No, I didn’t give up my seat for Jeremy, mainly because I didn’t see him. Mine was also a busy train, and reservations are definitely a good idea in August! Incidentally, my first ever LP was bought from Branson’s scruffy so-called Virgin record shop in Oxford Street, back in 1971: I feel so connected to these beardy guys! (http://www.standard.co.uk/news/politics/jeremy-corbyn-admits-seats-were-free-on-virgin-service-amid-traingate-row-a3328461.html)
As always I loved the journey uphill to Scottyland, the main pleasures of which begin in Northumberland and contimue through to the glimpses of Arthur’s Seat (more impressive than Jeremy’s) and Calton Hill. I may have said before that Edinburgh is my second favourite city, and beats my home town Cardiff. Only London trumps the Athens o’ the North.
This was my second or third trip to the Festival.My memory now is such that I have just had to check whether I have posted about it before, and of course I did last year! This year we hadn’t booked any big plays, but managed only one small one – plus two song recitals, a choral work, two talks, and goodnesss now I have to check the tickets to see if I have missed anything out!* What was I saying about memory? It proved to be a nostalgia-fest.
‘Oh, Hello’, the play, was very funny, but deeply sad too. The name Charles Hawtrey may not mean much nowadays, but to British cinema audiences of the 50s/60s he livened up every Carry On film he appeared in…and he was a star in a very British sort of way. As always, his art was very much himself it seems. The main prop on stage was a bottle of gin…I don’t think I need say more. It made me cry a bit, rather like gin does.
Tim Parks’ talk at the book-tenty-thing was excellent. It made me want to start on my novel, in true Pooter fashion. I think his point was that for any author, at least writers of fiction, a book is a life event, and books work best when something of the author is allowed into them, that some life-adversity is essential, that sometimes books are best understood by looking at the author’s own personality and experience. Howard Jacobsen too was inspiring.
I knew the choral work was going to be a difficult one for me. We sat in Greyfriars Church, and within 3 or 4 bar of the opening chorus tears were streaming down my face. I don’t even like choral works, but this one – Bach’s St John Passion – I’d sung in at school, as a treble. We won’t dwell on it here. I should have worn dark glasses. I know I can never join a choir again…that much is clear.
Same thing again at the song recital, at St Andrews. I lasted as long as ‘Is my team ploughing’, the 1896 poem by AE Housman set to music by Vaughan Williams. His poems were in the knapsacks of troops in the Boer War and the Great War, many of whom never saw their farms and homes again of course. I was in the front row, right in front of the singer (excellent) and I do hope he didn’t notice the sniffing….
Happily, there was no danger of any tears at the other recital, despite it featuring the songs of Edith Piaf and Jacques Brel. Suffice it to say that the audience were invited to sing along to ‘Non, je ne regrette rien‘, which must be a first. It may have all been a spoof…one can’t be sure on the Fringe.
- I left out tw0 whole events: a wonderful tribute to Flanders and Swann in an ace performance by genuinely witty and musical chaps in their own right, Tim Fitzhigham and Duncan Walsh-Atkins ; and Adam Kay performing some of Tom Lehrer’s acidic songs.
The owner of the dog that I walk sometimes has got tangled up in another West End show, so I may as well give it a mention here. For both their sakes, I’m glad to report another favourable reception from the critics including a spot-on review by Michael Billious in the Gordian which awards four stars to this riotous musical fantasy. You don’t need to take any children to enjoy this spectacle…just quite a lot of money! Luckily my preview seat was free. Though a dress rehearsal, the whole caboodle was faultless. Funny, even touching at times, and always engaging.
No, seriously, I was walking the dog that I walk from time to time, and it was dark. I am not unduly nervous about venturing into the rec* in the dark armed with Mabel, because she would charm the socks off any knife-wielding maniac that leaps out from the undergrowth, I fondly imagine. I was though keeping an eye on a collection of wavering lights in the shrubbery near the centre of the park, which is unfenced but also unlit. So round we went, and Mabel regularly vanished into the gloom and then reappeared. I have to confess that one major problem with walking dogs in the dark is that it is harder to scoop the poop if you don’t have a clue where your dog is at all times or what it might be doing. So apologies to anyone who puts their foot in it on my account. I must take a torch.
Mabel gets excited when Gorgeous George appears… she can see him coming a long way off not just because of his white fur but because he has a lurid flashing red collar that means his owner can see where he has raced off to by the light emitting diodes that flash on and off in a rather manic manner, and which light up his rather gormless doggy face in pink. She runs up to George, has a sniff and then yelps with either great fear or great pleasure when George lunges at her in an excited fashion…then she runs off again, and the performance is repeated when we come across him again further round the circuit.
She’s more wary though of the flashing lights in the middle of the rec, and as we get closer I can see that it is a group of figures holding a mixture of mobile phones and torches, standing in a circle…This is most odd, because teenagers do not normally draw attention to themselves in this way when they congregate to do whatever it is that they do in parks after dark. Suddenly there is a polite round of applause, which marks out the group as most definitely not being either teenagers or maniacs of any recognisable description, though the world is changing so fast and it’s hard to keep up with all current trends I find. On the ground I can now see lanterns made from hollowed out pumpkins, with candles inside, but i still cant make out any people, though now the lights and lanterns are moving apart and some shadowy shapes can be seen in the murk.. And a host of diminutive witches take on almost human form, as they drift towards me and Mabel, cloaks flapping and high pointed hats bobbing. It’s a coven, only much larger than any encountered on the blasted heath by Macbeth, who in any case didn’t live anywhere near London at any stage in his career as an put-upon husband. So, yes, it’s the witches of Chatterton Village, a new coven on me. Average age about 7 or 8 I’d say but no less scary for all that. Be very afraid.
Mabel wasn’t unduly bothered though. Perhaps if they had had flashing wands…
* the ‘rec’ is the normal abbreviation for ‘recreation ground’, which is a normally large expanse of grass set aside for public recreation, such as playing ball games, walking dogs, and conducting oneself in various anti-social ways, often with one’s peer group, when you think no-one can see.
Always something new in Shakespeare, isn’t there? I have seen a couple of Hamlets but never known that the expression ‘a palpable hit’, which often pops up in reviews, comes directly from this play. In fact it must once have been a little in-joke by a theatrical critic, then endlessly recycled ever since. Hamlet is well known as a rich source of expressions which are still widely used, though one wonders for how much longer as we all move further towards text-speak and e-mail language. It’s one reason why exposure to Shakespeare plays, as with the King James’ Bible, is said by our elders and betters to be a must if one seeks to be familiar with the culture of these islands, at least through the written or spoken word.I believe it now, though it took a long time!
Anyway, Laetes’ foil touches Hamlet’s arm and yes, it’s a palpable hit. Of course, so too is the production at the Barbican, which nears the end of its limited run. It is excellent – don’t ever be tempted to believe negative sounding newspaper reviews that focus on marginal matters. Critics will often tend to react against hype and PR by finding things to be sniffy about in an attempt to convince us that they are bravely resisting the general tide of opinion.
Somehow I had seats in the front row, while a camera on a sort of railway track glided noiselessly along two rows behind me, with the fireman and driver perched on little seats either side listening to The Bay City Rollers (possibly) on their headphones. Somehow it was the night that the play was being relayed live to 87% of UK cinemas and many more around the world, and being recorded too, meaning an audience of millions (who may well be treated to glimpses of my ever-growing bald patch -I’ll have to buy the DVD when it comes out just to see how bad it’s getting).
Today I went to Smithfield, which lies just to the north of the Barbican. Or maybe it’s Clerkenwell. Either way, this trip was entirely unconnected to yesterday’s, or so I imagined. I visited a museum of the Order of St John’s, located in a Tudor gatehouse (pictured) of the long lost priory of the original Order, a rebuild of an earlier building destroyed during the so-called Peasants’ Revolt led by Watt Tyler. It‘s a long fascinating story, but one fact connects the gatehouse to Shakespeare’s play. He would have brought his manuscript along to this building to get clearance to its performance from the Master of the Revels, the official stage censor of the day, who happened to occupy some of the rooms a while after the building was confiscated from the Order of St John by King Henry the Eighth. I can’t resist a coincidence like that.
In the end, it was time to find The Road to Jerusalem*. A thousand years on.
* a pub round the corner. An amazing one.
Nothing much to do with London, except that it was recorded at Abbey Road studios. I wasn’t that far away as it later turned out. But to be frank I’m stretching a point to mention at all any of the following, in a blog ostensibly about London things.
You all know the song, or should do at your age. It was written by a sixteen year old boy. When it was released a few years later on, I was sixteen myself. Being sixteen – what a great title for a blog – I had much the same view of men in their mid-sixties as he did. Such men were even older than my Dad, who was already impossibly old at 50. The song featured on perhaps the most successful and innovative record album of the 20th century.
You will have guessed perhaps, if you are paying any attention, that I am now 64, although that is not as old as the author of the song who is way ahead. He went on to become one of the most successful ever songwriters, though this one was a tad sentimental for many tastes.
‘When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now. Will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?’ Etc*
Yes I too can be found doing the garden, digging the weeds. I can be handy, mending a fuse.
And so it goes…
* extract quoted for educational purposes. Song copyright: Sony.
My sisters and even I were known for our fine legs once upon a time, though mine remained well hidden. Perhaps if I had access to the right footwear, life might have been different. I could have been a contender (perhaps) for the fine line up of long male legs very much on display at the opening night at the Adelphi, London, of the UK production of the hit Broadway musical, based on a modest British film of 10 years back, based on a true story, set somewhere in Northampton, some time ago.
I am lucky enough to know someone in the crew and to walk their dog occasionally so was blessed with tickets for the opening night – and quite a night it was, with no less a personage than his eminence Christopher Biggins sat two rows in front, and in good form. I hope he stayed for the party afterwards. Also present was a noticeable woman with white hair, who rushed out of the auditorium a few moments into the final number with a gaggle of others. How rude, I thought, and surely too early to be rushing for the last train home to Petts Wood or Dagenham.
Well, I wasn’t clued up enough to recognise Cyndi Lauper, the Tony winning songwriter for the show, until I was on the train home (via Petts Wood). That would explain how she reappeared onstage among the cast in the final curtain call, possibly. I bet she stayed for the party.
Reviews have been strong. My crew-member should have a job for a while longer in in this uncertain business and the dog will be assured of a decent diet even if she doesn’t see that much of her talented mistress.
In Edinburgh recently I saw two new one-man shows which will be coming to London. Both are quite brilliant, and have this much in common: one relies considerably on visual effects, and the other on sound, and the audience quickly tunes in and gets swept along happily by the ensuing riot. I won’t say any more but “887” and “the Encounter” are not to be missed.
Also on stage in Edinburgh was “Mrs Shakespeare”, another riot of a play, on a smaller scale, and also a solo tour de force. For this one it helps to have a smattering of Shakepeare in the back of one’s brain, since the gist of it is the desire of one crazed Irish woman who has been reincarnated as a modern day Shakespeare, to put right a certain imbalance in the original plots, hitherto running in favour of the male characters. How long, one might ask, will it be before this is actually attempted for real, given the rise of the quota approach to equal opprotunities.
Two other stages featured in my visit. On one was an imaginative attempt to visualise dementia, though this ran out of steam in the latter half I thought; and on another was a brilliant show in which two lost Tony Hancock radio scripts were presented, as if we were the studio audience in around 1960, perhaps in the old BBC Paris theatre London, watching these being recorded for transmission. All beautifully done, a warm tribute to a very funny Hancock and his amazing scriptwriters Galton and Simpson.
Five shows in three days – six if you count Hancock as two! Edinburgh busier, sunnier and generally more fun than ever.
I don’t believe I am giving too much away – thinking in terms of spoiler alerts – when I say here and now that yes the aforementioned dies in Death of a Salesman. That is to say, Anthony Sher pegs it in a self-inflicted kind of a way just near the end of the Arthur Miller play that has just closed at the Noel Coward Theatre in London’s St Martin’s Lane. By way of context, since this always matters at least to me, I don’t think I have ever seen a more crowded bunch of central London streets of a summer’s afternoon than when we emerged from a New York brownstone street beautifully recreated in W1, and into the steamy heat and teeming crowds milling round the Seven Dials the other Saturday, as this show ended its excellent run that same day. I might add that Sher has been brilliant as long as I have known his performances, beginning with the extraordinary television dramatisation of ‘The History Man’ in 1981 when he knocked everyone for six.
Arthur Miller was a lefty sort of playright, in this work blowing the cover on the American dream at the latter end of the distinctly smug 1940s when America had won the war, defeated all comers, and now ruled the roost with the American Way. It was smug here in Britain too of course, later on. But as always the USA was way ahead of us, and more to the point it was even more definitively global top dog – a position we had long since had to give up (without ever quite being able to admit it to ourselves). In the play our hero has bought into the dream bigtime, and convinced himself he is part of it, and talked himself into a corner as only a saleman could. But the unfeeling giant chewed him up and spat him out, and his humiliation is completed by his two sons’ struggles with the post-war world. It wasn’t meant to be like that.
In fact, he could be taken as an analogy for the UK, still endlessly deluding itself with reruns of past glories, reality only now biting into the flabby posterior, and all is ignominy from now on. It may be smug of me to say that nevertheless London seems to have it all right now…this summer.. It’s perkier than one could think possible, for reasons that are unclear.
I’m off to Edinburgh soon to get another perspective. It’s my second favourite city in these islands, but can things ever be the same now? The world moves on, and history isn’t dead after all. It’s happening all around us. Come next winter, when the power goes off, we shall see…
Something a bit new for me – two free tickets to an event called ‘Masterpiece 2015, London’, held in the grounds of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. On grass barely recovering from the Chelsea Flower Show, a vast marquee has been erected, with one face cunningly disguised as a long brick building of perhaps Queen Anne or Georgian appearance. How did they do that? It looked like a gigantic photograph of a real house, only slightly spoilt by a portico that didnt really go with it – someone’s idea of a home improvement deriving from tastes more appropriate to Chigwell than Chelsea I reckon. I’m no expert. It was a tad spooky to see this pop-up building sitting there in the evening sun at a rakish angle on the hottest July day in London since the dawn of time, or some such. Apparently it’s there for 41 days, most of which are spent putting the 12000 sq metre show together and taking it all away again afterwards. It has 2200 internal walls.
Inside was air conditioned, thankfully. Our bags were searched, and we puzzled over why folk were being asked if they were carrying any personal jewellery. The show itself was vast, comprising aisles of instant art galleries, antique dealers, jewellers and so forth, from all over the world it seemed, including Pimlico around the corner. What’s more there were mini-me versions of London restaurants like Scotts (where Nigella and Satchi had their alleged difference of opinion a while back), Le Caprice and the Ivy, all doing good business. International collectors and museum curators get a preview day at the fair, after which its open to ticket holders for just seven days. Quite honestly, I found it all rather amazing.
I’d worn the wrong shoes for this and opted out of the tour about half way round the vast number of stands and found a seat to sit and watch the comings and goings – what a wuss! It’s not the sort of place where one walks out carrying ones purchases in a carrier bag, since prices seem to start at around £180,000 and I think the dealers like to wait ’til the cheque has cleared before they take the oil painting off the wall and apply the string and brown paper. So most people seemed to be carrying only their drinks (mostly white wine – if it was being handed out free somewhere I missed it, damn!). I’d expected the folk to be wealthy, but there were few signs of conspicuous consumption and while many were smartly turned out, many were not.
It did bring home how international this city is, and how many more livelihoods now depend to some degree on the fact that London is such a magnet to the wealthy these days. All those shopfitters, catering staff, taxi-drivers, security guards, plus the young girls handing out the magazines and whatnots, only benefit from the jobs created by this craziness. One worries about our economic dependence on such things of course…what if the rich all decide to go to Stuttgart or something (only joking!).
I fancied a rather nice soldier’s helmet, Greek, from the Bronze Age perhaps, as it was bronze. Maybe 3000 years old. Talk about iconic…this wasn’t the one but it’s not dissimilar
I didn’t ask the price, because if you have to ask then you can’t afford it. I had to walk on by. On our way out, our bags were searched again, and the personal jewellery question earlier the evening then made sense. I surrendered all the Patek Phillipe watches I’d inadvertently picked up without thinking, as one does. We walked to the bus stop, and eventually had a slightly uncomfortable meal in Villiers Street, wiping our sweating faces with our napkins, which probably isn’t the done thing even in Villiers Street, whose slightly scruffy,even smelly, vibe I have always liked.
After a week away, we return to find the garden vanishing under green – leaves, weeds, grass, growth, some new blossom even. Mid-May just brings amazing energy to vegetation here, both wanted and not wanted. So cutting back, mowing, weeding, pruning will have to take priority over new planting until order and discipline is restored to the unruly, verdant little sods that over-populate these beds, banks and terraces. I’ll show ’em who’s boss, especially those evil Spanish bluebells! Meanwhile the windows all seem to need painting at once, this summer. And I must clamber up on the flat roof to unblock the gutters and downpipes bunged up by recent gales. More creative projects and plans are being crowded out by care and maintenance…dull, dull, dull.
July postscript: the evil Spanish bluebells have got their own back. I carefully bagged up the wretched bulbs or whatever you called them, failed to take them to the council’s green waste thingy, two months back, and they now stink so much I can’t take them anywhere…