Havana

The first thing I noticed when I walked into this place was the giant mural of the Latin American revolutionary and guerrilla warfare hero, Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara. It’s about ten feet high, from floor to ceiling, and he looks directly out at the dance floor. What would he make of this place?

The funny thing about this image is that it is a world-famous icon yet not iconic; everyone has seen this image and it used to be plastered on student walls all over the place. But to most people the image has no meaning beyond being a famous picture of someone they probably couldn’t even name, let alone knowing what Guevara actually stood for. So, it is just a literal image.

But there is a strong Cuban ambience in this restaurant and music venue, Havana. It’s like stepping into the Buena Vista Social Club, even more so than the Timepiece up in town on a Sunday night. You half expect Ibrahim Ferrer - who appeared with the rest of the club at Carnegie Hall, in the film - to walk on stage at any moment. I've never tried the food here, but they play some great Cuban music. They even sell big, fat cigars, though no Havana cigars, for some reason.

The building is the old Kennaway bonded warehouse, built in about 1812. I think they used to import wine and tobacco, all brought up the canal at a snail's pace. Now, the only stuff that enters the building is turned into guacamole, tex mex and stuff like that, I imagine.

Tonight, there must be at least 150 people in the place, all spread over one vast floor 80 feet long. As usual, they have a live band, playing all manner of modern music, none of it Cuban (although they play a version of Spirit in the Sky, that great tune by Dr and the Medics). It is only when they pack up, at about 11pm, that the Cuban CD goes on and you are transported to the real Havana.

The drinks are too expensive, £3 a pint; the barmaids are all very attractive.

Havana restaurant website:
http://www.havanagoodtime.co.uk/
this same outfit also has Al Farid, a Moroccan restaurant, and Cohiba, a Spanish restaurant.

The Biography Project, Che Guevara pages:
http://www.popsubculture.com/pop/bio_project/ernesto_che_guevara.html

'Che' Guevara was a great anti-imperialist, yet a bit gung-ho; he advocated first-strike nuclear war in 1961 and personally participated in mass executions after the revolution in Cuba. What can you say?

On the other hand, although he was a senior government minister in Havana in the 1960s, he resigned/was sacked and then went back to his favourite activity - fomenting revolution in the Third World. He especially liked jungles. Makes a change from resigning to 'spend more time with the family', wouldn't you say?

He is like the opposite of that mild-mannered shrimp, fake and toady, Hilary Benn, the Henry Holland of British government (the Alec Guiness, timid shrimp, bank clerk character in Lavender Hill Mob).

Isn't it sick that you get people who benefit purely from who their parents were? Like Bush and Benn? It's just so crass that Hilary Benn gets into British government purely on account of who his father was; just a shame that he is a shadow of Tony Benn, the legend of post-war British politics.

Who is the current 'Che' Guevara of British politics? George Galloway?

Robert Fisk

I have tremendous respect for Robert Fisk, the famous journalist who has written on the Middle East for at least three decades.

Fisk's knowledge of the entire region - historical, politcal and geographical - is surely second to none, certainly in the world of journalism. I have read many of his excellent articles in The Independent newspaper (of London) which describe events in Iraq from a non-Bush/American/orthdox viewpoint.

He is usually given front page billing, and rightly so (usually accompanied by a centred picture and the usual brilliant presentation of the Independent, even in its new tabloid format). They are a revelation and so refreshing (and justify the newspaper's name and supposed ethos). This is proven by their heavy linkage from 'alternative' websites (and even conspiracy websites).

He understands all of the changing alliances, former 'good' regimes that are now considered 'bad', and vice versa and so on. He is like a living antidote to the growing trend towards Orwellism, the re-writing of history.

But, today, he has written his worst ever article for The Independent (The sins of our fathers, the folly of man and the art of documenting history, Independent, 5 February 2005). Not surprisingly, it is not about Iraq or foreign affairs; it is a sort of personal memoir on the craft of journalism, historical documentation and modern writing. He says he wrote it by hand.

He talks about how computing and modern data communications have changed the art of journalism and writing but for the worse; how his old telex transmissions were real, on paper and readily available now as historical documents, unaltered in any way (he keeps them all at home). To illustrate this, he refers back to his own notes, some of which document an anecdote whereby Tony Clifton, of BBC Newsnight, met Saddam Hussein back in the late 1970s and was personally driven by the 'dictator' to demonstrate how he was loved by the people on the streets of Baghdad.

Predictably, Clifton now denies all knowledge of the incident - this is the onward march of Orwellism in its most predictable and lamentable form, the altering of the past to fit in with current political orthodoxy. We will undoubtably see a lot more of this in years to come; indeed, in the end, there may even be what you might term 'political software' which will render any past document in a modern, politically acceptable format. You won't even need a Winston Smith to do the drudgery of re-writing.

Fisk seems to be saying that modern IT, laptops and the digital archiving of information lend themselves too easily to alteration, and that's ignoring the practical difficulties of writing with a keyboard.

But then, just like the idiot journalist Jasper Gerard in the Sunday Times Review Section, he uses modern, idiot-moron language, like sentences that begin and end with 'Ouch'. Fisk has just plummeted in my esteem, from the Pantheon of foreign affairs journalism (along with Gareth Jones) to the dungeon of Simpsons-journo-rubbish.

I would say two things to Robert Fisk:

1.) Learn to type. I can hardly believe that a journalist such as Robert Fisk - forty years in the business - has never learnt to type. It is inconceivable. Try learning to type; it will make writing on a computer effortless (just like this article I am writing).

Computer programs such as Word are brilliant for writing any document. You can structure a document using outlines, change the format, style, order and presentation of the document until it is just right. Then, you can archive the final, authentic document and perhaps even save a copy on good, old-fashioned paper.

Okay, it is a nightmare trying to maintain an archive on a computer (you land up with a mass of files and end up deleting the wrong files; I've done it at home many times). Also, they are susceptible to Winston Smith style alteration.

2.) Eliminate any modern, colloquial, Simpsons-moron words like 'Ouch'. This is moronic and also a total double standard. It is an insult to serious readers. How can you complain about modern technology, the alteration of historical fact, and everything, and then use modern, moron language which is designed to reduce the population to moron level? It is hypocritical.

Words like 'ouch' in a serious article in a serious newspaper demonstrate the need to conform to modern trends and stuff - in a way, it is just like using Newspeak.

The Robert Fisk article was a total disappointment.

Darts Farm Shopping Village

This is one of those sort of 'concept' shopping experiences, just like something from middle America. I don't know whether I love it or hate it.

For one thing, there are simply too many bloody people in the place; all of these retired, affluent middle-aged people with nothing better to do than spend more and more time perfecting their already perfect homes. All at a price, too.

The prices are ludicrous: £1.69 for a 100g chocolate bar, sold to mugs who think they're gaining added value or something (the stuff is probably lower quality than an 80p Galaxy bar). And the bar is wrapped in cheap, blue paper and in a stupid, long, narrow shape (about 10 inches long). Everthing here is expensive.

Darts Farm tries to be too many things: garden centre, supermarket, DIY, clothes shop, furniture shop and other things, all under one roof. You can buy a trampoline, pub-style table soccer games, sofas, and Exmoor organic beef. And an aquarium and a new tree or shrub, should you need one.

It is a large, flat building, with just one floor, built on a slight incline that leads up to Clyst St George. Below is the meandering River Clyst, close to where it meets the River Exe, just the other side of Topsham. The Clyst is the border between Exeter and East Devon, placing Darts Farm in the latter, close to Ebford. Curiously, I always thought the Clyst was the Exe until I took the trouble to look at a map one day; it is, however, a large, significant tributary, probably the largest river to join with the Exe at any point in its sixty mile existence.

The upper part of the building is entirely new and impressive, with angled steel roof girders sloping down, covering stone-tiled floors and stuff, all enclosed by large, floor-to-roof plate windows. It's the sort of place you'd expect in Alaska. On the other hand, it's just an upmarket version of Mole Avon and Trago Mills, thrown together and marketed to richer people.

The Fired Earth shop is just full of yet more over-priced yet high quality stuff, armchairs, tables, cooking things and a lot more. They are sell those Arga cookers, the type that run on coal and take up half the kitchen.

The restaurant is fine except it's too busy and too noisy. You can hear the din of two hundred grannies and pensioners chatting away and eating. The whole thing requires about twenty waiters by the look of it, too. I would estimate at least twenty minutes to order something as simple as a coffee, so what's the point?

And then there's the modern, pathetic obsession with endless choices. If you order a coffee you must choose from about ten different types: latte, cappucino, espresso and all the rest. Why the fuck can't you just order a cheap, ordinary cup of instant coffee? It must all be about money, charging £2 for a coffee (the bloody machine costs £400 I imagine).

Marwood House

At 12.40pm I went to visit the thirteen Signpost flats in Marwood House, up at 60 St David's Hill, Exeter.

Devon & Cornwall are redeveloping Copplestone Drive so it's probably time to 'move on', as they say these days (but this time literally). It may be possible to remain at Copplestone but it means months of noise, disruption and uncertainty while they convert the three big blocks to larger flats. And that's after a year of building up at Highcroft, at the very top of the drive.

In fact, there is far too much building going on in Exeter these days altogether. The old Birkbeck Halls - just two hundred yards away - have now been demolished, reduced to a big pile of rubble. The University have just built enormous student halls right at the top of the hill beside Highcroft, as well, all visible from miles away. Why they used bright, yellow bricks instead of dark, green or brown bricks is beyond me; from Exwick these buildings are a terrible eyesore. What can you expect?

There're hundreds of houses going up at Southam Fields, by Middlemoor; The Higher Barracks have dozens; Isca Place by the Central Station has 167 flats going up; Princesshay - the ghastly, money-inspired scheme in the heart of the city - has another 200 flats going up, too. What will the population of Exeter be in ten years' time? (about 120,000 at least).

Anyway, Marwood House is a pleasant surprise. Really, some of the flats at the very top of the building - an old office building - are like modern, trendy loft apartments, the type you'd pay a lot for privately. They have skylight windows, a superb, modern interior with fitted kitchens and plenty of space and, all-in-all, are large and bright.

From the top floor, you can see way out towards the Haldon Hills on one side and Bury Meadow and Exeter College on the other side; very appealing. They've spent a fair amount of money on the place and they're very tempting. I may well move there, if possible.

Below is Walnut House, one of the oldest houses in the St David's area of Exeter, dating back to about 1790. Nearby is the St Davids Community Centre, an excellent place for evening classes and various other activities (it now even has a cafe).

The most spooky thing is that when I worked at EBC Group (now Rok) back in 1987, at Queens Terrace, I used to deliver the wage slips to the head office which was actually in this same building, Marwood House. The Signpost official showed me around the entire building today - 13 flats, spread over four floors - and it was just like returning to 1987, walking around the entire building delivering the payslips to all of the office staff.

Weston-super-Mare

No-one knew where the Wetherspoons pub was.

I tried the assistant in the Library on the Boulevard, just a few hundred yards from the seafront and town center. No point, even after she'd tried searching on the internet for some time (an elementary task, surely? - Wetherspoons website and then their list of pubs somewhere in the site?).

I asked an old man, walking towards the town centre.

'Sorry, I'm just visiting.' At least he directed me back to the town centre, all delivered with a nice, friendly smile.

Anyway, in the end I rang my brother, J, who works for the town council, and we agreed to meet for lunch at 12.30pm. The pub is called the Dragon Inn and, like many of their places (the one in Barnet, the Cerdic in Chard and the Perkin Warbeck in Taunton) it is a long, narrow affair, all decorated in their customary dark, wooden veneer style interior with a few bookshelves here and there. I've just tried searched the Internet to find out and - within about 15 seconds - it is at 15 Meadow Street.

Fine, really, except that this one was thick with smoke and full of even more small groups of hardcore, daytime drinkers than normal. In Wetherspoons pubs, in the daytime, because their prices are low, you always see people like this, many pissed-up by 1 in the afternoon. They are always middle-aged men, shabbily dressed, though sometimes joined by the odd drunken woman, and they always speak too loudly (almost shouting). I blame it on the excellent range of real ales in Wetherspoons: Spitfire £1.59 and Burton's £1.39.

That was at lunch time, after driving J to Weston-super-Mare in the morning and then, as usual for me, deciding to hang around a while and explore a town that I had never seen before (only very briefly). What else do you do when you've nothing to do anyway?

I drove out to Uphill Downs, in the south of the town, a fine suburb with large Victorian mansions along the way before settling down to bungalows and other retirement-style dwellings. Then a brief treck up the hill to the old church, a disappointing view from graveyard at the top, and a decision to get back to Weston town centre as soon as possible. I had wanted to walk out onto the peninsula at Worlebury, but couldn't work out how to get there.

The Library, on Boulevard, is as good as any other town library I have entered in England. It reminds me of Hove Library, a Victorian red-brick building - not ideal for these modern times - but adapted to the modern age. It's potentially draughty but not today, even though it's very cold outside. They have a few posters of a new Campus Library but there's no information on where it is.

At the entrance there is a fine selection of secondhand books, all for 40p, so I picked up Dinah Lampitt's The King's Woman. I doubt if I'll ever read it and really it's just because my mum says she used to know the author on the train down to Tunbridge Wells, from Charing Cross, back in the 1970s. On the jacket it says the author lives in Mayfield so she certainly would've used the Hastings line.

The library has a display on the Holocaust - something I am becoming more and more sceptical about - and I pick up one of their books, after a brief look at the Lipstadt book on Holocaust denial. I spend about forty minutes reading the Diary of Anne Frank, a well-spent forty minutes.

It's always funny how when you read something that really captures your imagination - a book, a newspaper, the Internet, whatever - the time just flies by and you wish the library would stay open forever.

Anne Frank's diary is not the greatest book ever - a sort of early 'blog', before the genre or term was ever invented - but it is very poignant, especially when you know the outcome. Actually, to read the last ever entry is sad and then the appendix explains how she landed up in Auschwitz and then Belsen before finally succumbing to typhoid. What a dreadful, terrible and tragic story. She was only 15 when she died.

Also, a fantastic copy of Desktop Publishing by Design, the book I used to take on loan from Exeter Central Library several years ago until it vanished, out of print and sold off by the library. At last I am re-united with this masterpiece of DTP and book design; maybe one day I'll even go through it on Quark Xpress.

I found this book in the Oxfam shop - they have two in Weston-super-Mare, one a dedicated bookshop - and got it for £2; excellent.

I went back to the Dragon Inn, at 3pm, briefly, and found the crowd had thinned out; now, at the entrance end, there were about six men just like me, alone, savouring a pint and a cigarette, all looking lost deep in thought. All were middle-aged. We were all sat there - me with a half of bitter - facing out towards the street, all looking out of the window as if waiting for someone or something to happen. I think we all knew nothing ever would happen.

After meeting J in the loud, brash and ex-bank pub known as Barcode, we drive back to Glastonbury in the ever-reliable Renault 19. This pub, Barcode, has very loud dance/techo music playing, even at 5pm on a Wednesday evening; imagine what it must be like at the weekend. Weston-super-Mare evidently is a party town, awash with so many pubs among its small streets and big squares that you could accommodate one hundred 18-30 coaches easily.

We drove through some fine villages that deserved exploration in their own right: Wedmore (the home of King Alfred for a while and the place where he agree peace with the Danish) and Bleadon and Meare. Axbridge, too, which has some fine Elizabethan timber houses.

Then, at about 7.30pm, I return to Exeter on the A303 (but this time not stopping at Cartgate roundabout services). I know the roundabouts by heart now: Podimore, Cartgate, Hayes End, etc. I try to look out for the remains of the old Taunton-Chard canal near Ilminster but it is too dark, though I know the new road passes over its remains.

Back to London

The uncle, L, returned to London today by coach from Paris Street bus station, on the 12.45pm coach.

Quick cup of tea in the bus station canteen, Sandra's. This is a full of poor old people, very depressing as that's how I may well land up.

I visit Exeter City Council and their housing department, nearby, to put in a claim (no job, no income).

Drive to Weston-super-Mare in the early evening (leave 16.25pm) to collect J and then on to Glastonbury.