Howdy,

I just wanted to let you know that my collection of short stories, Shadows and Sharks, is now available as an e-book on Amazon. That is (I hope!) hours of entertainment for the princely sum of 99p. It is similarly inexpensive in America and elsewhere. It can be on your Kindle in a matter of seconds.

Thank you to everyone who has supported the book so far. It’s still available as a physical copy and has won all-five stars reviews on Amazon.

And anything you might do to spread the word would be hugely appreciated, too.

God, I hate hustling.

But I am proud of the book.

High in the trees

Resplendent-yet-camouflaged in green

Sits the man who knows us all

He waves to people who do not see

Shares aphorisms with those who do not hear

And smiles benignly

As he watches over us

He intervenes rarely and with care

Always making it count

He has one green suit

One orange suit

And one white suit

And that gets the job done

In terms of blending in no matter the season

The birds bring him scraps of food

They know not to bother offering him a worm

Every day is different

And he sleeps with the depth of one

Who knows his life is worthwhile

You won’t ever see him

But you should nevertheless look up

From time to time

And smile in his general direction

Everything is not okay. It only has a chance of being okay if we take radical action, as one world.

Familiar words, which we have heard about climate change for many years. Leaving that debate to one side, we are not hearing it nearly enough in the field of Artificial Intelligence (AI) or the similar sounding Artificial General Intelligence (AGI). What’s the difference between the two? AGI is a type of AI that matches or surpasses human intelligence. And it could be imminent.

Simply deferring to experts when they tell the rest of not to worry about this prospect is a bad idea for two reasons.

Firstly, Covid showed us that scientists and civil servants can have far too narrow a focus, thinking in silos. It was predictable and understandable that those tasked with stopping the spread of Covid would think only of that. It was the job of politicians, journalists, and the rest of us to ask questions about the impact of lockdowns on other health outcomes, the economy, and everything else. That largely failed.

Secondly, experts in AI and AGI are not united in their assessment of the danger. Geoffrey Hinton, the “Godfather of AI” and a Nobel Prize-winner, is profoundly worried. A point of his that really grabbed me is that if you set AI a goal but allow it to set its own sub-goals, things could turn disastrous very quickly.

Eliezer Yudkowksy is even more worried. His book about AGI is called If Anyone Builds It, Everyone Dies.

Yudkowsky, who I’m sorry to say is highly plausible, employs an interesting analogy. If you build a skyscraper that destroys an ant hill, destroying the ant hill wasn’t your goal. That was building the skyscraper. It’s just that you were indifferent about the ants.

AI might never hate human beings; perhaps by definition it can’t do so. It will likely always be indifferent about us, however. Perhaps by definition it can only be so.

Yudkowsky also points out that it’s unlikely AI will use killer robots (like the Terminator featured above) to murder us and that something the size of a speck of dust landing on the back of one’s neck is more probable - or a virus.

You surely don’t have to be an expert to conclude that creating something more intelligent than human beings is a massively dangerous experiment with no precedent, that the lawmakers are not keeping up with how it’s progressing, that computers and robots won’t care about us, and that there is a non-negligible chance that AGI will wipe out humanity.

You’d have to be ferociously ignorant or insane to think that our current crop of politicians is up to the task of meeting this challenge. We can’t even fill in potholes on roads, for crying out loud.

AI does, of course, promise some magnificent advances, especially in the field of disease and illness. (Although I am reminded of John Maynard Keynes’s admonition that “In the long run, we are all dead.”) Yet the risks if things go wrong are truly existential.

I’ve gone down a rabbit-hole today looking into this issue. Something with which I hadn’t grappled is that there will be competing AI systems - and that they could be perfectly willing to use human beings as a resource in that competition. In one sense, they would think literally nothing of it (i.e. morally). In another, they would think very sophisticatedly about it.

And so we come to a point I haven’t heard others make. (Although let’s face it, they probably have!) The best solution to AI’s expected destruction of jobs - both blue collar and white collar - is thought by many to be a Universal Basic Income. Leaving aside such problems as how to set it and the spiritual impact on a person of not having a career, I think we need to ask a bigger question.

Money exists so that we don’t have to exist just by directly swapping goods or services, or through physical labour. I don’t pay for food by writing a speech for the supermarket, I don’t grow food, I don’t have to give the supermarket one of my guitars. That’s the genius of money. But it is also it’s only purpose.

What if it isn’t just hard to decide how to redistribute the money generated by AI / AGI? What if it doesn’t generate money? What if different AI systems don’t just compete with each other, but co-operate, through an exchange of services, and not by exchanging tokens?

And what if it decides to shut humans out of this altogether?

What if it goes wrong and wipes out all digital banking?

What if it chooses to do that, for some reason?

What if it develops something approximating to a moral code that bears little relationship to human values? Isn’t it quite likely AI / AGI will value human beings according to something other than whether they are good people?

What value would a kind person with an intellectual disability have to a computer? Human beings often fail to see non-economic or non-status value in other human beings. Is that any consolation when considering the prospect of AI being even more heartless?

What if it decides to kill us to ensure its supremacy just before AI is about to morph into AGI?

What if, what if, what if, what if?

I’m sorry that this is so terrifying. But you have a responsibility to engage with it. We all do.

It is not a good idea to build soulless, heartless machines with vastly greater capabilities than human beings, if there is any chance they will be impossible to control.

You really don’t need to be a clever-clogs to see that.

I’ve just caught up with Gina Carano’s fight with Ronda Rousey. I was very tempted to get up in the small hours to watch it live, but I was flagging, so I went to bed and set my alarm for 3am. However, when it went off, I decided to watch the fight as live later this morning. These fighters get up early to do mega hard training. I couldn’t even get up early to watch TV!

Both women are trailblazers. Carano was the first mainstream female star of mixed martial arts (MMA) and Rousey took things to a new level. They’ve both acted in movies. And they’re both highly decorated in their base martial art. Carano does Muay Thai - a form of kickboxing that also allows elbow and knee strikes - and Rousey is an Olympic Bronze Medallist in judo. (Rousey’s mother was a world champion.)

It was necessary to blaze a trail, because many men and women were profoundly uncomfortable about women fighting, or uninterested, or actively hostile. It’s easy to forget how many people still think that fighting is inherently wrong for anybody, no matter the circumstances. Women fighters have had it doubly tough. But Carano and Rousey exploded any notion that women don’t have the skill or heart to fight well, at least for anyone who has bothered to watch them.

Neither Carano nor Rousey need my permission to fight. God knows I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to! But their public utterances suggest they are very grateful to have a big fanbase. I am but one man, but I thought it might be interesting to share how I respond to women having a tear-up.

One of my friends is a very gifted athlete. She boxed for England, having taken up the sport as a grown woman. Her progress was rapid. I saw her first fight. She was a good pal by then and I was looking forward to it, but I also felt quite funny about the prospect of cheering while women were getting beaten up - albeit by other women and even though they had consented to it.

At the risk of sounding overly defensive, I don’t think that’s entirely a bad thing. It is healthy for men to have a courtly side. My friend had some trouble convincing men to spar with her. I confess that I wouldn’t want to punch a woman, even if I thought she could take it. Finding that prospect viscerally off-putting might suggest I didn’t adequately respect that woman’s status as a fighter. It might alternatively speak to deeply ingrained disinclinations that I would not want to change in myself.

In the event, as a spectator, it wasn’t like that at all! The moment the bell rang, I joined in with our friends in shouting my head off to encourage our mate. Gender politics disappeared completely. I was watching a fight, and I was partial.

It is hard to make match-ups at the start of a fighter’s career. My friend was brilliant. Her opponent wasn’t in the same class, and took quite a pasting. This can always induce a bit of discomfort in me whichever sex is fighting, but it didn’t feel any worse because she was a woman than if she’d been a man. I think I’d have been very troubled if the fighters had been kids, though.

Context is all. As I have said before, it is as ridiculous to say that a martial artist is bound to be violent in all aspects of life as it is to say that a man who makes love to his wife is likely to rape children. I love a fight when both parties are martial artists. If I see an adult slap a child it haunts me forever. I have no wish ever to have a fight in a pub or on the street.

I deleted and then repasted this next bit.

Some of us went out for a meal after our friend’s boxing debut. I was rhapsodic about how well she had fought. I was deeply impressed by how she moved like a seasoned boxer. One of the women among us assumed this all showed that I had a thing for our friend. That isn’t true, although she’s lovely. I don’t actually fancy all my attractive friends!

My boxer friend got it, though, when I made the same observations to her. She knew that I was a boxing fan paying tribute to an impressive fighter.

The more interesting phenomenon, I think, is that it’s also not a factor even if I do find a fighter attractive in that way. Gina Carano is happily married. It’s also possible that she isn’t into very fat bald men. But she is gorgeous and I have a crush on her. Yet any thought of that completely disappears when her fights start. Truly. In fact, although I was leaning towards wanting Carano to win, ultimately as a judoka I am glad that the judoka did.

Why mention this stuff at all? (You will understand why I wasn’t sure about posting it.) Well, female fighters need and are grateful for support. They deserve to know when someone is admiring them simply for their fighting skills. Also, this is something people can worry about when they spar with the opposite sex, or if they’re gay. How is close proximity to a person one finds attractive going to feel? And are you going to be and feel safe if you spar with people who might find you attractive?

Some people have had the courage to raise this fear in online discussions I’ve seen, and the feedback is pretty consistent: although everyone should be respectful and we need to demand appropriate behaviour, fighting doesn’t feel at all sexy.

Fighters might BE sexy, but that’s a different matter. Of course it’s attractive when someone is good at something, and a shared interest can be a great basis for a relationship. I hope to make new female and male friends at judo clubs, and I suppose it would be nice to meet my future wife through judo. But having or watching a fight is about something else entirely.

A fight is a crisis. And it’s good to have a controlled crisis every now and then. During one of my nervous breakdowns (of course I’ve had more than one; I’m not an amateur) I went ahead with some stand-up gigs. I cannot adequately articulate what a bad way I was in. Yet for the time I was on stage, it all went away completely. Another friend says riding a motorbike is good for him because he has to focus so hard. Fighting is a supreme crisis that shuts out everything else. It’s one reason that I want to do it so much, as a judoka.

Being a fighter is is mainly about preparing to fight, of course. Both Carano and Rousey have spoken about how much they have loved getting in shape for their contest. Carano lost 100 pounds. As a younger woman, she turned her life around by getting into martial arts. Being a fighter is central to Rousey’s self-identity.

Oh - and by any measure - they are both incredibly good at it. Honestly, there are sports where I think the women’s game lags behind the men’s skill-wise and not just power-wise. This is not true of martial arts. Some of the fastest and most skilful judoka are small women.

I reiterate that neither Carano or Rousey needed my permission to fight. But they did need support from fans to make their fight one of the epic moments in MMA history. I am so pleased for them that they have that, finally, and salute them for all their hard work in the gym, in the cage, on the road, in promotional work, and in avoiding the refrigerator that made a great fight possible. They are both a huge inspiration to me.

Another thing: don’t let anyone tell you that Rousey resorted to wrestling in taking down Carano! It may no longer be allowed in judo competition, but the double leg takedown is called “Morote Gari” and part of judo’s Gokyo - i.e. list of techniques. What Americans call Rousey’s famous “armbar” and Brits call an “armlock” is known as a “Juji Gatame”.

Gina Carano is a badass. She strikes with massive skill and venom. As a neophyte judoka, it was heartening to see how a brilliant judoka can neutralise and overcome that kind of threat. Rousey did so in 17 seconds flat.

A swift victory conveys a sense that the fighters were not well-matched, but that isn’t necessarily true - and it wasn’t true in this case. Carano wasn’t beaten quickly because Rousey was out of her league. The two women belong side by side on MMA’s equivalent of Mount Rushmore.

In what used to be the two main political parties, being in charge of a group of MPs in Parliament is by far the most important job for a leader. The process for replacing someone who has lost the confidence of their parliamentary colleagues needs to be agile and swift.

Giving party members a vote seemed to make things more democratic, but that was an illusion. MPs have a wider democratic mandate; members of a political party do not. If Starmer goes, there may be a case for a general election. That’s debatable. There is NEVER a good case for the members of a party picking a new Prime Minister.

We live in a parliamentary democracy: only MPs should vote for the leader of a parliamentary party. It is always a nightmare when MPs have a leader forced on them by their party members. So the system is wrong in both theory and practice.

I write this as someone who would normally prefer the members’ choice for Conservative leader to the MPs’ choice. I would like to see party members’ views better represented, e.g. by giving them more say in the selection of parliamentary candidates. But once they’ve been elected, it’s the MPs alone who should be able to hire and fire their leader in Parliament.

And it will be terrible for the country to wait weeks or months for the replacement of a Prime Minister who has lost all authority.

“Strictly speaking, it’s ‘Frankenstein’s Monster’. ‘Frankenstein’ is the name of the creator.”

“That’s not my point.”

“Well, I’m sorry for my pedantry, but this is something a lot of people get wrong. It’s one of those things like saying ‘Myself’ instead of ‘me’ or asserting that King Cnut thought he could turn back the tide.”

“You’re a cnut.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Look, I wasn’t talking about the novel Frankenstein.”

“Ah - I suppose you’ve only seen a movie version. Boris Karloff. Or is Drak Pack more your speed?”

“What’s Drak Pack?”

“It’s a TV show. It’s - it doesn’t matter. But Frankenstein is the inventor. The monster is just called ‘The Monster’. It’s a common mistake, to be fair.”

“Perhaps, but it’s not me who’s made a mistake.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“NO, it really isn’t.”

“YES, it really is! I wasn’t talking about the movie or novel. I was simply trying to tell you my name.”

“What?”

“My name.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is . . . Frank Stein.”

“Really?!”

“Yes, really. And believe me, I’ve heard all the jokes.”

“I honestly thought that you were talking about Frankenstein.”

“I know. It’s a common mistake. To be fair.”

“Is Frank Stein your full name?”

“Um . . . no.”

“I need your whole name.”

“Why?”

“For the computer. For all the documents you’ll need.”

“Franklin Nicholas Stein.”

“So . . .”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. My name is Frank N. Stein.”

“Did you change it by deed poll?”

“NO! Of course I didn’t. My parents were comedians.”

“Have you ever thought about changing it by deed poll?”

“That’s a rude question.”

“Sorry. But, well, it must cause you some grief.”

“Yes, it does. It does. It does indeed. To be fair, it does. I’m utterly sick of these interactions. But I had to come here today.”

“Why?”

“To book a holiday. This is a travel agency, isn’t it? And not a literacy criticism society?”

“I love sarcasm. Yes, this is a travel agency.”

“Well there you go. I have to book our family holidays. My partner can’t, because his name causes even more confusion.”

“What’s your partner’s name?”

“Thomas Holliday.”

THE END

I walked over to the edge

Of the car park

And pulled my t-shirt over my head

I handed it to Gribble

Rolled my head around

Flared my lats

Anyone who knew how to look

Would see that I had a fighter’s body

I wonder if he knew

How to look

He was massive

Appallingly tall

His muscles had swollen

To grotesque proportions

Yet he was unnervingly light on his feet

As he danced from side to side

To an inaudible beat

I put on my Cleto Reyes gloves

He was already wearing his

I briefly reflected again

That it was a bit weird that

We were wearing gloves

I advanced

He advanced

He came out with the usual

Inarticulate drivel about

What he thought he was

Going to do to me

I looked at his chest

I never was into staring contests

This made him madder and madder

Mad and stupid

A lethal combination

But I had some lethal combinations

As well

The referee indicated that we should start

The crowd let out an incoherent roar

Variously encouraging either him or me

One weirdo stood there silently

Just staring lasciviously

Eyes alive with bloodlust

Yet also dead somehow

While I had one eye on the weirdo

My opponent cracked me

With his best shot

I ate it

It wasn’t delicious

But I ate it

Woken from my reverie

I hit him with a four-punch combination

It didn’t drop him

But that was okay

As he reeled backwards

I closed the gap further

Got my grips

Which wasn’t easy with gloves on

But I managed it

I spun around

And threw him

He didn’t get back up

We didn’t shake hands

Or share a beer

I just melted away into the night

Drove home

And wrote this

I admit that I’m a bit late to the party on this one, but the final of the World Snooker Championship has prompted me to think back to the anniversary of a very negative experience I had with the so-called “Special Air Service” in 1980. I am forever reading fawning tributes to the SAS, who allegedly are the “best of the best”. Well, I have to tell you that in my experience they provide a truly terrible service.

What should have been a productive and enjoyable visit to London turned into a nightmare.

I was minding my own business as part of a largely peaceful protest at the Iranian Embassy. It had been going on for a few days, and we had been having a very jolly time. Everyone had got to know each other and we had shared stories and food and been rubbing along just fine. I think the people we were lobbying (whom the mainstream media called “hostages”) were really starting to see things from our point of view.

Personally, I don’t think we needed the introduction of security guards. What we certainly didn’t need was such an appallingly heavy-handed approach.

Things were already a bit tense. Folk were getting rather smelly and the lavatories were in a pretty ghastly state. I hadn’t much enjoyed sleeping on the floor, either. One of the Embassy officials was a snorer. Some of the women were inappropriately dressed, tormenting me with flashes of ankle and bare heads. But we were coping.

One looks to security guards to provide some calm in a situation like that. Well, calm is the very last thing the Special Air Service served up.

I was stretching my legs, munching on an apple and holding my rifle, when suddenly there was an almighty bang.

The window exploded in a huge plume of white smoke. Then these men - dressed head to toe in black - burst into the building. They continued to make a terrible racket. I’m afraid to say that there was a lot of bad language. And then they started shooting.

I tried to explain to them that this was a largely peaceful political protest, but they simply didn’t want to know. Two of them shoved me against the wall and riddled me with bullets. They did the same to my mates.

That is not the sort of service that I wished to receive on my visit to London, to put it mildly.

Staggeringly, some commentators even ascribe a heroic quality to the SAS. I think they are a bunch of oafs. I wish they’d stayed at home and watched the snooker.

★ Not recommended. AT ALL.

The widespread indifference to the fact that Jews do not feel safe in this country - and with good reason - breaks my heart. Are you talking about it during coffee breaks at work? Is it coming up in WhatsApp discussions? Does the fact that we have imported so many antisemites trouble you? How about the normalisation of antisemitic tropes in our political discourse and the introduction of sectarian voting on the British mainland?

If we don’t take bold and brave action to reverse these trends, instead of reaching for empty words of reassurance and telling each other lies, it is not only Jews who will be immiserated and tempted to leave. So too will a great many of us.

I am looking to our leaders for signs of moral courage. And I’m looking to my friends for the same.

An oddly underrated quality in politics is the quality of knowing actual stuff. We might seem to live in a post-truth age - where facts are redundant and the use of logic is considered unseemly - but that’s something we need to resist. Facts, figures, international comparisons, lessons from the private sector, and a decent grasp of history are all vital. We can’t abandon them if we are going to get out of this mess.

Then, of course, you need to understand it all. You must appreciate context. You have to be able to shape a strategy. If you are really talented, you will be able to make original and useful connections. Henry Kissinger realised that the Soviets had entered Cuba when satellite photos showed football pitches. Cubans played baseball, not soccer.

Politics is full of bluster and bravado. It is easy to be seduced (in every sense, but especially intellectually) by charmers who talk a good game and parrot received wisdom as though it’s original thought and invariably true. Effective policymaking and communication require far more skill than that.

It shouldn’t be strange that this is so. We all have a stake in politics, all have a right to an opinion. Michael Gove had a point when he said the public were a bit fed up with “experts”. Yet politics, like any endeavour, needs genuine experts. Happily they do exist.

I first worked with Gavin Megaw at the turn of the century (AAAAAGGGHHH!) and I have watched him grow into an exceptionally capable and wise communications and politics expert. Real comms pros are very far from the vacant PR-airhead of blessed stereotype. They have an ability to grasp detail AND see the big picture that is deeply, deeply valuable. Gavin has this in spades, through a combination of native wit, open-mindedness, and years of experience.

And the exciting news is that he is sharing his wisdom in bitesize chunks on YouTube! I cannot recommend his channel highly enough. It is massively interesting and entertaining. And mega informative.

This recommendation still applies if you’re an interested citizen or a foreigner who wants to learn more about British politics. And if you have a professional need for a communications and strategy whizz, then Gavin is your guy. He can add so much value - more, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, than you might yet realise.

(Gavin is the chap in the black and white photo, which was taken while he listened patiently to a very short, very angry street preacher. )

Some people detest The Smiths with a ferocity that makes a man who’s just overreacted to hitting his thumb with a hammer look mild. Other people adore them. I’m in the latter camp. To be sure, Johnny Marr is a sublime guitarist, but the initial attraction for me was the superior (in every sense) lyrical qualities of lead singer Morrissey. Scabrous, self-pitying, arrogant, shy, romantic, and endlessly inventive, the words he intoned in a not-quite-falsetto voice have touched the hearts of millions. Like that weirdo who films a poly bag in American Beauty, Morrissey could claw something lovely out of elephant dung.

Oscillate Wildly is a bold departure for a band so celebrated for (his) verbosity. A mellow break from all the word-TheSmiths-ery, it is an entirely instrumental piece, a chance for the rest of the band to exercise and demonstrate their chops.

That, anyway, is what the powers that be want you to think. But it’s not true. On Oscillate Wildly, Morrissey is far from absent.

Even you, a stone-cold moron in comparison to me, will be familiar with the phrase “Silence speaks volumes.” Oscillate Wildly is Morrissey at his most lyrically daring. Such is his mastery of words, he felt empowered to do the one thing his pathetic mimics would never consider. He sang nothing at all. And in so doing, he said so very much.

Oscillate Wildly is one man’s heroic stand against plagiarism. Your words can’t be ripped off if you offer no words.

Back in the day, The Smiths were united and they backed Morrissey’s approach to the hilt. They recognised that the man is a genius - flawed, certainly, but a genius nonetheless. He socked it to the cheats and rip-off merchants AND he anticipated by several decades the furore over Artificial Intelligence ruining and stealing art.

At a handful of gigs in 1987, Morrissey prowled the stage in a faux-leather jacket while the band played Oscillate Wildly. At one show in Manchester, he had the lads turn their amps up to 11 while he ranted with incredible articulacy, utterly inaudible to the crowd because his microphone was turned off. A bootleg copy released by a security guard is out there if you’re willing to put the work into tracking it down.

Even when you can’t hear him, even when he is silent, Morrissey has so much more to say than any of his so-called rivals. I consider him the nearest thing I have to a peer.

Put Oscillate Wildly on whatever device you use to listen to music. Close your eyes. And hear the great man’s roar.

I have been very pleasantly surprised by the effect of writing this post about my eating disorder. I wasn’t at all sure whether to do so, but I have been inundated with good wishes and support. I shared it elsewhere and lots of people I know in person responded, but my small yet perfect Substack community really came through for me too. Thank you all.

I repeat my observation that I am in two minds about “accountability”. Nevertheless, putting something out there both reduces the burden and concentrates the mind. I have not compulsively or intentionally overeaten since I did that post. There are always tweaks to make (one simply has to deal with shades of grey with food) but I can hold my head up high.

Still, I am even more unsure about writing about the other big problem that has dominated my life, namely OCD. I don’t want to be quite as open about it as I was about food, and I think that’s sensible. I gently suggest as a top tip for supporting loved ones with OCD that you don’t ask “How does it manifest itself?” I’ve even felt at times that this enquiry has been motivated by curiosity rather than care; regardless, it’s a very intrusive question.

Funnily enough, it’s also not all that relevant. What works for one kind of OCD works for them all. The obsession isn’t really the point. The distress is the point. Getting well is the point. The fact that it isn’t one’s fault - isn’t my fault, isn’t your fault - is the point.

I thought that writing about OCD to the extent that I feel comfortable might help me. Honestly, that’s my priority. Right now, I can’t take on responsibility for anyone else’s recovery. But if it helps you too, I’m delighted. And of course I’d be pleased to hear as much.

Being supportive of others with this condition doesn’t mean subscribing to every bit of received wisdom. Adam PT writes very convincingly about his considered and convincing belief that received wisdom looks at addiction in the wrong way. I believe that in the UK at least, professionals have got OCD wrong. The demand that we should never (as opposed to less frequently) seek reassurance is wrong-headed and harmful. Nor am I convinced by the concept of exposure therapy. And people with religious OCD should not be told that their religious beliefs are the problem.

What has helped me is Jeffrey Schwartz’s work, summarised very well here. This is what saved me. I thought that all was truly hopeless and it turns out that it isn’t. We can rewire our brains. I highly recommend Schwartz’s books Brain Lock and You Are Not Your Brain.

It’s not my fault that I have OCD. But I do need to do the work. I need to be busy. I need not to wallow. I need to get up in good time. I need to distract myself with healthy activities. I need to be around good people. I need to work hard at being happy.

I’ve got to the stage now where I can feel a possible OCD relapse brewing. That means I can intervene. I must do so. It also means that I do not have to accept the counsel of despair which says “You’re going to keep relapsing.” I don’t accept that. It would be giving in to say that - and it isn’t true.

I hate that I’ve had OCD blips since getting on the right path with food. The latest began last night and ended this morning. Although eating right has been harder, the OCD distresses me far more. But I am proud that I have stuck to my course on food. And I thank God that I no longer believe I can only be well in one way. I don’t have to choose between the two.

Asking God for His grace and support is going to be part of my journey. Not seeing that as a passive response is a big help. I also get that I need to do the work myself.

Understanding that I’m not so much saying goodbye to a version of me but instead being the real me is very important, too.

I have a piece of paper by my bed with some aphorisms that a life coach had me write down after I made them as observations in a session. One of them is that while I can’t control my thoughts, I can refuse to give into my compulsions.

At the bottom of my piece of paper is this quotation from Measure for Measure, by William Shakespeare:

Our doubts are traitors
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt

They call OCD the doubting disease. It isn’t a disease, though, it’s a condition. And conditions can change.

Long before Arctic Monkeys didn’t have a definite article, New York alternative rock band Spin Doctors didn’t have one. You might struggle to name more than one of their songs (which is a pity, as they’re a talented outfit), but it’s highly likely that you know their epic early-90s smash “Two Princes”.

You’ve probably twigged that the song isn’t about politics, even though the band has a political-sounding name. It’s a simple love song, right? WRONG! The band’s name offers no clue as to the meaning of the song, though, yeah? WRONG again, drongo. It’s a heavy, heavy clue, and you are a moron for missing it. The clue is in the word “spin”. “Two Princes” is a song about tennis racquet manufacturers.

First we need to make a brief diversion to another athletic endeavour, namely skiing. If, unlike me, you don’t hate snow with every fibre of your being, you may well have felt the benefits of light, non-wooden skis under your feet. If so, you can thank the late Howard Head, an unutterably brilliant inventor who pioneered lightweight aluminium skis. It is his surname that you can see on many skis today.

Yeah / One, two princes kneel before you / That's what I said now / Princes, princes who adore you / Just go ahead now / One has diamonds in his pockets / And that's some bread now / This one said he wants to buy you rockets / Ain't in his head now / Yeah

What the Hell is going on? I’ll tell you, if you’ll just shut up for two minutes.

In 1968, Howard Head added a tennis division to his company. And then he sold the company to AMF in 1971. Yet Howard was not done with tennis, nor with inventing. A keen but limited amateur player, he purchased from Prince Manufacturing Inc. a machine that fired tennis balls. Head felt he could improve it, and so he bought the company. This spurred him on to create a lighter, more flexible tennis racquet, with a larger head. The racquets soon attracted the attention of top professionals.

And so we have a situation that knocks the adidas-Puma rivalry into a cocked hat. Those brands were founded by brothers who fell out. ONE man is responsible for both Head and Prince racquets. That is what this song is about. It’s about trying to get tennis players to sign exclusive endorsement deals.

This one, he got a princely racket / That's what I said now / Got some big seal up on his jacket / Ain't in his head now

This is a representative of the Prince tennis company persuading an up and coming star to follow in the footsteps of a player he admires (likely Pat Cash) and sign on the dotted line. The seal on Cash’s jacket is a sporting logo (Sergio Tacchini). Pat Cash is making great cash from his various endorsement deals - and he chooses Prince for his most important piece of equipment. Shouldn’t this young whippersnapper do the same? The fact that he “Ain’t in his head” is an obvious reference to Pat Cash not using a Head racquet.

"You marry him, your father will condone you / How 'bout that now? / You marry me, your father will disown you / He'll eat his hat now

This is a representative of Head trying to pull the old reverse psychology trick on the same player, who is heavily influenced by John McEnroe’s bad-boy-rebel-image. “Sign for us! It’ll piss everyone off!” is the message here. (McEnroe used a Dunlop racquet back then, of course, but never mind.)

Marry him or marry me / I'm the one that loves you, baby, can't you see? / I ain't got no future or a family tree / But I know what a prince and lover ought to be / I know what a prince and lover ought to be

This is where the song touches brilliance. The reference to not having a family tree could be a Prince representative acknowledging that Howard Head’s name isn’t in the company’s name, while making the additional point that the tennis player will nevertheless truly love a Prince racquet. Or it could be a Head agent mockingly imitating the Prince rep.

The rest of the song represents the agony - and increasing desperation - of a lengthy negotiation with a sports star who is being courted (no pun intended) by two major brands:

Said if you want to call me "baby" / Just go ahead now / And if you like to tell me maybe / Just go ahead now / And if you wanna buy me flowers / Just go ahead now / And if you like to talk for hours / Just go ahead now

The rhythm guitar and snare drum both really pop on this song. That matters too - tennis is all about rhythm. The best players have a rhythm that is at once recognisable yet hard to read and hard to play.

It will all make sense if only you will listen as intently as I do.

Like an American and female Micah Richards, Tracy Chapman burst onto the scene having written “Talkin’ ‘bout a Revolution” at a preciously young age. Lyrically brilliant, Chapman sure knows her way around a fretboard, too. That is how she is able to make the deceptively complex guitar accompaniment to “Fast Car” sound so elegant and simple. It’s another cracker. Yet, like so many other songs (see previous entries like this one), it is wildly misunderstood.

The cognoscenti and the peasantry alike both think that it’s a tale about being trapped - trapped in a nothing town and then in a nothing marriage - and yearning for escape. The first several hundred listens do indeed conjure up such an image. But it’s actually far simpler than that. It’s about someone whose life is rubbish and who is jealous of the fact that her neighbour has a nice (and fast) car. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You got a fast car / I want a ticket to anywhere / Maybe we make a deal / Maybe together we can get somewhere” begins Tracy. Read between the lines, sheeple. She is angling for the chance to drive the car. Sure, she’s framing it as wanting a lift, but it won’t be many miles before she suggests they swap seats and that she takes over behind the wheel.

“Any place is better / Starting from zero got nothing to lose”. Even a fast car travels at 0 mph an hour when it is stationary. ARE YOU STARTING TO UNDERSTAND?!

“Maybe we'll make something / Me, myself, I got nothing to prove” . . . because, like Rain Man, she is an excellent driver.

Then we have a whole load of whinging about having a crap job and a drunk for a father. She may as well be screaming, “I NEED this. Please let me have a moment of unalloyed joy. Please let me drive your car. It’s the least you can bloody do. I’m not going to nick it. Although I might if you don’t let me drive it. You bastard.”

The chorus speeds up, or seems to, which is clever, as it invokes the feeling of a car going fast. I never said that Tracy Chapman isn’t a great lyricist or musician. It’s not her I’m digging out, but YOU, for overcomplicating things. And being bloody wrong, AS PER USUAL.

“So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car / Speed so fast it felt like I was drunk / City lights lay out before us / And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder.” I’m afraid she is hinting that if he lets her drive his car, she will put out. (This is the character that Chapman is inhabiting for the purposes of the song, I hasten to add.)

It continues: “And I-I had a feeling that I belonged / I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone.” This is where it gets political. Chapman, a known leftist, is commenting on the shallowness of capitalist culture and the tragedy of being poor in a country that promises so much but can deliver so little to so many. (Her implied words, not mine.) This simpleton wretch really thinks that a fast car can solve all her problems.

Then there is a load more stuff about alcoholism and speed as a metaphor for drunkenness (or maybe drunkenness as a metaphor for speed?). And then she closes the song with a deeply menacing message:

“You got a fast car / Is it fast enough so you can fly away? / You gotta make a decision / Leave tonight or live and die this way.”

The implication could not be clearer (to someone as insightful and clever as me): the owner of the car is being invited to either drive his car off a cliff and die or let her have a go. One way or another, using the low cunning so prevalent among the underclass, she will find a way to make him realise that it really is as simple and binary a choice as that.

Yes, “Fast Car” is a song that makes me cry. It should make you cry too, but not for the reasons that you thought. It’s not a sad song - it’s a very scary one.

I’ve um-ed and ah-ed about whether to write this post. I don’t believe that sharing personal stuff is always wise. I certainly don’t believe that one is obligated to do so. I have mixed feelings about the concept of “accountability”. But I also think that life typically gets easier when one is honest and that saying or writing something can be both a huge relief and a useful early step on a journey.

Last Friday evening - Good Friday, which I find both neat and inspirational - I entered recovery from my binge-eating disorder. Things reached a pitch where, at long last, I realised that I couldn’t go on like this any more and needed help.

And so I am following up on some material I’ve been given about support groups and dietary advice. I’m going to see my GP regularly. And I’m going to wake up each day and remind myself that I must not eat like a maniac. One day at a time is a good mantra and approach.

It is going extremely well. I feared that I might not feel like me. I feel more like me than I have in a long time.

The sheer scale of guilt and shame I feel about the worry and damage I’ve caused will have to be processed bit by bit. I can’t let it overwhelm me. But as I am writing about this now, I should put on record how sorry I am.

My eating started as an attempted coping mechanism for an especially virulent and distressing form of OCD. (My OCD is far better now, which gives me the space to tackle the food.) I used to think I had to choose between my body and my brain, because it felt like only food could calm the raging inside my head.

I am blameless for having OCD. I am more culpable for not having addressed my overeating sooner. Again, I am deeply sorry about that. Any of you who have battled with an addiction will know something of the lies we tell ourselves and others. You might also be familiar with the sincere but fatal belief that “I’ll start again tomorrow.” Then tomorrow never comes and the cycle goes on and on and on and on.

I do have back pain. But I don’t have a “bad back”. Not really. My back can’t cope with the size of my tummy. My life is very restricted and at peril. Therefore, I am going to work part-time and focus on getting well. Which, thank God, is still possible. But it must happen. No more false dawns.

This has to be the primary focus of my life for the foreseeable future.

I also need alternative sources of dopamine and joy, so I’m not going to shut myself away entirely. I now enjoy exercise, which is an epic advancement, and judo is going to be a big part of my life. Music already is, but will be more so. I might even start doing stand-up and acting again, in a while. Radio and podcasting could be part of my future, too, as well as various kinds of writing. I will also teach and still have some involvement in politics. Above all, I want to see more of friends and family.

Putting this out there might dissuade some potential employers, but who the Hell wants to work for someone who can’t cope with human frailty? Moreover, I always admire anyone who overcomes their demons. It shows courage and determination. I am going to show you all just what reserves of both stir within me. I can really focus when I want to. And I have already been brave in ways that you will never know.

In some ways, I have been too stoic, enduring - because of shame and hopelessness - things which I should have fronted up to long ago.

We all retain the right to a degree of privacy about medical matters, so I am not going to share everything. Whilst I have certainly been in denial and far too hard to approach - for which, again, I am truly sorry - so much unsolicited advice really has had a crushing effect on me.

I have an eating disorder, which has a lot to do with control. If I feel I am being bullied or henpecked, the temptation has been to prove I’m not being told what to do by doing the opposite. That has been massively counter-productive, and stops now. Yet the only way that can work is if I am just a little bit less courteous and tolerant of everyone chipping in.

I am confident about the path I’m now on and I am not interested in suggestions about carbs, jabs, balloons, willpower, or the diet you used to to lose two stone. I’ll tell you what I weigh if and only if I choose to do so. The metrics I use to measure progress are a personal matter.

Please, please don’t encourage me to “have a day off” or treat myself. There is space in my programme for some “nice” things, but no space for overeating. EVER. If I say I don’t want a snack or pudding, I really would rather not have a debate about that.

One piece of admin: I’m virtually teetotal. Alcohol isn’t a factor. Not replacing it with lots of sugary drinks is, however. I’m pretty robust about turning down another drink, but it won’t hurt at all if I don’t have to contend with any peer pressure about that.

I would appreciate thoughts, prayers, and how’s-it-going check-ins. The odd reminder that I am a worthwhile person wouldn’t go amiss either.

I know that I am profoundly blessed with people who love me, that no man is an island, and that I owe it to everyone - as well as to myself - to sort myself out. I also owe it to anyone who could love me in the future.

I’m very, very sorry that it’s come to this. But my victory will be glorious.

Chapter One

It has been said by princes and prime ministers that I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Princes and prime ministers (I think it should be “ministers-prime”, like “attorneys-general”) can be very cruel, but they can also have a point. I work with some terribly clever chaps, several of whom are women, and I struggle to keep up at the best of times. This morning is not the best of times.

Top tip: When a pal invites you to the opening of “an artisan gym” on a school night, make sure that you’ve heard him correctly. I’m not a huge fan of physical jerks myself, but it seemed wholesome and responsible to spend Tuesday evening among those who do. I like contraptions, and the term “artisan gym” conjured up images of gorgeous chrome and steel machines. It also conjured up images of gorgeous, leotard-clad ladies demonstrating such contraptions. If I’m honest – and honesty is one of my few non-failings – that was an even bigger draw.

I arrived punctually at what appeared to be a repurposed warehouse in some frightful part of the capital. It is a rarity for me to be punctual – I am, for example, three-quarters of an hour late for work this morning – but the promise of seeing cutting-edge, well-upholstered machinery and attractively-upholstered ladies encouraged me to forswear another piece of toast and get myself to the church on time, as it were.

A goddess met me at the door with a big grin and fabulous hips, which were being cuddled by Lycra. I’m afraid that I either clam up altogether or get very verbose in such circumstances. Last night I was in chatty mode. I launched into what I now realise what really quite a lengthy exposition of the history of barbells, Arthur Jones’s genius in inventing Nautilus cam machines that maintain the same pressure on the muscle throughout an exercise, and Harold Zinkin’s brilliance in coming up with the Universal multigym. I know all this because my little-yet-enormous brother is a bodybuilder. Through sheer hard work and without the aid of drugs, he has built a physique that would grace an Italian gallery. His heroic body is very fitting as he is a heroic fellow. Although three years young than me, it has long been within his gift to batter me like a Scottish Mars Bar, but he is as loyal as a golden retriever, without ever demanding that I clear up his dung. I love my brother. And, God help him, he loves me.

Anyway, I prattled on about Arthur Jones and Harold Zinkin and the importance of balancing weightlifting with cardiovascular exercise for about ten minutes while the goddess smiled beatifically. I now realise that she must have been bored out of her mind - and not a little non-plussed. For when I finally entered the building, I saw no sign of exercise equipment, space-age or otherwise. Instead, there were a lot of bottles and glasses. It turned out that I had not, in fact, arrived at the opening of an artisan gym. I was present at the launch of an artisan gin.

Some of the princes and ministers-prime who have observed that I am not a first-class brain have also been kind enough to say that I am polite to a fault. If they are right, it could explain why I felt the urge to reassure my friend that the artisan gin in which he has invested mega spondulicks is top notch. I imbibed freely, while (IDIOT!) largely ignoring the rather disappointing canapes.

And so it is that I am now stumbling through the front door of Conservative Central Office, feeling like an Ulsterman is banging a drum in my head, fifty minutes late, and hoping desperately that someone in the Research Department has covered for me.