Latest news with #RobFranklin
Washington Post
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Washington Post
‘Great Black Hope' proves Rob Franklin has something to say
'Great Black Hope,' a promising debut novel by Rob Franklin, opens with its leading man being arrested for cocaine possession. It's Labor Day weekend in the Hamptons and Smith wears, 'in his mug shot, a vintage Marni gingham shirt, loose-fit linen trousers, and a gently startled expression.' 'Bark brown and quietly handsome,' he's a young gay Black man from a respected Atlanta family with a job at an art-world start-up and a hyperactive New York City social life. A felony arrest, however, is not his only concern. Just weeks before, his friend and roommate Elle, the daughter of a '90s neo-soul singer, was found dead in the Bronx under mysterious circumstances. Haunted by Elle's death and worried about his upcoming arraignment, Smith reexamines his relationships with his race, sexuality, privilege, career and purpose.
Times
28-05-2025
- Business
- Times
We can't survive as farmers under Labour — so we're moving to France
I was born and bred in Hertfordshire, and I've been farming most of my life here [ says Jo Franklin, 42 ]. My parents farmed, my father's parents farmed and their parents did too. My husband, Rob, and I set up our business 13 years ago from scratch. We're passionate about what we do and very good at it. But since the new government came in, we've realised our business isn't viable any more. So we've decided to sell our farm in England, move our family to France and start again as farmers there. We feel we have no choice. Right now, we have a five-bedroom farmhouse in one acre near the town of Ware, in Hertfordshire. We have a 64-acre smallholding where we run a sheep dairy business, with 300 milking ewes. For our main business, we are tenant farmers across another 1,800 acres, where we have another 2,000 commercial sheep for meat, and we also do arable farming. We have 27 landlords. Our goal by this age was to stop being tenant farmers and buy our own land. But when this government came in, we sensed the future was not going to be good. Things were already difficult. Since the Second World War, food production has been subsidised by the government. And they've continued to do it, to keep food cheap and voters happy. The supermarkets have so much power, while farmers have none — and it's a race to the bottom in terms of quality. Labour is expensive here, and in England it's traditionally expected that farmers will house workers. The red tape is also huge in this country. I probably spend a month a year dealing with audits and inspections. We have some of the highest overhead costs in the world here, and our government is making it harder by putting national insurance up. That's really hurt small businesses. On top of that, they've brought in a fertiliser tax, without consulting farmers. At the same time, they've pulled the plug on major subsidies. We knew that the government's Basic Payment Scheme, which gave you money to manage your land responsibly, was being wound down over seven years. But the first thing this government did when they got in was say, we're going to end that this year. So that cost us about £60,000 in annual income. The final straw was the scrapping of the Sustainable Farming Incentive subsidy scheme. We got about £200,000 over three years for that. In March, the government closed it suddenly. The Franklin family's five-bedroom farmhouse in Ware, Hertfordshire, is on the market for £1.25 million AARON BARTLETT AARON BARTLETT Luckily we'd got our papers signed off in December last year. But in two years, when our subsidy expires, our business will fall off a cliff. We have a profitable business that employs seven people. But once the subsidy is gone, we would be a lifestyle business, a smallholder. We wouldn't be able to afford the staff, and we would literally be working to pay the rent — hand to mouth. All our money from government subsidies previously came to about £250,000 a year. And the profit of our business is about £250,000 a year. So you take those subsidies away, and you've got no business. • In the past, France was not attractive to us, because the inheritance tax was high there. But now inheritance tax here will be about the same as it is over there. The difference is, we will be able to run a profitable enough business in France to put cash aside for the children to be able to pay inheritance tax. 'Consumers in France care about what they eat' What appeals about France is, the land is cheaper and the country is invested in food. Consumers care about what they eat. Many consumers here don't seem to care what they eat. The more processed, the better. The supermarket aisles are filled with processed food. In France, the supermarket chains are not as big and powerful. People still go to markets, take the time to eat and consider what they're eating. They eat less but the food is better quality. And agriculture is a far bigger slice of France's gross domestic product, so it's of more interest to the government. An aerial view of the farm in Ware In France, farmers make profits. They don't have a lot of the red tape that we do with assurance schemes and inspections. Labour is expensive, but you don't have to house the workers, and housing is cheaper if you do. Lower property prices are a big advantage. We spend £300,000 a year renting land in the UK. In France, our income will be about the same. But rather than spend £300,000 a year renting land, we'll be spending £90,000 a year on a mortgage. • We're selling our five-bedroom farmhouse in Hertfordshire for £1.25 million with the estate agency Cheffins. It's got an acre, with a zip line, climbing wall, vineyard and home office block. So it's ripe and ready for a family. And in a separate lot we're selling the 64-acre smallholding for £1.35 million. It's got electricity, water, fencing, an outbuilding and planning permission for a house, so it could be good for somebody who's always wanted a smallholding, or for someone who wants to build their own Grand Design. With the proceeds from the sale of our house and smallholding in England, we're buying two adjoining farms in Confolens, near Limoges. One of the French farms has a four-bedroom house, multiple outbuildings and 247 acres. The farm next door has another 550 acres, two houses and comes with a solar business from panels on the roof of the cattle sheds. We also plan to buy 200 cattle and 2,000 sheep. We're doing it through an agent, who will sort out all the red tape around Brexit. We will get an entrepreneur visa, and eventually be able to apply for residency. I'm anxious about the move. Some days I'm really excited. The whole family is learning French on Duolingo. When we have a bad day, we can't wait to leave. Then if it's a lovely sunny peaceful day, I feel sad to be going. But we're taking what we love with us — the kids and the business — and hopefully leaving a lump of costs and red tape behind. The Franklins are planning to move to Confolens, a small town near Limoges GETTY IMAGES 'I can produce lamb to compete with the best in the world' It makes me really cross that our family can't thrive in our own country. Farmers are told to diversify. Because we're tenants, we can't do caravan storage or whatever else. But why should farmers be expected to do Airbnb? Hospitality is not my skill set. But I can produce lamb and wheat to compete with the best in the world. With the extra red tape and costs, however, we can't do that anymore in Britain. I plan our cashflow five years ahead. The new government keeps putting in all these changes and I'm thinking, where can we find that extra amount? We had to let two people go before Christmas and take on the extra work ourselves. We don't want to be working every hour that God sends, just for the privilege of renting. Over the past 20 years, every time a new government comes in, they tell farmers to do something else. It's just been change, change, change, change. And you can't run a business without some sort of certainty. In France we know we can run a profitable business with or without any subsidy. Perhaps we have rose-tinted glasses. But we've done our due diligence. We've spoken to English farmers who have moved over there and they say farming in France is like stepping back in time, when people still cared and took pride in what they did. If we can find customers that value food, I know we'll be all right.
CBS News
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
Book excerpt: "Great Black Hope" by Rob Franklin
Simon & Schuster We may receive an affiliate commission from anything you buy from this article. In his debut novel, "Great Black Hope" (to be published June 10 by Simon & Schuster), author Rob Franklin follows a young African American man whose family launched him for success – but after an arrest for drug possession and the death of a close friend, his once-bright future feels anything but guaranteed. Read an excerpt below. "Great Black Hope" by Rob Franklin Prefer to listen? Audible has a 30-day free trial available right now. Prologue In the grand scheme of history, it was nothing. A blip, a breath. The time it took Smith to pocket what might have looked like a matchbook or stick of gum to an unwitting child but was, in fact, 0.7 grams of powdered Colombian cocaine — flown in from Medellín, cut with amphetamine in Miami, and offered to him in Southampton by a boy he knew from nights out in the city. 0.7 grams heavier, he loped back through the crush of rhythmless elbows and cloying perfume, which wafted up and dissolved in the damp and sultry night — the very last of summer. Looking around, it was really just a restaurant. By the front door, at least fifty people huddled, breathing down each other's necks as they shouted the names they hoped would capture the doorman's attention, while in the backyard, hundreds congregated. Dozens of tables now shook with the weight of dancing, bodies alit with the particular mania reserved for the end of East Coast summers, when one becomes aware of the changing season, the coming cold. But for now, it was silk and linen, the expensive musk of strangers. Every face appeared familiar — some because he actually knew them while others only bore a sun-tanned resemblance, the pleasing symmetry of the rich. These were the faces which seemed to populate the whole of his young life: colleagues and one-night stands from the clubs called cool downtown. These faces had appeared at bars, brunches, birthdays, holiday soirees where black tie was optional — and, before New York, in freshman seminars and frat parties and before that, on teen tours or tennis camps with their original forms intact, acne-spotted. And here they'd all come, every one of them, to escape the inhospitable heat of Manhattan and enjoy a seaside breeze. Picture him, stumbling. 6 feet and 3 inches, he towered like a tree, bark-brown and quietly handsome. Picture him crouched in a corner as he snorts from a key, the metallic taste of his tongue. The night gleamed back into clarity as he steadied himself to return — when out of the crowd, two men emerged, stern eyed and square jawed, barking orders he could barely discern. Calmly, he followed — he didn't wish to make a scene — out through a side exit and onto the street, silent but for the bass of a bop that had reigned the charts all summer. Here is where the night splits open along its tight-stitched seam. The realization, arriving at a tan vehicle marked Southampton Police, that these men, though not in uniform, were not the club security he'd assumed at first they were. The night bent surreally. Smith watched himself be searched as if from a perch above, watched his limbs grow limp and pliant as they bent behind his back. The rotated view of girls in wedges: their clothes wrong, the stars wrong. Yes, the greater sense was not of shock, but unreality. All of this was staged. A prank, a punk – the actors in the front seat, too handsome to be cops. The men were swift and practiced as they'd bundled him into the back of the car. After he'd handed over five-hundred dollars cash from an ATM upstairs at the station, they took him down to be printed, ID'd, and photographed. They were done in twenty minutes, after which he was handed a slip and his things in a plastic bag, then sent back out into the wounded night. He called an Uber. On the curb, Smith watched phosphenes blinker in the darkness, a chorus of cameras flashing. He'd worn, in his mugshot, a vintage Marni gingham shirt, loose-fit linen trousers, and a gently startled expression. From "Great Black Hope" by Rob Franklin. Copyright © 2025 by Rob Franklin. Excerpted with permission by Simon & Schuster, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Get the book here: "Great Black Hope" by Rob Franklin Buy locally from For more info:
