From a Late Night Train

The Protestant Playboy

I have a terrible weakness for James Bond books. I have read them all despite the fact that they are all essentially the same. I put it down to nostalgia. The only piece of popular culture that was really celebrated (- allowed actually - if you want to have a clue what my upbringing was like think Victorian Dad in Viz.) in our family was James Bond. It was one of the few areas of consensus in a household otherwise riven with bad tempered intolerance.

As a child I loved James Bond. I waited diligently and obsessively for the rare occasions one of the films would be on TV (in a pre VHS era that basically meant Christmas and possibly Easter, how fabulously austere and pious that sounds now). My elder brother had a James Bond Scaletrix track which I coveted. My Dad had the books which had covers featuring semi-naked women and long projectiles and contained references to breasts. But mostly it was the ritual of sitting down together to watch the films that I recall. The comparative peace that ensued as a result is a large part of my fondness for them. Even now they induce in me a strange beatific calm, a completely reliable form of escapism.



All this despite the fact that I find the worldview of their author fairly unpleasant. The books (much more clearly than the films) reveal Ian Fleming’s mindset and by extension a whole generation similar to him. Like Fleming, the books are compelling and repulsive in roughly equal measure. “Sex, sadism and snobbery”, said Paul Johnson about them famously and as a summation, it’s hard to beat.

Anthony Burgess once wrote a pithy introduction to the novels which dealt with their inescapably 1950’s quality. This lies not simply in the lists of consumer products and fashions, or even in the jet set glamour they offered to ration era Britain, but in a more fundamentally political sense. James Bond is a creature of the 1950’s, the fag end of imperialism and Victorian values. The films place him in the 1960’s and ‘70’s (and beyond) but this is not Bond's era. Crucially he was never cool or hip. He was pre-counter culture, and pre-rock’n’roll. There are hints of this in the films; in Goldfinger he admits tellingly to hating The Beatles.



Bond’s politics and worldview are a hangover from an earlier era. Although he is a pleasure seeker, he is emphatically not a hedonist. Bond’s pleasures are rewards for hard work and the performance of duty. The concept of duty is critical to his character and to the difference between him and the social revolutions that came after. In Goldfinger again, Bond is trailing the eponymous villain across the Swiss alps. A beautiful woman drives by in a soft top sports car. As they do. Bond’s urge to give chase, literally and metaphorically, is checked by his sense of duty. “Discipline, 007, discipline”, he mutters to himself.

In the book, Fleming imagines an entire love affair that could have occurred after Bond caught up with the girl. They would meet, have lunch and drive lazily down through Italy and fall in love. But Bond gives up this little daydream because he has a job to do. Work comes first.



Unfortunately this work involves killing people. Bond is unwaveringly loyal to the enforcement of a particular world order. He is an intensely ideological animal. In Fleming’s pre-war politics unpleasant personal habits and predilections can be brushed aside if one follows one’s duty. Crucially, morality and ethics are not assumed to lie within the private actions of individuals, but in the public adherence to a prevailing ideology.

The enforcement of abstract rules or external codes of behaviour always has the capacity to mask cruelty by removing one from the contingency of one’s actions. It's easy to behave badly in the name of 'doing the right thing'. What is interesting about James Bond and his enduring popularity is the archaic nature of his ideology.

Heroes usually have an element of rebelliousness about them, a certain nobility in their resistance to oppression or evil. Bond has none of this. The villains are cartoon lunatics whose threat is far too ludicrous for us to believe in. No, it is clear what James Bond is really fighting. The only odd thing is the support that he continues to generate. Not least from myself.

Thrifty Business

What is it with thrift? The recession may have given it an empty kind of validity, but it's been creeping up on us for a while. Everyone seems to be taking a lot of (perverse) pleasure in faux-austerity and mock phlegmatic belt-tightening*. Articles that are only partly tongue in cheek calling us to do our bit by buying British fashion. Guides to budget holidays on the English seaside. Advice on how to shave money off the Waitrose bill by going to Netto.

Ostensibly these are reactions to both the recession and climate change, a turning back from credit financed reckless consumption. Given this, an embracement of thrift takes on a knew currency as a gentile form of anti-corporate backlash. And herein lies the rub. A persistent element of all this thriftiness is that it emanates from the relatively well-to-do middle classes. Or the Coping Classes as the Daily Telegraph likes to call them. You might almost say that it was fashionable.



Take India Knight's recent The Thrift Book. This is ostensibly about how to save money by rejecting conspicuous consumption. The book makes a straight appeal to our anxieties, both personal and ecological, encouraging us to take pleasure in being thrifty, make our own presents and grow vegetables. This is all presented as a form of healthy penitence.

Knight's previous book was in celebration of shopping so she obviously feels she has more than most people to feel penitent about. The Thrift Book is her hangover. Like a hangover the tone is self-flagellating, vaguely remorseful and comically self-obsessed. Here's the blurb:

"Feeling poor because of the credit crunch? Feeling guilty because of global warming? No Need to panic. Put down the economy mince and buy this instead. It's a blueprint for living beautifully while saving money and easing your conscience."*

Note the feeling poor bit. Not actually poor, but feeling it, much like you might feel that ankle boots are on their way back. It's a chill wind maybe, but there are ways to button yourself up and stay warm. And still look great. Which leads to the other telling part of the description which is; it really is all about you!

There is no political or social aspiration to Knight's book. It is a straight-forward palliative, something to soothe one's vaguely troubled conscience. There is not even an attempt at altruism. It will stop that annoying nagging guilt and let you get on with your fabulous life. Knight's is perhaps the ultimate decadence: an aestheticisation of poverty. Like a crumbling peasant cottage on a picturesque estate, Knight is attracted by the look of rustic chic.

She's not the only one. Take Labour and Wait, a ludicrously self-conscious shop off Brick Lane specialising in 1950's style household goods: wooden handled pen knives, galvanised dustbins and blocks of coal tar soap. All the really useful stuff. A close up of the window though reveals the affluence behind its apparent back to basics claim: it's only open half the week. Labour and Wait is like a Stuckist installation, a deliberate semi-ironic anachronism. The man behind the counter even looks like Billy Childish.

Just around the corner from Labour and Wait is a cake shop that uses Butlins' 1950's tagline "Our true intent is only for your delight", presumably to summon up the ration-era pleasures of a nice cup cake. On one level this is consistent with the strange inversion of shopping habits that has taken place over the last decade between the city and the countryside. This folding of space and time has resulted in the urban middle classes picking up their muddy potatoes from the farmers market and their Lincolnshire Poacher from the organic cheese shop while everyone in the sticks shops at Tesco.

Our cities grow odd organic appendages at the weekends, temporary infestations from the countryside that spring up to sell expensive organic vegetables to a niche market troubled by supermarkets and urbanity. There is a sort of alchemy at work here, the turning of base metal into gold, or thrift into luxury**. For coal tar soap and muddy potatoes were surely never meant to be luxury products. It takes a particularly weird intersection of class and socio-economics to make them so. And whilst Labour and Wait remains packed on a Sunday morning, my local Woolworths - that most genuinely thrifty of shops - is already a boarded up memory.

* This post takes a big cue from Owen Hatherley's recent thoughts on austerity nostalgia.

**By the way, I'm not denying the actuality of recession, just some of the perverse inequalities of its manifestation.

(Image of bristles and soap via)