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Flotsam and Jetsam

The restless urge of autumn

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“…as the slow sea sucked at the shore and then withdrew, leaving the strip of seaweed bare and the shingle churned, the sea birds raced and ran upon the beaches. Then that same impulse to flight seized upon them too. Crying, whistling, calling, they skimmed the placid sea and left the shore. Make haste, make speed, hurry and begone; yet where, and to what purpose? The restless urge of autumn, unsatisfying, sad, had put a spell upon them and they must flock, and wheel, and cry; they must spill themselves of motion before winter came.”

― Daphne du Maurier, The Birds & Other Stories

The richly woven tapestry…

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“The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.”

Carson McCullers

One of joys – amidst the many drawbacks – of accomplishing maturity (growing old!) is that afforded by the slow accretion of knowledge which – one must surely most devoutly wish – will lead eventually to the attainment of wisdom. Sometimes it seems to me that this process – as the years advance – consists in the main of going back over old ground, slowly joining up the dots and nurturing the seeds that were sown a long time ago. Perhaps one day the final thread in this immeasurable tapestry will be woven, all the connections will be made and learning will come to a full stop.

Somehow I doubt it!

What prompts this particular reverie, I hear you enquire – tentatively?

Growing up – as I did – in the 1960s there was a fair chance that I would be a fan of the Beatles. You will be unsurprised to hear that this is indeed the case, and that I count myself amongst the more partisan of enthusiasts. I have read exhaustively, viewed widely and – of course – listened relentlessly to each and every note.

There has been until recently, however, one glaring omission to my ardent pursuit – and that can be explained by the fact that even in late 1967 – as I was on the verge of recording my fourteenth birthday – my parents were still, and determinedly, resisting demands that we should acquire a television set. We were thus unable – that Boxing Day – to join the bemused multitudes who sat in stunned silence through the premiere of the Beatles Magical Mystery Tour.

Such was the subsequent critical storm that the one hour film has since had very few public airings and somehow – though it has been made available on VHS and DVD – I have never really felt moved to track it down. Most likely I recoiled from the notion that my idols had after all proven to be encumbered with feet of clay.

Since then, of course, much has changed. Critical opinion now recognises the film to be a valid – if somewhat naive – adjunct to the burgeoning avant-garde that emerged from the 60s counter-culture. McCartney himself has been understandably and justifiably keen to promote the significance of his role in that movement. Further – the film itself is now seen as a precursor to the entire genre that is ‘pop video’, from which the whole MTV phenomenon and generation has since sprung. In this – as in so many things – it seems that the Beatles were after all truly ahead of the curve.

Last weekend the BBC finally broadcast a restored and digitally re-mastered version of the film – along with an accompanying documentary on its genesis – to mark the 50th anniversary of the release of the first Beatles single, Love Me Do. It was good finally to catch up with that which I had missed back in the winter of 1967.

Viewing the film also resulted in another connection being made – another strand finally woven. I have over the last year or so been somewhat fascinated by an American alternative rock band called ‘Death Cab for Cutie’. Actually, it is really the name that fascinates; somewhat bizarre but quite imaginative. I had not, though, investigated further.

Lo and behold, as I watched Magical Mystery Tour at the weekend, what should I see – making a guest appearance – but that well-known 60s surrealist comedy ensemble, the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, singing a song clearly titled – wait for it – “Death Cab for Cutie”! A little further investigation shows that Neil Innes and Vivian Stanshall of the Bonzos wrote the song for the film, taking its title from an invented pulp fiction crime magazine which had been devised by British academic Richard Hoggart as part of his 1957 study of working class culture, The Uses of Literacy. Small world!

Neil Innes, of course, went on to write and record the songs for Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Vivian Stanshall – amongst many other achievements –  made an ‘appearance’ as the narrating voice on the last segment of Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells.

Back in the 80s I vaguely knew Vivian Stanshall’s then wife. She and a friend of mine were the main drivers behind a project to convert an old German coaster into a floating theatre/restaurant in Bristol docks. The ship – the Thekla – is still there, though it is now a nightclub/music venue. The ladies fell out with each other and moved on many years ago.

I recall attending the opening night party for the floating theatre – which was filmed by the BBC for a documentary on the project – back in 1982. Vivian Stanshall was present – though perhaps the less said about his presence that particular night the better!

Nice to finally tie up these loose ends. In the phrase that E. M. Forster adopted as the epigraph to Howard’s End – “Only connect”…

Planting a tree

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“That’s the way I do things when I want to celebrate, I always plant a tree.”

Wangari Maathai

 

This last weekend saw the final cricket match of my season. It was a very relaxed, festive affair – taken in good heart by both sides and with much jolly banter and gentle joshing. I found myself batting for a while alongside a much younger chap whom I had not met before. This is not unusual as the nature of a wandering side such as ours is that players come and go over the years, playing a few fixtures here and there as and when they can, or when the mood takes them. You might gather that – given my advancing years and general inability to keep up with the keen youngsters who turn out for more ‘serious’ sides – this suits me rather well.

As it turned out this particular batsman had well and truly got his eye in and laid waste to bowling of all complexions, only finally succumbing shortly before our allotted overs were up for a score in the mid 60s. (Note for the uninitiated: I am not even going to try to explain cricket here. Maybe in a future post… or ten!) The chap concerned was delighted. He had been playing for 9 years, and this was the first time he had scored a ‘fifty’!

Whilst congratulating him unreservedly I couldn’t help feeling a small pang of envy. I came back to cricket in my mid 40s – having played in a desultory fashion at school – and I have thus only been playing semi-seriously for about a dozen years. Scoring a ‘fifty’ has been a major ambition of mine throughout this period and – though I have flirted a number of times with the 30s and once almost made 40 – I have never been able to go on to get the ‘big one’. Maybe there is yet time – maybe not. Though I am learning to “treat these two impostors” with equanimity I have to admit that this has been the cause of some small sadness.

 

No matter – this post is intended to be purely celebratory. I may not have scored a ‘fifty’ at my favourite game – but I have scored a ‘ton’ when it comes to blogging. Yes – in a little over 38 weeks since I took up blogging as a complete novice I am now posting my 100th entry. Hooray!!

Well – I’ll drink to that – and also to the gentle reader for sticking with it…

Cheers!

Parade’s End

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Look – I’m sorry to bang on about this – and I really don’t want to bore the gentle reader more than is absolutely unavoidable – but I really must just put in one final word for Tom Stoppard and the BBC’s adaptation of Ford Maddox Ford’s ‘Parade’s End’, which finished on BBC2 on Friday evening.

Achingly beautifully written, acted, directed and shot this (hopefully!) award-winning drama represents all that has ever been best in what really has become a very sorry creative sphere – that of modern television production. Those who know me even marginally will be only too aware of how little I find to admire these days in the televisual and filmic arts. Kickass Canada Girl claims – with some justification – that I have spoiled the cinema going experience for her. It is no fun at all to sit through a film at my side as I sigh, grunt and squirm irritably when faced with clunky dialogue, unbelievable characters and unnecessary yardage of exposition. The trouble is that she herself has now become much more critical and less able to sit through such mediocre offerings. Sorry about that!

The greatest failure to my mind on the part of TV and film producers – and one which is almost certainly a result of there being too many ‘executives’ now involved in the process who mistakenly think they know how to make drama – is that of not trusting the intelligence of the viewing audience. Let’s put that another way – of patronising the viewing audience. There is nothing more eloquent in drama than that fragmentary understated occurrence or reaction that generates in the viewer a small shock of recognition and understanding. This – surely – is how art can have such a great and direct impact on those eager to learn from it. These days in film and on TV it seems that there is a belief that only if signposted in huge letters on enormous billboards will the viewing audience actually get the point. My worry is that this in itself is breeding a new generation who indeed will not be able to ‘read’ creative works without such assistance.

By way of illustration of what can be achieved let me give just the tiniest example from ‘Parade’s End’ – and that not from any of the main plot threads but of just a single small incidental detail – beautifully handled.

In the trenches of the first world war Ford Maddox Ford’s passe protagonist, Tietjens (played exquisitely by Benedict Cumberbatch), finds himself unexpectedly and unwantedly in charge of his battalion. One of the more unexpected duties he is called on to perform is to give permission for a private – whom we have heard unknowingly for some minutes in the background practicing his bugling – to play the following night before the top brass at an event behind the lines.

A while later – during a German artillery barrage – Tietjens is given the news that a shell has burst in the entrance to a slit trench, and that there has been a single fatality. Tietjens hurries to inspect the scene and sees – half buried in the mud thrown up by the blast – the bugle case that we have seen previously. There is no dialogue – no lingering shot – merely the briefest reaction in Cumberbatch’s eyes.

Then – after some further narrative development – both we and Tietjens hear again the distant refrain of the bugler at practice. Again – no dialogue – no labouring the point – simply the realisation as revealed on Cumberbatch’s face.

This sort of thing requires (under)writing and acting of the highest order, but stirs in the viewers breast an empathy and understanding that no amount of dialogue or elaborate visual symbolism could have effected.

Enough! You have missed ‘Parade’s End’ in its first run (congrats to those who did not!) but it will doubtless be repeated.

…and there is always the boxed set – which would doubtless make a wonderful Christmas present!

And on the subject of retirement…

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I carry with me at all times what might these days probably be best described as a ‘man’s clutch organiser’.

It might, of course, also be called – usually with a whiff of obtrectation – a ‘man bag’.

This pejorative – with its invidious and somewhat mysogynistic insinuation both that the female of the species is in some way inferior and that a man who carries such an item is, by implication, somehow lacking – might in no small part explain why so few men – even in these enlightened times – actually carry one.

Such opinions trouble me not, as I have carried a bag in one form or another since the early 80s. I started doing so at roughly the same time that I cut my hair! Yes, when I left school in 1972 – having been required to keep my locks “above the ears and ‘orf’ the collar” throughout the fag end of the 1960s – I determined that I would henceforth wear it as long as I wished, and thus did not subsequently get it cut again until 1981 or thereabouts. Having surviving – from the unenlightened – the torrents of ‘humorous’ obloquy on the subject of my appearance throughout that godforsaken decade I am rendered completely immune to any such jibes.

I am frequently asked what I carry in my bag. The short answer is – ‘everything’! The slightly longer answer is – ‘all the things that other chaps stuff in their jacket, shirt and trouser pockets – then have to remember to switch to other clothes when they change – and have to remember to take out before they sit down or they’ll break their mobile phone”. That sort of thing…

The other question that I am asked is – “aren’t you afraid of losing it?”. Well – I never have lost one, but I have suffered several thefts. On one occasion my wallet was stolen from the bag… whilst I was holding it front of me… in a lift… in the Hotel Cosmos in Moscow! When – subsequent to the event itself – I worked out how it had been done, I was almost in awe of the execution of the heist. The setup had featured a little old Russian lady acting as the distraction, whilst the ever-so-helpful young Russian guy ever-so-helped himself to my wallet whilst ever-so-helpfully holding the lift doors open. Sweet!

On the other occasion the bag itself was stolen – in the bar at the National Theatre in London. This was particularly embarrassing as I had gone there to meet someone that I had not met before and did not know – to discuss a creative project. The bag – containing all my worldly possessions – was lifted from the foot of my chair as I sat in the bar having a drink with her. Without keys I had to abandon my car in the service road in front of the theatre, and without money I was forced to borrow from the stranger that I had just met in order that I might catch the train home.

I have replaced the bag at intervals as each has – one by one – fallen apart. As a result I have observed that these things go in and out of fashion, and that it is sometimes virtually impossible to get a bag with a sensible configuration – one that can hold everything without being ridiculously bulky. When I found the present incumbent – five years ago in Paris (don’t we sound cosmopolitan!) – I snapped it up immediately even though it was wickedly expensive, because it was the closest I had ever found to being the perfect bag.

Recently, however, it has started to show its age. One of the main zips has failed rendering it insecure and thus considerably less attractive. I enquired of Tumi – the manufacturers – as to whether or not it could be repaired, given that the leather itself is still in pretty good condition. Tumi hinted that they would need to send the bag away to Germany and wanted to charge me so much for the pleasure that it was really not worth doing.

It crossed my mind that – like me – the bag was ready for retirement and I took the opportunity of meeting friends in London last weekend to try to locate a suitable replacement. I was in for a shock. Tumi had discontinued this, the most useful bag in their range, and had no substitute that was even close. Further investigation revealed that – as far as bag manufacturers are concerned – this sort of thing is now distinctly out of fashion again. After a frustrating afternoon’s search I had to concede that I was not going to find a bag anywhere near as perfect as the one that I was about to retire.

Perhaps I should think about this a little more…

Naturally the InterWebNet provided the solution – a firm on Eton High Street called ‘1st Class Leathergoods Repairs’. Those that know Eton will, of course, not be at all surprised that in the end the solution was more or less on my doorstep, or indeed that it should take this form. The firm’s website announces:

“We are repairers to 

  • The Bridge – Il Ponte Pelletteria
  • Jane Shilton
  • Hidesign
  • Louis Vuitton
  • Mulberry
  • Radley
  • Samsonite
  • Tula & S.American Hide leather Holdalls, Land etc
  • Texier
  • new zip from £36
  • ladies purse
  • gents wallet
  • passport holders
  • handbags
  • shoulder bags
  • luggage wheels repair
  • antique trunks, storeage trunks, steamer trunks, wicker trunks
  • vintage car trunks, door retainer straps, bonnet straps
  • masonic cases , bags for freemasons
  • straps and covers, 
  • custom – bespoke hand made leather case, hand made leather 
  • custom made bespoke gunbags, custom hand made guncases
  • leather rip repair, leather scratch repair
  • leather strap, canvas strap, webbing strap, luggage strap
  • gun cases, cartridge bags, gamebags, refurbish , reline , 
  • footwear uppers, ladies sandal straps, riding & polo boots
  • fireside bellows
  • leather Tankards
  • leather grommets & washers
  • fire safety leather straps
  • experienced pilots have old cases
  • pannier bags, picnic cases, pencases
  • musicians have instrument cases – guitar , saxophone , mandolin , violin , cello , trumpet , horn
  • laptop bags, holdalls, cases
  • leather clothing, bike jackets, bike all in ones
  • embossing leather, embossing on sewn on panels
  • leather care products
  • repair estimates for insured travel goods, luggage, suitcases

Customers over the years have been unusual and varied in their requirements, and include historically famous families, celebrities, and business and professional personalities, as well as meeting the every day needs of ladies and men and people on the go.”

I can’t argue with that – and my ‘man bag’ is now safe in their hands.

I did reflect – as I walked away from their shop clutching all my worldly possessions in a plastic carrier bag – if there wasn’t a message in this for my own retirement!

Can’t think what it might be though…


Mr Blue Sky

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Never mind, I’ll remember you this
I’ll remember you this way

Mr Blue Sky – Jeff Lynne

 

A startlingly lovely early September weekend with clear blue skies and perfect temperatures. The stunning London Olympic/Paralympic summer reaches its climax – Andy Murray punches his way to the final of the US Open – the nation beats its breast and sheds a tear at the Last Night of the Proms…

The weather is, apparently, also simultaneously divine in Victoria, BC – but sadly sharing such wonders by Skype alone can be no substitute for the real thing.

A touch of melancholy…

 

Inspirational…

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It is only a few short weeks since – in the run up to the 2012 London Olympics – the inhabitants of this sceptic isle regarded the whole extravaganza with their accustomed disdain. They grumbled about the cost – complained about the upcoming traffic chaos – delighted in every minor news item featuring incipient incompetence on the part of the organisers – and a significant number were prophesying impending doom at every step.

It took all of 60 seconds of Danny Boyle’s magically mysterious opening ceremony to dispell all possible doubts and to convert us into a nation of true believers.

The IOC were fully vindicated in their decision to place their faith in London to stage the games ahead of the French. Yes – in Paris the cuisine would have been superb and the style impeccable – but the IOC had the insight to recognise a more essential truth about the British people. We are a nation of sports fanatics! The games sold out – and huge adoring crowds cheered the heroics of our brave Olympians as they took home more medals than we have won at any Olympic games for the past 100 years.

And then it was over – and the reaction kicked in. We were depressed. We missed the adrenalin rush. The start of the kissball season seemed even more uninspiring than usual. The rugger season had not yet commenced. Where could we turn to rediscover those legal highs?…

Well – to the Paralympics of course.

Now – if there is one thing the Brits love even more than a sporting contest it is one in which they can support the underdog. It is in our national psyche. In the Paralympics – of course – it is possible to consider all of the contestants to be underdogs – and we just love those tales of triumph over adversity. As a result the stadia are yet again full to bursting and the rest of us are glued to our screens.

This increased exposure for disabled sport does raise a few issues, not least of which is the question of acceptable use of language when discussing the sports and the competitors therein engaged. There are obvious ‘no-nos’ which need not detain us here, but there are also areas that are less clear. It has been suggested in parts of the media that the use of terms such as ‘brave’ and ‘inspirational’ could – when applied to Paralympians – be considered discriminatory or even pejorative. The thinking here is that such language is divisive and that the Paralympians themselves wish to be seen simply as elite athletes rather than as plucky tryers.

I have some sympathy with this, but from the impartial enthusiast’s point of view this is rather a shame. When one thinks of the huge amount of work that athletes such as Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy, Jessica Ennis, Mo Foster, Andy Murray and Ben Ainslie have put into their golden achievements it is difficult not to be inspired. When considering Paralympians who – in addition to making similar efforts and sacrifices in terms of athletic preparation – have in many cases also had to overcome crippling illnesses, to recover from tragic accidents or have been seriously injured in the service of their country – then I think ‘inspirational’ is indeed the appropriate term.

What decidedly is inspirational is the response of the attending crowds. The foundations of the Olympic village have been shaken repeatedly by the capacity crowds cheering such golden moments as Sarah Storey chewing up the track in the velodrome for the first of her three (thus far!) gold medals, or Ellie Simmonds hunting down American Victoria Arlen in the S6 400m freestyle in the Aquatics Centre. The sight and sound of 80,000 people in the stadium itself howling encouragement for iron-man Dave Weir as he out-thought, out muscled and out-sprinted the rest of the field in the T44 wheelchair 5,000m will live with me for a long time, and not a single medalist mounted the podium to anything other than a rapturous reception.

To me the whole event – like the Olympic games that preceded it – has indeed been inspirational. The only trouble is – what will we do when it is over?

 

Continental Drift

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The twighlight shadows the horizon
The lustre fading from the day
I’m stranded on a shrinking island
And you are half a world away

The hourglass has changed direction
The silver sand sliding away
Time running slow on this connection
And you’re still half a world away

Plus ça change
Plus c’est la même chose

How did we come to this position?
If you had known would you have stayed?
Should I have raised more opposition
To living half a world away?

Plus ça change
Plus c’est la même chose

Your shining face cuts through the darkness
And I am half a world away

Plus ça change

Oh – joy!

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The feeling is that of the lost soul who – when dying of thirst on the remorseless sunbaked sands of an unforgiving desert and on spotting on the heat-hazed horizon a life-saving oasis – discovers that – contrary to his initial fears – it is not after all a mirage, but is indeed the fountain of life…

You may think this somewhat too effusive given that the object of my preroration is a mere television programme, but I can assure you that it accurately reflects the emotions experienced by this viewer on discovering – in the wasteland of the UK’s 21st century televisual output – an intelligent, complex, splendidly crafted, subtly directed TV drama – acted with exactitude and beautifully shot.

I refer – of course – to the first episode of ‘Parade’s End’ which was shown last Friday on the BBC. Adapted from Ford Maddox Ford’s quartet of post-Great War novels by the estimable Tom Stoppard this splendid offering starred – amongst other luminaries – the excellent Benedict Cumberbatch. Stoppard is a personal hero and I have been lucky enough to have met him twice – at first night parties for ‘Indian Ink’ and ‘The Invention of Love’. This was not only a lot more prosaic than it sounds but was also proof of the dictum that one should never meet one’s heroes. At each meeting I was reduced to babbling incoherence, telling him only on one occasion – as I recall – that his play was “quite brilliant”. He gave me a pitying look…

I could wax lyrical for a further 1500 words on the subject of ‘Parade’s End’, but the critics have already done so far more eloquently than I ever could. Here is Euan Ferguson in the Observer. All I will do is to urge those of you living in the UK who missed it on Friday to seek out the remaining four episodes – and for those of you in Canada and elsewhere to lobby your local TV stations to purchase said work and to screen it forthwith.

Following Friday’s episode there was a ‘making of’ documentary which featured a number of astute commentaries on the piece, including that of Cumberbatch himself. Without being too rude I think it safe to say that not all actors are as erudite on the subject of works in which they have appeared. Cumberbatch came over sufficiently well that I will forgo my usual somewhat childish remarks about his Alma Mater.

Well – they are rivals!

 

Provence – pictorial potpourri

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The staggeringly beautiful villages of the Vaucluse have been documented by far, far greater photographers than I could ever hope to become, and I do not intend to add my humble efforts to the many gorgeous images than can already be found on the InterWebNet. I will simply, therefore, post a few snaps taken over the last week or so that I quite like, in the hope that the gentle reader may also obtain some pleasure therefrom.

 

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