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#compassion

Friends lovers mothers fathers sisters brothers daughters sons grandparents cousins nieces nephews aunts uncles wives husbands just because we are victims of geography doesn't make us different. We are all human we are all connected we all bleed. To be civilised is to be compassionate to be civilised is to offer our brethren shelter from the storm to be civilised is to welcome.

on a wall in Amsterdam

Never say never

I’d always seen opera as elitist nonsense; at best musicals for rich knob heads and at worst the equivalent to the emperor’s new clothes. Arrogance fuelled stupidity on my part I kind of think. But I’m trying to open up my mind and take it to places that it’s not previously been. In April during my sojourn to Sheffield I went to a modern dance production of Kes. I enjoyed it immensely. Buoyed by this new found enthusiasm for cultural adventure I notice as I walked past Norwich’s Theatre Royal a week or so ago that they were having a mini Wagner fest. Funny I fought, funny. And then as I wended my way home I mulled over the concept of going to an opera.

I felt that I was on pretty safe territory when back home I went on line to check ticket availability. Surely it must have sold out. But no. There were tickets available. So yesterday I found myself watching Tannhäuser performed by Theater Freiburg, and bloody good it was too. Right from my early teens I’ve been a fan of the music of Richard Wagner. Like the works of Elgar I like to bath in its stirring majesty. And like Elgar I care not for the jingoistic/nationalistic wasters that have attempted to use the music for their own evil purposes. The music stands on its own and mindless baggage that sometimes surrounds it isn’t even worth getting irritated over. Ignoring it is best. So right from the start I thought, ‘wow this is wonderful stuff’. The first act, and certainly the opening scene, before the signing started, reminded me a bit of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. It was the Teutonic mime and jerky movements that did I guess. And as so as the singing started I was relieved to discover that it wasn’t painful in any way. The plot is a bit lame. Singing competitions, seduction by Venus and going to Rome on penitence. Oh and a death of course. But it was lively and colourful. I love live entertainment and I certainly loved this. Speaking to some opera purists during the second interval I was surprised to learn that it was a bit too modern and ‘impure’ for their liking, so being the perverse bugger I am this made it all the more endearing to me. I can well put up with a bit of modernism. In my humble opinion cultural conservatives are mentally moribund.

No fat ladies appeared to be harmed in the performance of this opera. In fact there were no fat ladies to be seen on stage. So technically, presumably, it ain’t over yet!

And I suppose it isn’t as I intend to go to an opera again.

My name is Paul and I am a Jeremy Deller addict

Well, possibly...

Is doing two Jeremy Deller exhibitions in two different countries in two weeks a little fanatical?

Who can say?

All I know is that they’ve both been very enjoyable and very inspirational.

We’ve just arrived back from a week in Venice, where for two consecutive days we visited the Biennale. The Biennale is an international art exhibition. Or should that be exposition?

All of the countries taking part in the Biennale have their own pavilion where they mount their own particular exhibition for the season. The ‘curator’ for the British pavilion this year was Jeremy Deller. His show was entitled, rather oddly, English Magic.

I’m not going to offer you a critique or even try and explain what the exhibition is about in any depth as that would just be pretentious nonsense. I will offer you some of my thoughts about my impressions and how I feel towards it, but remember they are just my thoughts. And, also remember that art is only ever in the eye of the beholder. Art has no quality or benchmark; therefore no one can tell you what is good or bad art. Those definitions just don’t exist.

As you walk into the exhibition you are greeted by a huge mural of a giant hen harrier clutching a Range Rover in its talons; nature getting its own back on the bourgeoisie so to speak. A fabulous image, I hope you agree:

I’ve only known of the existence of Jeremy Deller for just under two years. I saw him interviewed on telly prior to his Joy In People exhibition last year (which we subsequently visited). I liked his thoughts and approach to art; they rang true to my beliefs. His art is plebeian (and I don’t use that in an insulting way, I use it as praise), he definitely draws from and connects with the common people, the working classes. He also draws a lot on pop culture, sharing very similar reference point to my own even though he is a younger man than I by some eleven years. And hey, anyone that likes Bowie and Depeche Mode can’t be all that bad!

One of the nicest touches to the exhibition was the tea room where mugs of very nice ‘proper’ tea were handed out gratis. The lady and I availed ourselves of this facility as did so many other visitors, UK and non-UK citizens alike, all seemed glad to receive; British tax payers money very well spent in my humble opinion. When you consider what our country spends on armaments and waging war on others and how it achieves absolutely nothing, then realising that if a fraction of that money was spent on making tea and distributing it to other parts of the world and how that might well make the world a better place by fostering a bit of harmony, you wonder why such a thing isn’t happening; make tea not war should be Britain’s motto!

Included in the exhibition are paintings and drawings by prisoners spending time at ‘Her Majesties Pleasure’. Many of whom had served with the armed forces in Afghanistan and or Iraq. One very poignant picture which moved me greatly was ‘R and R: Soldiers smoking crack before deployment, Wellington Barracks, London’ by Neil, HML Shotts, 2013:

There are no winners in war!

I could go on and on about this exhibition, such was the pleasure it gave me, but I won’t. What I will do though is give you a link to the English Magic website so you can at least try to glean a bit of the flavour. Enjoy!

Two weeks prior to visiting Venice we were in Manchester, and whilst there we took the opportunity to go to the ‘All That Is Solid Melts Into Air’ exhibition at the Manchester Art Gallery. Again a Jeremy Deller curated marvel. The exhibition is a presentation of industrial working life, the people and their culture. It mixes harrowing photos of Victorian working people along side family trees from Bryan Ferry, Neville Holder and Shaun Ryder and written examples of the oppressive nature of capitalist imposed working conditions, paintings and other artefacts. It shows the violence and oppression that has been inflicted on working people over the last few centuries and reminds us how it is still happening today.

The ‘badge’ for the exhibition is this photograph of Adrian Street and his father:

Included in the exhibition is a film about Adrian, his sexuality and how he escaped from working in the pits to seek fame and fortune in the, some would say, murky world of professional wrestling.

I came away from the gallery having much enjoyed the show and wondering why we working classes continue to allow our masters to dazzle us with trinkets whilst letting them shaft us at the same time.

In my opinion anything with Jeremy Deller’s name attached to it is always worth a gawp. Check him out and go along to an exhibition of his as and when you can. If you do I hope you get as much out of it as I have so far from the ones I’ve been to.

Art happens – enjoy – think – and deal with it!

Social niceties

I’m a shy sort of bloke really. I am nervous of many social situations. One thing that has always foxed/scared me is social kissing and hugging; when to and when not to. As a result I tend not to push myself forward for such things, preferring to wait for the other person to make the move. Perhaps I’m repressed? Who can say?

It has occurred to me that these social norms are an ever changing beast. Even earlier in my lifetime such familiarity would have been seen as quite outrageous. In Victorian times such behaviour would have been seen as licentious and probable an arrestable offence, as it would today in many conservative cultures. In this country that which is socially acceptable between friends is ever changing. Who knows where we will be and what will be acceptable in five, ten or twenty year’s time?

Is art the new rock and roll?

You would only ever hear me utter those words in jest. Sardonic irony is the best protection against the pretentious broadcasting nonsense by the likes of Andrew Graham Dixon and Brian ‘a lemon stuck up his arse’ Sewell.

We are just back from a couple of days in London. Well actually we spent the night between in Essex, but we’ll gloss over that. Who wants to admit to going to Essex? In London we visited two different art exhibitions. Two very different exhibitions. The first was the Hockney Exhibition at the Royal Academy, and the second Yayoi Kusama at The* Tate Modern.

I work with someone who could organise a piss-up in a brewery. Unfortunately he can’t organise much else. And, in a similar vein the RA can organise an art exhibition but not much else. What a shocking place to go and gawp at art! I never want to go there again that’s for sure. I suppose in fairness the David Hockney exhibition is very popular. I’ve never seen so many people trying to get into an exhibition. Hence the title of this post. We were thankfully lucky enough to have pre-booked tickets, so we strolled in at our allotted time. It was very full inside the exhibition, which made it difficult getting round and seeing the pictures, but it was well worth it. I’ve always liked Hockney’s work although only ever seen relatively few pieces ‘in the flesh’. This exhibition changed all of that for me. There are just so many wow pieces. And some huge pieces. Huge and wow. I love Hockney’s use of colour on his landscape. He has the ability to convey the light like no other artist I’ve seen. He makes blue trees work.





This is very much a mouth wide open experience and with every new room comes more colour. More colour and shapes to absorb. I just soaked it all up like a sponge. Hockney has always been at the cutting edge of technology in art and I particularly liked many of his iPad (other tablet computers are available) creations. They make for very interesting pictures when printed out. The huge ones of Yosemite are just breathtaking. The only pictures that I didn’t care much for, because of the subject I suppose, were the ones of ‘The Sermon on the Mount’. They filled an entire room and were basically Jesus on a giant carrot proselytising to a multitude. Rum do that!

New day and a new exhibition. Up until a month or two back I hadn’t heard of Yayoi Kusama. There was a documentary about her on one of the Beeb channels. And when the lady’s nephew suggested we all go to her exhibition we happily agreed; he’d done his thesis on her for his degree. The Tate Modern does know how to put on a good exhibition. It is always a pleasure going there. Thankfully whilst her exhibition was busy it wasn’t as heavily subscribed as the Damien Hirst one. Rather uncharitably I felt slightly smug as we passed the large queue of Emperor’s New Clothes devotees waiting to glimpse the mediocre. Little did I know what a surprise was waiting for me inside. I’d have felt even smugger. Bad I know.





Yayoi Kusama is big on spots, vivid colours and phallic symbols. Her exhibition is a mix of pictures, sculptures and installations. Yayoi is in her ninth decade, sporting bright red hair and still producing great stuff. Her paintings of the fifties interested me greatly. Some seemed to contain hints of Miro but mostly they are uniquely hers. Spots and twisted shapes feature heavily. When she first went to the states she did a series of canvases painted with white dots and splodges. I didn’t greatly enjoy these, I have to confess, but just about everything else was pretty neat. The latter pieces of her work gave me the most pleasure. One room filled with large square canvases painted in striking colours absorbed me for ages. Paintings with faces, eyes, amorphous shapes, stick people, spots and circles. Prior to that was an installation which was a room furnished like a small flat; the walls and furniture were covered in fluorescent dots of various colours. The room was lit only with a small amount of ultra violet light creating an effect that made the dots stand out and very bright.

 

Just when you think nothing can possibly beat this you enter the last room and the last installation. Room 14 Infinity Mirrored Room – Filled with the Brilliance of Life. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. I didn’t want to leave. It was a room with masses of small round coloured lights, suspended from wires and then a series of mirrors around the edge of the room. The effect was truly amazing. I found myself a little corner and stayed there for ages. Lights changed colour and the lights went out and each time a change occurred it put a whole new perspective on the room. Infinity Mirrored Room? Infinite possibilities room more like. This exhibition is a must see. This woman, who voluntarily lives in a mental institution in Japan, is a pure genius.

*I’m taking a leaf out of Stewart Lee’s book, sort off

The gospel according to Alan Measles

As I’ve said before the arts are the thinking person’s sport and so on Saturday while Neanderthals sped northward for the Norwich v Chelsea match we trained it down to London for a bit of yer actual culture. Our planned destination was the British Museum and the Grayson Perry exhibition entitled ‘The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman’.

We only just got tickets. They seem to sell out fast on the day. What a truly wonderful building the British Museum is. I hadn’t been since my schooldays. The rotunda is a magnificent construction and along with the glass roof makes for a light and airy space. As there was a fair bit of time between buying the tickets and our allocated slot we decided to go for a meal. We’ve had some very good meals in museums up and down the land and the Court Restaurant in the British Museum; both the food and the service were first class; the staff were just so nice; a destination in itself.

The entrance to the Grayson Perry exhibition is guarded by his pink motorbike, as used on his pilgrimage. The glass case affixed to the back now houses Alan Measles’ stunt double. The queuing and entry arrangements left a lot to be desired. You would think that an august and mature institution like the British Museum would have this sort of thing down to a fine art so to speak. Seemingly not. And once inside things didn’t improve greatly. I think that far too many exhibits are concentrated at the beginning thus causing a human bottle neck. The exhibition itself was a piece of inspired genius. Grayson Perry continues to go up and up in my estimation. In my opinion he is one of our greatest living artists; up there with David Hockney, Anthony Gormley and Gilbert and George. Grayson’s work is three dimensional. He’s a potter, a sculpture a tapestry and cloak designer. The exhibition is a mix of his work along with pieces that he has selected from the British Museum collection to compliment his work. I love Grayson’s pots. They are adorned with philosophical slogans. He has his own personal deity, Alan Measles his lifelong teddy bear, which features in many if not all of Perry’s work. He also has a wry and acute sense of humour. Three of his sculptures, a skull, a father and a mother all reminded me of a line spoken by the ghost of Jacob Marley “I wear the chain I forged in life”. The pièce de résistance is the eponymous Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman a huge cast iron sculpture based around a sailing ship and is a wonder to behold. Grayson Perry is a very unique artist and a true visionary. If you get the chance to see his work you should go.

What the dickens?

The recent Dickens season on the BBC has caused me a certain amount of unease. I have a distinct dislike of period costume dramas, particularly those based around Regency and Victorian times. In fact I will often go out of my way to avoid them. In many ways that’s a shame as no doubt some of them will be very well written. The trouble is that they make me want to vomit. The only exception to the rule is A Christmas Carol which I never tire of and which invariably leads to a modicum of tear-duct leakage. I’m sure that somewhere in this land some very good ‘alternate’ productions of his work are being performed, but I would so much prefer it if by default Dickens could be treated in a similar vein to Shakespeare. I know that there is a whole world of difference between the novels of Charles Dickens and the plays of William Shakespeare but I do feel that the approach could be equally as exciting by relying solely on the prose of Dickens and its dramatic interpretation. Does it really need to be reduced to lack-lustre entertainment gift wrapped in frilly dresses, starched collars and sideburns? I‘d like to see Dickens interpreted with some stripped down gritty realism.

Sadly much of the subject matter in the works of Dickens is still very relevant. Presenting his work cosseted in a cloak of mawkish sterility detracts from its power. Charlie boy highlighted the horrors of poverty which sadly are still all too real today; you would have thought that over the last 142 years* it would not have been beyond the capacity of the peoples of Great Britain and their successive governments to have eradicated it by now. But clearly to date it has beaten us. Poverty is very much alive and thriving. So far we have failed. When will we make poverty history? Until that day we are nothing!

“Dear mother it’s a bugger...”

*Dickens died in 1870

Imagine Grayson Perry

I’ve been aware of Grayson Perry for a few years now but I’m not aware that I’ve ever seen his work in the flesh so to speak. I’ve seen him on various arts and magazine programmes, on the televisual goggle-box, usually as Claire (his alter ego). I understood him to work mainly in ceramics, he came across as being slightly less pretentious than many arty folk but apart from that I knew very about him. Last night’s hour-long programme on BBC1 ‘Imagine: Grayson Perry and the Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman’ was a joy. Alan Yentob can’t make a bad arts programme (great job you’ve got there Alan) and this one was no exception. It charts Grayson over a two year period leading up to his current exhibition at the British Museum ‘Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman’. The exhibition is a mix of Grayson Perry’s work and artefacts from the museum’s collection brought together in a near serendipitous way to represent an imagined body of work the ‘Unknown Craftsman’. We are introduced to Alan Measles; Grayson’s teddy bear of 50 years standing and Grayson Perry’s deity, as they journey together to Germany on a pastel pink and blue custom build motorbike. All is explained in the programme.

I like or can accept a sizeable chunk of contemporary art. And, despite their politics I think Gilbert and George are particularly outstanding artists. But, I don’t care for likes of Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin with their pretentiously-purveyed Emperor’s New Clothes style nonsense. It doesn’t shock or disgust it’s just downright boring and in my book it ain’t art! Grayson Perry is a cut above all that. I like his attitude to art. Despite the way he dresses, which certainly grabs the attention it seeks, he appears to put in the effort, genuinely striving to produce quality art rather than take the piss. He himself is also critical of much of the art world. He is also a tad eccentric which is no bad thing in an artist. Grayson is truly a great British artist, up there with Hockney, Gormley, Banksy and the aforementioned Gilbert and George, to name but a few. I hope to go and see his exhibition before it closes on 19th February 2012

If you missed this fabulous programme and want to see it, go to the iPlayer. But be quick as it won't be there for long.

It was easy, it was cheap

Just imagine how even more exciting life would have been if we’d have had the internet in 1977. Punk with all its associated culture and spin offs would have found it a lot easier and cheaper to get its message heard. The fanzine, that important artery of communication between artiste and curious fan would have made the genre so much more accessible if it had been online. I suppose purists would dismiss this fantasy, alleging that it would have far removed punk from what it was, a disparate anarchic underground diy movement. Of course it is all pointless speculation really, but something to mull over in my dotage.

On the huh

#fullofeasternpromise

This is a phrase that I’ve grown up using and as far as I know is peculiar to Norfolk and Suffolk. It refers to something that is off-centre, wonky, skew-if or out of true. “On the huh”; use it today.

Oh dear what can the matter be?

This story about a poor old French lady stuck in the lavatory for three weeks amused me. It wasn’t the poor woman’s plight, although I have to be honest and say that I was drawn by the ‘Lady Stuck In Lavatory’ link headline on Yahoo. What really amused me was the last little paragraph in the story. Read it now. Do you think they formed a committee and passed a resolution about dialling 999 or whatever the French equivalent is?

Resonance, Renewal and Rope-making in Chatham

The Saturday before last saw us, en masse, at Chatham Dock Yards in Kent. We were there to see the Stanley Spencer paintings that he created during WW2 of the Clyde shipbuilders. All eight of Spencer’s paintings – originally commissioned by the War Artists’ Advisory Committee – and more than 20 associated drawings were on display.

Spencer’s style is very appealing to the eye. His images mostly of men toiling in the Clyde shipyards depict them as safe cuddly marshmallow type figures rather than the grim reality of gritty hard working Glasgow men sweating at a dangerous job. It’s as if he is depicting the inner goodness and honesty of working class people rather than the grim reality of the grime and unsafe working conditions. Spencer packs a lot into each of the pictures. There’s so much going on. They are the sort of paintings that you would find it hard to tire of. The exhibitions on until 12th December so hurry if you don’t want to miss this treat.

After feasting our eyes on the delights of Stanley Spencer’s paintings we headed for the rope-works on the dockyard site. Our guide was Steve or ‘Mr Steve’ as he informed us we should address him. Steve was ‘in character’ playing the part of a foreman at the rope works in the year of eighteen seventy-five. Steve clearly modelled his character on Genial Harry Grout that not so lovable rogue from Porridge. Steve was most entertaining and informative. Part way through several of us were ‘roped in’ to do some rope-making. My part in the process was to turn a handle on a flywheel that drove belts that in turn facilitated the twisting of the strands. One of my great grandfathers was part owner of Haverhill Rope works around the early part of the 20th century. For a very brief period I felt an affinity with my forebear. Well, sort of. The rope works is most certainly worth a visit. The camera doesn’t lie:

Cyprus

I'm sure that there must be some good parts to Cyprus, but halfway through our September week there and we hadn’t found it. Cyprus is hot, arid and underwhelming. In its favour they drive on the proper side of the road, the electricity is British three pin plug style, and at British strength. The pillar boxes and phone boxes are also from a British mould but yellow and green respectively. Unfortunately much of the plumbing is Greek. You can understand why a certain sort of brit loves to holiday and retire here as it is a sort of little England in the sun. You've got household names here like Marks & Spencer and Debenhams plus US fast food establishments like KFC, Starbucks and the ubiquitous MacDonald’s. If you are a lager drinking Sun reader or a wine drinking Daily Mail reader you could live a 'normal' lifestyle here without ever having to subject yourself to "foreign muck" or be in danger of exposing yourself to any meaningful culture. Large proportions of the leather-skinned ‘ex pats’ seem to live in ghettos; reasonably specified ghettos admittedly, but ghettos all the same. Many of them will be the bigoted twats that will have criticised and felt threatened by immigrant communities when they lived in the UK. Personally I care not for isolationist ethnic communities wherever they exist. I understand why it happens and depending in which country you are in it can often be born out of necessity but segregation can never be right whether it be forced or voluntary. To get the most out of where you live you need to be part of a wider society.

Later on in the week we went up to Nicosia and crossed over to the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. The Turkish part is stuck in time (early 1970s really) and quite charming as well as being somewhat dilapidated in parts. A certain rough around the edges charm. We had a wonderful lunch sitting under the trees between a mosque and a church.

I am assured that during the winter Cyprus greens up nicely, and I can quite believe it. No doubt during the winter it must be a reasonably pleasant place to be, but not so the rest of the year. If your idea of heaven is a hot dusty rock of an island, four and a half hours away by plane, where most of the buildings are boring concrete blocks and the beer is classically bland lager, then Cyprus could well be the place for you. As far as I’m concerned I have no plans to ever go there again.

Did you listen to John Peel?

Ken Garner, who put together the, quite frankly anal, tome known as The Peel Sessions is soliciting information from listeners to John Peel’s shows; my thanks to John Osborne for bringing this to my attention. If you were a listener to John’s programmes why not help Ken with his survey – click here.

The future is radio

The future’s bright, the future is radio!

One of the delights of moving to the big city is that you have access to so much more in a cultural sense. Coming from Bury St Edmunds a conservative, and Conservative, market town in the middle of Suffolk I been deprived culturally all my life. You mostly had to travel to see bands, art, decent cinema etc. etc. Now I have it on my doorstep and I feel like a kid in a sweetshop.

I love radio. I’m a child of the fifties. I was weaned on it. For my eight birthday (in 1963) my parents bought me a transistor radio; an expensive consumer item in those days. It remained glued to my lughole like mobiles are glued to yoof these days. These were the heady days of pirate radio. They played exciting new music, and had adverts. This was a brave new world. I was hooked, and I still am. Radio is just so much better than the telivisual idiot box.

I love radio. So imagine my interest when I read in the local newspaper that John Osborne, author of Radio Head (a book I own but have yet to read) had a programme, entitled ‘John Peel’s Shed’, on Future Radio. I had to investigate. I searched the interweb and discovered that Future Radio is a Norwich based community radio station. So last night I dusted down our one remaining VHF (only twats call it ‘FM’) radio and tuned in. John’s programme is based around a prize he won in a competition that John Peel ran in 2002. His prize was “four foot of vinyl”. As you can imagine what John Osborne played was a “teen terrific” and eclectic mix. After his programme I carried on listening, and have done so again this morning. Joy of joys, this is truly wonderful entertainment. Yes it’s amateur, but that’s a plus. This is anti-celebrity, and that is the future.

If you live in Norwich you can listen on 96.9VHF. If you don’t live in the hub of the universe then you can listen online.

Oh folly, folly

I was recently described, by someone who doesn’t know me, as an aesthete. The pseudo-libertarian blogger concerned, who shall remain nameless, meant it as a term of abuse, but I consider it a badge of honour. It would seem that someone who likes art, cinema, music, theatre and other ‘cultural’ activities is to be despised.

I was brought up on a council estate, when such things existed, and I have always considered myself to be working class. I take the Marxist view that if I don’t own the means of production then I must be working class. Simplistic some might argue, particularly as the ‘the middle-class’ doesn’t really figure heavily in the writings of Marx. Petty bourgeoisie, yes middle-class, no. In truth the middle-class wasn’t invented until after the First World War, so how could it feature in Marxist thinking? Despite considering myself to be working class I do come from middle-class stock and therefore have inherited a certain love of fine things, and fine experiences. I feel very fortunate that at this particular point in my life I am able, and have been able, to experience quite a number of what might be described as ‘aesthetic pleasures’. And so it was last weekend.

It was a nice bright evening when we arrived at the Prospect Tower just south of Faversham. The Prospect Tower was built as a ‘whim’ (a folly really) in the grounds of Belmont House. It seems to have become a glorified cricket pavilion, to which the many pictures that adorn the walls affirm. It is now owned by the Landmark Trust, an organisation that restores old usually quirky buildings and then rents them out as holiday ‘cottages’. As we sat in the main room drinking our tea, with the lady reading from ‘The Log’ (an upmarket guest book), it suddenly struck me how middle-class this all was. Oh dear!

We had a need for a long weekend away, a weekend somewhere where we could relax, not do too much on the tourist front, read books, write and feed our faces without having to worry about doing chores and other stuff. It was to be a weekend to recharge our batteries hence we plumped for somewhere to stay that was aesthetically interesting. A place to enjoy being in rather than just a dormitory. Somewhere to stay in. Having said that we did venture out a couple of times, once to Faversham and once to Whitstable, both nice places. Faversham is probably the most spread out market town that I have ever been to, giving the impression of being sparsely populated, although I’m sure it isn’t. There were people were about shopping, and the two pubs we drank in were reasonably busy. Whitstable proved to be a different kind of seaside experience. A long winding sea wall to walk along with a largely uncommercialised seafront which made a refreshing change. The south east is always portrayed as a bed of affluence, but this part of Kent doesn’t know it. I was amazed at how non-affluent it appeared to be. House prices seem most reasonable, virtually on a par with rural Norfolk, and the inhabitants are very salt of the earth.

The Prospect Tower is essentially made up of three cylindrical parts. The first houses the spiral staircase, the larger central cylinder houses the bedroom and above that the sitting room and at the other end you have the shower-room with the kitchen above rooms in the round, with period furniture.

The sitting room

The view from the battlements

One wonderful discovery that we made during our weekend away was a gem of a farm shop turned sizeable food retailer Macknades. When we visited their web site before going we thought, “This is too good to be true”. Thankfully it wasn’t, it was everything we’d hope for and more. We made three visits there. Oh why haven’t we got a place like it where we live?

I don’t know Kent that well but the little I’ve seen has left me hungry for more. We’ll be back!

Chip butty

Apparently the chip butty has not made it to the more rural parts of Norfolk.           

A work colleague called in to a chip shop in darkest Norfolk the other night and was met with icy stares from the locals queuing up for their fried delights. He asked the person serving if they did ‘chip butties’. The reply was in the negative. He then asked if they did buttered rolls. They did. So he said ‘I’ll have a buttered roll and a portion of chips please, and I’ll build my own’. The locals continued to stand stony-faced. Perhaps they were pondering on this amazing new learning. Perhaps they were trying to work out how to get one inside the other. Perhaps they were terrified by the strange magic of this very forward outsider. Who can say?

Who knows the chip butty might just catch on here in the next twenty years.

Things happen slowly in Norfolk.

Sportique

I have never really been one for partaking in any sport for the purposes of enjoyment, apart from badminton which was okay when I played with friends just as a knock-about sport. To me sport is something that gives you exercise and is not done for any enjoyment. At school (many many moons ago) I would try and avoid team games. I hate team games and have had nothing to do with them since leaving school. Today most of my exercise is derived from walking, which is far and beyond the most sensible way to retain a modicum of fitness.

There you have it, playing team games and sport in general is basically a shit thing to do. It’s Neanderthal activity for those that are too half-witted to partake in the arts. Given that playing sport is the lowest of the low what does that make those poor lost souls that want to watch it?

I have never been able to fathom out why anyone would want to watch sport of any kind. What can people possibly gain from it? Personally I’d rather watch paint dry than watch sport. Having to suffer 90+ minutes viewing of 22 overpaid lower life forms dragging their knuckles around a football pitch is my idea of hell. Hell comes in many forms, this week it is cricket, last week it was tennis, next week it will be something equally boring. What is the point of it all?

When I’m being entertained, I want to be challenged, amazed and/or amused. I have no wish to sit like a vegetable gawping at boasters of physical prowess. As if watching sport is not bad enough some people actual pay good money to do so. They must be truly mental. Perhaps there should be an extra tax on people who watch sport, as clearly they have more money than sense and therefore would presumably not be too bothered about being relieved of some more of it.

Roast beef and custard

Last night we went to the Norwich Arts Centre to see a performance of a show of words and music called ‘Phrased & Confused’. Unfortunately it was not that well attended (thank goodness they are getting an Arts Council grant). Whether this was down to poor publicity, poor or insufficient reviews or just bad luck I have no idea but it did seem a shame. The arts are going to suffer in this recession of that there is no doubt.

The show was basically made up of four acts:

• Dead Poets, a mash-up of MC-ing and poetry, courtesy of MC Mixy and poet Mark Grist.
• ‘atmospheric’ poet Aoife Mannix and accordionist Janie Armour
• Murray Lachlan Young
• Canadian folk collective Woodpigeon

Each act was very different from all of the others, which meant there was essentially something for everyone. I was impressed by the Dead Poets they amused, they pushed at a few boundaries and they provoked a few thoughts in me. I’ve no doubt that it has been done, but I sat thinking that a Shakespeare play executed in the rap style would be interesting to watch. The main reason for going, as far as I was concerned, was to see Murray Lachlan Young, and he certainly didn’t disappoint. His shit-hot alliteration, assonance and good old fashioned repetition, along with diverse subject matter, amusing introductions and very funny poems delivered in a faultless and expressive manner make for a mesmerising performance. The audience loved him and rightly so. The man is a genius. If you get a chance to see this man, do it. You will not regret it, I promise you!

Unfortunately I didn’t go a bundle on the other two acts. That’s not to say that they weren’t any good, it was just that they weren’t to my liking. They simply were not my cup of tea. My only criticism is with whoever produced the show. Shoddy would be putting it mildly. Very little thought seemed to have been given to the flow of the performance, as a result the pace was just so erratic that it reduced the impact, and at times challenged one’s concentration. It had the feeling of being slung together with very little thought which is so unfair to the artists involved. Think of it as a three course meal with its constituent parts served up in big uncomplimentary incompatible dollops. With a holistic approach the result would have most definitely been a show that was far greater than the sum of its parts rather than the pig’s ear that it was!

P.S Murray Lachlan Young was truly the headline act so why wasn’t he put on last?

Last Friday

I’d never travelled first class by train until last Friday. I liked the experience. Mustard City is at the end of the line. So a visit to London is great you get on at the start and get off at the end. Fantastic!

We were heading down to London to experience a Christmas present. It was a Thames lunch cruise. When we arrived at the pier where the boat was moored it seems that our worst fears were recognised a conservatory on top of a barge containing regimented tables. As it turned out it wasn’t too bad. We chugged down and then back up the Thames, eat a passable meal considering that it was mass catering and saw some interesting sites on the way. The only real naff thing was the classical music with a disco backbeat background music which was a bit too loud and rather nauseating.

After our lunchtime excursion we made our way to Borough, and the market there in particular. What an interesting and exciting place. A mass of wonderful food stalls all vying for you custom. It’s a shame that it was a hot day and we still had lots more to do as this prevented us making any purchases, but it was good to wander around drooling over the wonderful food. Edible erotica, you can’t beat it! As I’m no longer a vegetarian my world has been reopened to the delights of meat in all its forms. For me pork products, sausages hams etc are a joy to behold. That coupled with cheese and I’m in heaven. We plan to return to Borough market at a later date. If you’ve not been it is most definitely worth a visit. Being in Borough was a good excuse to visit a pub that I’d wanted to go to for a while. So we made for Tabard Street, home of a Harvey’s pub, the Royal Oak. I’ve blogged about it here.

Refreshed by ale we then headed to Tate Modern. I was keen to see the ‘Street Art’ adorning its walls before it is removed at the end of August. Great pictures, all quite different styles. My favourite, as I suspected it would be is this black and white one.

Even though it’s starting to peel it still looks good. At first you think that it is a man looking down the barrel of a gun until you see that it is really a video camera.

Here are some more pictures of the ‘graffiti’:

 

Unfortunate gonads!

Inside we went to one of the exhibitions. ‘Cy Twombly is regarded as one of the foremost painters in the world today,’ the introduction in the exhibition booklet tells us. Bollocks! I felt like the little boy in the Emperor’s New Clothes. The pictures are awful. Apart from some vaguely pleasing green efforts in Room 10 the rest is self-obsessed nonsense. Cy Twombly could well become a synonym for a mess. ‘It’s all gone Cy Twombly’, I can hear people crying in frustration as a culinary or diy creation goes tits up. My suggestion to you dear readers is avoid Cy Twombly like the plague!

We left the Tate feeling glad that we didn’t have to pay to enter the exhibition. As members we get in for ‘free’.

We had just enough time to pop into a Tiffinbites for a quick and jolly tasty bite to eat before catching the train home.

An exhausting but interesting day.