A Poem Built With What3words


The view from humid.wiser.audit


What3words is a location app, dividing the Earth’s surface into 3m x 3m squares each with a unique three word name. Out on my bike at the weekend I started collecting word locations I might use in a poem. Here is the result, using some of the locations I rode through, combined with other locations around the world.


I stopped at a cafe where I found


Collecting words.together.sounds

In a mood of sleepy.stop.salience

Like a cars.varying.guru

Using slick.laptop.glue

And stick.trumpet.type

I send my latest.scrap.invite

To arrive.train.alight

In my opinions.nest.igloo

The way there is over grass.parade.hint


And walks.factories.print

In a field.readjust.fiction

Around the golfer.tree.diction

And via a wowed.blank.tone

And a balloon.patio.phone

I will give you a call and bring you gearbox.dispenser.home

Woodstock For Someone Who Wasn’t There

Woodstock 1969
Me, Mote Park 1969

It’s the fiftieth anniversary of Woodstock, three days of love and music.

In 2019, it is perhaps good to take a moment to remember Woodstock. This is not, I have to admit, because Woodstock and its time are a shining beacon, a state of grace from which we have fallen. The six year old me might have been running around in Maidstone’s Mote Park in August 1969. This was a point in my mother’s life that she recalled as “always sunny.” It wasn’t of course. In my own little world there were, no doubt, chilly days. And as for the world at large, take your pick of wars in Asia, or music festivals which failed to go nearly as well as Woodstock. Woodstock itself did not really indicate a new social promise. Keeping half a million people together in a field in increasingly unsanitary conditions could not have gone on longer than three days. Inevitably, all those people would then have to go back to their normal lives, to avoid dysentery if nothing else.

So Woodstock did not provide an escape from the world. It is more an idea of freedom than its reality. Fittingly, someone who wasn’t even at the festival wrote the definitive song about it. Joni Mitchell was in New York City in August 1969, fulfilling a prior engagement. Her song Woodstock came out of a dreamy longing that came from not being there.

In Woodstock, the singer meets someone on the road heading to Yasgur’s Farm. This festival goer comes out with some dreamy lines about about how people are made of stardust, and describes a desire to get back to the land and set their soul free. This sells it to our singer narrator. In asking to tag along we get these ambivalent lines:

Then can I walk beside you

I have come here to lose the smog

And I feel to be a cog

In something turning

So has she gone to Woodstock to feel like a cog in something turning, suggesting a positive sense of being part of something bigger than herself? Or has she gone to Woodstock to escape feeling like a cog turning in her mundane life in the city? It’s not clear.

Maybe she’s a cog no matter where she is, both in that negative city sense, and in the positive feeling of being part of something bigger than herself. Joni Mitchell didn’t actually get to Yasgur’s Farm, but the song suggests that you can feel like a turning cog anywhere – in a field in front of Jimi Hendrix, in New York, in Mote Park. The song suggests that if you look at it right, the world can be one never ending Woodstock Festival, where the sanitation needn’t be an imminent threat to public health.

Edith Wharton – Authors Are People Too

Scribner’s Magazine where The House of Mirth was published as a serial in 1905

Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth describes the life of Lily Bart, an early twentieth century It Girl, who at twenty nine years old, has lived through eleven years on New York’s society party circuit.

Lily looks to the future and sees her life narrowing. Early in the book she is on the verge of marrying a fabulously rich man, only to turn away at the last moment because she doesn’t love this boring mummy’s boy. She also had the chance to marry a middling prosperous lawyer, who she does love, only to turn her back on that idea as well. After making these decisions, a general tendency to contrariness hardens into a firm determination to escape her fate. When problems created by others damage her prospects, Lily throws a few spanners of her own in the works. She is seemingly incapable of allowing herself to follow her natural course, whether this course is marriage to a rich man, marriage to a man she loves, the well paid life of a social fixer, or even a career as the owner of an elegant hat boutique. Whenever a course opens up, Lily helps shut it down. She wants to escape the social machine of which she is a part, only to find herself in a different part of the same machine. There are those who wear fancy hats, and there are those who make fancy hats for those that wear them. Both are part of the same mechanism.

So, on the positive side, this is a story which feels universal in the way it considers freedom and fate. On a less positive note, the book was a frustrating read, as Lily trips herself up over and over again. Then there is the voice telling her story, which for all its apparent freedom to look down on flawed human characters, has a few flaws and prejudices of its own. This waspish author voice is prone to switching between character points of view with confusing suddenness. I also found myself feeling distinctly uneasy towards the beginning of the book, reading the stereotyped portrayal of Jewish businessman, Simon Rosedale:

“a plump rosy man of the blond Jewish type, with smart London clothes fitting him like upholstery, and small sidelong eyes which gave him the air of appraising people as if they were bric a brac.”

I wondered if this was supposed to be Lily’s point of view, but as I say, point of view is not stable in this book, and remains ultimately with the author. This voice portrays many of her characters in an unflattering light, but does not otherwise link a specific heritage with human failings. So bringing up a Jewish heritage in relation to an individual’s shortcomings felt jarring. Even though later in the book he becomes a somewhat more sympathetic character, the portrayal of Rosedale still left a bad taste. I know we are reading about a different time with different attitudes, but there is this odd feeling that a point of view which aspires to seeing the weakness in others has blind spots of its own.

Ultimately for me, The House of Mirth was like being in the company of an unpredictable Greek goddess. This deity has the power to flit about over the lower human world and make some profound observations in poetic language, while also displaying a rather human and irrational partiality for some people over others.

Searching For The Walrus – A Magical Mystery Tour Around West Malling And Kings Hill

Out on my usual weekend bike ride recently, I ended up in the village of West Malling. Seeking a cup of tea and something to eat before riding home, I found that my favoured West Malling tea shop, The Hungry Guest, had diners overflowing through the open shop front onto a sunny pavement. There was no tea to be had there. Pondering my next move I spotted a blue plaque on the wall of an establishment calling itself the Rain Grill. It had the air of a tiny public library, which for some reason had a sign over the window showing pictures of hotdogs and kebabs.

What was a blue plaque doing on a building like this? I went closer to have a look.







Getting home after my ride, I decided to find out more. It turned out that the Rain Grill was a newsagents in 1967, where John sells tour tickets to Ringo at the beginning of Magical Mystery Tour. This was part of extensive filming in the village and at the nearby airfield. Reading about the famous I Am The Walrus section, I learned that the vaguely post apocalyptic setting for the performance was actually an area of monolithic anti-blast walls at RAF West Malling. That area, and the airfield it was part of, have both now disappeared beneath a housing development called Kings Hill, which I actually rode through on my way home.

It seemed a shame the Beatles were not commemorated in the road names of Kings Hill. There is no I Am The Walrus Close. Deciding to become a pop archaeologist – which I know is not a real job – I set to studying maps and pictures, trying to work out where the blast wall location used to be. There were two groups of walls protecting aircraft dispersal pens, one to the east of the airfield and one to the south. The Beatles used the eastern group.

Have a look at this still from the Magical Mystery Tour shoot:

John is standing beside a dispersal pen, a series of blast walls marching away in a line to John’s left, the North Downs visible in the background. This would put him roughly in the location indicated by the red arrow on this 1960 aerial view of the airfield, overlaid with a street plan of Kings Hill. I have circled the sequence of dispersal pens visible behind John:

The overlaid street plan seems to indicate that the photo of John and his piano was taken in the vicinity of what is now a roundabout where roads called Beacon Avenue and Glenton Avenue meet.

I rode back to Kings Hill a few days afterwards, taking a mystery tour of my own. There was a certain thrill in setting out to find a roundabout, rather than, say, Buckingham Palace.

Here are the results of my adventure. As far as I can tell, this is the same view as that seen in the Magical Mystery Tour photo, 52 years on:

Roundabout at the junction of Beacon Avenue and Glenton Avenue

You can see the top of the North Downs behind the roundabout. Where the sequence of blast walls once stood there is now a public garden. Perhaps we can see a faint visual echo of the lost walls on the roundabout, which is topped by a blocky installation of broken stone, as seen below:

So that concludes my little piece of pop archeology. It might only have taken me to a roundabout, but such a humble destination seems oddly fitting when you’re thinking about a mystery tour.

Pop philosopher is no more a real job than pop archaeologist, but I will leave you with this thought – it’s the idea itself of a mystery tour that is the most interesting place it takes us. A mystery tour is a journey carefully planned so that the people taking the trip don’t know what the plan is. There is a mixture of purpose and aimlessness about it – in fact aimlessness is the entire purpose of the trip, an idea which I came to see as rather inspiring. Next time you feel lost, try thinking of your situation as a magical mystery tour where not having a clue where you are and where you’re going is all part of things proceeding just as they should. It’s a different way of expressing that famous line from All You Need Is Love: “there’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.”

This Is What Happens When You Have A Drink Before Song Nine

Eurovision in space. I read that Catherynne Valente sold her book with these three words. I bought it on the same basis.

The early scenes are excellent, introducing us to Decibel Jones, a Bowie, Bolan, Essex, New York Doll amalgam of a faded glam rock star. With his band, the Absolute Zeros, he had a short but intense period of success, brought to a shuddering end when one of the founding members died in a car crash. Now Decibel gets by on the strength of nostalgic gigs, typically booked by wealthy middle aged men throwing birthday parties.

Who knows how long Decibel would have continued in this twilight zone of a career. We never find out because the aliens land. Extraterrestrials, who have monitored Earth via our radio transmissions, arrive to judge whether humanity is worthy of a place in wider intergalactic society. The procedure for judgement involves participation in a song contest, staged on a world which had once been the centre of interplanetary war. Because Decibel is something of a favourite amongst influential members of his off-planet audience, he, and the one surviving member of his band, are selected to represent Earth at the contest. As well as the usual nerves that come with being a performer, Decibel faces the additional stress of knowing that the penalty for coming in last place at your first contest appearance, is destruction of the race applying for membership of the wider community of planets.

I enjoyed Space Opera until this point. The characters are, in a Jackson Pollock sort of way, well drawn; and the basic idea of the story, bizarre as it might sound, made sense to me. The idea of a song contest growing out of war was not so far fetched. After all, the Eurovision Song Contest, first held in 1956, was established only a decade after the Second World War ended in Europe. Then when the Cold War ended in the early 1990s, many eastern bloc countries entered for the first time. Eurovision really does seem to emerge from the ashes of war and conflict. In the new order of things, national competition is filtered through the glitter ball prism of fun and music.

However, I couldn’t say that I found the book a complete success. There are long digressions which describe the galaxy’s former wars, and the history of the song contest. We do not see any of this extra material through the eyes of the book’s characters. Instead there is just an overwrought, disembodied author voice telling us about it. Clearly Douglas Adams is an influence on Space Opera, but in his books the amusing, tangential stuff generally comes to us through Adams’s famous invention, the vast and not always reliable, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, designed to help a space traveller find his way around the galaxy on less than thirty Altairian dollars a day. There is no such framing device in Space Opera, and it suffers as a result. I found myself tending to skip the digressions so that I could get back to the story as told by the characters in it.

Overall, this book was not douze points, or nil points. It was somewhere in between, with some nice key changes, a group of chaotic backing dancers and over the top staging. So I think it would get a seven or eight from this jury. A good effort, but better luck next year.

Nobody Cares What You Know Until They Know That You Care

The Wind At My Back is Paul Maunder’s memoir of failing to find success, both as a professional cyclist and a novelist. He finally puts these two failures together to make a successful career as a cycling journalist. In that sense I found The Wind At My Back heartening. People see success in terms of well-marked routes, whether that means a structured progression through the civil service, or making it as a professional cyclist or novelist. But there’s no shame in turning aside to explore winding byways, which might be more suited to a particular individual. And this sentiment marries nicely with The Wind At My Back’s many descriptions of cycle rides on quiet roads.

However, with no disrespect to Paul Maunder, I can perhaps see why he didn’t make it down the road of successful novel writing. His book reveals a personality more interested in places than people.

“My failure was in becoming too dependent on this sense of place, and not investigating people as much as places.”

Maunder writes of trying to overcome this, but in a revealing aside while talking about Proust, he says that empathy is something you learn. I don’t believe this is true. Certainly children seem to develop an understanding of others as they get older, but it is also the case that some people never develop this ability. And if empathy does not develop, you cannot teach it. It is possible to learn the social conventions of empathy – as Sheldon Cooper often tries to do in The Big Bang Theory. Psychology Today also tells me that people who are naturally empathetic can become more so, if they live in the sort of society that values fellow feeling. But essentially if you lack empathy you can’t learn it. I became aware of this sad fact through much reading when someone I know had the misfortune to marry a woman who had a constitutional inability to comprehend the feelings of anyone except herself.

Paul Maunder’s book does reveal a lack of natural empathy. I’m not suggesting any slur on the author’s character; but it is true to say he focuses on himself and the places he sees from his bike. You feel little about anyone else. He talks about empathy, but only in the sense of trying to learn how to do it, like another technique taught on a fiction writing course. It did not seem to be a natural part of him. He tells you about empathy but does not show it; and we all know the novelist’s rule about showing and not telling. There is a brief attempt towards the end of the book to imagine himself into the life of his two friends Daniel and Sarah, but this is soon abandoned. Apart from his father who you feel briefly as a person, it is Paul Maunder all the way. You hear about the places he has been, his cycle related philosophical reflections, which in an unfocused sort of way, are interesting. But the people he knows remain as ghostly figures beside the road.

We can’t help who we are, and if this author has trouble understanding other people, he does come to understand himself in an honest way. In those terms his book ends as a success.

Rarity In The Midst Of Plenty – Watching Birds At Oare Marshes

A few weeks ago we went for a walk around Oare Marshes bird reserve near Faversham. I am not a birdwatcher myself, so they all looked lovely to me, from mallards to long-beaked, coffee coloured things, called godwits, according to a chap carrying an impressive stubby telescope with upward angled view finder. We were standing in a large shed. Along the wall opposite the door ran a line of three bunker slits, which seemed to magnify a glittering body of water with an island off to the left side.

We watched the godwits on the island for a few minutes. As they pecked and warbled, another birdwatcher strode into the hide. Heavily equipped with bags, binoculars and that standard, stubby telescope, she looked like birdwatching special forces.

“Did you see the hobby fly over just now? Boomerang shaped wings?”

We admitted missing it.

“There were some cormorants over on the other pond,” my wife replied, trying to make conversation.

“Cormorants, yes,” said the woman, metaphorically patting a child’s head.

We left the hide, chastened.

It seemed there were quite a few cormorants at Oare, but not many hobbies. Birdwatchers enjoy observing birds, but their ultimate goal is to collect sightings of rare birds, referred to as megaticks in twitcher jargon. Doing some reading after our visit to Oare, I discovered that while birdwatchers seek rare birds, they are not nearly so interested in odd ones. If a species of bird mates with another species and produces a hybrid, then this unusual and rare individual is not sought after. It does not fit into search lists, and is considered, by some schools of thought, as a threat to biodiversity. These unfortunate creatures are sometimes more likely to get shot than photographed. A new and unknown bird has no value, even if there might only be one example. Rarity, it seems, is not solely about how scarce something is. A few examples of an old species are rare: a few examples of a new hybrid species are imposters.

I then wondered if the bird watching world had examples of that other type of rarity valued by collectors – the unusual variation in something very numerous – the Queen’s head upside down on one stamp in ten million, for example. A brief internet search soon told me that birdwatching made the mainstream press in 2018, when someone spotted an albino house sparrow in Somerset. Crucially this rare bird was not a hybrid, but an extremely unusual variation of a common bird – though not as common as they once were, sadly.

So this association of rarity with the well established, and with small variations in something very numerous – both indicate that an apparent interest in novelty is actually a lesson in the extremely conservative way people tend to react to something out of the ordinary. It is fitting that rarity is so closely connected with tradition, and with what Frasier Crane might call Old Money. We could think of Fabergé eggs, dusty bottles of wine from 1945, First Folios of Shakespeare, or caviar derived from a few sturgeon in the Caspian Sea, served in Pall Mall clubs by deferential waiters. Perhaps we should bear this in mind at the moment. Maybe we are too quick to see value in the well established, and threat in the different. And maybe we are limited by only valuing differences which are small variations on what we already know. It would be good to remember that all individuals are different and unique in some way. We are all rare and valuable specimens.

Local Tourist

Crossing the Downs, on my way to Sheppey

I’m spending this week as a tourist in my own part of the world, with the help of my bike and some quiet cycle routes. Maybe as a tourist I would get to know my local area a little better.

Yesterday I rode over the North Downs to the Isle of Sheppey, the first time I’d been there in decades. I ended up in Queenborough, knowing that food was immediately necessary if I was to ever see home again, or indeed remember where home was. In an unassuming area near Queenborough harbour, a display board outside a black Portacabin announced the Mint and Chocolate Eatery. This building looked like a catering unit for construction workers, dropped into a tight space between an old warehouse and a shed; but I was hungry and could go no further. Besides, a quick look at Trip Advisor revealed enthusiastic recommendations. After securing my bike to an upended pallet, forming a fence between my chosen Eatery and the black-creosoted, micro-pub shed next door, I pushed back a gauzy curtain to enter a lovely, fresh space decorated in vibrant lime and yellow. Here I ordered spaghetti with meat balls – from a lady concerned about my nutritional state – before settling down outside with my bike, at a two-person turquoise table, bounded by Portacabin wall and pallet fence. This “terrace” area also served as a store for a few wheelie bins and bits and pieces of dock paraphernalia.

Lunch at the Mint and Chocolate Eatery

Lunch was perfect. Gleaming silver cutlery and immaculate white crockery sat against an aquamarine pastel tabletop backdrop. My table was like a modern still-life in crisp acrylic, which had, for some reason, been left in a stock yard behind an art gallery. The spaghetti and meatballs was delicious, as was the Sicilian lemon cheesecake which followed. I got talking to the waitress who told me that the Mint and Chocolate Eatery had been open for about a year, created by the chef, who was from Belgium. They catered to people on holiday, and also to locals. It wasn’t really clear into which category I fell, a person who lived within a few hours cycling distance, but who was nevertheless on holiday, and had come from the far side of the bridge. Eating cheesecake I started to wonder what local was. People once lived their lives in an area covered by the sound of church bells. Those bells even defined their own time zone, different to that of a village just down the road. Today we cannot think of locality in those terms, when time zones toll their digitally coordinated bells across the globe.

If I discovered anything on my journey to Sheppey, it was that we can be tourists in our own backyards, just as we can be global locals. It might be better to think of ourselves as this kind of contradictory traveller, exploring a place where local and foreign are not clearly divided. Perhaps we should welcome this local tourist in a world which is in danger of closing itself down into illusory territories where one lot of people think another lot of people do not belong

Electric Bikes And Ballpoint Pens

Sustrans Route 1 between Rochester and Gravesend

Electric bikes are like ballpoint pens. Perhaps I should explain that I have just bought an electric bike, and that my journey from electric bike to ballpoint pen began on a test ride around a local park. Riding with a young and knowledgeable member of staff from my usual bike shop, I learned that the shop manager had suspicions about the type of machine I was riding. Reading between the lines I think the boss felt that riding an electric bike wasn’t really cycling.

As a writer it’s to be expected that negative reactions to electric bikes should make me think of ballpoint pens. Perfected and patented by László Bíró in 1943, ballpoints allowed people to write more easily and quickly. A writer no longer had to stop writing to dip a nib in a pot of ink. There was no waiting for ink to dry before piling one page on top of another. It was a simple matter of grabbing a ballpoint and putting your thoughts on paper. Naturally this convenience caused controversy. People of a traditional frame of mind worried about falling standards and lazy handwriting. In 1950, an American magazine called the Federal Teacher went so far as to claim that the ballpoint pen would be the ruination of education. A similar situation arose when word processors came along in the 1980s. New convenience once again met objections from traditionalists. Author Fay Weldon, for example, uneasy about word processors, wrote of the mystical qualities of writing in longhand. Whether she wrote about these mysteries with a ballpoint or a fountain pen, I don’t know.

An advert for a Bíró pen in the Argentinian magazine Leoplán, 1945.

Which brings me to my electric bike. While this lovely machine makes cycling quicker and easier, it does not diminish cycling, just as ballpoints or word processors did not diminish writing. According to my iPhone, weekend rides on my electric bike are using more calories than the rides I used to take on my normal bike. This is because I am enjoying the rides more, staying out longer and going further. While I am using more calories my legs are less sore, since the effort of peddling is steady rather than a series of peaks and troughs. A normal bike uses gearing in an attempt to smooth out spikes of effort, allowing a rider to pedal at a similar rate on gradients or a flat road. But gearing can only go so far in smoothing out effort. The electric motor does a better job, allowing me to use more energy with less fatigue. When you are doing more rather than less, it is difficult to dismiss electric bikes as the refuge of a lazy cyclist, just as it is difficult to cast aspersions on the effort of a writer, who is producing more work with a ballpoint or word processor than with a nib and pot of ink.

A bike has always been a machine designed to enhance and magnify human effort. A conventional bike has wheels, an ancient form of force multiplier, reducing friction between a moving body and its environment, allowing a given amount of energy to produce more movement. Wheels also allow us to tap into the force of gravity. Riding downhill there is often no human force involved, but the bike is still moving. Since the days of penny farthings, bikes have always allowed a rider to do more with a given amount of energy. An electric bike just takes this process one stage further.

Route 1 at Gravesend

My most recent ride took me over to Rochester where I joined the wonderful Sustrans Route 1, following a mixture of track, quiet roads and lanes through Kent countryside to Gravesend. It might not seem like a great adventure to go to Gravesend, but it’s a different story getting there on Route 1, crossing great expanses of water meadow pulsating with chattering bird life, dodging through hidden alleyways behind old warehouses, emerging beside the Thames to see a white cruise ship, spinning wind turbines, and towering dock cranes, on the far shore. Sitting in a Gravesend coffee shop, I felt that electric bikes are the future of cycling in the same way that ballpoint pens and word processors were the future of writing. Bikes have always been designed to amplify the strength of human legs. Electric bikes move this on, making the whole experience of cycling more accessible.

The Excitement Factory – This Sporting Life

Since sport requires leisure time and a surplus of money to spend on it, we can thank the Industrial Revolution for our weekend off to watch football, motor racing, tennis or rugby; and for the money to buy the necessary ticket or TV subscription. The 1850s were the crucial decade, when mills in northern England started to close at 2pm on Saturdays. According to A.N. Wilson in The Victorians, Wordsells of Birmingham was one of the first factories to give its workers Saturday afternoon off. It is no coincidence that the 1850s were the time when large scale sport really began to develop. Horse racing grew hugely in popularity with sixty two new horse racing meetings added to the calendar. Meanwhile, rugby and football were evolving rapidly into the games we know today. And as sporting events became established, trains were available to take people to them, thanks to the boom in railway building.

A century later we come to David Storey’s This Sporting Life, a novel about a factory worker who gets signed by a Rugby League team in a 1950s northern town. This Sporting Life might be set a hundred years after the Industrial Revolution kickstarted sport, but it is clear that sport and industry still go together. Rugby League is a kind of sporting heavy industry. This is a game played in vast stadiums by big men who have specialised jobs on the field, just as they follow specialised trades in their factories. Rugby, a sequence of systematic, repeated moments, is in effect a mill for producing sporting excitement, with sparks flying on the pitch as clouds of steam from nearby cooling towers drift overhead.

Even so, there is still a sense in This Sporting Life that Rugby League strives for something beyond the daily grind. The players are seen as heroes by local sports fans, reminiscent of those Greek heroes who took part in running and chariot races in Homer’s Iliad. The town’s gods – wealthy industrialists rather than deities on a mountain – run the club. Just as in Homer, the gods support some heroes at the expense of others, using their influence to trip up or push forward individual athletes as they see fit.

This Sporting Life is really a study of what it is to be one of these modern sporting heroes. Seemingly living lives beyond those of ordinary mortals, they are admired wherever they go, receiving free stuff and fan mail. Yet, a famous player also seems something less than human. The narrator and central character, Arthur Machin, often remarks on feeling like some sort of ape man who doesn’t belong in normal society. One of his lady admirers actually calls him Tarzan. The contradiction of popularity and a feeling of exclusion causes havoc with Arthur’s personal life. In his gruff way he loves his landlady, the widowed Mrs Hammond. This troubled young woman becomes interested in Arthur when he makes the metamorphosis from ordinary factory worker to sports star. At the same time she is unable to view him as a normal man she could be with. She always seems worried that Arthur will be off with one of his many female fans. Nothing Arthur can say will convince Mrs Hammond otherwise. Arthur’s fellow players Frank and Maurice are fortunate in having wives who treat them as normal men.

This Sporting Life is a study of professional sport and the celebrity it brings. Published in 1960 it is an uncompromising tale, interesting in the context of sport history, and in its prescience about the kind of developments that would follow in sport and celebrity culture generally.