Tim Robson's Blog

(In which Tim, donning the ill fitting mantle of a travel writer, eschews bitchy bar room observations and talks about his general thoughts on Krakow. Probably not going to go too deep into the historic churches, castles, squares. There’s other bloggers for that. This is more about my impressions. Which is a pretentious way of saying, it’s some lazy old bollocks I wrote semi pissed into my notebook whilst writing the other two parts to my Krakow Trilogy .)

Anyway, Krakow.

Yes beautiful. Definitely come here. They speak perfect English everywhere. I quizzed a barman about this. It’s the linga franca of our age. We all are dragged back to the universal English. Sorry French. Germans. Italians who, outside their own country have to meet serving staff in a third language. Our greatest achievement perhaps? The default option - the bitcoin of language.

I don’t really do touristy things but, here’s a couple off everyone’s top ten of things to do in Krakow:

1) Wawel Castle. Yes, it’s the number one place to see and rightly so. Get your lazy arse up that hill and snap those tourist shots; you know the ones… The ones you get out your phone for and bore your friends with. It’s mostly free. Pay to wander around inside and pretend to be interested in 16th century tapestries, or something. I took the dragon’s cave steps down to the town for a small fee.

2) Oskar Schindler Factory museum. Well worth a trip across the river. Thought provoking and deftly handled. Read my article here.

3) Old Town Square. Yeah, it’s big. You’ll probably spend most of your time there anyway.

4) Get pissed in various bars and write scabrous & bitchy articles through hazes of practiced ennui enthused vodka. Read mine here.

5) The dumplings. Yeah, why not.

6) Parks and cleanliness. The whole of the old square is surrounded by a greenery. I believe this is the moat converted to parkland. Very lovely.

Food and Drink

There are lots of bars and restaurants. Where did I eat?

Polish cuisine. You can’t avoid the pierogi - those stuffed dumplings (meat / spinach, cheese, take your pick). I went to Mirror Bistro which is a pierogi specialist. I had the Borsch with an egg followed by meat pierogis with caramelised onions. Very traditional. A bit dry for my liking - wish I’d have paired with a cream sauce for that satisfied ‘fuck it, I’m on holiday’ experience. Washed down with beer. 82 Zloty (£18!)

As I’m trying to avoid potatoes / wheat etc, I looked up and went to salad bar Chimera. It’s situated in a street adjacent to the main square. Yeah, I know a salad bar sounds crap but this was a good find. It’s a pretty place in a covered courtyard. There’s a long counter with various salads but also the odd meat dish too. You pay per portion. It wasn’t expensive. I had a plate full of various salads and chicken washed down with beer and (the free) freshly squeezed orange juice.

And yes, I went to a Taste Poland (Grodska) fast food joint just off the main square (Grodska 38). I had more Pierogi, a Polish sausage and pickles plus my inevitable beer (see photo above to the right). Nothing to be snobby about, it was lovely and just what I needed. Fast and friendly service (you get a beeper which goes off when your order is ready). 78 Zloty (£16). If you need a quick but authentic fuel stop, I’d go here.

But I spent most of my time in bars. You know, how else does this stuff get written?

My favourite was B.O.H.O to which I returned three times. It’s on Stolarska 6 which is near Planty Park. Read my pissed up observations of this bar written on my three visits through hazes of practiced ennui enthused vodka here.

Black Gallery Pub. (Mikołajska 24 - just above Planty). A good stop off, intriguing bar on a couple of levels, wooden look, friendly bar staff. Worth a beer before (or after) dinner.

Other random observations

Some observations about Krakow, Poland and the Polish based on a couple of days wandering around Krakow. Hot-takes are the best takes!

Denim shorts (mainly light denim like the 80’s never stopped). Must be like a national dress here in Poland. The temperature hit 30C whilst I was here and it seemed all the men - and a lot of the women - got their denim shorts out. Now, I don’t possess a pair and so, caught short, I constantly looked like a tourist. This is a disadvantage especially later on at night walking through the old town square and the main roads leading from it. A single male being identified as a tourist is not fun (see below).

Mobile phones. Polish people actually put their mobiles to their ears and have discreet conversations. And don’t put the recipient of their call on speaker phone. Oh how quaint and different from lovely Britannia where it is de rigueur to yell at the mobile and entertain your enraptured public with both sides of your conversation. The Poles clearly need to catch up.

There are some tramps in Krakow. They congregate darkly on the outer benches of the parks. With unkempt beards, unwashed clothes and scrappy backpacks, they pass local firewater between themselves. They don’t shout, they don’t harass. They don’t pitch tents on the pavement, shoot up drugs in front of you or lie comatose outside international rail stations (BTW: Krakow station is immaculate and a living embarrassment to the UK). In a way, the tramps of Krakow remind me of the old school alkies I remember from the 70’s who used to hang around Rochdale’s war memorial, dissolute but discreet. In the three days I was here, I wasn’t harassed by beggars once. 

But I was harrassed during the day around the main square and river by a constant sea of hawkers, hawking their city tours, river tours, guided tours. They’re easy to spot and avoid as they like to dress up in colourful outfits. At night though, mmm, it’s a different story…

As a single man walking through the main square and the roads leading from it, I was constantly approached by, what’s the right words, pretty women who wanted me to come to a party. How friendly of them! Seemingly these parties are where women take their clothes off for money. For variation, their male counterparts - with a knowing nudge, nudge, wink, wink, also offered to take me to these self same parties.

Frankly it’s annoying and put a downer on my evening walks. However, Krakow isn’t the only place where this happens but it’s seedy and makes you distrust friendly faces and pretty girls. 

Pedestrian crossings. A strange observation perhaps but a telling one. Everyone waits for the green man signal before traversing the road. Even when there’s no traffic. Respect the culture. 

Travel

I went for three days late August 2025. I flew from Gatwick on Easy Jet. It takes just over two hours to get to Krakow. There’s a train station at the airport which takes you in twenty minutes to the central train station in Krakow. Tickets are easily bought from machines at the station or sold to you on the train. The trains are immaculate so much so that I wander up and down a few carriages thinking I was in first class. No, they’re just clean and comfy. I stayed in the IBIS budget next to the main shopping centre (and the main train station). Probably a 15 min walk to the old town. I didn’t feel unsafe wandering around - other than being accosted by enthusiasts of strip clubs. My flight back was with Wizz Air.

I booked via lastminute.com. The cost was just under £500 for the return flights and two nights at the hotel. Food, drink and entrance fees are cheap once you get there.

(In which a sweary Tim, vodka in one hand, beer in the other, laptop twix and between, attempts to summarise Poland’s second city sat in a bar; gradually sliding into a lulled pissness. The late summer heat is on in Krakow, the sun is shining and yet he manfully pens this hipshot hot take from within a bar taking refuge from tourists, near and perhaps within, the historic centre. Could I instead be sightseeing? Could I be looking through churches? Could I be describing the architecture? No. Fuck that. Même merde, endroit différent. For a similar cockeyed take on foreign cities, see my Thoughts from a bar in Antwerp )

Part of the Krakow Trilogy

The smoke fills the bar.

Diverse young people - in Gothic attire, suits, sporting tattoos, nose rings, ripped clothes, beards - smoke cigarettes like it’s Brighton 2007. Almost nostalgic, in fact.

Now, I’ve been around. Liberal Netherlands, for instance. Sans joint, you’re outside the joint these days. Alsjeblief. But here, and obviously not all bars in Krakow, smoking seems tolerated in some. I thought it was an EU-wide ban. Clearly not. Fans silently whir above me.

I don’t smoke (vape, anyone?) but the libertarian in me, likes the choice. I always thought - before the COVID gestapo overreach obviously - that blanket smoking bans were wrong: What about having smoking pubs and non smoking pubs? Let the public decide. But I lost the argument I never made.

Anyway, my new favourite bar in Krakow - B.O.H.O (on Stolarska Street) - doesn’t care. The clientele aren’t 50 something American tourist Karens waving their hands dismissively at the smoke, but locals and me. I sit inside. The small tables outside scoop up whatever tired tourists there are. Good, stay out on the pavement.

I mean, who’s here with me right now in this back room (with open windows onto the street)?

On the next table, we have blonde mullet guy talking to - chatting up? - a brunette girl who is giving him too much eye contact for my liking. Get a fucking room! They’re both about twenty and lean ever so closely together and pore over each other’s mobiles to demonstrate a point / show an insightful Tictoc (or whatever kids use these days). Both smoke. And both - betraying their age perhaps - are drinking some iced coffee / chocolate concoction. I think, and who cares what I think, they’ll be some fumblings, some awkward love making tonight.

But maybe he should get her a vodka to help nature take its course?

Permed heavy rock guy in a long overcoat (why? It’s 25C) has just left with strappy top free spirited girl. Part of me hopes that, outside the bar, she thanks him for the coffee and overlong discussion about Star Wars minutiae, and then leaves him for the comforting vibration of a rampant rabbit or something. (Editor’s note: What the fuck do you know about this Tim? Straying from the path into the dark of Mirkwood here, methinks?).

We have tattooed lady in black lipstick and shades pouring over hand written sheets of paper. Maybe her novel. She has an oversized coffee and an ashtray in front of her. She earnestly consults her phone and then carefully writes onto her sheets of paper. Edits to her masterpiece? A manifesto of hate and dislocation perhaps. More likely unrequited love and pussycats? Dunno. She offered me her plug when my laptop looked like dying which was nice of her. Battery packs are a life saver in more than one way.

Blonde couple next to me have finished their drinks but have just lit up anyway. Money seems tight. Mmmm. Anyway. Her eye contact is getting ever more suggestive. As are her ‘innocent’ hand and knee movements that accidentally touch mullet guy. He seems clueless. Take the W mate. And yet. And yet. He prevaricates like he’s channelling the younger Tim Robson. Unable to close the deal, he’s moved back into his chair. As has she. That fleeting moment lost. Maybe I should help out?

I wonder, have they ever seen Indecent Proposal? Probably not. Am I playing the ageing satyr? The world weary roué? One million dollars reduced to a round or two of vodkas? Bad Tim. Bad Tim

They liven up to Love My Way by the Psychedelic Furs. It’s that sort of place. English Indie music. Perhaps I should let slip that the tune they’re half singing along to to, I saw performed at the Brighton Centre Feb 7th 1987. No? 1987! That’s like, a long fucking time ago granddad!

(The gig was to follow up on the beefed up version of Pretty in Pink which enlivened the movie de jour of the same name and briefly tickled the charts in 1986. All I remember of the gig was that they wore ridiculous raincoats which seem daft even in 1987. Not cool, just stupid.)

They sit engrossed in their own phones. She texts. He looks at something ephemeral. They leave. Probably it’ll happen on the balance of probabilities. Maybe not. I hope so. He put in the hours.

Two blokes in front of me smoke and tap on their laptops. No novels being created here. There’s a matrix of coding on one screen and impenetrable graphs on the other. Must be working. They flip between languages as they sip coffee.

Another couple sit in the corner. Apart from tangentially touching lighters and an ashtray, they sport an empty glass between them. He talks a lot. Baseball cap, wire glasses; he has views. Lots of views. The not unattactive girl robotically nods but leans her head against the wall, eyes closing. Although he’s speaking Polish, I think I can understand what he says. Roughly translated, ‘blah, blah, blah, I like to drive women away with a shitty stick’.

In fact; am I the only one in this bar who actually buys booze? The rest seem to get a coffee, a free water and then smoke cigarettes and live their life. Beardy who’s joined the two laptop nerds even takes a sip from a flask hidden in his bag and laughs as I spot him doing it. This is a fucking social club for writers, nerds and nerds trying to get laid.

Then a lady in a long red and tight dress walks in; all mystery and old time glamour. I try not to stare. She plonks down a thick feminist text and a packet of cigarettes on the table next to me and disappears off to the bar. Chance, serendipity both laugh their arse off at me. Me, who has to leave in ten minutes for the airport and out of Krakow, leaving Poland behind. I have The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Kundera on the table next to my beer, my vodka, my laptop. Maybe she could have been the one. Maybe she would be more than just a bitchy footnote in a blog. A might have been. Indeed; She. Could. Have. Been. The. One.

But time. Circumstance. They mock my foolish thoughts and dreams.

So I drink up my beer, chug the vodka and finish this blog to the sounds of Ed’s Funky Diner.

Need a piss first though.

Slightly More Serious Review

B.O.H.O Coffee and Bar is within the Old Town area of Krakow, quite near to Planty Park. Small tables front the property. Inside it’s a pleasing mismatch of a large red armchairs and sofas, indispersed with more standard wooden tables. The bar staff are friendly, everyone smokes but - apart from a wannabe English writer - no one seems to drink alcohol that much. I make up for them. Could be that I came during the daytime.

It’s a cosy bar spread over three linked rooms and is frequented by locals, distressingly way younger than me. There’s a studenty / just graduated vibe to it. The atmosphere is welcoming though and was the perfect place for me to write - in fact - it’s harder to spot those without a laptop than those with.

The music tends to be (or at least when I was there) Indie music from the 80’s. No problem with that!

I didn’t sample the cakes / food etc. They would have got in the way of my beer and vodka chasers so I can’t comment on the food but it looked good.

This was my favourite place in Krakow. It must have been; I returned there three times over three days in the blazing sun of late August 2025. Yes, the vignette above is a composite piece. All art is, by definition, arrayed in the robe of artifice my friends. I make no apology for that. It’s my literary Impressionism in action.

But for further and more sober insights into Krakow and where else other than a friendly bar to go to, check out my Krakow Trilogy.

Schindler’s Factory. Krakow

Thoughts..

Like many in the 90’s I saw Spielberg’s Schindler's List. Whilst an undoubtedly moving film, it’s probably not one you’d want to watch twice. A tale of one man’s redemption through good works as he battles the Nazi occupiers cruelty in their persecution of the Jews in Poland.

I’m in Krakow this week.

This morning I got up early and walked across the Vistula River and onto the Oskar Schindler Museum situated in the same factory buildings where he protected hundreds of Jews from the Nazi authorities and death.

I didn't know what I expected. A worthy museum perhaps, with exhibitions of metallurgy perhaps and a dry retracing through the themes of the movie. That’s not what I found.

I would say three quarters of the museum concentrates - through photographs, movies and artefacts - on the history of Krakow during the build up to the Nazi invasion and occupation of Poland.

You start at the top of the building and work down as the exhibitions take you through life in Krakow through summer 1939 to 1945 and the inhumanity and savagery - even pettiness - of the Nazi occupation. The tragedy of the Polish people generally, and the sizeable Jewish population in particular, is laid out through well chosen and contemporaneous displays.

Aside: It’s quite shocking to see displays of original Nazi regalia, from banners to machine guns, right through to branded tableware. These days the swastika is so verboten it’s quite a reality check to see the real deal that, instead of some lazy reference point, was actually - not so long ago - a living symbol of real evil.

Swastikas aside, there are many other pointed reminders of the executions, restrictions and even the Germanification of Krakow (language, education, housing; even street names). (1) We in Britain, through the English Channel, Spitfires, the Royal Navy, Churchill and good luck (the free Poles too!), avoided having to face this calamity. (2)

Unlike other museums I’ve been to, the fact that this one is cited in the actual location of so much history, is somewhat humbling. (3) A couple of times, I will admit, I was holding back tears. History weighs heavy in the location, in the subject matter. And it wasn’t so very long ago. And, if history is any guide and the human condition doesn’t change - and it won’t - this could be a path we go down again.

It ends with the Soviet occupation in1945. The Poles gained a country but lost their freedom.

So, what do I conclude:

1) Definitely go to this museum. It’s well worth it and any museum that provokes thought, reflection and a sense of an individual’s heroism against a harsh world is worth the (low) admission price.

2) A renewed hatred of the Nazis. There’s a reason they’re viewed in such disgust. I would caution though that they weren’t the only ones in history with a bad reputation (all countries, peoples and cultures are guilty). They might not be the last.

3) There is hope. I walked back through Kazimierz - the historical Jewish district of Krakow. I sensed no animus but instead saw Jewish shops and restaurants (and even an Israeli flag). Many tourists. History is long with many winding roads shaded from view. Perhaps, sometimes, they lead from a dark place into the light. It’s never perfect though.

Notes

1) Ignorant buffoon that I am, a cursory reading of history reveals the Germification of the Polish language and culture isn’t confined to 1939-45. The whole 19th Century after the Partitions of Poland (1772/95), for example. In the interest of balance, the forced deportations of ethnic Germans from Poland after 1945 shouldn’t be ignored. Which all goes to show, with history, the more you know, the less you really know. Always be alert to simplification, in both broad culture and - most particularly - in the narrow interests of politicians who use collective ignorance to drive a nefarious agenda.

2) The semi satirical American put down of Brits: “You’d all be speaking German if it wasn’t for us,” never felt so chillingly real.

3) A similar sensation you get in the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam. Different country, same tragedy.

"Hey Buddy; take me to Bleecker Street."

“I saw a shadow touch a shadow’s hand. On Bleecker Street.”

(New York Memories from many years ago and a taxi trip I took to follow a song. A repost but with edits and additions.)

When I first went to New York, American Express put me up at The Marriott Downtown on West Street. (1) After a hard day in the office doing, oh I don’t know what - all work is ephemeral given time and distance - I would ask my US colleagues out for a beer. And sometimes they would oblige... For a beer. Just one beer. Before then departing for New Jersey or somewhere out of town. Leaving me alone in New York.

The Marriott Downtown on West Street is down at the bottom of Manhattan Island, in a very business district; all skyscrapers, bustling with life during the day but dead after work. What to do? On my first trip to New York?

Letting art be my guide, I summoned a yellow taxi and told the cabbie to take me to Bleecker Street. Due to the Simon and Garfunkel song, it was the only uptown street I knew and I didn’t know any attractive ladies I could meet at the top of the Empire State Building. So the cabbie took me - circuitously I found later - up to Greenwich Village.

De-cabbed, I wandered around the village. Had some beers in 'coffee shops' where I had to get used to putting dollars on the bar before ordering my drink. Lighting up a Marlboro - yes, you could in those days - I thought, hey! - this is living. All my idols - Neil Diamond, Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, had walked these very streets. Played in the coffee houses. All I lacked was my very own Suzi Rotolo immortalised on The Freewheeling Bob Dylan:-

Now that image is well known. Less well known is the cover of The Paul Simon Songbook where Paul poses (influenced by Dylan, no doubt) with his then girlfriend Kathy Chitty (of Kathy's Song fame):-

The album cover above is framed and hung in my hallway. The Song Book was released in 1965 and recorded in England after Simon temporarily left Garkunkel following the poor reception to their first album, Wednesday Morning 3am. Wednesday Morning, of course, contained Bleecker Street. Being a fan, I had all the albums.

So what does this all show? Not much, in the receding view of history. A first time visitor to a great city takes a taxi ride to someplace mentioned in a song. But to me it was real. It was living art. All of my life - in those distant youthful days - seemed to be an unwritten novel, an oral poem - a song, awaiting to be sung.

I suppose life is an ever diminishing version of that little story: The search for the new, the openness of naivety, the finding of oneself, wherever that may be. I suppose we all search for the thrill and expectation I felt during that first taxi ride between West Street and Bleecker Street.

And sometimes we find that feeling. But usually we don't. We all live in between.

Tim

NOTES

1) Subsequently, I used to stay at the Marriott World Trade Centre, a little further up West Street. It was in between the twin towers and, of an evening, instead of Bleecker Street, I’d hang out in Windows on the World bar, up on 101st floor.

2) Other memories of that first trip to New York? The death of Richard Nixon vying with Mayor Giuliani’s first budget and both being very much on TV & Radio. Surprisingly crappy roads with potholes even down in the financial district. 

Yeah, Serge is batting above his average.

A few years back, in the dark days of masks, lockdowns and weird social rules in supermarkets, I wrote a pretty well received article on the best unknown 60’s songs (strangely now my most popular article battling it out with Mick Taylor and - bizarrely - a circularly walk around Burgess Hill).

The obscure 60’s article strayed not too far from the path of collective knowledge - B Sides from familiar bands (Stones, Beatles, Who), overlooked singles - Lady Friend by The Byrds. A couple of randos like Rudi’s in Love.

A toe in the water. I promised then - and I always keep my promises - to write a follow up with more obscure fayre from the 60’s. Well, here it is and here they are.

But before I start, I’m aware that this list will also be derided as mainstream, yawn, “13th Story Elevators - so overdone man.” I’ll take that abuse - there’s none so disdainful as an obscurantist. They are not my audience. Who is then Tim? Well, since you ask, my readers tend to stray on this site after perusing my Mick Taylor articles or having ploughed their way through my worthy histories of Rome through various battles. And given these facts, let’s tread lightly into obscure music trivia.

So - I can’t get no satisfaction crowd, be damned - here we go.

You’re Gonna Miss Me - The 13th Story Elevators (1966)

Pretty well known in underground circles. There used to be several club nights in Brighton in the early 90’s that would delight in playing obscure 60’s tracks. In my mind and unreliable memory, this particularly track used to be played a lot. For how else would I know it? It sounds like it was recorded in a garage which is a prerequisite for this list. Sounds like it was done in one take. Written by Roki Eriksson and storming to 55 on the Billboard charts in May 1966, this was the highpoint of The 13th Floor Elevators. If you like a track with prominent guitar, wailing singer, Kinks type solo and a weird jug instrument in the background then You’re Gonna Miss Me is one for your party playlist. Look smug.

I’m Gonna Jump - The Toggery Five

Familiar story. Boy finds his girl is unfaithful. Confronts her and then threatens to jump into a river to kill himself. Perhaps an over-reaction, no? Probably why she dumped you mate. But it’s delivered with panache, the singer has a pair of lungs on him and - subject matter aside - it’s a dramatic tune. Didn’t trouble the charts though. And how do I know this particular ditty? Well, back in Rochdale, so many years ago, the vicar’s daughter handed me a set of 45 singles. Can’t remember why. And this one was in the pile. It’s a crap anecdote I know but led to this entry on the listette.

Tried So Hard - Gene Clark (1967)

Gene left the Byrds in 1966 - afraid of flying and chased by the jealousy of the others. He then embarked on an unsuccessful solo career before drinking himself to death in 1991. Those twenty five years produced many great tracks and plenty from the 60’s all of which, unless you’re a Gene fan, are worthy of a mention here. I’ll go with Tried So Hard which - in various incarnations, I’ve tried so hard to play and record over the years. Clark is one of those few artists who started the country rock genre and no there’s no better example than this track. Superficially a ‘country’ song, it is replete with unusual minor chords and a great melody that are a hallmark of this under appreciated artist. So, listen to this, The Echos the album it comes from, and then go forth and listen more deeply my children. (Bonus points if you find Fairport Convention’s BBC Radio session version).

Think About It - The Yardbirds (1968)

B Side of their last single - Good Night Sweet Josephine. Whilst the A side is a some sub-Mickey Most musical hall type crap, Think About It is a audible signpost to guitarist Jimmy Page’s next group Led Zeppelin. Plug him in and away Jimmy goes, riffing like a bastard, soloing madly, double/triple tracking himself and foreshadowing Dazed and Confused. You know, there was a time, back when the planet was young and Margaret Thatcher was in power, when The Yardbirds were everything to me. More so than Zep even. Page, Clapton, Beck. What a lineage! But in their last couple of years, it was basically Page who used the Yardbirds vehicle - criss crossing the States and Europe - to hone his craft and develop the sound of what would become the world beating Zeppelin that dominated the 70’s (Hat tip to Renaissance though). From Happenings Ten Years Time Ago to Puzzles to Think About It, this was an experimental heavy metal journey. Think About It.

Blues Run the Game - Jackson Frank (1965)

“Catch a boat to England mama // Maybe to Spain”

There was a folk scene in the UK in the early to mid 60’s. It included John Renbourne, Bert Jansch, Sandy Denny, Paul Simon and his fellow American, Jackson Frank. Some went on to great fame and fortune and others - Frank - didn’t. He recorded one album, produced by Paul Simon, and left us with a hatful of great songs unknown and lost. Blues Run the Game, with it’s trademark folk finger picking style, haunting tune and ominous lyrics, is probably his greatest legacy. Got nowhere but it so nearly did. When Simon and Garfunkle were recording their first album - after the success of the electrified Sounds of Silence single - they recorded Blues Run the Game (probably a more polished but less heartfelt version). But it never made the cut for the album and lay unreleased until the 90’s. Frank died of mental illness and poverty never to know success. Blues ran his game and won.

Bonnie & Clyde - Serge Gainsbourg & Brigitte Bardot (1967)

Do we all feel the Serge? Dunno. But periodically, I do. Elisa, Initials BB, Qui est in, qui est out. Cool AF, is our Monsieur Gainsbourg. And Brigitte Bardot? This duo is hypnotic, with a an understated driving beat, falsetto cuckoos throughout, it draws you in and makes you think, why is this not more fasmous in the Anglo world. Clearly, I’m preaching to the choir in France but elsewhere, it’s a cult classic at best and a worthy and mighty entrant to this list. And yes, neither of them can sing that well. Cela n’a pas d’importance.

Maybe I Know - Lesley Gore (1964)

This song just comes at you right out of the blocks. With Quincy Jones production, this Jeff Barry/ Ellie Greenwich composition is a snapshot of early 60’s Brill Building styling. Inexplicably not a big hit, it’s one of my favs from this era - polished, great tune, confident double tracked vocals, whip cracking handclaps. Better known for ‘It’s my Party’ this is my preferred Lesley Gore song. And now yours. I’m sure her boyfriend didn’t really chteat on her like this (no sniggering).

This took me ages to write. Don’t know why. I neglect my blog, my readers, my craft. I apologise. Let the music say sorry to you… Part three? Who knows?

He sits back, laidback, all crotch display, leather jacket and quaffed hair. She’s not the first, the last, or the most important but she is in front of him right now sipping - through a straw - a double gin and tonic though I’m sure she only asked for a single. They smoke. They’re hip, seemingly equal, but this lopsided negotiation has but one outcome. 

So, that’s right in front of me. A tired seduction above 40.

What else? What else?

Family, older father, younger mother watching his beer intake, hunched teenage son. I predict quick sex after some drunken pleading. In a Novotel or Ibis Budget, hopefully not with the child in the same room.

We have Mr Buff, all tight black tee shirt, beard, tattoos and razored hair with obligatory blonde to my left. She’s sat almost on top of him so they must be new or asymmetrical. She rests her face on an elbow in his direction. He leans back; power move. Later, not much later, I suspect he’ll be shaming her into acts that her mother never told her about. Bad boy. Forgotten when she meets the corporate guy with a good income and pension that she can take when they (inevitably) divorce after a couple of kids. He’ll not be a bad boy.

Old guy sits on my right in a puffa jacket and a whiskey cocktail. He has his hair but no life, no future. He’s delaying going home to his little flat and a warmed up dinner. He stares into the mid distance, defeat in his eyes. Nothing will happen. Nothing has happened since his wife died ten years ago. 

But wait! Family has allowed the mulleted teenage son to leave and I just saw the older father place his hand on the younger mother’s hand. ‘Yeah, go and look around, sonny. We’ll be here.’ Guy wants to get pissed, she wants a relationship talk. I’m now predicting a long unsurfaced argument will get in the way of that perfunctory sex. Talk is dangerous.

Over to my far right are two older ladies drinking coca cola. As the bottles stand on the table, they discuss their menfolk or lack of and seem very engrossed. Too far away. Too… Yeah.

The family have left together. She looked me in the eye - once, twice - sphinx like in her appraisal as the older husband pays the bill unaware his wife and I shared a moment. A moment she shares a thousand times a day. Does he know, it just takes a brief lowering of his wife’s guard (or regard) and he’s a cuckold risking his pension rights and denied seeing sulky teenager on a regular basis?

I order another Kriek. The waiter’s aftershave arrives before the drink. No peanuts this time.

And apart from an odd guy in a camouflage baseball hat looking at his phone, beyond the too close couple, that’s it? No one else for me to critique on this Wednesday afternoon in Antwerp?

And your author, who is he?

Indeterminate forties / fifties (probably the latter) in a black gilet, Hackett shirt, tapping away at his laptop. Running from life, writing about real life wishing someone - Her? Her? Her? - would see him as a F.Scott Fitzgerald, a Hemingway, an exiled Oscar Wilde (without the gayness, obviously).

Watching the girls go by. Imagining a story within each. Not their worst story. An above average time bar hopping and chatting about history, literature, consensual politics. But, maybe not the best evening ever.

But probably mine. The laptop would disappear and the story would be unwritten. AsSecret. Until recalled years later. Names changed, obviously.

And then a blonde beauty walks in wearing a tight sweater and smiles at me innocently. The world is in that smile. A world of possibility, of redemption, of long overdue new beginnings. Of course, a taller, equally blonde male follows her on tow. Of course. But that smile. That smile, now looking at a glass of Rose as her immature boyfriend makes a show of pouring a Duvet. He plays her a TicToK video and she rests her head on his shoulder.

Young love, eh? Whatever happened to young love? That older couple from earlier on; there was no pretence at world changing romance in their dialogue, within their cocoon. It was, sex or no sex. It was do this or I’m not bothered and I’ve got 20 other women who will. The cracked makeup smudged on a pillow and no follow up the next day. It’s how it is now, yeah?

I hope the young couple next to me make it. Within age lies corruption. They may last. They probably won’t. Then it’s just another - what? - another sad story, unspoken. A failed domesticity only remembered by the two and then asymmetrically as some future partner witlessly blunders into “So, you? How many?”

Each day brings the possibility of immortality. But each day is just, everyday. And everyday is just like the last. 

Carpe Diem, motherfuckers.

Postscript

Later. A bar in Antwerp. International group speaking English as their Linga Franca. Unfortunately I therefore hear all. The women talk of all their facial treatments - what they’ve had, what they will have. The eldest is 35. The 28 year old agrees and swaps her needle around the forehead stories. Silently, I’m appalled. When they move onto STDs and ‘it was just sex’ anecdotes, I clutch my pearls, pick up my skirts and run. Fun times.

“He greeted Marion with his voice pitched carefully to avoid either feigned enthusiasm or dislike”

(In which Tim feigns false modesty as an interesting new way to flex. Reads anew F. Scott Fitzgerald and genuflects before a superior writing talent. There’s gonna be some pretension. There’s gonna be some bullshit. Pub conversation at 11pm profundity!)

I used to think - fleetingly - that my words would stand out in the crowded square of imposters and rivals. That my too personal stories, barely disguised from real life, replete with humorous bon mots were of a durable and sagacious vintage that would elevate my prospects in both the literary and material world.

And, do you know, occasionally - very occasionally - like transient icebergs poking through a storm tossed sea, I felt they did. But each emerging peak, each success, just allowed me a new vantage point upon yet greater heights. Ascending upward, I realised I’d scaled only the foothills, unflattered by the comparisons far above. (1)

On a trip to The Hague recently I took a small, pocket sized copy of F. Scott Fitzgerard’s Babylon Revisted. Reading through, I became aware that I’m (once again) a poor man’s Salieri to Mozart. I’m a good enough writer to recognise I’m a hack writer by comparison. But how? What are those authorial ‘tells’, those embedded hallmarks that shine through flashing greatness?

I would suggest that there are three signs of obvious literary talent. (There’s probably many more, and if I wasn’t in a bar in Delft sampling beers strong and stronger, I’d enumerate them all. But a narrow focus - a well formed list of three - is the consequential benefit one derives from a slow descent into drunkenness, don’t you think?)

Firstly, concerning the nuts and bolts of writing itself: Is the prose any damn good? In Fitzgerald’s case, yes, very much so. When reading, certain phrases and constructions sing out to elevate the experience above the quotidian, the commonplace, the hackery. All good writers employ stylistic devices, those elegant phrases and tricks that artfully chime like a beautiful bell to the soul. But not all ‘greats’ are the same. To me, slip sliding away into fuzzy numbness here in The Netherlands, there are three types of prose that elevate:

Beautiful or lyrical prose (F.Scott. Balzac. Martin Amis, sometimes.)

Stripped back writing (Hemingway being an obvious exemplar)

Experimental - for example Clockwork Orange, On the Road Again or Last Exit to Brooklyn

Of the three, I value the first most of all. I can almost feel it when a well turned phrase hits home. It almost hurts. Why didn’t I coin this, think of this, work harder on my own flabby prose? Was it lack of work or lack of creativity? Each chiming phrase is a rebuke. I envy. But I recognise the brilliance.

Secondly, characterisation. Are the characters well drawn? Are their motivations believable? Is their place in the story apposite, their character sketched sufficiently deeply to avoid becoming cut outs or cyphers, mere third spear carriers from the left wheeled embarrassingly onto the page to mumble a line or two before shuffling off forgotten like a drunken burger after midnight?

As a writer, I find characterisation one of the hardest things to get right. There are some authors who write just for men with the result that their female characters are pale facsimiles of real life women. Similarly, some female writers struggle with male characters and so resort to a stereotypic landscape populated by bastards or wimps. Speaking personally, I don’t have an issue with the sex of my characters. My problem is more fundamental than that. Essentially, any character that isn’t me suffers from that very fact; they are not me meaning they are ill-drawn and one dimensional - pathetic straight men made to suffer my character’s one liners, inner monologue, whilst facilitating tendencious plot development.

But read someone who does it well - an Austin or Dickens, for example - and you roll yourself in a fleshy world of believability. You can imagine the characters in real life, understand why they do what they do, how they drive the plot forward naturally. I’ve always been intrigued how this is done. Do the authors sit down and plan their characters (as suggested by numerous colour-by-numbers writing schools) or do they just carry them in their head and understand each line, each interaction, each movement as they write?

Don’t know. Not a great writer. Ask them.

Thirdly (and lastly) - plot. Writing is telling stories. Is the plot engaging, does it draw you in, want to turn the page, speed read to get to the next chapter akin to binge watching a gripping series on Netflix? Mmmm. There’s many a writer who plots like a mathematician, algorthymically making sure each chapter ends on a cliffhanger, pacing the reader so that the denouement is both satisfactory and surprising. This is where I have my biggest reservation. Although I love a good ending, the symmetry of a three act play or movie or book, part of me loves the realism of unsatisfactory endings. For example, I loved Brett Easton Ellis’ Rules of Attraction that both started and ended in mid sentence, breaking in and then checking out of the narrative. (2) Like life. Unresolved. Messy. Not cute.

Of course, certain genres demand neat plots, crime and thrillers for example, romantic books. And so whilst I respect good plots - no I really do - to me they’re not a deal breaker. But let me interpret plot somewhat more loosley. Let me replace ‘plot’ with ‘narrative’. Does the narrative hold together, does it make you want to stay the course and follow the authorial voice, the characters, the worldview described? Yes? Then you has you a decent narrative.

I don’t necessarily need to know that it was the butler who did it with a candlestick in the library. But I may want to know about the characters’ actions leading up to, and after, during. Not all murders end up with Colonel Mustard buggering Professional Plum in the Hallway. Er, neither does Cluedo Tim.

Yeah. Losing it. Affligem Dubbel kicking in. Bar somewhere in Delft. (Where? Cafe de V I think, according to the menu) filling up with Dutch people eating, drinking, speaking English when asked.

So, plot and narrative. Losing the plot. Maintaining a narrative. I’m a real life example of that. Now. But my central point is, tying it all together; I was shocked into wonder, annoyance and competitiveness as to how bloody good Babylon Revisited is.

F. Scott Fitzsgerald. What a bitch!

Notes

1) Notice how I eschewed the Titanic reference? Eschew the obvious. It’s what separates us from AI. The human brain is - when engaged - synaptically more creative than the AI. That’s what annoys me when people revert through laziness or foolishness to using AI in place of thinking.

2) I now know this starting in the middle thing is called In Medias Res. I warned you at the start of this article I was going to be pretentious but not as annoying I will be next time I find the opportunity to use this Latin phrase. Wanker.

The Royal Hotel: The start and the end of this walk

(In which Tim babbles about a 5 mile circular walk in Kirkby Lonsdale. Strays from this literary path, takes wrong turns, reverses himself, tries to elevate the experience, fails, makes poor jokes and maybe, maybe, perhaps, provides the casual viewer with some advice. But, probably not.)

Hiking repeats itself, first as disappointment and embarrassment and then as elation and smugness. Marx nearly got it right. So close but I think I’ve adapted his words well. It’s what the old boils-on-the-arse freeloader would have wanted. Or, whatever. Yeah.

I have a rule when discovering a new hike for the first time; like sex, it’s better alone. Er, what Tim? Is that right? Okay… Maybe what I meant to say is that, in order to get knowledgable about a hiking route (and sex), then it’s best to explore alone first. Because, well, so you know what you’re doing, right?

No Tim. The analogy is still crap and pretty embarrassing. Take the shame and move on.

Kirkby Walk Anyone?

Anyway. I ‘discovered’ Kirkby Lonsdale last year. Put it on the map, in fact. Or at least my sat nav. Stayed at the Royal Hotel in the centre of town with my father and my eldest daughter. Looked up a walk. But ignored the first rule of new hikes as set out above (you know, do it yourself first). So I went on it with family members striding confidently into the countryside. Of course I fucked it up royally. Ended up playing dodge- -the-country-traffic on a busy road game. Fun times.

But the world likes a trier so, sans famille, I went back a couple of weeks ago. Autumn had become spring and right replaced wrong. Did the walk again. But I got it right this time. It is a lovely walk and I’d recommend it if you can follow my crap map and instructions below.

I then had myself a night out in Kirkby. Some pints drunk some interactions with locals. Got into adventures. When Tim rolls, he rocks hard (and talks about himself in the third person).

The Route Map

The Route (approx.)

From the Royal Hotel, up and out of Kirkby, into the countryside, down a country lane to Whittington, down to the Lune River and follow it back to Kirkby & the old Devil’s Bridge. Have a pint.

Tell Us About Kirkby Lonsdale, Tim

Where is Kirkby Lonsdale? Is it Lancashire? Yorkshire? The Lake District? Westmoreland? Somewhere Up North? All of these probably. The locals didn’t seem too sure themselves. Let’s go with a picturesque cross-road between many beautiful parts of the country. The market town itself is a venerable gem; stone built 18/19th century buildings, more pubs than you can shake a shepherd’s crook at, artisan shops. There’s even a brewery with a pub which brews it’s own decent beer. The Royal Hotel - my abode of choice - sits right in the centre on the market square. The sort of solid establishment where you know a good breakfast with decent sausages awaits in the morning. The hotel boasts a bar / restaurant but there’s also a library / reading room with leather armchairs, open fire, newspapers. More. About. That. Room. Later. (1)

Kirkby has been rumoured to have the most perfect view in all of England - Ruskin’s View. It’s behind St Mary’s church in case you wish to gaze upon the vista yourself. Hills, river bends, farms, woods. Not much changed much since Turner painted it. Me? It’s beautiful but not the best. (2)

As a frequent visitor to the Lake District, the topography around KL (as I shall now call it) has much more of the green, rolling hills vibe than it’s northern neighbour. Very ‘The Shire’ without Bilbo. Maybe hobbits. Pretty without being spectacular. Look at the pictures below to get a flavour.

The Walk - crap instructions. Sorry

Facing the Royal Hotel, go up the road to the right. Keep following it up the hill (New Rd / Biggins Rd). Take the left hand fork and pass a school on your left. Leads to the A65 out of the town. Cross and follow the smaller road upwards with houses on either side. When you get to the end of the houses there’s a pathway to the left which leads narrowly down the hill alongside - or in - a pebbly stream which comes out eventually after 10 mins or so at some farm buildings. Cross fields to the right skirting a hill and using a couple of styles. The path is clearly embedded in the grass heading right and up. You come out by a house. There’s a lane leading left (Hosticle Lane). Follow this down to Whittington. Turn left down Church Street and pass the church (pictured above) then when the road meets Main Street turn right. Walk out of the village. On the left - at the last buildings - there is a small road / pathway that leads to the River Lune after 15 mins or so. Turn left at the river and follow it back to Kirkby over some styles but never going far from the water. A Kirkby, cross the road, then a park and follow the pathway along the river again. (Devil’s Bridge side trip.) Steep but short walk up from the Lune to Kirkby. Have a pint. Maybe some chips. Bath / shower. Change of clothes. Out for the night.

Should I collect these into a book?

The Evening

And so to the evening. I thought I’d pop into a couple of Kirkby pubs. Taste the local bitter. I was carrying my laptop around like some Southern nobhead; someone who wants to write about life rather than experience it. An observer, not a full participant. Well, that plan got derailed! Usual story. Unusual story. Tales to tell. But not here. Sorry. What happens in Kirkby, stays in Kirkby! (3)

But perhaps, make your own journey? (See my other walks)

Footnotes:

0) Who does Footnotes on a blog? Me. That’s who.

1) Or possibly not. A gentleman never tells. Me on the other hand! No; the fog of discretion and too many well poured Cumbrian ales allows me to draw a tatty veil over the end to this particular evening.

2) The real best view in England? Easy; the panorama one is faced when descending from the moors on Edenfield Road and, suddenly, the whole of Rochdale comes into view below you. Especially at night. Ruskin missed this, Turner never painted it, but Rochdale and England never looked so magnificent.

3) Me being me, my life is more salacious and vibrant in retrospect (see Madonna / Princess Di story for proof)

Tim Robson pictured round about the time these stories happened. 

(In which Tim reveals the very secrets of his conversational success, stories to tell when on a date and adds a personal take on a trio of famous women. Some pretentious crap about tapestries and history)

Occasionally - carefully and trepidatiously - I may be on a date. If things are going well, yeah, I know, not often, Tim may kick back and pull out those killer stories that push the conversation from “Who’s this shallow buffoon?'‘ to “Get your coat Tim, you’ve pulled.”

Indulge me.

We all have those stories we whip out at the right occasion; those anecdotes that attempt to make you look better by association. I often say, we are the stories we tell. What we choose to share is who we are. Now, you’re probably thinking, that’s deep Tim. You’d be right; that lightweight humour I wear as an armour masks shadowy caverns of intellectuality. How is he still single, I hear you ask?

So, ladies, if you hear me mention the following, you know that it’s decision time. Decision time to leave early often but hey! despite repeated evidence to the contrary, we continually trace familiar arcs.

I’ll say; I’ve met some famous, even iconic women in the past, so take a choice between Princess Di, Margaret Thatcher or Madonna and I’ll tell you the story. It merits interest when the conversation is flagging, when I need an extra boost to up my bone fides with whosoever I’m with. But, like all great things in life, it’s the anticipation, the journey that matters, not the destination.

What I’m admitting is; ultimately they’re all crap anecdotes.

So, you have choice, lady with a white wine in front of her, who would like to hear about: Princess Diana, Madonna or Margaret Thatcher? Obviously the limiting choice is a false one because, like every egomaniac, I will, of course, tell all three stories anyway. As the cascading crapness of each anecdote tumbles forth, it becomes apparent that these shiny celebrity baubles are but flaming torches on a dark pathway to somewhere else.

Usually a solitary walk home in the rain, but, here we go; I’ve preambled and foreshadowed enough. On with the stories Tim!

Princess Diana

The connections between the Robsons and the Spencer family go back generations. No, my ancestors weren’t at high society balls nor swigging flasks whilst grouse shooting on some windy moor: my grandmother (RIP) was a servant at Althorp House when Diana’s father was young. Like many bright working class people of her generation, continued education was not an option and so young Dora Mason left school at 15, probably packed a solitary suitcase and left for domestic work in a grand house. All very Downtown Abbey.

Skip forward 70 or so years and the grandson of the servant and the daughter of the young lord were fated to meet. Not once, but twice. As a Rochdale boy studying at Sussex University, I’d often have to take the Brighton to Manchester train (sadly now axed). A long six-eight hour journey stopping everywhere. One of the stops was Kensington Olympia.

There I was, penning a letter - yes we used to do that, no, not with a quill - and a familiar figure wandered into view walking along the platform. None other than the Princess of Wales (as she then was), Diana Spencer. Now back then, in celeb terms, she was top of the heap. And here we were separated by less than a foot as she walked past gazing into my eyes for less than a second. She then knocked on the window and beckoned me to follow. (1) Before walking on. I’d like to say, into history but this story has a (crap) further episode.

Years later, I was working in a supermarket in Brighton in Kemptown. The staff restuarant was on the first floor and there I was, gazing out on to St James’ Street and noticed crowds gathering on both sides of the street. Who should drive by but my old friend from Kensington Olympia, Diana? Boy, was this girl persistent. No means no, yeah?

This time she drove on and I never saw her again.

Margaret Thatcher

Prime Minister 1979-1990, winner of three elections, first female PM, Falkland War victor and iconic leader of the West against communism. If she were here now, she would undoubtedly mention all these achievements en passant but, if pressed, she would probably mention the handful of times she locked eyes with young Tim Robson.

I briefly working for an MP at the House of Commons many years ago. It was here that I crossed paths with Thatcher, then at the height of her power. Whether from Strangers Gallery, at a House of Commons regetta, or, well, Strangers Gallery again, we shared moments did Margaret and I. How many alive can say they stared into those cold blue eyes, eyes that could sear through to your soul and assess if you were ‘One of Us’, friend or foe? Ultimately, she never said what she thought of me. In retrospect, I think more of her now than I did then and I’m glad I saw her in the flesh.

And onto story three.

Madonna

And so we get to my Madonna story. Probably the best of the three. You know when people say they bumped into someone? Well, in this case, I actually did bump into Madonna. Might have exchanged words.

It was sometime in the mid 00’s and for some reason my boss - a high powered VP - decided I’d been suitably obsequious and so decreed on the spur of the moment to take me to Cipriani’s, then on Park Lane. Paparazzi lined the pavement, flash bulbs were going off left and right and the restaurant was packed. (2) We drank, we ate, we drank and eventually Tim needed the bathroom. The tables were close together so it took some weaving to navigate the journey to the gents.

A narrow corridor formed between tables and I walked quickly noticing, at the other end of this confined space, a short(ish) woman who looked liked Madonna coming in the opposite direction. I looked again; yes, it really was Madonna! There was only really space for one of us between the tables and she didn’t look like she was going to let me through. Too far on to go back, I pressed ahead and we kind of bumped into each other in the middle. And then she said the following words to me which I’ll always remember:

“Asshole.”

Now isn’t that a celeb story to treasure?

Conclusion

The stories themselves are lightweight and, in one way, inconsequential. Remember what I said to you about us being the stories we tell? But they serve two purposes. Firstly, they provoke discussion, they advance the conversation from quotidian ‘how are you’, ‘where do you work’, ‘how did you get here’ to a more interesting level. Everyone’s got a celeb story to tell. Usually just as crap as my own. It’s a bonding mechanism.

Secondly, what three remarkable women! All iconic, all remembered today (yeah, yeah, Madonna’s still alive, but you know what I mean). The stories and the women involved are a link to the past, and there’s nothing so obscure as the recent past. To be footsoldier at Austerlitz and see Napoleon riding close by must have been that soldier’s go-to yarn when refilling his cup in some provincial inn back home in France years later. How he looked, the uniform he wore, the weather. These are the touches of history that evade historians but just as each stitch makes a tapestry, so does each anecdote serve a wider purpose of preserving what is often lost.

Really Tim?

Oh all right. I tell them to create curiosity and as vehicle for a few jokes. We are the stories we tell.

Notes

1) Possibly that sentence, about knocking on the window, may just be my brain playing tricks on me. Time is a great deceiver.

2) Prince Andrew & Fergie were there with their kids also that night. No, me neither.

The clouds above Sussex Downs. Barefoot Tim strumming Joni Mitchell not pictured

(In which Tim investigates Data Centres. Platitudes himself into a mild eco-frenzy and then talks remediation strategies like someone who has spent probably less than a couple of hours half reading articles on the subject. I like it that way, throwing punches in the dark.)

Notice how our language can be subverted? Euphemisms abound. Real intent and actions are hidden by innocuous sounding words and phrases.

‘The Cloud’ for instance.

We all know have some shadowy idea that our data sits somewhere in this mysterious thing called The Cloud. TicToc. (what’s this?) Facebook (Hi Granddad!). Emails, pictures and texts. Banking, payments, networks, online shopping, they all flow seamlessly through this transcendental world. 

Sounds sort of fluffy, no?

Bullshit, actually. Behind each online transaction lies a very physical, non cumulus world located in vast server factories all over the world and supported by a complex infrastructure of pipes and fibre optic cables, often underwater.

These data centres are vast consumers of energy. As the world becomes more interconnected, as we carelessly scroll through TicTocs of dance routines and cats doing funny things, those naughty websites with adult videos on them (not me), the data centres become inextricably larger and more numerous.

More data. More data centres. More energy needed. Vast energy use.

In these data centres, servers sit row upon row, storing our photos, remembering our transactions, facilitating our messages. This all takes energy. But just as we know that overuse of an iPhone can heat it up, likewise these servers generate heat as they whir away continuously. So they need cooling, lots of it.

More energy use. Much more energy use. 

It’s estimated that data centres use upwards of 2% of all our worldwide energy and this is growing exponentially each year. Vast amounts of water are also necessary to keep the cooling systems functional so the servers don’t overheat.

So our picturesquely named ‘The Cloud’ is anything but our fluffy friend. Like steel production - which it is rapidly catching as a major polluter in the world - data centres are a necessary ecological evil.

Unavoidable. 

Mitigation

Clearly, the major players from Apple, to Google, to Meta, to Amazon, know this. Mitigation strategies are many and include, renewable energy sources, carbon neutral strategies, clever uses of geography (cold areas for cooling for example, or hot areas for solar energy), water based cooling (in the sea for example), optimal server redesign, converting surplus heat into energy.

Many strategies but the rise of connectivity, AI, videos, and businesses moving to Cloud based solutions - for security, cost reduction, future proofing, speed - all contribute to the snowball hurtling down the mountain that is data centres. Best intentions sometimes aren’t enough.

Knowledge is Power?

Knowledge is power. Power, judiciously exercised can lead to change. Peaceful, incremental, beneficial change. The first step is to realise that the internet, our phones, our social media, The Cloud itself, is not cost free. All our actions, cumulated together, are creating a monster of environmental impacts.

Reluctantly, governments probably have to play a part. Holding the ring, not swinging within. Businesses who use ‘The Cloud’ can play a part by lobbying for cleaner, more efficient data centres, and by informing their customers of the environmental impacts of their data policies. I’m wary of ceding power to third parties though who seem to push agendas in the guise of ‘measuring ESG’. Who guards he guardians is a great liberal principle.

Ultimately though, we - the consumers - are also jointly culpable and so individually we must ask, what can I do?

Practical tips for individuals and businesses

For a start, gluing yourself to the road or vandalising works of art are not an option. Grow up! Prison is where you should be and you have no place in rational discussion.

So, here’s some practical tips to help steady the growth of data centres and reduce the power that they use. It’s interesting what we can do!

Delete emails, keep to inbox zero. It’s good practice anyway, isn’t it?

Don't send unnecessary emails, keep the cc’s low.

Use Google docs and share them rather than use email (also good for security - we’ve all sent docs to the wrong person!)

Type a website directly into the browser (or click on a URL). Searches use 4 times more energy

Websites: lighter colours are less ‘heavy’, simple pictures are easier to load and use less energy. As universally recognised fonts, Arial and Verdana load faster. Use simple code - don’t overcomplicate things. Check your website’s footprint at Websitecarbon.com

Videos and music on your phone. Download, don’t stream.

Video /social media - disable autoplay (see where to find the control for LinkedIn)

If you’re listening to a song on Youtube, for example, but not watching it, stream or download the song from a music site.

Read books. Slow burn knowledge. Builds resilience and patience and is a good habit.

Quit social media. Conroversial but true. I did it years ago. Don’t miss it.

It's an interesting list. Every individual plays a part. Each part adds to a whole. The internet is great advance for society, bringing benefits from access to knowledge, to instantaneous communication, fast payments, online shopping, and yes, videos of dogs playing the piano. But there is a downside. Nothing is cost free.

Knowledge of this should dictate behaviour. It won’t but it should. Otherwise demand of services will outstrip supply of energy. And I’m back to nuclear again. Nuclear? Yes; the way we can safely add base load to meet increasing demand. One for another post !