Where’s my money? It’s in the bank. Which bank?
So I am greeted by the dawn chorus.
Its twitters subside but this angelus
Frames our days. The ship of memory sank
With all hands in the storm, just the odd plank,
Maelstrom flotsam, remains, hard for us
To relate to that once proud vessel, plus
The compulsive fiddling, to be frank
Frays nerves. We’d hoped that Mum could be herself
In the moment but cut off from the past,
Unable to envision the future,
The present becomes in and of itself
Frightening. Her distress stands in contrast
To the tranquility that becomes her.
As the Brexit saga wends its weary way towards the last syllable of recorded time, I have been jumping into the Twitter bear-pit to waste time trading invective with the invincibly ignorant. The exchanges go approximately as follows.
“The only people who now support Brexit are millionaires and morons. Check your wallet if you’re not sure which you are.”
And more, much more, in a similar vein. My wife doesn’t understand how addictive it is, and gets really annoyed with me.
However, occasionally an actual conversation takes place. One of my more rational (but still deluded) pro-Brexit interlocutors is David Law, who has a multitude of Twitter accounts, one of which, @brexit_politics, mostly amplifies the Brexit Party line. However, one evening, this popped up.
My day job is helping getting sites free organic traffic from Google, I’m an SEO consultant. If you own a business website pop the URL in a comment & I’ll give you an actionable #SEO tip. @SEOGoldUK I don’t care if you are a Remainer or Leaver.(From Twitter)
So I thought, why not, and responded as requested, with the following consequences.
The SEO Advice for davidmelvilleedwards.com
Your Home page title “My Fantasy Life – An alternate reality …” is unlikely to generate any Google traffic. It took me a minute to realise the site is a book author site. Your home page should target author traffic. Your author name “David Melville Edwards” is your brand. Your Home page title (with WordPress it’s the site name) should be “David Melville Edwards”.
This will help with your name searches. Your domain doesn’t currently rank if you search Google for ‘David Melville Edwards’.
When you search Google for David Melville Edwards a ‘knowledge panel’ appears. You need to claim it as your own.
None of your posts should be categorised as ‘ Uncategorized’. They should be give a relevant category. ‘Uncategorized’ is not helpful.
When you create poems add either Poem or Poetry to the title.
Thus you should change https://davidmelvilleedwards.com/poetry/brambles/ slug from “Brambles” to “Brambles Poem”.
If you’ve changed the site name that Post’s full title will be
“Brambles Poem – David Melville Edwards”
Which is much better SEO-wise than
“Brambles – My Fantasy Life”
That’s a terrible title SEO-wise,. It’s highly unlikely anyone would find it if they were searching for a Brambles poem or any of your other poems by name.
What I did
First off, I changed the site’s title as suggested.
I wasn’t going to change the poems’ titles in the text, since ‘Brambles Poem’ as a heading looks stupid, but I did change the WordPress ‘slugs’, the URLs that it generates, so that if the posts are poems, the slugs say so.
I went through all the posts, and fixed the categories.
I have to confess that I’d had no idea there were such things as Google Knowledge Panels, still less that I could claim them. But sure enough, a search for David Melville Edwards brought up a little box on the right with my name, Author, a link to an edition of my book that is no longer available., and a link allowing me to claim the panel. So I have done so. My first attempt failed because the submitted photograph of myself was not deemed to be of a high enough quality, but the knowledge box now includes a picture of yours truly.
I had less success trying to get the book link fixed. Google responded:
Please note that the information we display for these types of books is typically received automatically from third-party contributors. In order to submit any edits in bibliographic details it would be best for you to reach out to them directly at the links listed below to ensure that their records are fully updated.
Baker & Taylor – www.btol.com/
Bowker – www.bowker.com (providing current cover)
Ingram – www.ingramcontent.com (providing current cover)
Livraria Cultura – www.livrariacultura.com
I have no business dealings with any of these organisations, so my “Google Books” link will remain as a tombstone.
I made the changes a little over two weeks ago. It would appear that now:
- Traffic to my site has approximately doubled.
- The UK tops the list of countries of origin for my visitors
- A Google search for ‘David Melville Edwards Brambles Poem’ now goes straight there.
To all those people reading this and thinking “Moron, how could you set up a web-site and not do these basic things?”, may I point to the example of Michael Gove exclaiming that “The British People have had enough of experts”. I am in good company.
If there’s anyone else, may I offer a final shout-out to David Law for his advice and guidance, which seems to have been extremely beneficial. Thank you David!
I recognise Ariana Grande
And also Liam Gallagher. Between
Them a procession of faces unseen
Unheard unknown to me before today
Strut, prance, sing, parade performing skills they
Have honed around the world since the last teen
Culture left home. Ossified tastes careen
Novelty leaving a streamlined assay
Of prog and punk. Methinks I’ve missed out.
Music doesn’t stop because I don’t
Listen, any more than the world ended
When we passed the millennium. No doubt
The killers disagree. Their masters won’t
Permit girls joy or bodies unrended.
There is a difference between a short
Story and a novel beyond merely
Length. Whilst Polonius said “Brevity
Is the soul of wit” Hamlet’s author sought
Laughs contrasting this sagacious effort
With extraordinary prolixity.
It isn’t boring that the irony
Requires his speeches be so finely wrought.
The short story is of necessity
Spare, no time, space or scope for digression
It can read like an excerpt from something
Longer. But novels want no such paucity.
They need to fulfill our expectation
That i’s are dotted and all t’s crossing!
The dunes assault my senses. The divine
Wild fennel fills my nostrils, vying
For attention with fresh seaweed lying
Discarded by the waves at the tide line
To dry out as the sun and wind combine
To reduce it to leathery kindling.
I squint against the sunlight sparkling
On the sea rippling to the sky-line
And beyond. There’s a buzz as if thousands
Of bees are busy gathering nectar and
Pollen, but neither bees nor flowers do
I see. It remains a puzzle. No funds
Will be found to research it since off-hand,
None need to know. So who knows what is true?
This week it is my pleasure to interview David Melville Edwards. Would you please introduce yourself to my readers and share something about your life.
The mother of one of my colleagues once remarked, apropos her 25th Wedding Anniversary, that “You serve less time for murder”. So what does that make me after 41 years? Now my four children have grown and (mostly) flown I have replaced them with a demented mother. Fortunately as an Information Technology Consultant/Software Developer I am able to work from home. With only one completed novel and a handful of poems published I hesitate to describe myself as an author, but perhaps when the sequel to “The Spirit of the Age” hits the shelves I will be able to overcome my reticence.
When did you write your first book and how did it come about?
I’ve wanted to write for as long as I can remember. Journalism was suggested to me as a career at University, and once I’d left I wrote some doggerel and started a novel that, due to my then limited life experience, lacked the filtered real life that I myself delight in when I read books for pleasure. So I put them aside in favour of indulgence of my taste for creative writing in the technical reports that I have been delivering for the last forty years, to the occasional amusement of my peers, if not my masters. (The suggestion that only the most self-flagellistic of Service Delivery Managers would want to go live with an especially undercooked Enterprise Resource Planning system was particularly poorly received, as I recall.) You can read a lot of books and analyse a lot of systems in thirty five years, and without really thinking about it a novel of my own took shape in my mind’s eye; a synthesis of all the things I have enjoyed reading, a book that I knew that I at least would enjoy.
For a number of years I worked on IT systems for Penguin Random House, and it was this exposure to the non-creative aspects of the publishing industry that led me to knuckle down and write my novel.
Do you always write in the same genre or do you mix it up?
My poems are immediate responses to events that provoked a reaction in me. Does that constitute a genre? They either tend to be Twitter-friendly ‘haiku’ (3 lines; 5 syllables, 7 syllable, 5 syllables giving 17 syllables in total) or made up of 14 line stanzas, 10 syllables per line, rhyming scheme ABBAABBACDECDE. I’m strict about the rhyming scheme and syllable counts, because I want to hear rhythms and rhymes when I recite them, but I make a point of not aligning the sense with the lines, since I’m not trying to ape Keats and Shelley.
My single completed novel is a satirical contemporary metaphysical paranormal romantic pastoral literary fantasy murder mystery, so I guess I have all the bases covered!
When you write, do you start with an idea and sit down and let it evolve, or do you make notes and collect ideas on paper beforehand?
I start with characters and a scenario, and play them forwards and backwards in time, bouncing them off each other. I work a chapter at a time. It’s much as I was taught to write software; the modular approach to novel development.
Would you like to give us a short excerpt from one of your books?
It’s quite tricky to choose a coherent excerpt that wouldn’t be a plot spoiler, but here goes …
At two o’clock, Reverend Sheila got a phone call from a number she didn’t recognise.
“Hello, Sheila Michael”, she answered briskly, “how can I help you?”
The response was desperate, incoherent, “It’s me, Silas Gutbucket. We met at the cricket on Saturday. We don’t have much use for vicars, us Gutbuckets, but it’s Pa, you’ve got to come. Now. Please!”
“Where?” asked Reverend Sheila.
“Sorry, Lygood Farm. It’s just off the Wenham Road South of Grockelworth.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Reverend Sheila closed and locked the windows of her chocolate box cottage, and went out the back, to the bottom of the garden, where her Toyota Avensis Estate was parked up in the un-picture-postcard prefabricated concrete panel, asbestos roofed garage. This was a larger car than might have been expected to be driven by a single middle-aged woman living alone, but the duties of a Church of England Vicar may require disabled parishioners and their carers and wheelchairs to be ferried about, hence her aged but still reliable motor. She bumped down the unmade track to the road, and turned left to Grockelworth.
Through Grockelworth, she started looking out to the right, and spotted an incised wooden sign; ‘Lygood Farm’.
She turned onto the track beside it, and initially went up hill, with a larger hill topped by a copse to her right. As she progressed she became aware of a disgusting smell.
The track reached the saddle, and she could see the wreckage of a farm laid out before her; broken down buildings, abandoned machinery, and a vast swamp contained by earthen banks, that filled most of the ground between the track and the sea. Only the track and hard standing, some stationary vehicles, the central farm house and a cottage at right angles to it looked serviceable.
In the yard in front of the house, she recognised a Co-operative Funeral Service hearse. I’m too late for the dead, she thought, but I’m here for the living, and she pressed on.
She parked next to the hearse and walked up to the house. A voluptuous beauty with auburn hair and tear-filled eyes opened it. Hang on, your hair was black last time I saw it, she thought inconsequentially. “Hello, Cicely isn’t it, Sheila Michael. I saw the hearse; am I too late?”
Cicely shook her head mutely, and gestured to Sheila to follow her down the hall and through the door to her left.
“Silas, the vicar’s here”, said Cicely, as she passed through. Before Sheila could follow, Silas stepped smartly into the hall, and closed the door.
“Sorry if I’m too late”, began Sheila, “I saw the hearse outside”.
Silas shook his head. “The hearse is for Ma. She had a stroke yesterday evening. The Doctor said she may have been dead before she hit the floor. That’s all right. She was old and infirm, and we’ve all got to go some time. But Pa. He’s just given up. Says he’s lost his great pal, and there’s no point in going on. Cicely, Mabel and me, the Doctor, we’ve all tried to talk to him, but he just sits there, don’t eat, don’t drink, and he’s fading fast. Speak to him, please!”
Silas turned, opened the door, and went back in to the sitting room. Sheila followed him through.
Inside, she found herself in a large room with a window overlooking the farmyard on her left, a huge fireplace on the wall opposite her framed by a pair of free-standing Staffordshire dogs, bare orange terracotta floor tiles, and a disparate collection of sofas and arm chairs against the walls, between which were curio stands piled with the detritus of a life-time’s visits to English Seaside Resorts. On a sofa between the fireplace opposite and the window sprawled the husk of a man, translucent skin, wearing a long white night shirt, and not much else, if she was any judge. His eyes were closed, and he breathed heavily.
“Hello Pa, here’s the Vicar to see you.”
Farmer Gutbucket’s eyes blinked open, and they brought Reverend Sheila into focus. “Cor, Vicars are better looking now than they were in my day”, he observed, before closing his eyes once more.
If it works, don’t knock it, thought Sheila. “Hello Mr. Gutbucket, your son Silas tells me that you’re waiting to die!” No sense beating about the bush.
Farmer Gutbucket’s breath came in gasps, but he spoke. “My Elsie and me, we was together more’an sixty years. Took us a long time to have kids, but my Silas, Cicely, Mabel, they done us proud. They took us to the cricket on Sunday. My Silas, he did good against the toffs, and Mabel and Cicely, they took care of us. I used to play cricket, you know. But it don’t matter now. Sunday was a good day, and my Elsie’s upped and left me, not her fault, she don’t choose when she goes, but Sunday was a good day. But I lost my great pal. So no use hanging around further.”
“Silas, Mabel, Cicely would like you to have more good days”, ventured Reverend Sheila.
“Arr, they would, they would right enough, they’re good kids, but Mabel needs to get a life, and me, see, I’ve had my fill of good days. You explain it to them. Here, would you do me and Elsie’s Funerals?” And with that, he fell silent, sagged further in to the sofa, and died.
Silas, Mabel and Cicely rushed forward, and grabbed his arms, but to no avail. Reverend Sheila leaned over them, felt his neck for a pulse, and closed his eyes. “Is the Undertaker still here?” she asked.
Silas stood up. “He’s upstairs seeing to Ma.”
“Better fetch him”, said Sheila. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“We won’t keep you”, said Silas, “I know we dragged you away from whatever you were doing, but can you do the funerals, and fulfill his dying wish?”
“Of course”, said Sheila. “Saint Grockelberta’s?”
“We got plots there booked”, said Silas. “Any particular day next week?”
“You’ll need to sort it out with the Funeral Director, but Tuesday works for me if I have the choice”, said Sheila, and she left them to their grief.
Who is your favourite character and why?
I don’t have a favourite character. I like nearly all of them, and I hope that this comes through in my writing.
Which of your books gave you the most pleasure to write?
That’s easy, because there is only the one, “The Spirit of the Age”. But in general, I wouldn’t disagree with Sir Terry Pratchett when he wrote that “Writing is the most fun you can have by yourself”.
What is the best marketing tip you have received?
Since I am not one of the select few who have sold millions of copies of any book, I’m not sure I’m qualified to judge, but in terms of generating exposure, I can safely say the most effective free strategy which I have seen in action is to band together with fellow writers on Twitter.
How would you describe yourself?
The last On-line Personality Test I took categorised me as a Commander. I’ll settle for that.
What do you do when you are not writing or reading?
Write software, promulgate promotional material, care for a victim of Alzheimer’s Disease, take photographs, indulge our taste for travel with my wife … I’m not short of things to occupy every waking hour.
If you could holiday anywhere in the world, where would you choose and why?
Anywhere I haven’t been yet! That still leaves me plenty of choice; the whole of South America, the Antarctic, Russia, China, most of Africa, the Silk Road … It’s sad that the politics of the Middle East make the cradles of civilisation too dangerous for tourists.
If you have owned pets, do you have a funny story you would like to share with us?
How about a poem?
The gravel path spares footwear from the wet
That slickly glistens to the right and left
Pooling twixt the mole hills, plotting the theft
Of any boots that chance to stray and get
Stuck in the mud. But Bertie doesn’t let
It cramp his style, he bounds around the cleft
Tree felled by winter’s storm, his path the weft,
The warp the avenue of bare trees set
On either side. As he weaves snuffling,
Bushy tailed grey squirrels slide around
Trunks and run up, or slip under threadbare
Rhododendrons, silently shuffling
Out of sight. But Bertie is no sight hound.
The squirrels might just as well not be there!
What is the biggest factor for you when selecting a book to read?
I’m a sucker for further books from authors I have read before and enjoyed. I’ll allow them one rehash or a couple of duds before giving up on them. Once I’ve given up, it takes a lot to win me back, but it can happen. John le Carré for instance. “The Spy Who Came In From The Cold” was brilliant, “The Looking Glass War” less so, and I found “A Small Town In Germany” just plain tedious. But Alec Guinness in the BBC dramatisation of “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy” got me started again.
I used to browse books in bookshops to find new authors. I remember discovering Terry Pratchett, Tom Holt and Julian May this way. However, now my children are grown up it’s mostly word of mouth. In other words, books bought by close family members that I’ve borrowed and enjoyed, then followed up.
Do you have your own website?
I have a blog, (This one!). One third of its visitors last month appear to have been Russian hackers. Thousands of them! Weird, really.
Are you working on a new book at the moment?
Yes. It’s the sequel to “The Spirit of the Age”. I’ve set it against the backdrop of Brexit, so I haven’t been able to finish it!
Do you have any events or book promotions coming up that you would like to tell us about?
Who knows, now Boris Johnson has declared his firm resolve to leave the EU on the 31st October 2019, the sequel to “The Spirit of the Age” (title as yet undecided) might finally be coming available!
Peeps through mists and thinning leaves.
In June 2016, the UK voted in an advisory referendum to leave the European Union.
As soon as the result was known, there was interest in the factors that correlated with voting intentions. Lord Ashcroft carried out research that suggests age was a good postdictor of voting choice.
Although the referendum was advisory, not mandatory, David Cameron said his Government would bind itself to the referendum result. However, no UK government can bind its successors, and he immediately resigned.
Then in 2017, we had another election in which no party won an overall majority, and during which the two largest parties offered radically different visions of Brexit.
Referenda haven’t been used much in the UK. After the 2017 General Election, and even more so after the 2019 European Elections, I asked myself the question, how might you decide the shelf-life of a UK referendum mandate? We don’t allow dead people to vote, and since it seems that 2016 Leave Voters tended to be older than Remain voters, I wondered if it might be possible to work out when the number of 2016 Remain voters surviving outnumbered the surviving 2016 Leave voters.
Here are my conclusions.
Sir John Curtice writes occasionally for the BBC Website, and he published graphs showing his research into how voting intention had correlated with age, and how participation correlated with age.
The UK Office for National Statistics (ONS) publishes:
- UK Population Details, men and women, segmented by age, in one year segments.
- UK Death rates, men and women, segmented by age, in 5 year segments.
I used the figures for 2015.
First, I applied Sir John Curtice’s graphs for participation and likelihood of voting by age to the ONS population segmentation to come up with a prediction of what the Brexit vote would be.
I got an answer of 17.6 million, which is pretty close to the actual 17.4 million. Bear in mind I haven’t ‘tuned’ the model at all. I was frankly amazed, and decided there was no need for anything more sophisticated (see e.g. http://www.statsguy.co.uk/brexit-voting-and-education/ for some very interesting detailed analyses).
I then applied the ONS segmented death figures to my modelled Leave numbers by age to arrive at a prediction of the number of first year deaths, and got a number well over half a million (the bar effect on the graphs is because the age segments are 5 year bands, whilst the population segments are years).
Obviously you can only die once, so I turned the number of deaths into a likelihood of a 2016 Leave voter surviving 1 year, which turns out, on my model, to be 0.97. Three years of this, and 1.5 million 2016 Leave voters have died.
Annual deaths in the UK are around 600,000. Subtract the dead Leave voters, and you’re left with 100,000 deaths, to be shared between Remain voters and ‘Did Not Vote’. ‘Did Not Vote’ includes all children under 18 who have a low chance of dieing, but I have not modelled them at all. Remain voters outnumbered Abstainers of voting age, 5 to 3, most deaths would be in people of voting age, the Abstain age profile is similar to that of the Remain age profile, so I would guess that perhaps 60,000 2016 Remain voters have died each year.
So the cross over point, when the number of living 2016 Remain voters exceeds the number of living Leave voters, must be sometime around now.
Should anyone wish to carry this further, here is my model, in the form of a LibreOffice spreadsheet.
My blog has now been live for a couple of months, and in all that time just two people have been moved to respond (I’m not counting the spammers that I am too tight-fisted to have weeded out automatically). So am I mostly talking to myself?
Well, according to statistics provided by my ISP, I am not. My blog has had thousands of visitors. Which begs the question, who are these people?
None of them left their e-Mail addresses, even with the incentive of a free poem on a subject of their choice, but the Web Servers log some information, and it makes curious reading.
Thirty percent of them accessed the blog from the former Soviet Union, mostly the Russian Federation and the Ukraine. Countries that I have never visited, whose languages are incomprehensible to me, and whose web-sites I have to access through Google Translate.
Nearly all these users claimed to be using Firefox. Whilst I applaud their devotion to open Web standards and an Internet that isn’t dominated by US Technology Giants, isn’t it more than odd that there wasn’t a single hit from an Apple iPhone or Google Chrome?
Whilst I would like to avoid racial stereotyping it all screams “Russian Hackers”!
But why? Could one of you please enlighten me?
Nothing persuades your children you are an
Idiot faster than their own baby.
Since Developmental Psychology
Has advanced they’re far more on trend than
You, they’ve been reading everything they can
Lay their hands on about biology,
All the other ‘ologies known to man.
Grandparents’ thoughts are politely dismissed;
Their age commands respect, if not their views.
But woe betide a parent with advice!
How condescending thinking to assist
Having not kept up to date, they accuse.
In response tongue-biting has to suffice.
When Theresa May picked up the baton
Released by David Cameron’s folly
She purged the posh with a single volley
And necromanced the late Boris Johnson
Just lately dispatched by Michael Gove, yon
Cassius minus his lean and hungry
Look, who she in turn returned rapidly
To thoroughly deserved oblivion.
Having raised the dead she raises her sights
To a personal mandate, who cares that
She said the opposite a year ago.
Her lead of unimaginable heights
Trumps all pretence of integrity, flat
Out triumph and which voters will still know?
Handsome princes and monochrome swans ought
To dodge Theresa May’s tear pool now.
The right wing press proved unable to cow
Enough voters to win. Instead they thought
They’d teach humility to those who’d fought
To get ‘Strength and Stability’ somehow
Swapped with reasoned policy to allow
Theresa May the free hand that she sought.
The necromancer dries her eyes and checks
Her magic money tree. She chucks a bung
To Northern Ireland nutters, lays down her
Minions for her life and resurrects
Gove to re-inter Boris. Her forked tongue
Slithers, and everything is as you were.
Tories tried in vain to end her mission,
Instead adding one more year begging,
Hectoring, delaying, adhering
To office like gum stuck to the bottom
Of your shoe. When she said she’d be gone
To her political graveyard, selling
Memoirs that will big her up whilst shedding
No light on anything, her denouement
Failed too. A career marked by failures
Failed even to end. To maintain such
Consistency of employment without
Notable achievements simply beggars
Belief. There obviously isn’t much
Tory political talent about.
Five foot eight, eyes of blue and ears of tin.
Theresa May takes the Union flag
In vain as her speech’s back-drop. I gag
At her mendacity. She cannot win
The vote because there is no way to spin
Her deal other than as a rag bag
Of prejudices to make incomes sag,
Achieve the aims of Vladimir Putin
And consign the United Kingdom to
The dustbin of history when Scotland
And Northern Ireland depart, the one
As a free country, the other into
The South of Ireland, whence both will land
Back in the European Union.
Odd. Andrea Leadsom’s resignation
Proved to be the final straw. Rejoicing,
As happened with Raab and McVey stepping
Down seemed the way to greet her being gone.
Theresa May now soldiered gamely on
Presiding over farmyard squabbling
Amongst the creatures who were jockeying
For position during the marathon
Campaign to succeed her. Musical chairs
With the final say given to old white
Men was the arcane process. No women
Were seated when first came silence, who cares
They make up half the country? The birthright
Of Tory toffs will be restored to them.
Although one and a half million Leave
Voters from twenty sixteen have since died
Boris Johnson and Jeremy Hunt vied
To lead this zombie army. They perceive
The dead don’t see the attempts to deceive
Them. Beyond reason, they can be relied
On not to recognise they have been lied
To more than any who truly believe.
And so we face the spectre of ‘No Deal’
As well as the march of the dead and
The living dead, clothed in the flag of saints.
‘Will of the People’ the liars squeal
Tory posh boys in a pretense to stand
For people left behind and their complaints.
Does their ‘ism’ have a soul that draping
Itself in the flag of its native land
Goes whispering in people’s ears and
Provides balm for those busy exploiting
Their fellows, solace for any scraping
By? Those with plenty hear “Life is grand!”
Those with nothing are dismissed out of hand.
Those with little: “Fear those with nothing!”
All are told “Accept your station in life.
The natural order is the misdeeds
Of the rich must quietly cause no scenes
Else class mistrust and division are rife.
From each according to the wealthy’s needs
To each according to their current means.”