UPDATE (on Aug 22): I understand that Bradley Manning was sentenced to 35 years, but could be out within ten, and that he now feels he is really a woman and wants to be called Daisy or Betty or something (I wasn’t paying that much attention to the news broadcast). All of that notwithstanding, I feel what I wrote a night or two ago below still stands, with the poor chap’s gender confusion making some of my comments all the more pertinent.
One of the items on the news tonight was the Bradley Manning’s lawyers have petitioned President Barack Obama to pardon the lad. And I bloody hope he does so. Reports from the trial suggest Manning is looking at a minimum of 60 years in jail. Before he went to trial and admitted some offences, there was even talk that he faced the death penalty. That, it seems, is no longer likely.
One of the details about the case, which to me is - obliquely - pertinent is that Manning passed on 700,000 documents to Wikileaks and run by who I regard as an arch-fraud Julian Assange. Does anyone really suspect that Manning had the slightest idea what he was doing? Does anyone really think that his motives for passing on those documents was somehow to damage the United States. And, crucially, does anyone really think that Manning even knew the importance of what was in some of those documents, let alone read the whole lot. I repeat, he passed on 700,000 (according to the news).
Manning, we now know, was a confused young man who was having trouble coming to terms with the fact that he was gay. That, in itself, is no excuse for ‘treason’, if you want to regard and describe what he did as ‘treason’. I rather think the poor chap did not have the faintest clue what he was up to. I have no way of knowing how bright he is, but I also suspect that he is not, in the sense of being a man of the world, all that bright.
There can be no doubt that he caused the United States, both the present administration and the previous administrations, a great deal of embarrassment. Publication of the content of the documents he leaked have also, I have to admit, entertained us a great deal. But I do feel rather sorry for all those embassy staff around the world whose candid reports from the country in which they were serving were made public. They were asked for their informed opinions of the governments and leading figures in those countries and, assuming that their views were confidential, gave honest accounts.
Admittedly, among the many documents that were leaked were some quite shocking accounts of criminal misbehaviour by, for example, US troops in Iraq. But for those who oppose the US, those accounts - remember the previous and unrelated reports from Abu Ghraib, will not have come as a great surprise. In fact, Manning is on record as saying that one such shocking account, of a helicopter targeting, then murdering innocent Iraqis who just happened to be in the way, was the catalyst which set him on course to do what he did. To but it bluntly, there is a strong smell of fish about it all.
Manning, in my view an innocent abroad, was used by Wikileaks and Assange, and by the Guardian. That paper likes to present itself as some kind of social conscience and there is some truth in that. But it is also just another newspaper in the business of making money, and the documents leaked by Manning to Wikileaks who passed them on for publication to the Guardian will have seemed like all their dreams come true.
Here, dear reader, was another opportunity for the Guardian to demonstrate its oh-so-holy chops. And if by doing so it could damage what it regarded as the opposition to boot, so much the better.
Manning was, of course, the prime mover in all this, but there is no suggestion, as there is, perhaps, in the case of Edward Snowden that what he did was a matter of principle and undertaken after he great deal of thought. And even the whole Snowden affair is not quite as straightforward as the Guardian would have us believe.
Manning now faces spending more or less the rest of his life in jail purely because - in my view, I had better repeat - he was a confused young chap who didn’t have much of an idea as to what he was doing and was cynically used by those who should know better. Soon we will know what the courts decided will be Manning’s future.
Ridiculous as it might sound to some reading this, I would simply like to see him let of with a suspended sentence and then allowed to get on with the rest of his life, perhaps a little wiser. Will it happen? Well, writing this tonight, I don’t know. But, sadly, I rather doubt it. To quote Alexander Pope and use a phrase previously used in a Times leader when it commented on a drugs trial involving those arch ‘rebels’ the Rolling Stones, ‘Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?’ I hope to God it isn’t the US in all its outraged vigour. There are other ways to deal with being made to look rather foolish.
Wednesday, 21 August 2013
Tuesday, 20 August 2013
Turn down the sneering, the natives are restless. Or why Frey and Henley are as good as Fagen and Becker any day (and aren’t quite as up themselves to boot)
I’ve long liked Steely Dan and I also like The Eagles, though I have heard far more - well, everything Steely Dan have recorded, but not everything, The Eagles have done. There are crucial differences between the two bands quite apart from the music they play. For example, although Steely Dan did their fair share of touring, being part of the back-up band of someone called Dave and The Jaywalkers (or something, I really can't be arsed to look it up), and although they toured as Steely Dan in the early days, they gave up just as soon as they could. The Eagles, on the other hand, seemed to have done nothing but tour, and it and the drugs were probably the major factor which saw them burn out in 1981.
There are other differences: Steely Dan are essentially a New York band, even though they spent a considerable time in LA. The Eagles aren't. Steely Dan would be regarded here in Old Blighty as nice middle-class chaps you might well not object to having the vicar take out on a date. The Eagles came from all over what, I suppose, could be described as smalltown America, although Glenn Frey was from Detroit. And their respective backgrounds, or at least some of them, was not quite as hi falutin'. Don Felder, for example, was, by his own admission, dirt poor. Generally, I get the feeling that The Eagles were rather more down-to-earth than Steely Dan.
There is a line in a Steely Dan song which puts down The Eagles - ‘Turn up The Eagles, the neighbours are listening’ on Everything You Did from The Royal Scam - which is another of those cynical, sneering lines of the kind Dan fans like because their appreciation of it confirms to them that they, too, like Fagen and Becker, are a just a little hipper than your average joe, a little brighter, perhaps, a little more knowing, and, of course, if truth be told a little more self-regarding and smug.
Not for them the mainstream pop sensibility of The Eagles - they, brighter, more knowing, somehow - in their imagination - more sophisticated prefer the jazzy intricacies of Steely Dan. Me? Well, however much I like Becker and Fagen’s music, that line and a rather superior, patronising attitude (both are from New York) has always rather got up my nose. Several years ago, I went to see Steely Dan at Wembley Arena in London. Becker and Fagen, although I rather think Fagen rather than Becker, became notoriously unwilling to tour. They didn’t like it at all.
But that was in the Seventies and now, in the Noughties (as I understand we are obliged to call the first decade of the 21st century, I suspect Becker persuaded Fagen that what with staying at expensive hotels and being waited on hand and foot as only successful and respected musos on tour are waited on hand and foot meant that ‘touring’ was not half as bad as it was when they were starting out. For me Steely Dan were always ‘other’, so I was hugely disappointed when at the start of the concert and in the first address to the attendant Dan acolytes, Becker came out with the corniest of corny lines ‘Hello, London, we love your fish and chips’.
Christ, I thought, even Steely Dan have feet of clay. It was rather like hearing the girl you have been idealising fart loudly and take off to the loo where she noisily proceeds to take a dump.
No romance can survive that or Becker’s standard-for-a-tour crass line. Why the fuck didn’t he keep his mouth shut. But he didn’t and a part of my appreciation of Steely Dan died. And so pissed off was I that about ten minutes later I heckled Donald Fagen. We were far upfront, just about four or five rows from the stage, and Fagen and his keyboard could have been no more than 2oft away. So devilry took me and when one song ended and just before another was about to start, I shouted to him: ‘Play Hotel California’.
He didn’t like it, not one bit. How do I know? Well, it will have played on his mind throughout the subsequent song and when that song finished he said something along the lines of ‘bad things happen to people who say things like that’. But why should they. Well, they should - thus the subtext - because they were Steely Dan and way, way more sophisticated than The Eagles. He would have remained high in my estimation had he said nothing. But to respond to so innocuous a heckle - well ...
. . .
I mention this because the other night I watched almost all of The History Of The Eagles, the documentary they made several years ago. And what is obvious is that Glenn Frey and Don Henley were just as obsessive in their determination to achieve perfection in the music they were producing. And whether or not you like their songs - I do - they stood head and shoulders above their peers. OK, so the music is by no means as ‘sophisticated’ as that of Steely Dan, but for what is is, in construction, production and shape, they are just as good.
Frey and Henley wrote lyrics just as good as Becker and Fagen (and I suspect, judging by their subsequent solo work, the lyrics were more Becker than Fagen). I was far more familiar with The Eagles first and second album - Desperado is especially good - than what came later, although naturally I heard the hits on the radio, but I have since bought a hits compilation which spans their whole career and the excellence does not tail off. They deserved their success.
So at the end of the day that sneering throwaway line - ‘turn up The Eagles the neighbours are listening’ - tells you far more about Becker and Fagen than The Eagles. I’ve only been to New York once, and that was more or less by way of a fluke, so it’s fair to say I don’t know New York at all.
But I do rather suspect the that superior superciliousness of Steely Dan is pretty much shared by the the city’s ‘artistic community’. You do get the feeling that they sincerely feel they are a cut above the rest of us, and it doesn’t surprise me that John Lennon, who could be as pretentious as the rest of us given half a chance, was able to make New York his home so glibly. It might also be the reason why Becker and Fagen - who was actually from New Jersey, so what is he so proud about - found it so easy to sneer at a chap from Linton, Texas, and another from Detroit. . . . I was walking home tonight and courtesy of my £15 Three add-on which give me a unlimited 3G internet access I switched off BBC Radio 4 and tuned in to two jazz stations out there somewhere on the net. The first - Jazz24 - was reasonably pleasant, some jazz violinist demonstrating his chops, but I wasn’t in the mood and found another - piano jazz on Jazzradio.com. That, I thought would be a little more to my liking, especially as I like Bill Evans and Lennie Tristano a lot.
It was good, as in pleasant, but not great, uptempo jazz piano, double bass, drums and eventually two saxes. To be honest it sounded like pretty much standard fare, the elements of jazzy funk making the piece I heard reasonably contemporary. But what it reminded me again for the umpteenth time is that 99 percent of your music is in 4/4 time, and 4/4 is boring. Familiar but boring. All pop is in 4/4 as is a great deal of classical music, and a great deal of jazz. We like it because it is the essence, in music, of accessibility. I should, perhaps, write ‘Western music’ - Asian music not only deals in other time signatures but also in quarter notes which our Western ears find ‘strange’.
Increasingly, rather like mediocrity - I would say dumbing down if it weren’t such a cliche - in culture and food, that 4/4 time is imposing itself around the world. And at the end of the day it is boring. I don’t suppose it much matters if the music you are listening to is lightweight, but I find it boring, boring, boring. I can’t claim to ‘know’ other time signatures, but a rule of thumb is that if you can’t dance to it, it is not in 4/4. You’ll find that virtually every country and western song is in 4/4, every funk piece, every pop song, every music hall song, every bluegrass piece, every blues, and we like it because it we are familiar with it and it brings no surprises. I can’t pretend that when I play guitar (not particularly well, and I have finally decided to get better and have started by learning scales) I play anything else. But that notwithstanding it is boring, boring, boring.
There are other differences: Steely Dan are essentially a New York band, even though they spent a considerable time in LA. The Eagles aren't. Steely Dan would be regarded here in Old Blighty as nice middle-class chaps you might well not object to having the vicar take out on a date. The Eagles came from all over what, I suppose, could be described as smalltown America, although Glenn Frey was from Detroit. And their respective backgrounds, or at least some of them, was not quite as hi falutin'. Don Felder, for example, was, by his own admission, dirt poor. Generally, I get the feeling that The Eagles were rather more down-to-earth than Steely Dan.
There is a line in a Steely Dan song which puts down The Eagles - ‘Turn up The Eagles, the neighbours are listening’ on Everything You Did from The Royal Scam - which is another of those cynical, sneering lines of the kind Dan fans like because their appreciation of it confirms to them that they, too, like Fagen and Becker, are a just a little hipper than your average joe, a little brighter, perhaps, a little more knowing, and, of course, if truth be told a little more self-regarding and smug.
Not for them the mainstream pop sensibility of The Eagles - they, brighter, more knowing, somehow - in their imagination - more sophisticated prefer the jazzy intricacies of Steely Dan. Me? Well, however much I like Becker and Fagen’s music, that line and a rather superior, patronising attitude (both are from New York) has always rather got up my nose. Several years ago, I went to see Steely Dan at Wembley Arena in London. Becker and Fagen, although I rather think Fagen rather than Becker, became notoriously unwilling to tour. They didn’t like it at all.
But that was in the Seventies and now, in the Noughties (as I understand we are obliged to call the first decade of the 21st century, I suspect Becker persuaded Fagen that what with staying at expensive hotels and being waited on hand and foot as only successful and respected musos on tour are waited on hand and foot meant that ‘touring’ was not half as bad as it was when they were starting out. For me Steely Dan were always ‘other’, so I was hugely disappointed when at the start of the concert and in the first address to the attendant Dan acolytes, Becker came out with the corniest of corny lines ‘Hello, London, we love your fish and chips’.
Christ, I thought, even Steely Dan have feet of clay. It was rather like hearing the girl you have been idealising fart loudly and take off to the loo where she noisily proceeds to take a dump.
No romance can survive that or Becker’s standard-for-a-tour crass line. Why the fuck didn’t he keep his mouth shut. But he didn’t and a part of my appreciation of Steely Dan died. And so pissed off was I that about ten minutes later I heckled Donald Fagen. We were far upfront, just about four or five rows from the stage, and Fagen and his keyboard could have been no more than 2oft away. So devilry took me and when one song ended and just before another was about to start, I shouted to him: ‘Play Hotel California’.
He didn’t like it, not one bit. How do I know? Well, it will have played on his mind throughout the subsequent song and when that song finished he said something along the lines of ‘bad things happen to people who say things like that’. But why should they. Well, they should - thus the subtext - because they were Steely Dan and way, way more sophisticated than The Eagles. He would have remained high in my estimation had he said nothing. But to respond to so innocuous a heckle - well ...
. . .
I mention this because the other night I watched almost all of The History Of The Eagles, the documentary they made several years ago. And what is obvious is that Glenn Frey and Don Henley were just as obsessive in their determination to achieve perfection in the music they were producing. And whether or not you like their songs - I do - they stood head and shoulders above their peers. OK, so the music is by no means as ‘sophisticated’ as that of Steely Dan, but for what is is, in construction, production and shape, they are just as good.
Frey and Henley wrote lyrics just as good as Becker and Fagen (and I suspect, judging by their subsequent solo work, the lyrics were more Becker than Fagen). I was far more familiar with The Eagles first and second album - Desperado is especially good - than what came later, although naturally I heard the hits on the radio, but I have since bought a hits compilation which spans their whole career and the excellence does not tail off. They deserved their success.
So at the end of the day that sneering throwaway line - ‘turn up The Eagles the neighbours are listening’ - tells you far more about Becker and Fagen than The Eagles. I’ve only been to New York once, and that was more or less by way of a fluke, so it’s fair to say I don’t know New York at all.
But I do rather suspect the that superior superciliousness of Steely Dan is pretty much shared by the the city’s ‘artistic community’. You do get the feeling that they sincerely feel they are a cut above the rest of us, and it doesn’t surprise me that John Lennon, who could be as pretentious as the rest of us given half a chance, was able to make New York his home so glibly. It might also be the reason why Becker and Fagen - who was actually from New Jersey, so what is he so proud about - found it so easy to sneer at a chap from Linton, Texas, and another from Detroit. . . . I was walking home tonight and courtesy of my £15 Three add-on which give me a unlimited 3G internet access I switched off BBC Radio 4 and tuned in to two jazz stations out there somewhere on the net. The first - Jazz24 - was reasonably pleasant, some jazz violinist demonstrating his chops, but I wasn’t in the mood and found another - piano jazz on Jazzradio.com. That, I thought would be a little more to my liking, especially as I like Bill Evans and Lennie Tristano a lot.
It was good, as in pleasant, but not great, uptempo jazz piano, double bass, drums and eventually two saxes. To be honest it sounded like pretty much standard fare, the elements of jazzy funk making the piece I heard reasonably contemporary. But what it reminded me again for the umpteenth time is that 99 percent of your music is in 4/4 time, and 4/4 is boring. Familiar but boring. All pop is in 4/4 as is a great deal of classical music, and a great deal of jazz. We like it because it is the essence, in music, of accessibility. I should, perhaps, write ‘Western music’ - Asian music not only deals in other time signatures but also in quarter notes which our Western ears find ‘strange’.
Increasingly, rather like mediocrity - I would say dumbing down if it weren’t such a cliche - in culture and food, that 4/4 time is imposing itself around the world. And at the end of the day it is boring. I don’t suppose it much matters if the music you are listening to is lightweight, but I find it boring, boring, boring. I can’t claim to ‘know’ other time signatures, but a rule of thumb is that if you can’t dance to it, it is not in 4/4. You’ll find that virtually every country and western song is in 4/4, every funk piece, every pop song, every music hall song, every bluegrass piece, every blues, and we like it because it we are familiar with it and it brings no surprises. I can’t pretend that when I play guitar (not particularly well, and I have finally decided to get better and have started by learning scales) I play anything else. But that notwithstanding it is boring, boring, boring.
Thursday, 15 August 2013
Stupidity (or how do you make a bad situation ten times worse? Ask us here in the ‘developed’ West. We can give you chapter and verse, whether you like it or not)
There is a good case to be made that one can forgive most things except stupidity. Actually, there are one or two other things which one feels disinclined to forgive, a lack of charity being one, so that’s me set to be pilloried for another unforgivable trait, hypocrisy. But leave that for another time. Let me here ramble on about stupidity on a grand scale.
The overnight news is the action by the Egyptian army to clear one or two protest camps set up by protesters who support the ousted president Morsi and can’t, for the life of them, see the right in a democratically elected head of state being toppled. Between 150 and 2,000 folk are said to have died in the attacks by soldiers. That’s at least 150 too many.
Well, you might tell yourself from the comfort of your armchair, worse things have happened at sea, and, anyway, isn’t such violence quite commonplace in what is still regarded by many as the ‘underdeveloped world’? Good Lord, you might think, just the other day several hundred people were killed in Somalia, Syria, Brazil, Nigeria and other such insalubrious places. Surely it’s a way of life out there? Surely they rather expect to come home to find that dad, or their brother or their sister was in the wrong place at the wrong time and won’t be coming home tonight or, for that matter, for ever?
Perhaps you think I’m joking, but there are quite a few here in the ‘developed’ West, where a ‘tragedy’ is their flight being delayed by several hours and they didn’t get to summer holiday resort until a day after they were supposed to get there, who think just along such lines. I was once told, years ago, in all seriousness, that famine in East Africa wasn’t as bad for the East Africans as it was for us because ‘they were used to that kind of thing’. In a sense, what happened in Egypt yesterday was commonplace. Change channels and you can hear reports from Syria where equally horrible things are taking place.
What caught my attention was a report from Cairo on BBC radio news in which several Morsi supporters were interviewed. In broken English - it’s astonishing in this day and age how little English some chaps have - they vented their fury at Britain, the U.S. and the smug rest of them over their supine reaction to the toppling of Morsi a month ago and how there had not been a peep of protest at what was to any honest eyes an out-an-out coup.
One of them screamed - you rarely hear us here in the ‘developed’ West screaming, oh no, the most we might do is raise our voices a little, but then different strokes . . . - that we in the West had been lecturing the Arab states about how they must embrace democracy, but that when they did as they were bid and elected Morsi, there was rather a lot of muted tut-tutting. ‘When we said that your leader should be democratically elected, we didn’t actually mean that you should democratically elect a chap who would very much like his country to be run along more Islamic
Here’s a chap who will probably think twice the next time the West urges him to act democratically. ‘Is there,’ he’ll ask himself, ‘really that much point?’
principles, don’t you know.’ Then when the chap a majority of Egyptians did elect - and I’ll repeat, I have yet to hear anyone claim that the election last year was in any way rigged or otherwise unfair - was removed from power by an unholy alliance of the army and assorted metropolitans liberals, the silence of the West who are usually none too slow in condemning a military coup was deafening. You rather feel the guy’s frustration. And it doesn’t bode well for other Arab states taking the West seriously when we decided to lecture them, too.
It didn’t even seem to bother the us here in the West that Morsi was placed under house arrest and that a large number of Muslim Brotherhood members were locked up without charge. Not a peep of protest was heard from London, Washington, Paris or Berlin, let along Rome, Copenhagen, The Hague or Madrid. That was the first act of Western stupidity. It was, in fact, a lot more than just criminally stupid, but here I’ll just deal with the rancid, breathtaking stupidity.
Large numbers of Morsi supporters then set up their protest camps - a concept of a protest camp not unfamiliar here in the ‘developed’ West, and demanded that their man should be released and that the new government and the army should respect the results of last year’s election. Nothing much wrong with that, you might agree (that is if your armchair isn’t now far more comfortable and you’d far prefer to switch on
No, not Spain in 1936, but Egypt in 2013
the TV and watch Masterchef or Escape To The Country). But the Egyptian army did disagree, and yesterday they demonstrated how much they disagreed.
Now, of course, the West is outraged as only the West can get outraged, and has been tut-tutting far into the night about it all. It’s wholly unacceptable, don’t you know. But, dear friends, the genie is out of the bottle.
Anyone who believes that the situation Egypt can somehow be resolved peacefully is living in cloud-cuckoo land. Among a great many of those who supported Morsi are those who have now had it with democracy, and when they are told that democracy is incompatible with the kind of state they would like to live in, one in which sharia law is observed rather more to the letter, they are inclined to tell us: OK, stuff democracy. But it needn’t have got to this stage. If only when the original coup took place the West had put its money where its mouth is and said ‘now hold on, chaps, this man Morsi was elected fair and square and you can’t just dump him like that, we would, at least, still have one leg to stand on. Now we have none.
. . .
The original charges against Morsi included that despite his promises to rule ‘for all the country’ he did nothing of the kind and merely promoted the ambitions of the Muslim Brotherhood, and that he did absolutely fuck-all to improve the conditions of anyone. Well, that might well be true. And it might well be a load of cobblers. How can I tell? But in many countries of the ‘developed’ West similar charges are being made against an elected government.
Here in Britain the Left daily makes claims that the ‘Tory cuts’ are ‘costing lives’. So how come we don’t have a coup to get rid of Cameron? We don’t because it would be undemocratic. Which begs the question: if water is wet in Britain, is it not equally wet in Egypt? Apparently not. But now we have the mess. With exquisite timing the U.S. for what seems like the umpteenth time, has once again persuaded Israel and the various Palestinian factions to sit down and try to hammer out some kind of modus vivendi which will lead to a more peaceful, less unpleasant life all round.
Given that the Yanks didn’t come up with the idea last Friday and will have been painstakingly planning this for several months, didn’t it occur to any of the wise herberts in the State Department that giving the Egyptian army a wink and a nod to go ahead and launch a coup - for that is practically what the West’s supine attitude to the events boils down to - would go down like a pork sandwich at those Jewish/Muslim peace talks, especially from the Palestinian perspective? Apparently not.
As I say, one can forgive much except rank stupidity.
The overnight news is the action by the Egyptian army to clear one or two protest camps set up by protesters who support the ousted president Morsi and can’t, for the life of them, see the right in a democratically elected head of state being toppled. Between 150 and 2,000 folk are said to have died in the attacks by soldiers. That’s at least 150 too many.
Well, you might tell yourself from the comfort of your armchair, worse things have happened at sea, and, anyway, isn’t such violence quite commonplace in what is still regarded by many as the ‘underdeveloped world’? Good Lord, you might think, just the other day several hundred people were killed in Somalia, Syria, Brazil, Nigeria and other such insalubrious places. Surely it’s a way of life out there? Surely they rather expect to come home to find that dad, or their brother or their sister was in the wrong place at the wrong time and won’t be coming home tonight or, for that matter, for ever?
Perhaps you think I’m joking, but there are quite a few here in the ‘developed’ West, where a ‘tragedy’ is their flight being delayed by several hours and they didn’t get to summer holiday resort until a day after they were supposed to get there, who think just along such lines. I was once told, years ago, in all seriousness, that famine in East Africa wasn’t as bad for the East Africans as it was for us because ‘they were used to that kind of thing’. In a sense, what happened in Egypt yesterday was commonplace. Change channels and you can hear reports from Syria where equally horrible things are taking place.
What caught my attention was a report from Cairo on BBC radio news in which several Morsi supporters were interviewed. In broken English - it’s astonishing in this day and age how little English some chaps have - they vented their fury at Britain, the U.S. and the smug rest of them over their supine reaction to the toppling of Morsi a month ago and how there had not been a peep of protest at what was to any honest eyes an out-an-out coup.
One of them screamed - you rarely hear us here in the ‘developed’ West screaming, oh no, the most we might do is raise our voices a little, but then different strokes . . . - that we in the West had been lecturing the Arab states about how they must embrace democracy, but that when they did as they were bid and elected Morsi, there was rather a lot of muted tut-tutting. ‘When we said that your leader should be democratically elected, we didn’t actually mean that you should democratically elect a chap who would very much like his country to be run along more Islamic
principles, don’t you know.’ Then when the chap a majority of Egyptians did elect - and I’ll repeat, I have yet to hear anyone claim that the election last year was in any way rigged or otherwise unfair - was removed from power by an unholy alliance of the army and assorted metropolitans liberals, the silence of the West who are usually none too slow in condemning a military coup was deafening. You rather feel the guy’s frustration. And it doesn’t bode well for other Arab states taking the West seriously when we decided to lecture them, too.
It didn’t even seem to bother the us here in the West that Morsi was placed under house arrest and that a large number of Muslim Brotherhood members were locked up without charge. Not a peep of protest was heard from London, Washington, Paris or Berlin, let along Rome, Copenhagen, The Hague or Madrid. That was the first act of Western stupidity. It was, in fact, a lot more than just criminally stupid, but here I’ll just deal with the rancid, breathtaking stupidity.
Large numbers of Morsi supporters then set up their protest camps - a concept of a protest camp not unfamiliar here in the ‘developed’ West, and demanded that their man should be released and that the new government and the army should respect the results of last year’s election. Nothing much wrong with that, you might agree (that is if your armchair isn’t now far more comfortable and you’d far prefer to switch on
Anyone who believes that the situation Egypt can somehow be resolved peacefully is living in cloud-cuckoo land. Among a great many of those who supported Morsi are those who have now had it with democracy, and when they are told that democracy is incompatible with the kind of state they would like to live in, one in which sharia law is observed rather more to the letter, they are inclined to tell us: OK, stuff democracy. But it needn’t have got to this stage. If only when the original coup took place the West had put its money where its mouth is and said ‘now hold on, chaps, this man Morsi was elected fair and square and you can’t just dump him like that, we would, at least, still have one leg to stand on. Now we have none.
. . .
The original charges against Morsi included that despite his promises to rule ‘for all the country’ he did nothing of the kind and merely promoted the ambitions of the Muslim Brotherhood, and that he did absolutely fuck-all to improve the conditions of anyone. Well, that might well be true. And it might well be a load of cobblers. How can I tell? But in many countries of the ‘developed’ West similar charges are being made against an elected government.
Here in Britain the Left daily makes claims that the ‘Tory cuts’ are ‘costing lives’. So how come we don’t have a coup to get rid of Cameron? We don’t because it would be undemocratic. Which begs the question: if water is wet in Britain, is it not equally wet in Egypt? Apparently not. But now we have the mess. With exquisite timing the U.S. for what seems like the umpteenth time, has once again persuaded Israel and the various Palestinian factions to sit down and try to hammer out some kind of modus vivendi which will lead to a more peaceful, less unpleasant life all round.
Given that the Yanks didn’t come up with the idea last Friday and will have been painstakingly planning this for several months, didn’t it occur to any of the wise herberts in the State Department that giving the Egyptian army a wink and a nod to go ahead and launch a coup - for that is practically what the West’s supine attitude to the events boils down to - would go down like a pork sandwich at those Jewish/Muslim peace talks, especially from the Palestinian perspective? Apparently not.
As I say, one can forgive much except rank stupidity.
Friday, 9 August 2013
Wagner gets a Brownie point, Tchaikovsky gets a load more, Brahms – well, who was Brahms except, apparently, the third B? - and me, well I’m still wondering just how English I am
It’s was off to St Endellion last night for the penultimate concert of the St Endellion Summer Festival with the aunt with whom I stay when I bugger off to Bordeaux for concerts. On the bill - ‘bill’ sounds horribly plebeian for an evening of 19th-century classical music, and on reflection I should probably use the far more respectable ‘programme’, but I’m in a contrary mood, so ‘bill’ it will remain, and at the end of the day both mean the same thing and are only distinguished by snobbery and attitude - were Brahms, Wagner and Tchaikovsky.
Of Brahms, who I understand is regarded as the third B in the Three Bs, the two others being Bach and Beethoven, I haven’t actually heard very much, but I must say what I heard yesterday, Gesang der Parzen (and I, too, had to look up ‘Parzen’), was very much to my taste. (As for Brahms being the third B, I must admit that I can’t quite see it, but that is probably because, as I say, I haven’t heard a great deal of his music, but that also because for me a little 19th-century romanticism goes quite a long way).
Next came the Wagner, and I was intrigued. The flip thing for me to write here (and being about as deep as a saucer of water I really cannot resist writing it) is that I haven’t heard a lot of Wagner because I just haven’t got the time. My other quip, used here once before but as the man said ‘if they liked it once, they’ll like it twice, is that Wagner became very affluent in his later years because he was the first composer to insist on being paid by the hour. In short, Wagner doesn’t grab me very much at all. Beecham once said (I think it was Beecham) that ‘Wagner has his moments, about one every 15 minutes’, and that sums it up rather well.
When you go to hear and see a Wagner opera, you are well advised to take a change of clothes and leave a forwarding address. Apart from that the chap, as far as I am concerned, more or less invented bombast, which is perhaps why he went down a storm with the National Socialists and, more recently, the Americans. But I was intrigued, for the bill (aka programme) didn’t promise two days of Germanic sword and sorcery but Lieder, to be more precise, the Wesendonck Lieder, five of them. And, dear reader, I liked them.
I had previously heard musicologists being rather positive about Wagner, about how he was a innovator and, as one said recently, was (something along the lines of) the interface between classical music and modernism. Well, I know next to nothing about music in that deeper, technical sense, but is seems Wagner came up with chords and harmonies which were quite startling to then contemporary ears. But being a crypto-liberal despite my reactionary pose I was prepared to give good ’ole Richard the benefit of doubt. And I’m pleased to say he came up trumps, with his Lieder having sometimes a delicacy I never suspected the old sod was capable off.
After the interval (and £3 glass of bloody awful red plonk my aunt and I had to share because neither of us had brought enough dosh with us to buy two - I had had £8 on me, she had nothing, and I had previously blown £5 of those £8 on a glossy programme. It’s a measure of how much the St Endellion Festival has embraced the 21st century that in days gone by you had to put up with a blackboard with that night’s bill chalked up on it in rather illegible handwriting. One year they did experiment with a chap all togged up as an ‘olde worlde’ town cryer, including bell, who spent an hour or so walking around the church announcing that night’s programme, but it didn’t go down well with the more refined sort who thought it all a bit infra-dig) came Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony, and very glad I am, too, that I heard it in live performance.
Many, many, many folk are horribly sniffy about Tchaikovsky but I can’t see why and it is nothing but a bad reflection on them. Years ago when I was living in Berlin and attending a German school, I would arrive home at just before 2pm, have my lunch and then go upstairs to do my homework and tune into AFN to Don Ameche’s Pop Concert whose theme tune was Tchaikosky First Piano Concerto, and if that isn’t enough to turn most 11/12 year-old lads onto classical music, I don’t know what is. I still like it, and get beyond those crashing opening chords it does get very moving.
The opening bars of the Fourth Symphony are, I’m sure, pretty familiar to many, rather like the faces of actors we have seen in many a film but can’t quite place. Well, yesterday I placed it and listened to the lot. Because I had booked late and there were few tickets still available, we sat at the side of St Endellion parish church right next to the orchestra. I was - literally (yes, Pete, literally, about a foot and a half from the string section (or at least the outer reaches of the string section) and it was great. Perhaps the balance of instruments wasn’t what it might have been - the French horns, who play quite a prominent part in the opening, were barely ten feet away and loud - but it was a revelation, for example, to hear how the strings interacted. And that third movement, the ‘pizzicato’ movement. It should persuade anyone with a soul that for all his angst and troubles - Tchaikovsky never came to terms with being gay and drank far too much - the lad was basically good-hearted, good-natured and would surely have been good company. I like to think that laughing came to him rather easily, and I don’t mean laughing in a spiteful way. It is no surprise to me that he got on well with his brothers and inspired affection in his friends. He’s the kind of guy - make that gay - whose real tragedy, one he shares with Oscar Wilde, was that he wasn’t born 150 years later when his sexuality would have been of no consequence.
. . .
Just before writing this entry, I looked up (inevitably on Wikipedia) further details of Wagner’s life, and where I like to think I should very much have enjoyed Tchaikovsky’s company, Richard, despite my rather grudging praise above, was what we call in the trade ‘a cunt’. Make that self-centred cunt. There is this curious belief that ‘the artist’ has to be a bastard to be good. Well, bollocks to that. Certainly, an ‘artist’ must be single-minded where his work is concerned, but when it comes to the rest of his or her life where being just an ordinary Joe or Jane is concerned he and she are just like the rest of us and are obliged to treat the rest of us with respect. Wagner, it seems, didn’t. I’m not going to go into his anti-semitism because for the purpose of what I want to say that is not pertinent (in as far as there are just as many Jewish cunts as there are Gentile cunts). When he was still an aspiring composer Giacomo Meyerbier, which should really just be Meyer Bier as the Giacomo was assumed for professional reasons, championed him. In return Wagner later shat on Meyer Bier.
He hitched up with Minna Planer and treated her like dirt, putting his own career well before hers, though I rather suspect she was just as much a pain in the arse as he was. I like the story when, after many rows and many partings, they finally got married, they even had a stant-up row in front of the minister who was about to marry them. Later, patronised, in the best sense, by a businessman Otto von Wesendonck, he went on (if some are to be believed) to have an affair with the chaps wife. Then there’s the flight from Riga across the Russian border with Minna and her daughter Nathalie, the horrendous trip to London, the years of poverty in Paris, the participation in the Dresden revolution and what came later and it seems to me Wagner had a life crying out to be made into a - good, that’s important - mini series. If it wasn’t for the hours and hours and hours of bombastic music. But I must say I’m glad I discovered the Wesendonck Lieder.
. . .
One last point. If anyone wanted to capture the essence of a certain kind of English middle-class life, visit a St Endellion festival. Very few of the fok there are under 40, most of over 50 and many over 60, almost all have grey or white hair and beards, including many of the women, and most of the cars are quite young. I hate to be snooty (well, actually, I don’t, I like it) but it is everything Labour hate. I, too, now have white hair and at the moment a very trimmed beard, but I still feel like an outsider.
Last night I was wondering why, and I came up with this explanation: I was born in Britain to an English father and a German mother, but more or less brought up as a German child, even wearing Lederhosen at primary school, which was quite something in the early Fifties, just eight or nine years after World War II ended. Then, in 1959, we move to Berlin where I attended German schools, but again felt like an outsider, the English kid who spoke perfect German (though sadly no more) and, as all kids do at that age, wanted to be like everyone else. Then it was back to England, to boarding school, where again I felt the outsider (my nicknames were first Preggers, because I wasn’t the slimmest, then Kraut and Jackboots). In time, of course, as we all do, or all of us try to do, in my case reasonably successfully, I made a virtue out of a vice and began to celebrate being an outsider.
So at St Endellion I might well have resembled the masses, but I still looked on. And feel able to make rather condescending comments about it all now. For the record, I don’t feel ‘English’, but nor do I feel ‘German’. I speak English without an accent and, given a few weeks in Germany to get back in swing, I would speak German like a German in that Germans would think me German. But what I am, Lord knows. My younger brother, now 55, can’t remember Germany, but was brought up in France from the age of seven to 12. My sister, who was also brought up in France, married a German when she was 22 and has, more or less, lived there ever since. I don’t know how either feels. My older brother is mentally ill, probably schizophrenic, so what he feels will depend on the day you talk to him. He also watches an awful lot of bollocks TV but is twice as bright as me. Make of that what you will.
Of Brahms, who I understand is regarded as the third B in the Three Bs, the two others being Bach and Beethoven, I haven’t actually heard very much, but I must say what I heard yesterday, Gesang der Parzen (and I, too, had to look up ‘Parzen’), was very much to my taste. (As for Brahms being the third B, I must admit that I can’t quite see it, but that is probably because, as I say, I haven’t heard a great deal of his music, but that also because for me a little 19th-century romanticism goes quite a long way).
Next came the Wagner, and I was intrigued. The flip thing for me to write here (and being about as deep as a saucer of water I really cannot resist writing it) is that I haven’t heard a lot of Wagner because I just haven’t got the time. My other quip, used here once before but as the man said ‘if they liked it once, they’ll like it twice, is that Wagner became very affluent in his later years because he was the first composer to insist on being paid by the hour. In short, Wagner doesn’t grab me very much at all. Beecham once said (I think it was Beecham) that ‘Wagner has his moments, about one every 15 minutes’, and that sums it up rather well.
When you go to hear and see a Wagner opera, you are well advised to take a change of clothes and leave a forwarding address. Apart from that the chap, as far as I am concerned, more or less invented bombast, which is perhaps why he went down a storm with the National Socialists and, more recently, the Americans. But I was intrigued, for the bill (aka programme) didn’t promise two days of Germanic sword and sorcery but Lieder, to be more precise, the Wesendonck Lieder, five of them. And, dear reader, I liked them.
I had previously heard musicologists being rather positive about Wagner, about how he was a innovator and, as one said recently, was (something along the lines of) the interface between classical music and modernism. Well, I know next to nothing about music in that deeper, technical sense, but is seems Wagner came up with chords and harmonies which were quite startling to then contemporary ears. But being a crypto-liberal despite my reactionary pose I was prepared to give good ’ole Richard the benefit of doubt. And I’m pleased to say he came up trumps, with his Lieder having sometimes a delicacy I never suspected the old sod was capable off.
After the interval (and £3 glass of bloody awful red plonk my aunt and I had to share because neither of us had brought enough dosh with us to buy two - I had had £8 on me, she had nothing, and I had previously blown £5 of those £8 on a glossy programme. It’s a measure of how much the St Endellion Festival has embraced the 21st century that in days gone by you had to put up with a blackboard with that night’s bill chalked up on it in rather illegible handwriting. One year they did experiment with a chap all togged up as an ‘olde worlde’ town cryer, including bell, who spent an hour or so walking around the church announcing that night’s programme, but it didn’t go down well with the more refined sort who thought it all a bit infra-dig) came Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony, and very glad I am, too, that I heard it in live performance.
Many, many, many folk are horribly sniffy about Tchaikovsky but I can’t see why and it is nothing but a bad reflection on them. Years ago when I was living in Berlin and attending a German school, I would arrive home at just before 2pm, have my lunch and then go upstairs to do my homework and tune into AFN to Don Ameche’s Pop Concert whose theme tune was Tchaikosky First Piano Concerto, and if that isn’t enough to turn most 11/12 year-old lads onto classical music, I don’t know what is. I still like it, and get beyond those crashing opening chords it does get very moving.
The opening bars of the Fourth Symphony are, I’m sure, pretty familiar to many, rather like the faces of actors we have seen in many a film but can’t quite place. Well, yesterday I placed it and listened to the lot. Because I had booked late and there were few tickets still available, we sat at the side of St Endellion parish church right next to the orchestra. I was - literally (yes, Pete, literally, about a foot and a half from the string section (or at least the outer reaches of the string section) and it was great. Perhaps the balance of instruments wasn’t what it might have been - the French horns, who play quite a prominent part in the opening, were barely ten feet away and loud - but it was a revelation, for example, to hear how the strings interacted. And that third movement, the ‘pizzicato’ movement. It should persuade anyone with a soul that for all his angst and troubles - Tchaikovsky never came to terms with being gay and drank far too much - the lad was basically good-hearted, good-natured and would surely have been good company. I like to think that laughing came to him rather easily, and I don’t mean laughing in a spiteful way. It is no surprise to me that he got on well with his brothers and inspired affection in his friends. He’s the kind of guy - make that gay - whose real tragedy, one he shares with Oscar Wilde, was that he wasn’t born 150 years later when his sexuality would have been of no consequence.
. . .
Just before writing this entry, I looked up (inevitably on Wikipedia) further details of Wagner’s life, and where I like to think I should very much have enjoyed Tchaikovsky’s company, Richard, despite my rather grudging praise above, was what we call in the trade ‘a cunt’. Make that self-centred cunt. There is this curious belief that ‘the artist’ has to be a bastard to be good. Well, bollocks to that. Certainly, an ‘artist’ must be single-minded where his work is concerned, but when it comes to the rest of his or her life where being just an ordinary Joe or Jane is concerned he and she are just like the rest of us and are obliged to treat the rest of us with respect. Wagner, it seems, didn’t. I’m not going to go into his anti-semitism because for the purpose of what I want to say that is not pertinent (in as far as there are just as many Jewish cunts as there are Gentile cunts). When he was still an aspiring composer Giacomo Meyerbier, which should really just be Meyer Bier as the Giacomo was assumed for professional reasons, championed him. In return Wagner later shat on Meyer Bier.
He hitched up with Minna Planer and treated her like dirt, putting his own career well before hers, though I rather suspect she was just as much a pain in the arse as he was. I like the story when, after many rows and many partings, they finally got married, they even had a stant-up row in front of the minister who was about to marry them. Later, patronised, in the best sense, by a businessman Otto von Wesendonck, he went on (if some are to be believed) to have an affair with the chaps wife. Then there’s the flight from Riga across the Russian border with Minna and her daughter Nathalie, the horrendous trip to London, the years of poverty in Paris, the participation in the Dresden revolution and what came later and it seems to me Wagner had a life crying out to be made into a - good, that’s important - mini series. If it wasn’t for the hours and hours and hours of bombastic music. But I must say I’m glad I discovered the Wesendonck Lieder.
. . .
One last point. If anyone wanted to capture the essence of a certain kind of English middle-class life, visit a St Endellion festival. Very few of the fok there are under 40, most of over 50 and many over 60, almost all have grey or white hair and beards, including many of the women, and most of the cars are quite young. I hate to be snooty (well, actually, I don’t, I like it) but it is everything Labour hate. I, too, now have white hair and at the moment a very trimmed beard, but I still feel like an outsider.
Last night I was wondering why, and I came up with this explanation: I was born in Britain to an English father and a German mother, but more or less brought up as a German child, even wearing Lederhosen at primary school, which was quite something in the early Fifties, just eight or nine years after World War II ended. Then, in 1959, we move to Berlin where I attended German schools, but again felt like an outsider, the English kid who spoke perfect German (though sadly no more) and, as all kids do at that age, wanted to be like everyone else. Then it was back to England, to boarding school, where again I felt the outsider (my nicknames were first Preggers, because I wasn’t the slimmest, then Kraut and Jackboots). In time, of course, as we all do, or all of us try to do, in my case reasonably successfully, I made a virtue out of a vice and began to celebrate being an outsider.
So at St Endellion I might well have resembled the masses, but I still looked on. And feel able to make rather condescending comments about it all now. For the record, I don’t feel ‘English’, but nor do I feel ‘German’. I speak English without an accent and, given a few weeks in Germany to get back in swing, I would speak German like a German in that Germans would think me German. But what I am, Lord knows. My younger brother, now 55, can’t remember Germany, but was brought up in France from the age of seven to 12. My sister, who was also brought up in France, married a German when she was 22 and has, more or less, lived there ever since. I don’t know how either feels. My older brother is mentally ill, probably schizophrenic, so what he feels will depend on the day you talk to him. He also watches an awful lot of bollocks TV but is twice as bright as me. Make of that what you will.
Thursday, 1 August 2013
In which I drop the pose and ask: Marriage? Is your’s pretty shitty too? Read on
I have sometimes complained in the past that in this ’ere blog I have painted myself into a corner, that after I started it as a kind of digital update to my ‘written diary’ - which, as I said was as much a commonplace book as a diary - it became, not rather quickly, just another platform for just another pub bore to sound off. It is now less of a ‘diary’ and far, far more of just another cunt sounding off. And why do I feel I have painted myself into a corner? Because I am no longer writing ‘for myself’.
It’s quite simple: whereas, to my almost certain knowledge, no one, but no one, ever read the diary, this blog is, according to ‘the stats’ read - or rather individual entries are read - by about 30 folk a day. So where before I was able, in private, to let it all hang out, to bemoan my lot, to rant and rave about the fortune life had decided to give me, now I am far more inhibited. Here everything I say is public, but how could anyone have been able to read my previous private diary? Unless someone had broken into my home and decided to make a point of searching out out a diary rather than making off - in that quaint phrase still used by newspapers, although only by newspapers - with whatever goodies and chattels they might come across, my diary would have forever remained unread. Good Lord, even I didn’t bother reading it after a particular itch had been thoroughly scratched.
On the other hand, and ironically, a blog such as this can be - and is, in fact, according to the statistics - read, by complete strangers the world over, many of whom, I’m certain, are quite content with browsing through my ramblings and have no intention whatsoever of taking any interest in my woes, let along stealing anything from me. In fact, even if they did decide to rob me blind, such an enterprise would, logistically, be not just difficult, but pretty bloody pointless. The vast majority of those who tune in live several thousand miles away: in Russia - increasingly, which is something of a mystery to me, but quite gratifying - in the United States, in the ‘Far East’ (a quaint concept that the ‘Far East’: do our cousins in Indonesia, China and Japan see us as her in the smug Western World as the ‘Far West’? I rather doubt it. I rather suspect they increasingly don’t really give a shit about what we here in the ‘Far West’ are up to).
So even if some reader or other in Turkey or India or South Africa or wherever they lay their heads at night did wake up one morning, find they had nothing better to do for a while and did tell themselves: ‘That chap whose blog I sometimes read, I wonder whether he’s got anything worth nicking?’ would they really follow it through? Answers, please, on the customary postcard. Ever so often - as now - I do rather wish that this were more of the ‘private diary’ I once kept and that I could speak personally. I do rather wish I could moan. But I am inhibited: who, except for perhaps the morons who are all so keen to perform on prime-time TV with several million watching, is all that keen to bare their soul? Not me. I am the private kind.
The point is that because my ‘private diary’ would never be read by anyone, I could step out from behind the disguise, facade, call it what you will, and record what was on my mind, what was upsetting me. Here, in this blog, I have never really felt I cold. But now I will. I have in past entries hinted that my marriage is not the best. It is not the happiest. In the best world of all possible worlds I would have hoped for better. But I also know that no marriage, and I stress ‘no marriage’ is ever trouble-free. But in a good marriage I suspect there is willing, their is a desire to improve things. That, sadly, is not unilaterally the case in my marriage.
I am, of course, very, very aware, that there are two sides to every coin, that should my wife also be writing a blog, she would quite possibly give a slightly different account of our troubles. Let me put it this way: I am not ‘a Christian’ but I do believe that what Christ said, or what he is reported to have said, is often quite wise. And one of his observations is that - I am obliged to paraphrase - we should be rather less critical of the mote in the other’s eye and rather more aware of the beam in our own eye, because all too often we are not. So please bear that in mind when you read what follows, and please bear in mind that I am very aware that I am no saint.
My wife - how do I put this? - more or less treats me as a stranger. I am, more or less invisible to her. And that’s how she likes it. She doesn’t want to know any more. She doesn’t talk to me. She discusses nothing. To sum up: we don’t have a marriage in more or less every sense of the word.
I have described, in past entries, how our marriage came about, and it was not - on my part at least - the most romantic of couplings. I discovered after we were married that long before we got to know each other, though after she had first set eyes on my, she had developed a crush on me. The trouble was that, as is almost always the case, what she imagined would come true was nothing like what did come true. The problem was, and is, that she is utterly inflexible and has been unable to adapt.
You, who is reading this, don’t know me. You don’t know my wife. All you have to go on is what I record here, but I must ask you to believe me, to trust me. I have my faults, as we all do, but I also have my virtues. I am usually quite easygoing. Yes, I can lose my rag, and, yes, I have a sharp tongue and, yes, I can be ratty. But at the end of the day I like to get on with people, I will compromise, I will make allowances, I will give way, I will start again, I won’t hold a grudge, if for no other reason that it helps to make life easier and more pleasant all round. Quite simply I like life to proceed as smoothly as possible.
My wife is - and I remind you again that this is my account, not hers, so at least be aware that I am aware of that - is more or less the opposite. To put it prosaically, choose to regard a glass as half full, she far prefers to see it as half empty: perhaps that will make some sense to you reading this. A few years ago her father fell out with his daughter-in-law and - I almost wrote ‘in a very Cornish way’ but, in fact, such thing happenings are universal - what I can only describe as a family feud developed and my wife cut her father out of her life and chose to side with her sister-in-law. He, too, became a non-person. I was astounded at her attitude. There was no compromise, no meeting halfway, nothing. The odd thing was that it wasn’t even her fight. It was just that she had aligned herself with the side he wasn’t on. Something similar has happened to me.
Whereas I was once, from afar, the apple of her eye, I am now a zero. As far as I can see my one role in her life is to pay the household bills, no more. I have, every so often, tried to discuss it with her, but that was never successful. I don’t deny that I have said some hurtful things - I have already admitted that I can have a sharp tongue - but then so has she. I shall try to describe her objectively to, perhaps, give you a fuller picture.
She is not stupid, but she is not the brightest, either, in the sense that some people have an ability to evaluate situations and see them from a variety of points of view. She can’t, or, at least, doesn’t seem to want to see anything through the other’s eyes. She is very confident in her own narrow world, supremely confident, in fact; but outside that extremely narrow world she goes to pieces. Put her in a situation in which she is unfamiliar or at a loss and she goes to pieces. People like that can, I think, develop in two ways: some become timid and cower, afraid of what might happen next. Others, and I think she is one, prefer to keep an iron grip on everything to ensure that nothing changes. She wants to make every decision to that she is certain of what is what and will have no discussion on any matter. It so happens that I - and I must again remind you that this is my account, that I am describing the mote in her eye and am quite possibly utterly unaware of the beam in mine - will choose to give way to keep the peace. I can’t pretend that situations don’t rankle, but I also really don’t want - for my own sake as much as anyone else’s - to live in a perpetually poisonous atmosphere.
. . .
This is pretty irrelevant (even though I haven’t had sex in 14 years - an invitation, girls or what!) but I have always liked these seaside pictures, both Donald McGill and Bamford.
This one is a Bamford. And if you like that one, here’s a few more:
It’s quite simple: whereas, to my almost certain knowledge, no one, but no one, ever read the diary, this blog is, according to ‘the stats’ read - or rather individual entries are read - by about 30 folk a day. So where before I was able, in private, to let it all hang out, to bemoan my lot, to rant and rave about the fortune life had decided to give me, now I am far more inhibited. Here everything I say is public, but how could anyone have been able to read my previous private diary? Unless someone had broken into my home and decided to make a point of searching out out a diary rather than making off - in that quaint phrase still used by newspapers, although only by newspapers - with whatever goodies and chattels they might come across, my diary would have forever remained unread. Good Lord, even I didn’t bother reading it after a particular itch had been thoroughly scratched.
On the other hand, and ironically, a blog such as this can be - and is, in fact, according to the statistics - read, by complete strangers the world over, many of whom, I’m certain, are quite content with browsing through my ramblings and have no intention whatsoever of taking any interest in my woes, let along stealing anything from me. In fact, even if they did decide to rob me blind, such an enterprise would, logistically, be not just difficult, but pretty bloody pointless. The vast majority of those who tune in live several thousand miles away: in Russia - increasingly, which is something of a mystery to me, but quite gratifying - in the United States, in the ‘Far East’ (a quaint concept that the ‘Far East’: do our cousins in Indonesia, China and Japan see us as her in the smug Western World as the ‘Far West’? I rather doubt it. I rather suspect they increasingly don’t really give a shit about what we here in the ‘Far West’ are up to).
So even if some reader or other in Turkey or India or South Africa or wherever they lay their heads at night did wake up one morning, find they had nothing better to do for a while and did tell themselves: ‘That chap whose blog I sometimes read, I wonder whether he’s got anything worth nicking?’ would they really follow it through? Answers, please, on the customary postcard. Ever so often - as now - I do rather wish that this were more of the ‘private diary’ I once kept and that I could speak personally. I do rather wish I could moan. But I am inhibited: who, except for perhaps the morons who are all so keen to perform on prime-time TV with several million watching, is all that keen to bare their soul? Not me. I am the private kind.
The point is that because my ‘private diary’ would never be read by anyone, I could step out from behind the disguise, facade, call it what you will, and record what was on my mind, what was upsetting me. Here, in this blog, I have never really felt I cold. But now I will. I have in past entries hinted that my marriage is not the best. It is not the happiest. In the best world of all possible worlds I would have hoped for better. But I also know that no marriage, and I stress ‘no marriage’ is ever trouble-free. But in a good marriage I suspect there is willing, their is a desire to improve things. That, sadly, is not unilaterally the case in my marriage.
I am, of course, very, very aware, that there are two sides to every coin, that should my wife also be writing a blog, she would quite possibly give a slightly different account of our troubles. Let me put it this way: I am not ‘a Christian’ but I do believe that what Christ said, or what he is reported to have said, is often quite wise. And one of his observations is that - I am obliged to paraphrase - we should be rather less critical of the mote in the other’s eye and rather more aware of the beam in our own eye, because all too often we are not. So please bear that in mind when you read what follows, and please bear in mind that I am very aware that I am no saint.
My wife - how do I put this? - more or less treats me as a stranger. I am, more or less invisible to her. And that’s how she likes it. She doesn’t want to know any more. She doesn’t talk to me. She discusses nothing. To sum up: we don’t have a marriage in more or less every sense of the word.
I have described, in past entries, how our marriage came about, and it was not - on my part at least - the most romantic of couplings. I discovered after we were married that long before we got to know each other, though after she had first set eyes on my, she had developed a crush on me. The trouble was that, as is almost always the case, what she imagined would come true was nothing like what did come true. The problem was, and is, that she is utterly inflexible and has been unable to adapt.
You, who is reading this, don’t know me. You don’t know my wife. All you have to go on is what I record here, but I must ask you to believe me, to trust me. I have my faults, as we all do, but I also have my virtues. I am usually quite easygoing. Yes, I can lose my rag, and, yes, I have a sharp tongue and, yes, I can be ratty. But at the end of the day I like to get on with people, I will compromise, I will make allowances, I will give way, I will start again, I won’t hold a grudge, if for no other reason that it helps to make life easier and more pleasant all round. Quite simply I like life to proceed as smoothly as possible.
My wife is - and I remind you again that this is my account, not hers, so at least be aware that I am aware of that - is more or less the opposite. To put it prosaically, choose to regard a glass as half full, she far prefers to see it as half empty: perhaps that will make some sense to you reading this. A few years ago her father fell out with his daughter-in-law and - I almost wrote ‘in a very Cornish way’ but, in fact, such thing happenings are universal - what I can only describe as a family feud developed and my wife cut her father out of her life and chose to side with her sister-in-law. He, too, became a non-person. I was astounded at her attitude. There was no compromise, no meeting halfway, nothing. The odd thing was that it wasn’t even her fight. It was just that she had aligned herself with the side he wasn’t on. Something similar has happened to me.
Whereas I was once, from afar, the apple of her eye, I am now a zero. As far as I can see my one role in her life is to pay the household bills, no more. I have, every so often, tried to discuss it with her, but that was never successful. I don’t deny that I have said some hurtful things - I have already admitted that I can have a sharp tongue - but then so has she. I shall try to describe her objectively to, perhaps, give you a fuller picture.
She is not stupid, but she is not the brightest, either, in the sense that some people have an ability to evaluate situations and see them from a variety of points of view. She can’t, or, at least, doesn’t seem to want to see anything through the other’s eyes. She is very confident in her own narrow world, supremely confident, in fact; but outside that extremely narrow world she goes to pieces. Put her in a situation in which she is unfamiliar or at a loss and she goes to pieces. People like that can, I think, develop in two ways: some become timid and cower, afraid of what might happen next. Others, and I think she is one, prefer to keep an iron grip on everything to ensure that nothing changes. She wants to make every decision to that she is certain of what is what and will have no discussion on any matter. It so happens that I - and I must again remind you that this is my account, that I am describing the mote in her eye and am quite possibly utterly unaware of the beam in mine - will choose to give way to keep the peace. I can’t pretend that situations don’t rankle, but I also really don’t want - for my own sake as much as anyone else’s - to live in a perpetually poisonous atmosphere.
. . .
This is pretty irrelevant (even though I haven’t had sex in 14 years - an invitation, girls or what!) but I have always liked these seaside pictures, both Donald McGill and Bamford.
This one is a Bamford. And if you like that one, here’s a few more:
Sunday, 28 July 2013
‘Arab Spring’ still working its tortuous way to disaster. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better (he said hopefully). And RIP JJ Cale
The usual story: Sunday shift finished, I am sitting in a pub supping my pint of cider and drawing on a cigar (which, I must swiftly add, I try as often as possible to buy when in Europe, where they are a damn sight cheaper – no plutcrat me, oh no). The choice of pubs is limited to two, in both of which I can sit outside and smoke and should it rain – not unknown in Britain – I am reasonably sheltered. Here, tonight, I am at the Scarsdale Arms. The other one I sometimes go to is the Devonshire Arms not – a rather hefty – stone’s throw away. In both the cider is excruciatingly expensive, but were I to try to find a cheaper pint, I should have to travel at least 10 miles, and for a cheaper pint of cider I can’t really be bothered.
Both pubs are patronised by loads of foreigners (a breed increasingly dear to a British heart in that, again increasingly, we have no choice in the matter). Foreigners, despite the goddam awful food traditionally served up in Britain, are attracted to our country. If you want to know why, you must ask one of them. Were I to be flippant – a useful ruse to say something you believe but want to disguise in case someone takes offence – is that you seem to get a better class of foreigner in the Scarsdale. That’s not why I come here, of course, and it’s just an observation. I am writing this because almost always I have an itch to write. The problem is that I rarely have much to write about, so I am bound to restrict myself to inconsequential rubbish. So here goes.
. . .
What the bloody hell is going on in Egypt? A few days ago an estimated 100 folk were gunned down in Cairo while demonstrating in support of the now deposed president Morsi. In case any you reading this entry have forgotten, Morsi was duly and democratically elected. There were no suggestions whatsoever that his election was in any way rigged. His supporters were apparently shot dead – and a great many more were wounded – by the army.
I don’t yet know, that is I haven’t yet heard, how the Egyptian army is explaining its actions and the deaths. In one of those excessively odd and, furthermore under the circumstances highly embarrassing, turns of fate, the army which killed all those folk – a more honest way of describing it would be ‘gunned down in cold blood’ – has the support – an ‘apparently’ is necessary here – of the liberal elite, the ‘burgeoning middle class’, all those folk who like to see themselves on the side of progress, literacy, democracy and the rest. So what is going on? The most recent piece of news I’ve heard is that the current prime minister has granted the army powers to arrest at will anyone they want to arrest. So that’s OK then. It’s all legal and above board.
Actually, I think what is going on is quite simple: the army had a nice thing going under Mubarak, but dumped him when the time seemed right. It then simply bided its time and they had more to lose by sticking up for their man. Then came the ‘popular uprising’ against Morsi, which suited the army’s purpose and cause rather well: they were able to steam in there, remove all those they wanted to remove, but do it all under the spurious cloak of ‘fighting for the people’ or whatever bullshit phrase they have chosen. Plus ca change...
Egypt seems to be split down the centre, which does not bode well for peace. Meanwhile, Turkey, which had its own problems a month or two ago, has rather gone quite (though in a stange sideshow Erdogan has threatened to launch a libel action against The Times here in Britain, claiming that – hold on a minute while I look this up – he was defamed in an open letter The Times published which criticised his handling of the recent protests). But most certainly the trouble there has not been settled.
In neighbouring Syria things are still going from bad to worse, with Assad’s forces now getting more of the upper hand. Obama is, true to form, humming and haahing about what America should do next. It would be easy to slag him off at this point, but he really does find himself between a rock and a hard place, and, I should imagine, his prime concerns are what domestic impact there is as a result of what he chooses to do. He is on record as laying down a ‘red line’ and says the U.S. will act if that red line is crossed. The red line was crossed when he had very good evidence that Assad’s forces had used chemical weapons.
Unfortunately, there is also evidence that the ‘rebels’ had also used chemical weapons and are generally behaving equally as brutally as Assad. Up a bit and to the left (if you are looking at a map of North Africa) the puported ‘success story’ which was Tunisia is beginning to look rather less successful now that a leading opposition leader has been killed. . . .
On more domestic matters, my children are unfortunately growing up. My daughter Elsie will turn 17 in nine days and her younger brother Wesley turned 14 in May. And it seems like only yesterday that they were babes in arms, keen to listen to a story in bed or accompany me ‘to town’ because in their then very limited world it was something of an adventure. Oh well.
I mention them because what with the fuck up the ‘Arab Spring’ is becoming I rather feel that the next few years will be hotter rather than colder and not just for the good folk living in North Africa and the Middle East. Earlier on today driving up from Cornwall I was listening to Desert Island Discs whose guest today was Mary Robinson, the former president of the Irish Republic and – in my view – and all-round good egg. One of the tracks she choose was Dylan’s The Times They Are A’Changing. Well, they certainly are. . . .
JJ Cale — and without looking it up, I couldn’t even tell you his Christian name — has kicked the bucket and is now pushing up daisies. Cale was another of my faves, although again I can’t tell you when or how I first came across him and his music. It will have been in the Seventies, although if truth be told I didn’t really, really get to like it until I was older by at least 20 years. It’s like jazz and classical music: bit by bit you grow into it. Bit by bit the heroes of your younger years and the music they made begin to sound a little thin and you find yourself looking for something a little meatier. And despite his laid-back style Cale was meatier.
Both pubs are patronised by loads of foreigners (a breed increasingly dear to a British heart in that, again increasingly, we have no choice in the matter). Foreigners, despite the goddam awful food traditionally served up in Britain, are attracted to our country. If you want to know why, you must ask one of them. Were I to be flippant – a useful ruse to say something you believe but want to disguise in case someone takes offence – is that you seem to get a better class of foreigner in the Scarsdale. That’s not why I come here, of course, and it’s just an observation. I am writing this because almost always I have an itch to write. The problem is that I rarely have much to write about, so I am bound to restrict myself to inconsequential rubbish. So here goes.
. . .
What the bloody hell is going on in Egypt? A few days ago an estimated 100 folk were gunned down in Cairo while demonstrating in support of the now deposed president Morsi. In case any you reading this entry have forgotten, Morsi was duly and democratically elected. There were no suggestions whatsoever that his election was in any way rigged. His supporters were apparently shot dead – and a great many more were wounded – by the army.
I don’t yet know, that is I haven’t yet heard, how the Egyptian army is explaining its actions and the deaths. In one of those excessively odd and, furthermore under the circumstances highly embarrassing, turns of fate, the army which killed all those folk – a more honest way of describing it would be ‘gunned down in cold blood’ – has the support – an ‘apparently’ is necessary here – of the liberal elite, the ‘burgeoning middle class’, all those folk who like to see themselves on the side of progress, literacy, democracy and the rest. So what is going on? The most recent piece of news I’ve heard is that the current prime minister has granted the army powers to arrest at will anyone they want to arrest. So that’s OK then. It’s all legal and above board.
Actually, I think what is going on is quite simple: the army had a nice thing going under Mubarak, but dumped him when the time seemed right. It then simply bided its time and they had more to lose by sticking up for their man. Then came the ‘popular uprising’ against Morsi, which suited the army’s purpose and cause rather well: they were able to steam in there, remove all those they wanted to remove, but do it all under the spurious cloak of ‘fighting for the people’ or whatever bullshit phrase they have chosen. Plus ca change...
Egypt seems to be split down the centre, which does not bode well for peace. Meanwhile, Turkey, which had its own problems a month or two ago, has rather gone quite (though in a stange sideshow Erdogan has threatened to launch a libel action against The Times here in Britain, claiming that – hold on a minute while I look this up – he was defamed in an open letter The Times published which criticised his handling of the recent protests). But most certainly the trouble there has not been settled.
In neighbouring Syria things are still going from bad to worse, with Assad’s forces now getting more of the upper hand. Obama is, true to form, humming and haahing about what America should do next. It would be easy to slag him off at this point, but he really does find himself between a rock and a hard place, and, I should imagine, his prime concerns are what domestic impact there is as a result of what he chooses to do. He is on record as laying down a ‘red line’ and says the U.S. will act if that red line is crossed. The red line was crossed when he had very good evidence that Assad’s forces had used chemical weapons.
Unfortunately, there is also evidence that the ‘rebels’ had also used chemical weapons and are generally behaving equally as brutally as Assad. Up a bit and to the left (if you are looking at a map of North Africa) the puported ‘success story’ which was Tunisia is beginning to look rather less successful now that a leading opposition leader has been killed. . . .
On more domestic matters, my children are unfortunately growing up. My daughter Elsie will turn 17 in nine days and her younger brother Wesley turned 14 in May. And it seems like only yesterday that they were babes in arms, keen to listen to a story in bed or accompany me ‘to town’ because in their then very limited world it was something of an adventure. Oh well.
I mention them because what with the fuck up the ‘Arab Spring’ is becoming I rather feel that the next few years will be hotter rather than colder and not just for the good folk living in North Africa and the Middle East. Earlier on today driving up from Cornwall I was listening to Desert Island Discs whose guest today was Mary Robinson, the former president of the Irish Republic and – in my view – and all-round good egg. One of the tracks she choose was Dylan’s The Times They Are A’Changing. Well, they certainly are. . . .
JJ Cale — and without looking it up, I couldn’t even tell you his Christian name — has kicked the bucket and is now pushing up daisies. Cale was another of my faves, although again I can’t tell you when or how I first came across him and his music. It will have been in the Seventies, although if truth be told I didn’t really, really get to like it until I was older by at least 20 years. It’s like jazz and classical music: bit by bit you grow into it. Bit by bit the heroes of your younger years and the music they made begin to sound a little thin and you find yourself looking for something a little meatier. And despite his laid-back style Cale was meatier.
Sunday, 21 July 2013
Orchard Dene and Lower Assendon revisited – I go on an unexpected and unplanned sentimental journey
Lower Assendon will mean very little to almost everyone reading this blog, unless you live in Henley-on-Thames or nearby – Watlingon, Bix, Fawley, Middle Assendon or, obviously, Lower Assendon. But it means something to me because it was where I grew up, by which I mean where I lived from the age of three to eight. It is at the end of the Fair Mile, the road leading out of Henley to Oxford, and is just beyond the junction where one road will take you to Watlington and the other onto Oxford, via Nettlebed and Nuffield.
It isn’t even a hamlet, let alone a village. It has no shop, and not even a proper pub. What was once a proper pub, The Golden Ball, is now a little more than a gastro-pub and a little less than a restaurant: if you eat there, you’ll not get away with spending at least, with drinks – who eats without drinking? - £40 a head and as you didn’t go on your own and are either a guest or a host, that can for many be something of a dent in your wallet, though not much of a dent for the good people of Henley and environs (which, I understand, is French for ‘the surrounding area’ - no slouch, me). I was there yesterday and could well have counted the houses there, but I didn’t, so all I can say is that Lower Assendon is made up of around ten or eleven houses, none near each other.
I got back from France on Friday afternoon, and as it seemed rather pointless to drive 240 miles home to Cornwall, only to drive the same 240 miles back up to London to get to work this morning, I decided to stay in London. I had planned to take Susan Wharton, Michael ‘Peter Simple’ wife, out for lunch, but just after she said yes, she rang back and told me she had looked at her diary and was promised to a party in Kent to celebrate the 90th birthday of a friend. It might sound like the bum’s rush, but I know Susan and it wasn’t.
So my next plan was to take Mark to The Golden Ball (it might just be the Golden Ball with a lower case ‘t’ – sub please check as all the really well-paid columnists are apt to say) for lunch. That was before we got there and discovered our local pub – local implies more than a hamlet, so if I tell you that when you are in Lower Assendon, it will take you more than three or four minutes to get to your neighbours house, you’ll understand why I say it is less than a hamlet – had transformed itself into what it is now. (If on the very, very rare occasion I am prepared to spend more than £40 a head on a meal, I shan’t do so in what was once a pub and should still be a pub.) So we had a pint of Brakspear’s bitter – the brewery as such no longer exists and has been bought out by some big brewing conglomerate or other though I have to say whoever brews Brakspear’s bitter has managed to keep it as good as ever – and after looking through the menu we decided we wouldn’t eat there. ‘Delightful Cornish scallops’ and ‘friendly, humanely slaughtered local pork’ really aren’t my thing, so knowing that the Rainbow Inn was a two-minute drive up the road, we ‘dined’ there. That wasn’t particularly brilliant, but substantially cheaper. Then we did what I had come to do which was to roam a little and to visit my haunts of – well, I must be honest – 60 years ago.
Nothing had changed, except that it all, naturally, looked rather smaller. I should say that I loved growing up there. There were about seven or eight of us who lived locally and we did all the things lads and lasses of six, seven and eight do. We built fires and tried to roast apples, which were, of course, inedible, rode our bikes here and there – I learnt to ride a bike on the gravel outside the Golden Ball (I’ve settle for the lower case ‘t’) – roamed the nearby woods and generally had a good time.
Here are the names of my companions in case any of them happen upon this blog: Ann Gibbons (of whom a little more later), Lindsay and Mandy Cooper, John Valentine, John Lovejoy, Richard Bryant, and myself and my older brother Ian. I had my first kiss with Mandy. She was about five and I was about six. The big house there was Orchard Dene, which consisted of the owner’s house, and around the back three flats, of which ours was by far the smallest. The owner was Jim Gibbons and his wife (whose name I can’t remember. Ann was their daughter.
We lived at 3 Orchard Dene, up a green, cast-iron set of stairs. Curious, I left my brother Mark in the car – which was his decision as he is somewhat ‘shy’ (odd for a man who is now 55) and didn’t want to come, and went to the big house and knocked on the door. A woman in her late 60s answered and I asked her whether she was Ann Gibbons. She was. I had similarly visited with my older brother Ian (who is now mentally ill) several years ago, but this time the visit was longer. We chatted for a while and were soon joined by her husband Peter, who asked me whether I would like to look inside 3 Orchard Dene. The present tenant, he said, was a very pleasant, very amenable man, who wouldn’t mind at all, and so I did. The tenant was on his way out to work, so he told us to let ourselves in.
The flat is small, just two bedrooms, one for Ian and myself and one for my parents. It has been thoroughly modernised, so the open fire in the living room and the coke burner in our room have gone and it is now centrally heated. What was once our larder now has a washing machine. The windows are now all modern. I spent some time chatting with Ann and her husband, and she reminded me of what I had forgotten and I reminded her of what she had forgotten. If you carry on up the lane, which leads to Bix, you’ll soon go passed what was once a diary farm run by – the name is not made up up – Farmer Smallbones. She said he taught her how to milk a cow. He didn’t teach me, but I do remember tumbling around in his hay loft and once, after learning the red was a colour bulls hated, parading up and down the other side of a gate to the yard which contained his bull, in a pair of red socks.
The Coopers lived in a small cottage at the end of the drive, but that has now been substantially gentrified and the owners run a B&B business. I have to say that this was not really a sentimental journey at all. I didn’t experience some kind of heaving in my breast or anything like that, but – the sun was out and it was a glorious day, I realised how lucky I was to have spent the early part of my childhood in such a lovely part of the country. Henley was not close for a young lad and although Ian and I went to primary school there, the Sacred Heart School, we had to catch a bus every morning to get there and then again at night to get home.
Ann has grandchildren who come and stay – they live in Bristol and so a visit to the countryside is always welcome – and these days they are not allowed to roam: it’s the increased traffic, she said, nothing else. But 60 years ago we roamed everywhere. In the holidays we had breakfast and then buggered off for the morning, came back home for lunch, and then buggered off again for the rest of the afternoon. In those days, as we all know, it was perpetual summer and I can’t, after all these years, remember one single drop of rain.
I now live in rural North Cornwall and am very grateful that my own two children, now 17 in two weeks and 14 a month or two ago, living next to their uncle’s beef farm and have several cousins, are also able to grow up in a very pleasant part of the country. It’s luck really. Many children cannot, but then children being children, until they are ten or eleven, most all things are an adventure whether you grow up in the country or a city.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
PS ‘Lower Assendon’ – look it up on Google maps and switch to whatever the function is to allow you to go down the roads and byways.
It isn’t even a hamlet, let alone a village. It has no shop, and not even a proper pub. What was once a proper pub, The Golden Ball, is now a little more than a gastro-pub and a little less than a restaurant: if you eat there, you’ll not get away with spending at least, with drinks – who eats without drinking? - £40 a head and as you didn’t go on your own and are either a guest or a host, that can for many be something of a dent in your wallet, though not much of a dent for the good people of Henley and environs (which, I understand, is French for ‘the surrounding area’ - no slouch, me). I was there yesterday and could well have counted the houses there, but I didn’t, so all I can say is that Lower Assendon is made up of around ten or eleven houses, none near each other.
I got back from France on Friday afternoon, and as it seemed rather pointless to drive 240 miles home to Cornwall, only to drive the same 240 miles back up to London to get to work this morning, I decided to stay in London. I had planned to take Susan Wharton, Michael ‘Peter Simple’ wife, out for lunch, but just after she said yes, she rang back and told me she had looked at her diary and was promised to a party in Kent to celebrate the 90th birthday of a friend. It might sound like the bum’s rush, but I know Susan and it wasn’t.
So my next plan was to take Mark to The Golden Ball (it might just be the Golden Ball with a lower case ‘t’ – sub please check as all the really well-paid columnists are apt to say) for lunch. That was before we got there and discovered our local pub – local implies more than a hamlet, so if I tell you that when you are in Lower Assendon, it will take you more than three or four minutes to get to your neighbours house, you’ll understand why I say it is less than a hamlet – had transformed itself into what it is now. (If on the very, very rare occasion I am prepared to spend more than £40 a head on a meal, I shan’t do so in what was once a pub and should still be a pub.) So we had a pint of Brakspear’s bitter – the brewery as such no longer exists and has been bought out by some big brewing conglomerate or other though I have to say whoever brews Brakspear’s bitter has managed to keep it as good as ever – and after looking through the menu we decided we wouldn’t eat there. ‘Delightful Cornish scallops’ and ‘friendly, humanely slaughtered local pork’ really aren’t my thing, so knowing that the Rainbow Inn was a two-minute drive up the road, we ‘dined’ there. That wasn’t particularly brilliant, but substantially cheaper. Then we did what I had come to do which was to roam a little and to visit my haunts of – well, I must be honest – 60 years ago.
Nothing had changed, except that it all, naturally, looked rather smaller. I should say that I loved growing up there. There were about seven or eight of us who lived locally and we did all the things lads and lasses of six, seven and eight do. We built fires and tried to roast apples, which were, of course, inedible, rode our bikes here and there – I learnt to ride a bike on the gravel outside the Golden Ball (I’ve settle for the lower case ‘t’) – roamed the nearby woods and generally had a good time.
Here are the names of my companions in case any of them happen upon this blog: Ann Gibbons (of whom a little more later), Lindsay and Mandy Cooper, John Valentine, John Lovejoy, Richard Bryant, and myself and my older brother Ian. I had my first kiss with Mandy. She was about five and I was about six. The big house there was Orchard Dene, which consisted of the owner’s house, and around the back three flats, of which ours was by far the smallest. The owner was Jim Gibbons and his wife (whose name I can’t remember. Ann was their daughter.
We lived at 3 Orchard Dene, up a green, cast-iron set of stairs. Curious, I left my brother Mark in the car – which was his decision as he is somewhat ‘shy’ (odd for a man who is now 55) and didn’t want to come, and went to the big house and knocked on the door. A woman in her late 60s answered and I asked her whether she was Ann Gibbons. She was. I had similarly visited with my older brother Ian (who is now mentally ill) several years ago, but this time the visit was longer. We chatted for a while and were soon joined by her husband Peter, who asked me whether I would like to look inside 3 Orchard Dene. The present tenant, he said, was a very pleasant, very amenable man, who wouldn’t mind at all, and so I did. The tenant was on his way out to work, so he told us to let ourselves in.
The flat is small, just two bedrooms, one for Ian and myself and one for my parents. It has been thoroughly modernised, so the open fire in the living room and the coke burner in our room have gone and it is now centrally heated. What was once our larder now has a washing machine. The windows are now all modern. I spent some time chatting with Ann and her husband, and she reminded me of what I had forgotten and I reminded her of what she had forgotten. If you carry on up the lane, which leads to Bix, you’ll soon go passed what was once a diary farm run by – the name is not made up up – Farmer Smallbones. She said he taught her how to milk a cow. He didn’t teach me, but I do remember tumbling around in his hay loft and once, after learning the red was a colour bulls hated, parading up and down the other side of a gate to the yard which contained his bull, in a pair of red socks.
The Coopers lived in a small cottage at the end of the drive, but that has now been substantially gentrified and the owners run a B&B business. I have to say that this was not really a sentimental journey at all. I didn’t experience some kind of heaving in my breast or anything like that, but – the sun was out and it was a glorious day, I realised how lucky I was to have spent the early part of my childhood in such a lovely part of the country. Henley was not close for a young lad and although Ian and I went to primary school there, the Sacred Heart School, we had to catch a bus every morning to get there and then again at night to get home.
Ann has grandchildren who come and stay – they live in Bristol and so a visit to the countryside is always welcome – and these days they are not allowed to roam: it’s the increased traffic, she said, nothing else. But 60 years ago we roamed everywhere. In the holidays we had breakfast and then buggered off for the morning, came back home for lunch, and then buggered off again for the rest of the afternoon. In those days, as we all know, it was perpetual summer and I can’t, after all these years, remember one single drop of rain.
I now live in rural North Cornwall and am very grateful that my own two children, now 17 in two weeks and 14 a month or two ago, living next to their uncle’s beef farm and have several cousins, are also able to grow up in a very pleasant part of the country. It’s luck really. Many children cannot, but then children being children, until they are ten or eleven, most all things are an adventure whether you grow up in the country or a city.
Thank the Lord for small mercies.
PS ‘Lower Assendon’ – look it up on Google maps and switch to whatever the function is to allow you to go down the roads and byways.
Friday, 19 July 2013
Come on, Kate, do me a real favour and get a move on!
Just a quick word before the day is out: please, please, please God make that bloody royal baby (who is to be called ‘Kevin’, I understand, as Princess Kate has always had a thing about Kevin Keegan) be born today. I am not the slightest bit interested in any of the hoo-ha, but if he – bound to be a boy – isn’t born today, he’ll be born next week and work will be murder, sheer hell. So, you bloody Windsors, if you want me to remain on your side: get that baby born!
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
More concerts in France, and I open my big mouth to diss - slightly - the World’s Greatest Novelist
I’ve been here in Illats, south of Bordeaux, for a week and it is hot. Yes, I know it is also hot in Old Blighty, but it is a little hotter here. The heatwave in Britain is most probably something of an aberration – in several years time folk will be talking about ‘the summer of 2013’ as we still talk about ‘the summer of 1976’ when we were all encouraged to stop pissing and pooing to save water, eat off palm leaves to save on the washing up and to recycle our G&T ice-cubes (sounds impossible, I know, but you would be surprised what skills you can acquire quite rapidly when needs must).
Not that there will be any ‘water-saving measures this summer, however dire it gets and however burnt to a cinder lawns throughout Sussex, Surrey, Kent and Hampshire become. The government would simply not dare after all the floods and rain we had until three weeks ago. There must be enough water down there in our acquifers (or whatever the technical term is) to last us two or three scorching summers, so a hosepipe ban is surely oompletely out of the question.
I am staying, as I have been for, I think, the past three years with my stepmother’s aunt and accompanying her to concerts. Her husband isn’t interested (and, anyway, he has been ill these past few days, although he is slowly recovering – according to the doctor ‘there’s a lot of what he’s got about among old people in these temperatures’). Because my aunt stayed home to keep an eye on here husband last week, I went to the first concert, on Thursday evening, on my own. It given by a group of seven singers who call themselves Scandicus and sing late 15th, early 16th music a cappella. It’s not to everyone’s taste but I like that kind of music a great deal. The next concert was by Maxim Vengerov and a pianist called Itamar Golan (I looks rather like what I should imagine a Mossad field agent would look like – he looks liked the kind of toughie you wouldn’t want to mix it with).
They played duos by Beethoven, Schubert, Franck and Saint-Saens, followed by two encore pieces by Brahms, both thoroughly rousing, designed, I suspect, to get the audience to demand a third encore, which we got. It was a gentle piece by Faure designed to calm us all down again and indeed we did and afterwards all went quietly. My aunt commented that she though Vengerov had gained weight and that his fingers seemed thicker, especially around the joints, and as she had a sister who developed appalling arthritis and gained a great deal of weight because of the steroids she had to take, was wondering whether Vengerov, too, is developing arthritis.
There was to be a concert on Saturday, but that was cancelled, so our next concert is tonight. Apart from attending those concerts I have been doing very little (which suits me well). Yesterday, we went off to Bordeaux and called in on a 92-year-old former colleague of my aunt’s, a Liverpudlian woman who met and married a Frenchman just after the war and has been living in France for the past 62 years, but still hasn’t lost he Scally accents. She also rates in my book because she can still laugh at the silly jokes I sometimes hear and pass on to her which my aunt will treat with sheer and disdain. (An example: a chap went to the doctor and asked him whether he could give him anything for persistent wind. The doctor gave him a kite.)
My aunt, who is 82-years-old, is rather crotchety these days and anything not being exactly in the place she is accustomed to it being has been earning me a stern rebuke on each occasion, even though I have no idea I had done wrong. There are several things I always look out for and have done so for the past three years – ensuring the lavatory seat is down if I take a leak during the night, for example, and not overfilling the kettle (a bad one, that), but even though I say so myself, I am a considerate guest, never take anything for granted and am getting just a tad cheesed off at being treated like a naughty, rather dense schoolboy. But she is 82, after all, and naturally I say nothing. Lord knows what I shall be like at that age, if I ever actually get there.
. . .
I have just finished reading The Human Stain by Philip Roth. I bought the novel after seeing the film and was rather taken by it. And I only saw the film because I had watched Bad Company with Jeff Bridges, which was rather good, and was looking for other films by its director, Robert Benton. His film stars Anthony Hookins, Ed Harris and Nicole Kidman and is a reasonably entertaining potboiler. Actually, that’s unfair. Hopkins and Harris are both good actors and give great performances. Kidman was thoroughly miscast, but I didn’t realise that until I had read the novel.
As for that novel, well I should say straight off that it is more complex than the film. Indeed, like many films ‘of the book’ it is more a film based on material presented in the book. One character, in particular is wholly excised from the film’s version, a young female and highly ambitious French professor called Delphine Roux. Oddly, although she is well-realised in the novel, she did strike me as being something to close to a plot device for comfort, and doesn’t really even make an appearance in the novel until the last quarter. And dare I say this? After all Roth is now regarded as one of America’s ‘great’ novelist hand has been ‘awarded prizes’, not least the Kellogg’s Golden Wheatflake for producing literary masterpiece after literary masterpiece while starting each working day on a bowl of cornflakes.
But in my extremely humble, though it has to be said, firmly held opinion, The Human Stain is rather overwritten. It has to be said that given Roth’s talent for the telling phrase what he does supply in excess paragraph after paragraph is very readable and very entertaining, but I sincerely feel his novel would have gained by being trimmed by a third and perhaps even a half. The trouble is that for the past 40 years, it seems, novels in America are sold by weight, so there is no reason for a writer to limit himself. And given all ‘the prizes’ Roth and others have received, I dare say there is a tad too much deference in his publisher’s office when Phil (or one of their other star novelists) turns up with his or her latest manuscript. (‘Do you know, Philip, I hardly thought that it could even be possible, but, by God, I do think this is even better than your last novel!’) Anyone reading this might or, more probably, might not have read The Human Stain, but I would love to be able to hear another’s point of view.
Anyway, what do I know?
. . .
Yesterday, I took a little time out and made my own way home from Bordeaux. I was looking for a pleasant bar with a shady courtyard where I might sit quietly on my own and enjoy a cigar or two and a glass of lager or six. As it turned out, and despite meandering through the countryside as I mad safe, I couldn’t find any, so I settled for a small bar in Podensac, the slightly bigger town near where I am staying. The Tour de France was on the telly, but inside the bar was empty. Outside, on the street, were four tables, and I can confirm that
1) the French also have the chavs (‘les chavées’, perhaps), and
2) that the bloody awful love affair the Westen world now has with getting a tattoos all over your body is doing exceptionally well here in the corner of south-western France. The pic below, in keeping with the bar
(though I did still manage to enjoy my cigars and lager) was taken on the way back from ‘la toilette’ at the back to my table.
Not that there will be any ‘water-saving measures this summer, however dire it gets and however burnt to a cinder lawns throughout Sussex, Surrey, Kent and Hampshire become. The government would simply not dare after all the floods and rain we had until three weeks ago. There must be enough water down there in our acquifers (or whatever the technical term is) to last us two or three scorching summers, so a hosepipe ban is surely oompletely out of the question.
I am staying, as I have been for, I think, the past three years with my stepmother’s aunt and accompanying her to concerts. Her husband isn’t interested (and, anyway, he has been ill these past few days, although he is slowly recovering – according to the doctor ‘there’s a lot of what he’s got about among old people in these temperatures’). Because my aunt stayed home to keep an eye on here husband last week, I went to the first concert, on Thursday evening, on my own. It given by a group of seven singers who call themselves Scandicus and sing late 15th, early 16th music a cappella. It’s not to everyone’s taste but I like that kind of music a great deal. The next concert was by Maxim Vengerov and a pianist called Itamar Golan (I looks rather like what I should imagine a Mossad field agent would look like – he looks liked the kind of toughie you wouldn’t want to mix it with).
They played duos by Beethoven, Schubert, Franck and Saint-Saens, followed by two encore pieces by Brahms, both thoroughly rousing, designed, I suspect, to get the audience to demand a third encore, which we got. It was a gentle piece by Faure designed to calm us all down again and indeed we did and afterwards all went quietly. My aunt commented that she though Vengerov had gained weight and that his fingers seemed thicker, especially around the joints, and as she had a sister who developed appalling arthritis and gained a great deal of weight because of the steroids she had to take, was wondering whether Vengerov, too, is developing arthritis.
There was to be a concert on Saturday, but that was cancelled, so our next concert is tonight. Apart from attending those concerts I have been doing very little (which suits me well). Yesterday, we went off to Bordeaux and called in on a 92-year-old former colleague of my aunt’s, a Liverpudlian woman who met and married a Frenchman just after the war and has been living in France for the past 62 years, but still hasn’t lost he Scally accents. She also rates in my book because she can still laugh at the silly jokes I sometimes hear and pass on to her which my aunt will treat with sheer and disdain. (An example: a chap went to the doctor and asked him whether he could give him anything for persistent wind. The doctor gave him a kite.)
My aunt, who is 82-years-old, is rather crotchety these days and anything not being exactly in the place she is accustomed to it being has been earning me a stern rebuke on each occasion, even though I have no idea I had done wrong. There are several things I always look out for and have done so for the past three years – ensuring the lavatory seat is down if I take a leak during the night, for example, and not overfilling the kettle (a bad one, that), but even though I say so myself, I am a considerate guest, never take anything for granted and am getting just a tad cheesed off at being treated like a naughty, rather dense schoolboy. But she is 82, after all, and naturally I say nothing. Lord knows what I shall be like at that age, if I ever actually get there.
. . .
I have just finished reading The Human Stain by Philip Roth. I bought the novel after seeing the film and was rather taken by it. And I only saw the film because I had watched Bad Company with Jeff Bridges, which was rather good, and was looking for other films by its director, Robert Benton. His film stars Anthony Hookins, Ed Harris and Nicole Kidman and is a reasonably entertaining potboiler. Actually, that’s unfair. Hopkins and Harris are both good actors and give great performances. Kidman was thoroughly miscast, but I didn’t realise that until I had read the novel.
As for that novel, well I should say straight off that it is more complex than the film. Indeed, like many films ‘of the book’ it is more a film based on material presented in the book. One character, in particular is wholly excised from the film’s version, a young female and highly ambitious French professor called Delphine Roux. Oddly, although she is well-realised in the novel, she did strike me as being something to close to a plot device for comfort, and doesn’t really even make an appearance in the novel until the last quarter. And dare I say this? After all Roth is now regarded as one of America’s ‘great’ novelist hand has been ‘awarded prizes’, not least the Kellogg’s Golden Wheatflake for producing literary masterpiece after literary masterpiece while starting each working day on a bowl of cornflakes.
But in my extremely humble, though it has to be said, firmly held opinion, The Human Stain is rather overwritten. It has to be said that given Roth’s talent for the telling phrase what he does supply in excess paragraph after paragraph is very readable and very entertaining, but I sincerely feel his novel would have gained by being trimmed by a third and perhaps even a half. The trouble is that for the past 40 years, it seems, novels in America are sold by weight, so there is no reason for a writer to limit himself. And given all ‘the prizes’ Roth and others have received, I dare say there is a tad too much deference in his publisher’s office when Phil (or one of their other star novelists) turns up with his or her latest manuscript. (‘Do you know, Philip, I hardly thought that it could even be possible, but, by God, I do think this is even better than your last novel!’) Anyone reading this might or, more probably, might not have read The Human Stain, but I would love to be able to hear another’s point of view.
Anyway, what do I know?
. . .
Yesterday, I took a little time out and made my own way home from Bordeaux. I was looking for a pleasant bar with a shady courtyard where I might sit quietly on my own and enjoy a cigar or two and a glass of lager or six. As it turned out, and despite meandering through the countryside as I mad safe, I couldn’t find any, so I settled for a small bar in Podensac, the slightly bigger town near where I am staying. The Tour de France was on the telly, but inside the bar was empty. Outside, on the street, were four tables, and I can confirm that
1) the French also have the chavs (‘les chavées’, perhaps), and
2) that the bloody awful love affair the Westen world now has with getting a tattoos all over your body is doing exceptionally well here in the corner of south-western France. The pic below, in keeping with the bar
Sunday, 7 July 2013
And then there was me: I decided to bite the bullet and throw off the veil
It’s a strange thing writing a blog such as this. Over the years – I’ve been writing it since late 2009 – it has been a bit of this, a bit of that, and most recently nothing more than one punter among a million cyber punters giving his two ha’porth worth about what’s in the news. That, I’m the first to admit, makes me the equivalent of some digital pub bore. When I started this blog, I thought it might simply be the continuation of the written diary I kept from around 1981 to 1995.
That diary proved useful, especially when I was going through a horrible end-of-romance and needed somehow to sound off. There were other things in it, but that sole fact, that it was at heart merely a litany of ‘poor me, oh poor poor me’ gripes and the second sole fact that my writing is unreadable (I won’t describe my writing as ‘illegible’ because that implies it is messy and slovenly which it isn’t, in fact when viewed from a distance it is rather attractive. It’s just that it is so difficult to read that even I find it very hard to decipher) means that I have never read a single entry and I’m certain never shall. It was written in hardbound A4 ledgers and they are now, about 12 of them, sitting in a box in Guy’s House, a renovated very small cottage at next to The Hollow, which has now become nothing more than a depository but which could easily be converted into living accommodation – in fact, when it was renovated a small bathroom with shower was included for that specific purpose, although who it was intended should live there I really don’t know.
The problem with a public blog such as this is that it is no longer private, so I don’t feel able to record private thoughts and happenings. It isn’t that I have anything to hide, but as far as privacy is concerned, it is not and cannot be the equivalent of a diary. I know that at least three people I know read it every so often (my sister, a friend I worked with for a long time until he retired about a year ago, and another old boy of the Oratory who I don’t I have never actually met but who, in an odd way, I feel I know a little) occasionally dip in and read my latest ramblings. Apart from them I know, courtesy of Google’s stats service, that folk in Russia, Germany, France, the US, Turkey and even China dip in, probably as a result of googling a certain topic and happening on it. How many of them are regular visitors I don’t know. But maybe I should bite the bullet, maybe I should, every so often, use this more as a diary as well as sounding off in full pub bore fashion about this, that and t’other.
Were I to do so, I would record that I am feeling, and have been feeling for some time, curiously flat. I don’t know why, but I am conscious that recently in my life – this is the only way I can put it – activity is compensating for action. I seem to be going through the motions. My week is neatly divided into four days of work and three days of being at home. I enjoy being at work and I love being at home with my children, but I am very conscious of the routine.
Highlights – make that ‘highlights’ – occur on Tuesday mornings when I check online to see my wage has arrived in my main bank account so that, given the direct debits and standing orders I have set up, I shall not inadvertently overdraw, followed by a second ‘highlight’ on Wednesday mornings when I check online to make sure the various standing orders, all of which are to pay bills or top up other accounts intended to pay bills when those bills are due have functioned as they should. Every Wednesday I work a single shift and head off west, home to Cornwall. I invariably stop of at a pub in South Petherton if there’s football on Sky, or in Sticklepath, on the edge of Darmoor, if there isn’t, for a couple of pints of cider and a cigar or two (and, by the way, I always buy them abroad where they are a damn sight cheaper and tonight smoked my last two).
Then it’s the routine at home: drop in on my stepmother, who had a stroke six years ago, to pick up a shopping list, do her shopping and later spend a little time with her; doing the quiz work I do for the Mail for a little extra cash that night; Fridays droping in again (I see her every day as she only lives five minutes’ walk away) followed by quite a bit of time-wasting. Saturday is always rather overshadowed by the fact that I’m off up to London the following day when the week starts again. It’s not an onerous regime and I am very conscious that in many ways I am quite lucky.
Yet for quite some time now I have been feeling flat, understanding in my heart that activity, which is fundamentally superficial, keeps my mind off the fact that there is no action. I’m sure that I’m not the only one who feels like that. Perhaps it is merely a function of age (you might have gathered that I am no longer a spring chicken and am, for example, utterly invisible to the pretty young and youngish women I encounter every day.
When you are young, you seem to imagine you face a lot of problems, many of which have more to do with a certain insecurity and a hidden lack of confidence than any real problems (although that is not to belittle those young folk who do face real problems – we are getting more and more aware of the incidents of sexual abuse of the young taking place which a great many young, for one reason or another, feel unable to reveal to anyone and so suffer horribily in silence.) But those, essentially mundane problems are not things you would necessarily discuss with anyone, except perhaps a good and close friend. But they are a concommitant of ‘growing up’. What you do have, as a young person, however have is your hopes and your dreams. Those dreams, I’m sure, could well almost always be bollocks, but that isn’t the point. The point is that you don’t know that they might well be bollocks, you don’t know that there’s a lot more to life, that there are a lot more difficulties which you will face and which you will or will not overcome. Who knows, you might well have the wherewithal to realise those dreams against the odds. Many do.
What you don’t yet know, don’t even suspect, is that quite apart from not being the most important individual alive – every so often we in our salad days suspect that that is the case – that there are several tens of individuals in your own small circle; several hundred in our immediate community; several thousands living locally, several tens of thousands a little further afield and several billions the world over who feel just as keenly as you do that they are the centre of the world. And with all those egos clashing against each other you can bet your bottom dollar that things are not going to pan out as smoothly as you would like and, when you are young, expect. (Naturally, the strength of this conviction of being the centre of the world will vary from individual to individual and, more pertinently, from culture to culture. I believe the Chinese don’t have anything close to the notion of ‘individuality’ which we spoilt brats in the West have, but on a personal level I’m sure each one of those billions lives in China will feel ‘special’ even if they are not treated as ‘special’. ) It does, however, never leave us.
We still all feel we are the centre of the world. Unfortunately, that world seems at some point to become ever smaller and so what does leave us are those hope and dreams. Ask yourself: just what hopes and dreams does my 76-year-old stepmother have who suffered a stroke six years ago and who now, where once she was a very active woman who spent many hours a day in her garden, is now more or less confined to her armchair and kept amused by Escape To The Country and Bargain Hunt? Precious few, I should imagine.
This whole entry was sparked this even when I came home, at around 8pm, and found my younger brother, with whom I stay when I am in London, flaked out and gone to sleep. I worry about him. He might now be 55, but he has taken to describing himself as ‘old’. Good Lord, what is he talking about! Yet it was the catalyst to this, the ramble above, and I have decided to start posting a rather more personal blog. It will not, however, appear here, but in the blog adjacent to this which I have I have called My Second. Feel free to dip in once I start posting entries, but be warned: it might be messy and horribly self-indulgent.
Christ, what a ramble. But, oh well.
That diary proved useful, especially when I was going through a horrible end-of-romance and needed somehow to sound off. There were other things in it, but that sole fact, that it was at heart merely a litany of ‘poor me, oh poor poor me’ gripes and the second sole fact that my writing is unreadable (I won’t describe my writing as ‘illegible’ because that implies it is messy and slovenly which it isn’t, in fact when viewed from a distance it is rather attractive. It’s just that it is so difficult to read that even I find it very hard to decipher) means that I have never read a single entry and I’m certain never shall. It was written in hardbound A4 ledgers and they are now, about 12 of them, sitting in a box in Guy’s House, a renovated very small cottage at next to The Hollow, which has now become nothing more than a depository but which could easily be converted into living accommodation – in fact, when it was renovated a small bathroom with shower was included for that specific purpose, although who it was intended should live there I really don’t know.
The problem with a public blog such as this is that it is no longer private, so I don’t feel able to record private thoughts and happenings. It isn’t that I have anything to hide, but as far as privacy is concerned, it is not and cannot be the equivalent of a diary. I know that at least three people I know read it every so often (my sister, a friend I worked with for a long time until he retired about a year ago, and another old boy of the Oratory who I don’t I have never actually met but who, in an odd way, I feel I know a little) occasionally dip in and read my latest ramblings. Apart from them I know, courtesy of Google’s stats service, that folk in Russia, Germany, France, the US, Turkey and even China dip in, probably as a result of googling a certain topic and happening on it. How many of them are regular visitors I don’t know. But maybe I should bite the bullet, maybe I should, every so often, use this more as a diary as well as sounding off in full pub bore fashion about this, that and t’other.
Were I to do so, I would record that I am feeling, and have been feeling for some time, curiously flat. I don’t know why, but I am conscious that recently in my life – this is the only way I can put it – activity is compensating for action. I seem to be going through the motions. My week is neatly divided into four days of work and three days of being at home. I enjoy being at work and I love being at home with my children, but I am very conscious of the routine.
Highlights – make that ‘highlights’ – occur on Tuesday mornings when I check online to see my wage has arrived in my main bank account so that, given the direct debits and standing orders I have set up, I shall not inadvertently overdraw, followed by a second ‘highlight’ on Wednesday mornings when I check online to make sure the various standing orders, all of which are to pay bills or top up other accounts intended to pay bills when those bills are due have functioned as they should. Every Wednesday I work a single shift and head off west, home to Cornwall. I invariably stop of at a pub in South Petherton if there’s football on Sky, or in Sticklepath, on the edge of Darmoor, if there isn’t, for a couple of pints of cider and a cigar or two (and, by the way, I always buy them abroad where they are a damn sight cheaper and tonight smoked my last two).
Then it’s the routine at home: drop in on my stepmother, who had a stroke six years ago, to pick up a shopping list, do her shopping and later spend a little time with her; doing the quiz work I do for the Mail for a little extra cash that night; Fridays droping in again (I see her every day as she only lives five minutes’ walk away) followed by quite a bit of time-wasting. Saturday is always rather overshadowed by the fact that I’m off up to London the following day when the week starts again. It’s not an onerous regime and I am very conscious that in many ways I am quite lucky.
Yet for quite some time now I have been feeling flat, understanding in my heart that activity, which is fundamentally superficial, keeps my mind off the fact that there is no action. I’m sure that I’m not the only one who feels like that. Perhaps it is merely a function of age (you might have gathered that I am no longer a spring chicken and am, for example, utterly invisible to the pretty young and youngish women I encounter every day.
When you are young, you seem to imagine you face a lot of problems, many of which have more to do with a certain insecurity and a hidden lack of confidence than any real problems (although that is not to belittle those young folk who do face real problems – we are getting more and more aware of the incidents of sexual abuse of the young taking place which a great many young, for one reason or another, feel unable to reveal to anyone and so suffer horribily in silence.) But those, essentially mundane problems are not things you would necessarily discuss with anyone, except perhaps a good and close friend. But they are a concommitant of ‘growing up’. What you do have, as a young person, however have is your hopes and your dreams. Those dreams, I’m sure, could well almost always be bollocks, but that isn’t the point. The point is that you don’t know that they might well be bollocks, you don’t know that there’s a lot more to life, that there are a lot more difficulties which you will face and which you will or will not overcome. Who knows, you might well have the wherewithal to realise those dreams against the odds. Many do.
What you don’t yet know, don’t even suspect, is that quite apart from not being the most important individual alive – every so often we in our salad days suspect that that is the case – that there are several tens of individuals in your own small circle; several hundred in our immediate community; several thousands living locally, several tens of thousands a little further afield and several billions the world over who feel just as keenly as you do that they are the centre of the world. And with all those egos clashing against each other you can bet your bottom dollar that things are not going to pan out as smoothly as you would like and, when you are young, expect. (Naturally, the strength of this conviction of being the centre of the world will vary from individual to individual and, more pertinently, from culture to culture. I believe the Chinese don’t have anything close to the notion of ‘individuality’ which we spoilt brats in the West have, but on a personal level I’m sure each one of those billions lives in China will feel ‘special’ even if they are not treated as ‘special’. ) It does, however, never leave us.
We still all feel we are the centre of the world. Unfortunately, that world seems at some point to become ever smaller and so what does leave us are those hope and dreams. Ask yourself: just what hopes and dreams does my 76-year-old stepmother have who suffered a stroke six years ago and who now, where once she was a very active woman who spent many hours a day in her garden, is now more or less confined to her armchair and kept amused by Escape To The Country and Bargain Hunt? Precious few, I should imagine.
This whole entry was sparked this even when I came home, at around 8pm, and found my younger brother, with whom I stay when I am in London, flaked out and gone to sleep. I worry about him. He might now be 55, but he has taken to describing himself as ‘old’. Good Lord, what is he talking about! Yet it was the catalyst to this, the ramble above, and I have decided to start posting a rather more personal blog. It will not, however, appear here, but in the blog adjacent to this which I have I have called My Second. Feel free to dip in once I start posting entries, but be warned: it might be messy and horribly self-indulgent.
Christ, what a ramble. But, oh well.
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