A doughty champion of his local culture.(Poet Tom Hubbard)Your performance at the city hall was soooooooooo good! Christoph thought it was excellent! (Carolyn)



A biographical study of culture and social change in
the life and work of writer Jack Common (1903-1968).
By Keith Armstrong
ISBN 978 1 906832 025
University Of Sunderland.

A son of the north-east himself, Keith Armstrong approaches his subject with as much affection as rigour which gives his book that sense of enthusiasm which always invests reading with an added dimension. Much more than a straight biography this is an exploration of Common’s roots, the influence of his milieu on his writing, the difficulties which writers of his class and time faced, the ingrained prejudices of the literary establishment, the interplay between creative writing and political theory, not to mention literary style and structure and the perennial problem of inclusion and exclusion in the face of an established canon. Armstrong has done his homework: the research behind this book is as thorough as you could wish and one of its delights is the extensive use of quotations from, themselves, fascinating sources. Common suffered the usual fate of gifted children from poor backgrounds: bored at school, his talents more or less overlooked, essentially an autodidact, he found entry into the literary world all but impossible and once he was published, earned next to nothing in spite of critical praise. There are exceptions of course. Lawrence got a relatively early start, scoffed at the idea he’d ever starved in a garret and though he earned little in his first decade and ran into trouble once his books strayed beyond the bounds of standard taste, after Sons And Lovers was accepted as a major writer and knew his place in posterity was secure. Lawrence was a proletarian writer in both senses: he came from the working-class and he wrote about it. Class, however, wasn’t his self-conscious theme. Common, like other writers from his class and era, was a politically conscious writer. There is one question at the heart of all his writing: can socialism displace capitalism ? Everything else is treated in the light of this question, or at least, that’s the impression this book leaves. Like Marx, Common admires capitalism’s productivity, its breathtaking development of technology, its stunning command of nature. Every socialist, he asserts, must share this admiration. He accepts the view that capitalism, the system that trammels him and against which he kicks, is a necessary phase of historical development. My own view is that capitalism is a mistake. The evidence for inevitability doesn’t seen convincing. Was the evolution of humanity inevitable ? Perhaps a Darwinian will correct me, but as I understand it there’s an element of contingency in evolution. Environmental pressure in conjunction with random mutation drives the process but a curious feature of determinism is its capacity to throw up contingency. Nothing in nature is accidental, but accident is not the same as the contingent. It seems to be precisely the Goldilocks phenomenon- that the universe is founded on perfect relationships – which gives rise to significant contingency. Certainly, when we leave behind the world of Physics and consider history, the complexity of the relations involved, from neurons and synapses to the subtle ways social and cultural forms emerge and develop, there are too many possibilities for a strict determinism to eliminate contingency. If capitalism isn’t an inevitable stage of development, then it deserves to be condemned without reservation for its injustice, for precisely those assaults on individual dignity and freedom which are Common’s accusation. Curiously, both orthodox Marxists and neo-liberals argue the inevitability of capitalism. Lawrence, who believed no such thing, was able to infuse his work with a sense of alienation, even disgust, which works much more powerfully than explicit ideology. Inheriting from Ruskin and Thoreau deep scepticism about industrialism, Lawrence attacked the mechanistic nature of modern civilization; the whole tenor of modern life was his target, but in his best creative work he offered no solutions. The essays where he descends to theory are confused and feeble. Literature, as the cliché has it, is much more about questions than answers, about evoking sensibility rather than setting the world to rights. The problem for a writer like Common is that his self-conscious socialism – a solution – intrudes on depiction. As Marx said, one Balzac is worth a hundred Zolas. Balzac, a conservative royalist, fulfilled his self-defined function as “the secretary of French society”, or so Marx judged. Precisely what gives Marx reservations about Zola, is his adherence to a socialistic ideology. Then we must ask, if capitalism is a necessity and if its achievements must be lauded, why not make the best of its meritocratic phase ? To a degree, of course, Common did exactly that: he left his native Tyneside, was published in and worked for The Adelphi, corresponded with Orwell and Middleton Murry; in short, escaped the topography and mentality of working-class life. This, of course, is all and exactly that has been on offer politically as an alternative to conservatism: a way out, a way up, an escape to betterment for a few. The British mass party of the working-class has never seriously embraced the notion of root and branch, democratic reform of our economic and social arrangements. Get out if you can and there’s a safety net for those left behind, is the message. This, of course, makes the position of the working-class intellectual or creative artist impossible: either you renounce your working-class sensibility, or you’re doomed. Lawrence, who never answered to any name but Bert, called himself D.H. to fit in with the middle-class assumptions of the literary world. Common wanted to be a writer yet remain working-class, an impossible aspiration and, incidentally, just the contrary of Orwell who found being a writer relatively easy ( when you’ve been to Eton you’ll always find some editor who’ll publish you because of your pedigree) and who tried to discover what it means to be working-class, but could only ever see the life he didn’t know through the window of a train. The contradiction at the heart of Common is that he accepts capitalism as inevitable and progressive, yet wants to devote his energy and talent to exposing its darkness. Why should capitalism reward and celebrate its enemies ? Well, because literary value should be seen for what it is. But this, of course, is naïve; it’s to presume the rich put truth before money. And not only the rich but also those with just that little bit more which allows them to cultivate fantasies of superiority and election. The choice is atrociously hard: stick to your oppositional guns and accept failure and denial or accept that the price of success is compromise. Common’s work is full of the bitterness of recognizing this trap and what he managed was a little bit of recognition and reward but dismissal to the periphery where he rests as a curiosity ignored by the influential.

Common’s status as a creative writer rests on two novels: Kiddar’s Luck and The Ampersand. The contrast between the titles is intriguing: his working-class would have recognised the former at once, but the latter would have sent them for the dictionary. It even has a bit of Latin tucked into it, the preserve of Grammar School boys and girls. It’s the kind of title the literary world likes, while the former speaks too redolently of cobblestones, street corners and chutzpah. There are enough quotations from the novels here to see Common is a writer of high gifts, and as some of the critics quoted point out, his work is full of humour, gaiety, joyousness in the midst of grim conditions. He never pleads for pity and his implied narrator has a Figaro-like wiliness in the face of the manipulations of his “betters”. From a purely literary point of view, there’s no doubt Common wrote two novels which should be classics. He is every bit as good a writer as H.E. Bates, Alan Sillitoe, Margaret Drabble and her sister, Penelope Lively, Beryl Bainbridge, Julian Barnes, Martin Amis, Anthony Burgess and a better one than Hilary Mantel. Why then aren’t his novels in print ? Why don’t you find them readily in Oxfam bookshops ? We all know the answer. It’s all very well for Proust to document in minute detail the sensibility of the upper reaches of French society but there’s something distasteful about doing the same for the inhabitants of an industrial town in the north which does the dirty work on which the stockbroker belt depends. Denial is a fundamental operation of the human mind as stroke patients with right parietal damage, paralysed on the left ( just like Britain itself) who blithely reject all suggestions of their disability, amply demonstrate. All cultures operate denial. In the capitalism Common saw as unavoidable, the essential denial has to be that profit is made at the cost of crippling millions of lives, physically, morally, emotionally, intellectually, creatively. How much of our literature deals with work ? Most of us devote the best hours of the best years of our lives to it, yet it’s deemed unworthy of the writer’s attention. For capitalism to maintain itself, it must magic away the connection between labour and money. Entrepreneurs and financiers produce wealth, the rest of us are supernumary. Then there’s readership. A great effort has been made ever since the masses got education, to feed them superficial cultural pap, while simultaneously preserving higher culture for a middle-class largely southern in attitude if not location. Wolf Hall is exactly what the latter like : remote from contemporary life, unchallenging and, apparently, a little edifying. The systematic destruction of a substantial readership for writers like Common leaves him to be appreciated by a thinning number of aficianados. This book itself is testimony: it’s unlikely to get a notice in the LRB or the Literary Review or to be on the shelves of every Waterstones in the land.

Keith Armstrong hasn’t done himself any favours as far as literary advancement goes: he could have written a biography of Kingsley Amis or a study of Larkin; but he’s produced an excellent and fascinating book which grants to Common his significance and rescues him from obscurity. Many writers contribute to the literary life of any epoch and, as Carey Nelson’s Repression and Recovery shows, most of them get forgotten as a standard view of a period is imposed in the universities. The majority of contributors aren’t great talents, though at their best they may produce some work which matches that of the geniuses, but Common is much more than a marginal addition; Armstrong’s original approach, which makes this broader and better than a standard biography, reveals Common as the literary equal of Orwell in his discursive prose and a novelist of extraordinary accomplishment. Constantly referring to the cultural, social and political landscape of Common’s time, and also heaving his relevance into the present, Armstrong’s book should become a standard reference for anyone interested in the period, the man or the topic. It’s a reminder , in these times when meritocracy is taken to be nature, just how far we have to go before individuals cease to be defined by class.

Finally, if capitalism is a contingency, as I believe, we can set aside our nervousness over not giving due recognition to its achievements; they could all have been realised without it. Similarly, socialism is not the next and final phase in some inevitable teleology but the make-and-mend response to the dreadful damage which must accompany an economy organised for the enrichment of a few at the expense of the rest. Perhaps if Common had held such a view he would have felt less required to elaborate suggestions as to how the transition could be made and more at liberty to exercise his excellent wit, irony, sarcasm and vitriol against stupidity just as he did with his generosity and love of life when he celebrated the spirit of the victims.

Alan Dent.


cumbrian tour

Admission: free – donations for food welcome

Friday 30th October - Word Soup presents Keith Armstrong - from 8pm - £3, The Continental, South Meadows Lane, Preston, PR1 8JP
Preston Writing Network and They Eat Culture present a Word Soup special in the snug, hosted by experienced poet and compère Ann Wilson and featuring poet, performer and raconteur Keith Armstrong. There will also be a lively Open Mic on the night, so put your name down at the door for a short slot.

Saturday 31 October - Brewery Arts and Apples & Snakes Spoken Word Open Mic, 7.30pm, £2 Admission. Brewery Arts Centre, Highgate Kendal, The Warehouse
A night for lyricists, comedians, storytellers and poets to reel off rhymes, punch out parodies and spit some sonnets in a relaxed cabaret environment with comfy chairs. This months guest artists are Keith Armstrong and Amanda Milligan. Come and listen or get up and be heard, take to the stage with your spoken word.



Programme for Saturday: The Political Book Fair at Kala Sangam, St Peter's House, Forster Square, Bradford BD1

11.30 Poetry open mic
12.00 Dave Douglass ‘The Miners Strike’
12.30 Poetry open mic
1.00 Little Brother ‘Ranting Poetry in the Eighties’
1.30 Gary Cavanagh
2.00 Bill Broady ‘The third man; in search of Victor Grayson’
2.30 Keith Armstrong, poet from North East, reading from his work
3.00 Andy Croft ‘Radical publishing’
3.30 Poetry open mic.


keith's new book

Keith’s book on Jack Common grew from a Ph.D thesis. As his supervisor over the five years of part-time study that resulted in a successful Ph.D, I am very pleased to see the book in print. We always hoped that the academic thesis would re-appear as a book and this hope has now been realized.

Keith’s relationship to Jack Common is much more than that of biographer and literary critic. And the thesis from which the book derives is no conventional academic treatise. For a start, Keith was no stranger to the subject. He grew up, as did Jack Common, in Heaton in the east end of Newcastle. Like Jack Common, he knows well the society from which he came. He knows the streets on which Jack Common played and the pubs in which he drank. Like Common, Keith is a writer, a poet of some standing whose work strikes notes that Jack Common would have recognized in an instant. There is a keen interest in ordinary people. There is a powerful sense of ironic distance as he observes the world around him. There is a strong social commitment to the building of a better society and an interest in the radical political traditions of the North East of England.

Like Common, Keith is no politician. His journey to a better world has been through the arts, poetry in particular, but that would not have been possible without his work in community arts and in encouraging people from all over the North East to get down to their writing and to tell the world about their lives. Like Common, Keith is from the North East but in some ways he is not of the North East. Unlike Common, he has stayed here plying his arts whenever there is a chance to do so.

In the 1970s and early 80s Keith was part of a small but active group of writers, social scientists and political activists called Strong Words that was inspired in part by the writings of Jack Common. Indeed, they edited and published some of his unpublished papers. In this sense, Keith was part of the re-discovery of Jack Common, a writer whose star had waned in the post-war world, but which had once shined brightly in the inter-war years when he was friends with Orwell and other literary giants, especially on the left.

Keith’s poetry and community arts background were his membership qualifications but this former librarian strengthened his academic credentials through two Durham degrees in social science. That was a few years ago but he got the academic bug and carried on with a Ph.D.

Jack Common was a good subject for Keith. His life and work opened up themes that Keith has been working on for the past 30 years: the nature of class society in Britain, the culture and values of the North East of England, the role of art in politics and the possibility of enabling working people to re-gain control of their lives and live them to full. For this reason, Keith’s art, like Common’s, has an oppositional, transformative thrust. He wants to change the world but he doesn’t want to impose some plan on it. He wants to celebrate the best of working class culture but is not naïve about the worst of it. In any case, the lives of working class people have changed profoundly between the times of Common and Keith Armstrong and the nature of those changes has been at the heart of Keith’s work, particularly of this biography of his hero.

The thesis Keith wrote was not the usual run-of-the-mill study in which a student, well-trained in he latest research methods, grinds through a programme of data collection to reach limp, though balanced (and often insignificant)conclusions about topics that are often so specialized they interest only a small group of like-minded academics.

Keith’s study has taken him an adult lifetime without which it could not have been written. He brings to literary criticism and to the art of biography, a keen sociological eye that enables him to see the subtle interplays between context and experience, attitudes and lifestyles and to reveal in particular, how some people – Jack Common in this case – can break through the constraints of their lives or, to use Common’s typically ironic expression, overcome ‘Kiddar’s Luck’ and look forward to new horizons, new experiences, new possibilities. Like Common, Keith knows what this takes. It takes new learning. It takes courage: the courage to be different, to think, to challenge orthodox opinions and to have your own ideas tested in debate. Jack Common, and Keith is no different, liked pubs. He liked nothing better than being in a pub talking to people. Keith does this professionally and through this, at least in part, keeps in touch with the changing lives of the people of this region. Like most academics, and like all poets, his head is mainly in the air, but this man has his feet also on the ground. What this means in practice can be seen in his work, especially in this new study of Common. I hope very much this book will keep both of them in the public eye for many years to come.

Bill Williamson

October 2009


jack common day at newcastle library

Thanks for the photographs and other information. I appreciate all the hard work you put into making the day a success. We have had very positive feedback from everybody who attended.


Kath Cassidy
Service Manager: Heritage
Newcastle Libraries and Information Service

I just wanted to thank Keith and members of the Common family and all
involved in organising Saturday's event. It was really enjoyable,
interesting ad informative.
I am sorry that I could not stay for the full day, but I really enjoyed
the part I was able to attend. I have just made a start on reading
Keith's book too and again really enjoying it so far.

Many thanks and best wishes,

Jeanie Molyneux



He died,

clinging on to his pen,

at six in the morning,

his usual stint.

He’d run out of anything to write about.

For years, he’d watched the world go by his study,

observing other people’s lives.

All he had to do was fill the page,


lacking in instinct,

without a history,

with no real vision of any particular community.

After all,

he knew he was

a writer,

a describer,

inscriber of someone else’s paving stones.

An expert on poetry,

with nothing much at all

to say.



outside your lonely window

My God,
we are
indeed lucky,
in this great and ancient city,
to have,
in our presence,
such a poet as you.
it even seems
that you
are bigger than us,
with your huge dome
our history.
Such an immense
and supreme
larger than the space
in Grainger Market.
And, when it comes to writing up our story,
we, of course,
must turn to you,
with your flawless technique
and structured craft,
turn to you
in our peasant
though we have folk songs,
they cannot do justice
to the language,
like you,
above all,
next time,
before we break
into song,
we should ask you
to subject our voices
to your analysis.
But then
I don’t think,
in your padded academic tower,
that you can hear us all
in the trees,
your lonely window.


spread the word!

the jingling geordie

My photo
whitley bay, tyne and wear, United Kingdom
poet and raconteur