghetti Bolognaise cooked to ‘Cousin Mario's Italian recipe’ but I know he doesn’t work there just like I know that the smiling men in aprons whose photos line the walls have absolutely no connection with the place either.

That said, you've got to wonder what they'd make of sister Rosaria’s Lamb Shank or what they’d have actually done to Cousin Mario if he’d served up his so called ‘Italian recipe’ back in the old neighbourhood.

But since authenticity isn’t what I’m looking for, I don’t have to waste any time soaking up atmosphere when I could be getting home for the start of Burn Notice or making sure we’re away before the Saturday football traffic on the M9.

Frankie and Bennys is convenient, no doubt about that, but it always gives me a curious sense of  déjà vu, and not because I’m wondering when I was last here. Instead I’m wondering what I’m doing here now, a dilemma best reflected in the unspoken understanding between me and the guy who shows us to our table.

He’ll ask me if I’m enjoying my ‘Uncle Luigi’s meatballs’ and I’ll say ‘Yes, just great thanks.’ Because even though we both know they are rubbery and served in a tasteless sauce we also both know that if I complain and insist on something else I’ll be stuck here another hour while my kids go buck and then we’ll end up missing the start of the movie as well.

As he swipes my card I promise myself this is the last time I’ll come here but we both know that isn’t true either, because there’s nowhere else I can park this close and be in and out inside an hour. Which, incidentally is also why we both know that I can forget trying the little place just off Argyll St. that does really good Italian food.

Finally of course, we both know that Frankie and Bennys is not real Italian food but any complaint based on this observation would be like going to Disneyland and demanding to see the real Mickey Mouse, because that way lies maddness.

Further reading:

Alessia Horwich is a freelance food and travel journalist who is always on the lookout for somewhere new, check out her take on chain restaurants here.  

Sid in his Liverpool Food Blog gives his reasons for avoiding them but says don't knock them either.

Lastly here's Jamie Oliver getting yet another bashing, this time over his chain of Italian restaurant's 'Jamie's Italian.'

Spirit of 79

Power cuts make me nostalgic because I can remember the so called ‘Winter of Discontent’ when widespread industrial action resulted in regular blackouts  up and down the country.

When this happened my father would always shout ‘Bloody Hell!’ before making his way to the kitchen where we kept a torch, candles, matches and a battery powered transistor radio in a box on top of the fridge.

My dad would tell us that because there was not enough electricity for everyone it was just the turn of our village to go without, an explanation which always made me think of one of those huge Dr Frankenstein style switches, with the name of our village stencilled underneath, being pulled into the down position by an anonymous hand.

When the power went off the other night I was completely wrong footed especially when I discovered that my old friend the Challenge 1100 rechargeable worklamp  (water-resistant and shockproof) had long since been bumped from its socket in favour of the breadmaker and was completely useless.

Eventually, by the light of my mobile phone, I  made my way out to the garage where I felt certain there had to be at least a couple of torches amongst packing cases, as yet unopened from our move in the summer.

Sure enough, there was a box containing the boys old toys which proved to be a treasure trove and, after groping my way back to the house I laid out my finds on the kitchen worktop. There was the Fireman Sam torch, the Spiderman torch and the Toy Story Lantern plus the Fisher Price keyboard, Bob the Builder ‘activity driver’ and Tonka Helicopter.

Like a soldier doing a weapons assembly test by candlelight I stripped the keyboard, activity driver and helicopter of their batteries then reloaded them into the torches. I was very pleased, they all worked albeit with uncertain endurance.

Shona had lit candles in the front room and later that night, as we sat down to baked beans and bread by candlelight I felt as if we were coping, coming up the other side, the old Dunkirk spirit kicking in. Just the same old torch candles and tinned beans we had in the Winter of Discontent all those years ago. It goes to show you can still do it with these simple household items.

But it makes me shudder  to think that as a child, my family and millions just like us were advised to keep them in the event of an even darker set of circumstances, one we knew collectively as ‘The Bomb’.

Even the procedure we were supposed to follow was pretty much the same, it simply involved sitting in the darkness and waiting for it all to be over.

It was a relief when the power came back on, it made me realise how dependant we are on it. We live in the Trossochs National Park, only a few miles from the home of Rob Roy McGregor a man who endured hardships I cannot imagine in winters far colder than this, not only that, he also faced the almost constant prospect of capture and imprisonment.

But he never had to face the prospect of nuclear Armageddon armed only with a transistor radio and cheap white candles. Given the choice I’d have taken my chances in the heather.

I'm going to try and add a few alternative slants to my posts so here is one from Vicky who is an artist, firefighter and blogger.

Joining the gym.

My wife just took out a family membership of our local gym. I told her I probably wouldn’t need it because I already have a set of weights in my garage but I have to admit that at this time of year clanking away in the damp freezing  gloom amongst the barbecue, lawnmower and kids bikes isn’t  a lot of fun.

I haven’t actually been a member of a gym for nearly fifteen years, my trainers are the same ones that I wear to walk the dog in the woods and I don’t have one of those t shirts composed of anatomically shaped panels that make me look like a butcher’s diagram so as I headed down there last night I was half expecting to find a whole bunch of equipment I didn’t recognise or that the place was filled with the cast of Jersey Shore.

I need not have worried; aside from having to swipe myself in and then being presented with a beautifully folded towel at the front desk, little has changed in the time I’ve been away. The rowing machines, step machines and exercise bikes are all pretty much the same and after windmilling my arms a couple of times and doing a few cursory hamstring stretches it all started to come back to me. I sat myself down on the ergonometer, set the distance for 2000 meters and cranked the resistance knob to just below maximum – my old settings and the prelude to many a punishing workout on the weights.

One thing that does appear to have changed though is the way they calibrate the resistance, because from the first pull it felt as if I was heaving a barge along a muddy embankment .

After a minute my lungs were bursting, my arms were aching and I was on the pointing of jacking it in and trying something easier – like the drinking fountain - when, just my luck, somebody plonked himself down at the machine next to mine giving me no choice but to keep plugging away grimly.

The digital display works backwards from your target distance and gives all sorts of breakdowns of time, distance and calories and with the sweat coursing off me I watched it counting down with agonising slowness. Instead of feeling like Spartacus at his oar on the sparkling waters of the Adriatic I felt like one of the Chilean miners, being slowly winched through the darkness in his metal capsule, willing the distance to deplete but seemingly powerless to make it go faster.

What was worse the guy next to me kept glancing across at my monitor, causing me to redouble my efforts even though my lungs were, by now, heaving like organ bellows and my exhausted arms and legs were hopelessly out of sync. Eventually, with a final, burst of frantic pulling the counter clocked zero and  I came to a grateful stop.

The guy next to me was still working away, looking infuriatingly unruffled and so, with my vision swimming in and out of focus and my knees threatening to fold under me at any moment I staggered over to the drinking fountain and noisily gurgled down a couple of litres before collapsing on a convenient mat and making a pretence of stretching off.

As I stared up at the ceiling I was  forced to admit that I’d done nothing more than prove that, physically, I’m not in the same shape I was a few years ago.

However, psychologically speaking, I am still a man in the prime of his life; because with absolutely nothing of any measurable value at stake, I had been ready to go the distance without a second thought.

My ego still has rock hard pecs, my double y chromosome pettiness has a twenty-eight inch waist and you can crack walnuts on the butt cheeks of my refusal to quit so long as there someone is watching.

WHAT I THINK OF WHEN I RUN

I have had an on off relationship with running ever since I was twelve but right now, as I’m trying to get fit for a charity event in the summer, me and running are back on.

So now I’m grinding out the miles each night on the forest trails near our home with Pippin bounding ahead in the beam cast by my head torch. Its not fun and even though I'm barely a couple of heartbeats above walking pace there’s an upside to running which I always forget when I’m not doing it and that is, when I’m alone on the trail anything is possible.

I can be I can be Tom Cruise sprinting the rain slick cobbles of Prague in a tuxedo or Rocky Balboa pounding the bustling streets of Philly in tattered sweats. I can be the poetry of ‘Chariots’ opening scene or the irresistable force of Bad Ben Johnson. I can be William Wallace charging over the green fields of Bannockburn or Forrest Gump effortlessly running the desolate plains of the South West.

Some people say they order their thoughts when they run, plan their day, thrash out issues in their head. Not me, in my head I’m scrambling rocky trails that lead ever upward into the  mist or covering the last heroic mile with the end of an epic journey in sight. I’m not thinking about all the things I need to do - that's what driving the car is for.

There’s a tremendous amount of people out there sharing their thoughts on why they run. Here’s three very different and enjoyable slants on the subject.

Jon Eig, Journalist from Chicago

http://www.chicagomag.com/Chicago-Magazine/August-2011/Why-I-Run/

Steve Leach, Composer

http://harmonyguy.wordpress.com/2008/09/01/what-i-think-about-when-i-think-about-running/

Jen, blogger from the US

http://jenintraining.blogspot.com/p/why-i-run.html

Lastly, I’ve included this absolute masterpiece of a Nike commercial from 1996. Enjoy!

THE SAS SURVIVAL HANDBOOK

‘With short hair and shiny boots you can achieve anything.’ So went the advice of Arnold J Rimmer, a martinet cleaning supervisor with military pretensions and one of the central characters in the nineties sci fi comedy, Red Dwarf.

His philosophy on life bore a striking similarity to that espoused in a much more serious work, The SAS  Survival Handbook, namely, that with the right attitude and only minimal kit you can survive anywhere.

Written by SAS veteran John ‘Lofty’ Wiseman and first published in 1991 it was less a manual on survival, more an essential ‘must have’ for the generation that never went to war. There were instructions on how to light a fire with a bullet, how to gut a deer, build a cabin, cure meat, or how to make a compass with a battery and although its practical applications for the modern man were almost non-existent, it enabled the reader to talk offhandedly about the correct way to sharpen an axe or conserve body heat in an emergency as if they’d actually done it.

At the same time it was a book that could be appreciated purely for what it was – a beautifully presented collection of wisdom with great illustrations, and on this level it was just like The Joy of Sex.

You might not try all those positions demonstrated by the bearded hippy and his girlfriend, but if conversation in the pub should ever turn in that direction you could hint at tremendous expertise without the slightest chance of being called on to demonstrate.

The illustrations in the SAS Survival Handbook were pretty useful on their own and one in particular that stuck in my mind depicted how to surround your campfire with rocks to protect it from the wind. On a balmy summers evening, in the Brecon Beacons I recreated this nugget of woodsmanship using  rocks from the nearby stream, of which there were a plentiful supply.

There was no wind but as I settled down beside my now neatly enclosed fire, it was with the satisfaction of expert knowledge, expertly applied.

The first rock exploded after about twenty minutes sending jagged fragments buzzing past my ears and, grabbing my gear, I was forced to retreat hastily to the safety of the trees.  From here I was able to still smell the aroma of pine branches burning on my now useless but lethal campfire as the remaining rocks cracked and shattered in the gathering dusk.

If I’d actually bothered to read the text which accompanied the pictures I’d have learned that rocks which have been submerged in water for any length of time are prone to explode when heated, often with lethal consequences.

A wealth of knowledge resided between the covers of the SAS Survival handbook and that was always where I left it because the moment I strapped on my rucksack and set forth into the hills I’d forget the lot and later, bungling about lost, or feeling a mounting sense of rage, as one by one my damp matches sparked and went out, I’d curse myself for ignoring the advice on waterproofing them with candle wax or for skipping the chapter on navigation altogether.

Lofty Wiseman’s work has been largely eclipsed now by that of the more people-friendly Ray Mears or the more HD friendly Bear Grylls, but for me, Lofty with his trademark droopy moustache, and woollen hat pulled well down, still remains the quintessential survival expert.

In the summer I’m planning a hiking and kayaking trip from Glasgow to Inverness and this time I won’t be leaving him on the bookshelf, he’ll be coming with me because the SAS Survival Handbook is now available as an app for your android.

One Dimensional Hero.

How refreshing it was to read the story of that guy cheating in the Keilder marathon. In the last few miles of the race he hopped on a bus and got out just before the finish line to claim third place. I almost wish he’d stopped to turn some of the signs the wrong way round as well or sprinkled itching powder down the vest of one of his rivals.

The whole story reminded me of  ‘The Tough of the Track’, a weekly strip that ran in the Victor comic. Its central character, was a middle distance and cross country runner called Alf Tupper. A tough as nails welder by trade, his victories usually owed more to tenacity and a refusal to quit than any kind of cutting edge training regime or enlightened nutritional programme.

As a low tech, one dimensional hero Tupper seemed ideally suited to the gritty black and white post war Britain he inhabited and with his staple diet of fish and chips, his chirpy demeanour and work hard, play hard ethic he seemed enviably content with his lot in life.

His adventures were never dull though, his willingness to use his fists when occasion demanded made up for a lack of guns and explosions while his highly developed sense of right and wrong, combined with his intense dislike of bullies and cheats, gave the stories an almost Dickensian feel.

The centre piece however, was always his gutsy races, often while carrying an injury or exhausted after a long shift.

Alf Tupper made his last appearance in 1992 and it’s a testament to his tenacity and stamina that he lasted as long as he did because its hard to see a place for him in Britain today. Somehow I just can’t picture him chasing looters out of HMV during the London riots, capturing images of fare dodgers on his mobile phone or downloading tracks from Spotify to listen to on his training runs.

That said the guy who was caught cheating in the Kielder marathon was not caught on a security camera or by sophisticated race technology. Instead he was bubbled by the bus driver, some of the passengers and the off duty policeman who was awarded fourth place. Alf Tupper would most certainly have approved.

And if Tintin, with his questionable past allegiances, can be brought back to life on the big screen maybe Alf Tupper will get his turn too. Certainly, given the choice between watching him beat the toffs to win the Greystone marathon or sitting through two hours of  Harry Potter casting spells and playing Quidditch, well, I’m going with ‘The Tough of the Track’ every time.