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Vienna in the time of Covid

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After six months in lockdown, of some kind or another, Vienna is finally opening up. Like the first shoots of spring, little terraces have emerged in previously vacant spaces, cafés spill out onto pavements, nearby bars I didn’t know existed seem to have appeared overnight. I’m struck by a new buzz and din in the city I’ve lived in for the last eight months; a hidden energy that must have been there all along, in hibernation, yearning for release.  Befitting of these Unprecedented Times, the upturn in activity at my local Covid testing centre is a sure sign of a subtle shift in daily life. The longer queues of the mostly young and unvaccinated form procedurally at Wiener Stadthalle (‘normally’ a concert venue and exhibition centre). All are braced for the wee stick up the beak which will water eyes and tickle throats but - surely? - open up a weekend of possibility.  The staff are always professional yet sociable and on a couple of occasions my surname seemed to gladden and
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Cormac McCarthy narrates a day in lockdown

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Youve lived this way for three score and seven days. Dawn brings with it only the certainty of a unit of hours the same as the last and the same as those that will follow. At the work desk and zoom calls youve remained impassive and stoical with kin and friend and foe alike. Youve paid heed to the unprecedented times and unchartered waters and the all things considered and the in the circumstances and the hope youve been keeping well but in truth it feels like youve been trapped in some deep fevered dream since late february. At least you have all this empty time for reading and practicing guitar and personal betterment once youve take care of this pile of dishes and straightened that droopy couch and watched jamie carraghers top ten premier league portuguese strikers born in september beginning with the letter v and shit is it that time already.  By noon the sun is out so you go outside and try to snap from this slothish condition by running vigorously in endless loops round the park
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Watching The Wire with my Dad (minor spoilers)

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Last year I convinced my Dad to join me in watching my favourite TV series, The Wire. I'd been pestering him for ages to check it out and even bought him the box set for Christmas a few years ago. He was never dismissive, he just never seemed to get around to it (these epic dramas are a commitment, to be fair). Last summer, when I was living with my parents for a few months, he eventually caved. As I expected, he was a big fan. We didn't race through the series, but watched it steadily - maybe an episode or two every couple of nights for a few months. Viewing it for the third time, but having not seen some of the episodes for several years, I was struck by how laugh-out-loud funny some of it is. I remember the show's creator, David Simon, saying that without the humour it would be unwatchable, such is the tragedy, decay and corruption depicted in early 2000s Baltimore. It's also glaring how much the technology has evolved since that period. The subject of the police i
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Dad

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The last time I saw my Dad, he'd just dropped me off at my flat after we'd been driving together. I failed my first test at the end of December and I've been practicing since to get it right the next time. We clashed a bit during that day's practice. At the very first junction, the green light came on but I couldn't get the car to move. The handbrake seemed jammed. "Go!", Dad shouted. His impatience just made me more irritated and flustered. "Shut up! What do you think I'm trying to do!", was my bad-tempered response. Later, we were doing reverse parking. He was trying to show me how to do it through positional judgement, and seemed unconvinced by the step-by-step method I'd learned from the instructor and YouTube videos. Again, we snapped at each other.  There was no lingering bitterness though, and I hold no regrets about that happening, because we made up straight away. We'd long reached a point where those tiffs rarely
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Einstein disguised as Robin Hood

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“I’ve got my Bob Dylan mask on … I’m masquerading.”  - Bob Dylan, Halloween, 1964 Going Electric , the working title of a new Bob Dylan biopic, will apparently focus on his fabled conversion from ‘voice-of-a-generation’ folk singer to rock ’n’ roll icon. Perhaps director James Mangold and lead actor Timothée Chalamet will make an interesting film that introduces Dylan’s music to a new generation of fans, but it’s difficult to imagine what fresh interpretation could be brought to an episode in popular music history already so well documented and mythologised. A straight-up portrayal in the same vein as Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash, or Jamie Foxx as Ray Charles, for example, would surely feel trite, even cringeworthy. There’s lots of performances, interviews and behind-the-scenes footage of mid-60s Dylan on tape, so why bother with a rehash? There’s also already been an excellent fictional dramatisation on screen of Dylan’s career. Todd Haynes’ I’m Not There (2007) pa
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