20 Questions with Ian

[Detectorist]

I did get a lot of hate mail at a certain cycling forum which, given I've been annoying people on the internet from 1993, wasn't exactly the place I expected to encounter it. I mean serious 'kill yourself' missives, which is, I think uncharitable. They didn't even send pills. Also a threat to tell my employers about my thought crimes, though the link was to some other poor sap's LinkedIn profile, so I wasn't contending with geniuses. Then loads of sign-ups to various fora and other spam that I banished to the junk bin. I assume one very passionate individual with too much time on their hands.

(36 long seconds to contemplate a punctuational atrocity before the lyrics start. Seriously, I don't know why it bothers me; some quite decent writers have been witnessed throwing in that unnecessary apostrophe, and frankly, who cares, right? RIGHT?)

For this centennial post, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to turn this format around and ask me a question.


PS. This video is more fun, and a better recording.

[finestre]

I suspect you may have answered it, but why did you end up in your particular part of the south-east? A love of Kipling, or perhaps a dread misapprehension about the origins of his exceedingly nice cakes (they're, for the record, not – the last time I indulged on a Mr Kipling's Almond Slices the package turned out to be mostly packaging with near homeopathic level of actual cake, as so often, they'd hermetically sealed disappointment).

Apropos of Kipling, my first cinema experience was The Jungle Book, which my cousins and I left at the intermission, pondering the peculiar ending. In my defence, I was about seven, and fuelled by large quantities of broken biscuits and Kia Ora. We went sent back for the remainder.

[Detectorist]

That Kipling lived here was pure chance. I've still not read anything of his other than If, a copy of which was given to me by my parents on the day I left home. I should try something else, but don't appear to be in a hurry.

We started in London after moving from the New World (though my wife had lived in England for a while as a child). Heedless of Samuel Johnson's warning, she grew tired of the city after half a dozen years. I would've been happy to stay, but didn't have a problem moving.

I don't remember exactly why we chose this direction as to be preferred over the others. It probably started with many visits to friends near Biggin Hill, then excursions beyond. We'd done loads of sightseeing all around, and gradually became inclined to the south (though I'm also a fan of Scotland, the government excepted. Hard commute though.)

Tunbridge Wells was our first stop. The door-to-door wasn't too bad, with lovely countryside to make the trip worthwhile. We lived in a great little house which it grieves me to this day we didn't buy when it became available: detached, with a garage, in an exceedingly convenient and deceptively nice location. This was a little over 20 years ago, before prices became exceedingly bonkers. If only we weren't plagued by neighbours from hell, who had a profound influence on the course of our lives. They loved to blast music in the midnight hours. When I complained, they slashed my tyres. We decided no more neighbours.


Do I count?

From then it was choosing the first suitable and not too inconvenient property to be shown by an estate agent. Another rental (we've never owned property, and barring a premium bond win, never will). We saw a couple of awful places, then love at first sight.

I recently rewatched My Boy Jack, which it surprised me to learn is freely available on the poor man's Netflix. If you've seen it or want to (it's not something I particularly recommend), note that the opening has Rudyard racing his Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost up to Windsor Castle to impress George V with his time, when he never drove in his life.

Are there any movie scenes that bother you?

[finestre]

I don’t live far from Biggin Hill, though it’s a curiously difficult place to get to, as it involves the Tatsfield portal, a village defended from south by impenetrable lanes and then, should you get that far, made of streets that appear to go anywhere except where you expect them to go. Bromley is odd in general as you very quickly fall into a rural space that could be the middle of Kent but is still within the London pale. Seems a bit wrong.

Kipling’s Rolls Royce is on display outside Bateman’s and they do explain the entire didn’t-drive-it-thing. I am pleased I have the same gig, I don’t drive either (I do have an expired Virginia licence which isn’t especially useful, and probably a Connecticut one somewhere). Broadly, that’s probably good, as I learned my core driving skills getting lost in NYC. You try and find your way from Staten Island to the Fort Jefferson ferry terminal. I didn't need to take the ferry I could have just cut across but ferries are fun. For reasons, I regularly used to drive from Rutgers to the middle of Connecticut. Actually I used to take adventure routes all the time. Driving up the Hudson and crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge was good (now replaced, it was a bit creaky, though really, the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge doesn't have quite the same zing). I liked the George Washington Bridge too, but I always figured I'd take a wrong turn and get eaten in the South Bronx. America is also the place of great place names. I'd drive through Armonk, well, because why wouldn't you. It sounds like the noise an amorous moose would make.

Sorry about the neighbours from Hell, ours died and didn’t come back (which was bad for her, good for us). The new ones are nice enough, though they go to bed worryingly early. We’ve done OK with neighbours, the best one was Shepherd’s Bush where our downstairs neighbour was a surgeon commander on a nuclear submarine who disappeared for nine months at at time with a plea to ‘water the plants.’ A friend of ours had a terror, drum and bass at all hours, one evening she cracked and hammered on his door. He was curiously agreeable for once. It was only when she got back to her flat and calmed down that she realised she clutching a large chef’s knife coated in pizza sauce.

Movie scenes that bother me? I’m quite squeamish so anything with violence tends to me wince (for instance when Kathy Bates’ smashes the guy’s ankle in Misery, or the ear-off in Reservoir Dogs). The dead baby in Trainspotting, a grim reminder that it’s all fun and games until, well, it isn’t. Put me off heroin for life, that. The ending of The Mist. Goes hard, that one. I won’t say it bothers me, but the Joe Pesci ‘funny like a clown’ scene in Goodfellas is awesomely discomfiting.

[Detectorist]

ferries are fun.

Totally agree.

Could you make a list of fun stuff for me? (Or for you, which might be easier.)