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I won The grandparent (Michael Joseph, 2016) at our annual street barbecue raffle.  Chose it, even, from the prize table loaded with various smellies and assorted other passed on ex-presents.  I guess the first couple of these Ladybird Books for grown-ups were a good joke, had something about them – contemporary situations wed, or rather mis-matched, to that original period Ladybird art that it is hard not to fondly recall – but, hey.

Now I’m a grandparent, and, yeah, some of it hits (the all-purpose child-minding), but there’s no consistency here as to the generations.  Sure, probably my parents had a kettle like that, that you heated on the stove I vaguely remember, but so what?  (And it was never that clean).  Not sure what “Janet is always popular with her rotarian [sic] friends because she has gin stashed all over town” – pictured at a naming ceremony for a boat – is doing here, especially when you turn the page and some old duffer in a sports jacket, apparently called Bill, “is telling his grandchildren about the time his band opened for The Sex Pistols.”

Glad it wasn’t a present, then.  Kids, do not let your parents persuade you to give this to a grandparent this Christmas.  It has a price tag of £6.99, which more than 10p a page, though Amazon are selling it at half-price.  I noted it was listed as being the No.1 bestseller in their ‘Grandparent’ book category.  That’s a link as a grandparent you have to follow, right?  No.2 is the Kindle edition of My grandpa is NOT grumpy; no comment.  No.3 is the Kindle edition of The incest diary (the physical book is there at No.7).  Don’t you just love unedited computer listings?

MK: a living landscape

Glad I managed to catch this beautifully presented exhibition at Central Library.  You wound your way round the organised space, high quality photos on boards – and on the floor (a grass snake!), on the ceiling – augmented with greenery.  Hardly a pioneer, but I’ve lived in Milton Keynes for 34 years now, and I’ve never understood the comic status, now thankfully receding, it was landed with for a long time (you know, like that British Rail sandwich joke).

MK was/is a more than decent bash at Ebenezer Howard’s idealistic garden city concept, delivered with style, ingenuity and wit.  Most of us love our concrete cows.  Shame the city centre resembles and out-of-town shopping mall and mammon threatens further, but all is not lost.  The struggle is to maintain the vision, which is where  the Fred Roche Foundation (http://fredroche.org/), the exhibition’s organisers, come in; Fred was a main man at the Development Corporation (the semi-legendary MKDC) that set the ball rolling.  The exhibition quotes John Ruskin, a man whose progressive thinking, I would say, while I’m here, is long overdue a major revival.  There’s a decent short summary of his thoughts here: http://www.ruskinmuseum.com/content/john-ruskin/who-was-john-ruskin.php.

Why you should trust Alison Graham …

… at least as far as tv crime thrillers and drama go.  From this week’s Radio Times:

The Loch; ITV 9 0’clock Sunday, July 9

It’s the penultimate episode and I’m still no wiser than I was at the start of this convoluted, baffling, messy thriller.  Just a tiny clue as to what might be going on in the little Scottish town would be most welcome.
Instead we get bluster, lumpen dialogue and a tone that veers alarmingly.  Is The Loch cosy crime, like Hamish Macbeth?  Or is it Reservoir Dogs in the Highlands?  Who knows.  The writing is all over the place and none of the characters convinces, notably that flipping maverick forensic psychologist.  “Go way, Blake,” a police chief yells at him.  Yes,  Blake.  GO AWAY.
It’s a great backdrop, but viewers cannot live by scenery alone.  Sometimes we need a plot.

Fearless: ITV 9 0’clock Monday, July 10

For some reason the Americans let campaigning human rights lawyer Emma into the US, though they wised up quickly and threw her into detention.  But not for long.  She’s back and she’s very annoyed.  Of course, she has uncovered a conspiracy at the highest levels of the British and US governments that reaches right back to the second Iraq War.  Blimey!
But Emma still wants a child and a stable boyfriend ….

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ian-rankin-rather-be-the-devil

But it’s only the new one until the next one (why not a sticker if you must?); and thankfully it’s the same old Rebus – no remake or remodel – doing his stuff anyway.

Siobhan Clarke was in a corridor of the Royal Infirmary, phone held up to her face, when she recognised Rebus making his way towards her.
­‘You’re limping,’ she said.
‘Just to correct you, I’m actually walking like John Wayne.’
‘John Wayne had a limp?’
‘Technically it’s called “moseying”.’
‘So you didn’t hurt yourself kicking in a door?’

There is a lot of sharp dialogue in Rather be the devil, the latest installment in Ian Rankin‘s Rebus saga, and highly enjoyable it all is too.  The retired Rebus is picking over a society murder case that had frustrated him earlier in his career, while his old mate and protegé DI Siobhan Clarke is involved in a case involving an Edinburgh criminal gang boss.  An ex-cop that Rebus goes to see is murdered not long after their meeting, and to Siobhan’s chagrin that case is taken up by Police Scotland’s elite squad, where another Rebus regular Malcolm Fox is now working.

Inevitably – this is crime fiction, after all – the cases are intriguingly discovered to be tangentially linked, not to forget an East-European connection, and the plotting provides ample room for Rebus putting his oar in and generally getting in the way, and for inter-police re-organisation rivalries to be played out on various levels, down to an entertaining sub-plot as to who gets the milk and provides the biscuits.  Old rival old school gang boss Big Gerry Cafferty – still a player – ends up figuring significantly and the tantalising prospect is held out at the close of proceedings that the next book will indeed be, in current tv terms, a spectacular series finale involving a final conflict between our man and Big Ger.

I get the impression Rankin really enjoyed doing this one.  Don’t get me wrong, Rather be the devil rattles along as effectively as ever, Rankin the plot-juggler still more than adept at keeping the balls in the air and the tension up, but the writing seems at times to take on a more relaxed feel.  Rebus has health worries – a “Hank Marvin”, a shadow on his lung – and is drinking low alcohol beers, chewing nicotine gum; he is also (hurray!) in a stable relationship with a woman.  Even though Rebus’s cold case involves a rock musician, the explicit musical references – becoming something of a genre cliché in certain circles – are thankfully more restrained.  The book’s title is still taken from a track on John Martyn’s Solid air album, though …

john-martin-solid-airstaring out at the night. Then he had walked to the record deck. Solid air was still there from the evening Deborah Quant had stayed over. It was an album that had always been there for him, no matter the troubles in his life. And Hadn’t John Martyn been troubled too? Johnny Too Bad – hitting the booze, falling out and brawling with friends and lovers. One leg hacked off in the operating theatre. But barreling on through life, singing and playing until the end.

… and without giving anything away there’s Over the hill, another Solid air track playing in the background in the restaurant in the final pages.  Rory Gallagher is really the only other featured artist.  Rebus is on a long drive with Malcolm Fox:

… I need to do a bit of thinking, which necessitates muting you – sorry about that.’
‘Muting me?’
Rebus reached for the stereo, pushing a button. Music burst from the speakers, filling the car as Rebus pressed his foot against the accelerator. Had Fox been any kind of music buff, he might have recognised the guitar sound, Rory Gallagher, ‘Kickback City’.

Ah, Malcolm Fox.  I salute you, Ian Rankin, for keeping faith with the man you created in your writer’s holiday from Rebus, and I realise you’re trying here, with Rebus off-handedly tutoring him in the ways of becoming a ‘real’ detective, in his heroism, but he’s condemned in his own words: “nobody paid him any heed.  He remembered that he was good at this – blending in, becoming invisible. He’d always enjoyed stakeouts and tailing suspects“; I’m afraid he remains anonymous, I can’t visualise him.  Siobhan deserves better as a beau (which seems to be the way the wind’s blowing).

Ah, Siobhan.  Calls for a bit of a diversion beyond teh printed page.  The original Rebus TV series, with John Hannah in the lead part, didn’t really work; Hannah was too young, too handsome.  I seem to recall that Rankin – apart from a Hitchcockian appearance as an extra – said he wasn’t getting involved in the production or script side of things at all.  Not even wanting to watch the finished product.  Something about Colin Dexter’s Morse, how in Dexter’s later books Morse morphed into the character actor John Thaw was playing, that the author allowed himself to lose control of his creation.

rebus_7078788Subsequent series of Rebus, with Ken Stott’s Rebus the living breathing character straight off the page, have fared much better in reflecting the books.  I’ve been watching them again recently and they strike me as being one of the best cop shows out there.  What I do wonder is whether Ian Rankin has been watching; although the character in the book has not changed, the dialogue here is sharper and wittier and I can’t help but, when reading, see it coming out of Ken Stott’s mouth.

But Siobhan … how great is Claire Price’s portrayal of Siobhan?  Impossible, I’d say, to replicate her reactions in prose: the half-smile, her muted grimaces, the odd gentle smirk – sometimes all at the same time –  her whole facial repertoire of affection, amusement, appalled admiration and suppressed surprise; but they all had to be hinted there in the text for her to pick so fully up on.  Worth a mention too is Jennifer Black’s performances as DCI Gill Templar, Rebus’s boss and former lover; the scene where Siobhan Clarke discovers that past liaison is a joy to behold.  Tremendous performances that I don’t think get the credit they deserve, and fully born of the books.

Before we leave Edinburgh here’s a snippet, a taste and feel of the lightness among the mayhem in Rather be the devil:

The solitary barman was entertaining the only two drinkers in the place to a sullen silence, the new arrivals doing nothing except darken his mood.
‘Help ye?’ he snapped.
‘Bottle of your best champagne, please,’ Rebus said.
‘If ye want fizz, we’ve got cider and lager.’
‘Both of them fine substitutes.’ Rebus held out the two photos. ‘Care to take a look?’

… dialogue  the likes of which you are unlikely to find many examples in the works of Alice Munro, where the odd wry smile is more the order of the day among much else of emotional import and the forensic examination is mostly taking place in the particular region of the heart.  Come to think of it, Siobhan might have escaped from one of her stories.

alice-munro-dear-lifeNobel Prize for Literature winner Alice Munro has been on my check-her-out list for at least a couple of decades, so thanks to the Book Group I can tick her off that list and transfer her onto the almost-certainly-read-some-more one.  (These are not real lists).  Shame of it is I left the reading of Dear Life (2012) late for the Book Group meeting and so had to zip through it when really I should have been savouring every word.

Hers is not a flashy prose, but it sings, takes you straight into how her people feel the changes in their lives; she documents social change in communities – post-war rural church-going, small town Canada through to the ’70s – through the events in women’s and men’s lives.  Intense, insightful, poignant, painful, melancholic, nuanced, rarely but oh so sweetly celebratory.  Loves lost, love foiled, found or never had.  Hopes extinguished, held on to, or newly discovered through the shifting sands of contingency, coincidence, happenstance.  And growing old.  That title – Dear Life – puts it so nicely.

Dear Life, published when she was 81, so probably her last collection, consists of 10 short stories and a Finale of 4 “not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last – and the closest – things I have to say about my own life.”  These ‘not quite’ stories are fascinating, covering her childhood and early youth: the moment she failed to believe her socially aspiring mother; her father seeing her through a scary unhappiness, and various other events, described so vividly:

I think that if I was writing fiction instead of remembering something that happened, I would never have given her that dress. A kind of advertisement she didn’t need. [from Voices]

You would think that this was just too much. The business gone, my mother’s health going, it wouldn’t do in fiction. But the strange thing is that I don’t remember that time as unhappy. There wasn’t a particularly despairing mood around the house. [from Dear Life]

There’s enough in the ten stories for at least half of them to justify novels of their own.  Dolly, which starts with an old couple, the man a poet once celebrated for his first book of love poems, looking for the perfect place to end their lives together, before they become too decrepit (spoiler alert: they don’t) takes on some wondrous and distressing turns in the twenty or thirty odd pages as the story unfolds.  Haven, a multi-layered family tale of disastrous good intentions involving a cellist and sibling indifference, builds to a stunning climax at a big church funeral, and along the way contains a deliciously strident (what we could now call anti-metropolotitan elite) rant:

“Now tell me,” my uncle is saying, addressing me as if nobody else were there, “tell me, do your parents go in for this sort of thing? What I mean is, this kind of music? Concerts and the like? They ever pay money to sit down for a couple of hours and wear their bottoms out listening to something they wouldn’t recognize half a day later? Pay money simply to perpetrate a fraud? You ever know them to do that?”

Funnily enough, at Book Group, most of us loved Dear Life, save the youngest member and a Jungian therapist.  But I’ll be reading more.

 

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Suspicions pbkSuspicions hardbackIn the nursery, Whicher was shown how the blanket had been drawn between Saville’s bedclothes on the night of his death, and the sheet and quilt ‘folded neatly back’ to the foot of the cot – which, he said, ‘it can hardly be supposed a man could have done.’

Yup, this for real a quarter century before Sherlock Holmes made his first bow.  Whicher was a friend of Charles Dickens – the character of Inspector Bucket in Bleak House draws on him – and one of the first generation of elite police detectives in London.

In unspectacular yet engaging prose, Kate Summerscale‘s The suspicions of Mr. Whicher or The murder at Road Hill House (Bloomsbury, 2008) catches a zeitgeist moment when things changed, when a few more pieces of the modernity jigsaw can be seen to have dropped into place.  The sub-title of the US edition suggests a broader canvas: A shocking murder and the undoing of a great Victorian detective.  From the details of the distressing case of the killing of a three-year old child in Wiltshire in 1860 we get to witness the establishment of the detective as a significant role in civil society, the growth of a sensationalist press and the evolution of crime fiction.

Nevermind the progress of the actual case, and its probable solution, which is interesting and original enough in itself, though I will say nothing more specific of it here, we also get to see various aspects of the changing Victorian class structure as they are played out, and the not so curious parallels in the growth of the modern methods of detection – the first record of the word ‘clueless’ is as late as 1862 – and Darwin’s theory of evolution, which is also a background presence generally; “Objects were incorruptible in their silence. They were mute witnesses to history, fragments – like Darwin’s fossils – that could freeze the past.”  Detective recruits were inevitably working class men of ambition, and as such were regarded as establishment sell-outs by their peers but greatly resented as rude, ‘low and mean’ intruders by a middle class struggling to hold on the privacy implied by the notion of the Englishman’s home being his castle.

In the matter of the evolution of the crime fiction genre – and you will recall that Dickens was heading that way with his unfinished The mystery of Edwin Drood – the Road Hill House murder was influential from the start,  setting the template for so much of what was to come.  Wilkie Collins’s The moonstone,

a founding fable of detective fiction, adopted many of the characteristics of the real investigation at Road: the country house crime in which the criminal must be one of the inmates of the house; the secret lives behind a veneer of propriety; the bumbling, pompous local policeman; the behaviour that seems to point to one thing yet turns out to point to another; the way that the innocent and the guilty alike act suspiciously, because all have something to hide; the scattering of ‘real clues and pseudo clues’ …

Margaret_Oliphant_Wilson_OliphantBut the popular novelist Margaret Oliphant (1828-1897), was fearful for her craft.  Looks like she lost.  She blamed it:

… on the detectives. Sensation fiction, she said, was ‘a literary institutionalisation of the habits of mind of the new police force.’ The ‘literary Detective’ she wrote in 1862, ‘is not a collaborator whom we welcome with any pleasure into the republic of letters. His appearance is neither favourable to taste or morals.’ A year later she complained of ‘detectivism’ …

Detectivism!  Now there’s a word for us to finish on Kate Summerscale‘s splendid exploration.  Recommended, and another justification for Book Groups, because I wouldn’t have occurred to me to read it otherwise.

Maestra

Bronzini - Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time

Bronzini – Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time. Seeing this in a gallery on a school trip changed our heroine’s life.

MaestraThere are at least three graphic murders in L.S.Hilton‘s Maestra (Zaffre, 2016), and there’s no mystery as to the killer, though don’t ask me to tell you what’s going down because I’d have to do a re-read to be sure and life’s too short and the to-be-read pile is too tall for that.  Not that it’s not an exhilarating ride for a lot of the time.

Why did I read Maestra?  It got a real going over in Private Eye but part of their reviewer’s beef was the good reviews it had got in some places; a blogger I subscribe to said it had some real merits, and it was cheap – a hardback for a fiver on Amazon, where the reviews are polarised.  Mention is made of 50 shades but that’s bollocks – (not that I’ve read 50 shades) L.S.Hilton can write.  I didn’t feel unclean so much at the detailed, sometimes orgiastic, sex (though I could have done without so much of it, and I’d need diagrams to understand what they were doing a lot of the time) as at all the designer label specifics.  And when I say all I mean a lot; is it fair to blame James Bond for starting that fictional trend for brand specifics?

Artemisia Gentileschi - Allegoria dell' inclinazione. recognising this clinched her interview to get the job at the auction house.

Artemisia Gentileschi – Allegoria dell’ inclinazione. recognising this clinched her interview to get the job at the auction house.

Same artist - Judith beheading Holofernes. A staple of classical art used as an artful counterpoint in the book.

Same artist – Judith beheading Holofernes. A staple of classical art used as an artful counterpoint in the book.

It’s a question just how much these two aspects of the novel are important in establishing the character of our anti-heroine, for this is indeed an homage to Patricia Highsmith’s Talented Mr, Ripley.  Judith Rashleigh (bloody hell – I’ve only just realised she shares a name with her in the painting) has had a difficult start in life, but she is given a purpose by Art.  She gets a junior job in one of the major auction houses where she discovers a). a low glass ceiling – breeding, who she knows – that excludes her advance, and b). very little love of art as art, as opposed to big profits, scams and/or money laundering.  Indeed, the only person there who shares her appreciation for the paintings is the caretaker in the basement.

Circumstances lead to her mixing with the super-rich on a modern Grand Tour of Europe, indulgence, intrigue and skullduggery.  Contempt for the super-rich elites who don’t know or take for granted the proper aesthetic value of their goodies drives the righteousness of her acts.  Which then inevitably take on a logic of risk and necessity of their own, leading to more of the same.  It’s a compelling first person narrative portrait (though one could argue the realism of the events) of someone who knows what they want and feels it is deserved.  Though there is something, too, which is endearing about her social observations.  And there are a couple of massive twists in the narrative that make it an intriguing read, one, though I had huge doubts during the opening chapters, I don’t regret giving time to.  Last words: “To be continued”.  Here are a few little squibs, some delightful scorn, that mean I’m tempted:

  • about a gold-digger: the diamond on her ring finger as spectacularly disproportionate as her tit job

  • the Med of the super-yacht anchorages: And even the sleepiest village square would contain a boutique or two where the women of the floating tribe of Eurowealth could pop …

  • about an ageing Russian oligarch: his face was timelessly malicious
  • on billionaire interior decoration stylee: All I could think of when we got to the apartment was that God never resists a chance to show His contempt for money.

  • on a murderee: … it occurred to me that one feels less guilty about murdering a man who reads Jeffrey Archer for pleasure.

  • on rich men again: If there was one thing I wanted never to see again if this little European tour came off it was another fucking tasselled loafer.

  • at the Venice Biennale: a squawking gaggle of dealers and art-whores…

Scribal, Bards, Yorkiefest

Scribal May 2016SS Shak 400Magnificent in significant parts, May’s Scribal Gathering was a bit of a strange one.  Featured acts were great.  Stony Bard Vanessa Horton was in great poetic form and anxious to remind us in passing, “I do do serious stuff too.”  Rutland Troubadour Paul McClure started off with a Prince tribute, harmonica harness in place and in use – I wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t told us – and

The splendid Paul McClure.  (No credit given to the photographer where I lifted it from)

The splendid Paul McClure. (Sorry – no credit given to the photographer where I lifted it from so none here)

delivered a fine set of Americana flavoured songs of his own making (including one that segued nicely into and out of Woody Guthrie’s This land is your land) to great applause and had us warming the cockles singing along with “I’m gonna find myself a little ray of sunshine.”  Inevitably we got Phil Chippendale’s localised This land – always a pleasure to singalong – later.

What else?  The bravery of stand-up comics who carry on regardless when no laughs come; the generosity of an audience that holds on for at least the sign off joke … that is not delivered.  A sour misanthropic sub-Chandler spoken word piece triggered by its author’s feeling of injustice at not getting enough time previously.  Which was one of the reasons Stephen Hobbs – introduced as Stony Stratford’s Alan Bennett – had to cut short his addendum to a really rather good piece he’d had to cut short at the well received Shakespeare open mic event at York House a couple of weeks earlier.  Hey ho, for the rain it raineth everyday.

But the evening concluded gloriously with the powerful voices of Andy Powell and Tim Hague doing their rousing acapella maritime thing: the moving Cornish boys, The Dogger Bank and another one I can’t remember.  And so out into the night to be confronted again by the damage to Stony Stratford High Street resulting from the big fire on the first day of May – photo at the bottom of this piece.

YorkieFest 2016YorkieFest line-upYesterday the fourth annual YorkieFest down the road at York House.  Click on the programme and then click again to read it.  Another great day’s music.  Invidious to single anyone out, but what a talented bunch of singer songwriters!  David Cattermole called back for an encore, gave us the mesmeric Can’t find my way home we’d been hoping for.  Great to hear some Bollywood played live – good vibes from Navaras; even got us singing along.  Roddy quality as ever, and The Fabulators really rocked the joint.  It was all good.

The good, the bad and the ugly

Poor old Stony, in particular those directly affected.  Photo mine own.

Poor old Stony, in particular those directly affected. Photo mine own.

Claudio Ranieri, 1973 - a class act.  Congratu;lations to Leicester City.

Claudio Ranieri, 1973 – a class act. Congratulations to Leicester City.

 

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Catherine O'Flynn - What was lostA lot of things are lost in Catherine O’Flynn‘s debut novel What was lost (Tindal Street, 2007), not least the Midland’s engineering heritage.  Set mostly in Green Oaks, a modern shopping centre, wasted lives, obsession, lost souls and disappointment crop up all over the place.

What was lost is full of good ideas but they don’t quite gel together satisfactorily.  Embracing comedy and tragedy, it hints at genres – a ghost on the CCTV, a major unsolved crime at its heart, a child’s diary, urban romance – that never quite add up to a coherent whole.  This is a shame, because there is much of promise going on here.  I wasn’t the only one of our Book Group who had to actually turn back to the opening chapters to confirm what seemed to be just tacked on at the end, which was only the core irony around which the important mystery element of the novel revolves and is resolved by.

So, What was lost is the sort of novel the phrase “it’s a curate’s egg” was made for.  It’s good enough to conjure up thoughts of Charles Dickens and what he would have made of the modern retail complex – the openings of Bleak House and A tale of two cities spring to mind, just for starters.  It doesn’t happen, though.  While convincing in some aspects – particularly the depiction of days in the life of Green Oaks, in the malls and behind the scenes – What was lost fails in others, particularly the main male characters most of the time.  Apart from a 10-year old girl who disappears in 1984 – the opening section of the book is her infectious aspiring detective Adrian Mole-style diary – and the deputy manager of a music store in Green Oaks in 2003, the woman whose experience parallels, presumably, that of the author’s before she got out, no-one else exactly has a life off of the page.  This makes a change, of course, from women saying that men can’t do women characters.

There’s an energy at play that strikes me as fairly typical of both provincial publishing and first novels, but which is also typically prone to simply trying too hard.  So:

Kate was frightened of dogs, though as she’d been bitten eleven times she couldn’t see that it was an irrational fear.

Eleven times?  Then there’s her latest research project with her 60-year-old statistician dad (another story):

This week’s had been a wide-ranging Which-style report on pear drops. Kate and her father shared a passion for them and had visited fifteen different sweet shops to compare size, sugar coating (or smooth), price per quarter pound, degree of acidity.

Fifteen – even in 1984?  Having said that, I find that most of the passages I have bookmarked are positive sparks, showing enough invention to make me interested in the author’s later work.  And the increasingly undisciplined and bitter blind shopper reports tagged on to some chapters certainly made me laugh.  Anyway …

There’s lovelorn Kurt, festering in the Green Oaks’ security team, keeping his old live-in girlfriends’ letters and bank statements, who still “curated the collection, though he didn’t know who for” – as desolate a short passage as you can find this side of poetry, for love had died a while before she literally did.  Lisa in the record store’s ending of her relationship with her slacker partner is nicely done too, after this bit of self-revelation:

It occurred to her that she felt the same about Ed as she did about her job – a kind of numbed acceptance. She thought how rarely you saw the words ‘numb’ and ‘acceptance’ on Valentine cards, and thought maybe she’d buy one for once if they widened their vocabulary a little.

The passages describing various goings on in the shop are particularly rich in nuance.  “Freddie Mercury was assuring everyone that they were champions. Lisa and the lost guy knew differently“; meanwhile the cramped staff room is littered with “Kentucky Fried detritus …”; back in the shop, record store nostalgics will recognise the Classical Department:

Sealed off behind its glass doors, with fake walnut walls, leather armchairs and soft music playing, the department gave the impression of a refuge. Somewhere to soothe the jangled nerves after a day spent on the singles counter. It was, however, a false impression. The truth was that the Classical Department was hell in a box.
The other departments attracted the odd eccentric, the occasional trying customer, but Classical drew the elite like some powerful catnip emitting its scent across the city.

One of our Book Group attested to – having recently been (commendably) doing some charity Christmas present wrapping in Milton Keynes shopping centre, she had had access to the bleak breeze blocked corridors and back-runs behind the shiny scenes of one of Mammon’s showpieces – What was lost‘s description of what it called the keenly felt “apartheid” of the shoppers’ and staff’s experience of such places.  This book has enough going for it to make one’s occasional wanderings in those marbled boulevards never feel quite the same again.

Musical adventures …

… so old they are practically ancient history.  But worth recording.

Vaultage Dec 10 15Vaultage Dec 23 2015Early December Vaultage saw Woburn singer songwriter Steve Gifford’s set increasingly strident from delicate picking beginnings, while The Fabulators (well, two guitarists therefrom) started with a storming Sweet home Chicago and proceeded to deliver an eclectic bunch of covers ranging from Teenage dirtbag (evoking memories of a friend’s dismay at her sub-teen daughter’s ability to sing along to Wheatus word-perfect on the radio) to Ace of spades, and beyond.  The Bogoff Brothers also performed after much discussion as to what they were going to call themselves.  The more literary option of The Brothers Bogoff, after Dostoyevsky, was considered, but rejected in the light of their country-heavy repertoire.  That’s them on the other poster.

Given he never features in the Aortas photomontages he puts together, here's a photo of Dan Plews.

Given he never features in the Aortas photomontages he puts together, here’s a photo of Dan Plews.

The last Aortas open mic at the Old George was a bit special with the cream of the usual crop: Dan Plews himself, of course, and others including Mark, Naomi, and Pat ‘the Hat’ Nicholson – the best I’ve seen him (he put it down to DADGAD tuning, starting with Dylan’s lilting Tomorrow is a long time). Hey, not forgetting an early bonus of Roddy Clenaghan’s dulcet tones not often heard here.  And a solo David Cattermole hitting his effortlessly spellbinding groove: somehow simultaneously relaxed and driving, hinting at revelation.  He joined Dan for a triumphant Heard it through the grapevine to finish the evening off.

The Christmas Eve Eve Vaultage – in a crowded Vaults Bar – was a splendid affair too, graced as it was with (it’s that man again) the David Cattermole Band, on this evening comprising Tom on cajon and another Dave contributing some beautifully lyrical phrasing of the alto saxophone; his first appearance in public for nearly two decades apparently – not that it showed.  We were treated to the extended Can’t find my way home among other delights.  Earlier the – I guess – creative heart of accomplished new young sort of folky-soul band, Reeds, impressed with some originals and then had us grinning and singing along to I wanna be like you from Jungle Book.

Meanwhile, on telly …

an extraordinarily intense and exciting sequence of music contained in one of those BBC4 historical compilation programmes that are usually littered with stuff you never liked in the first place (step forward among others in this instance in particular Argent’s God gave rock and roll to you – as if).  I speak of Old Grey Whistle Test; ’70s Gold.  With its golden core of Bob Marley and the WailersConcrete jungle followed by the magnificent Captain Beefheart (that triumphant grin!) & the Magic Band’s Upon the My O My; then with only a slight hiatus of (only) Johnny Winter’s relentlessly energetic take on Born in a crossfire hurricane, we got a full-blown full-on Roxette from Dr Feelgood, followed by the (ditto) Patti Smith Group doing great justice to Horses.  Stirred a few cockles, I can tell you.

beefheart3As it happens, the good Captain puts in a redundant appearance in What was lost, the book we started with.  The ultimately tragic Adrian, back from uni and with no great plans, plays the Lick my decals off album when he’s helping in the newsagents owned by his dad near where his young friend Kate lives, in an attempt to musically educate the punters; even she has her doubts.  A world in which Captain Beefheart is mainstream; now that’s an alternative reality.

 

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tmmkgWhat is time?  How do we order the past, the present, and the future.  Why are artists interested in time?  How is art a machine, vehicle, or device for exploring time?  How is art a means by which time ‘travels’, and how does art permit us to travel in time?

This is the way in to MK Gallery‘s latest show, How to construct a time machine, from the press release of which that opening quote is taken.  You enter under Ruth Ewan‘s We could have been anything that we wanted to be (2011).  Yup, only ten hours.  It harks back (nostalgically?) to the revolutionary Republican calendar of 1793 in France.  The exhibition is a fruitful and entertaining way to spend some time, and we will return to it later in this post.  Meanwhile, let us consider the book as a time machine – two books, actually – and visit a period when England was actively trying to decide what it wanted to be more than usual.

LamentationLamentation (Mantle, 2014) is the sixth in C.J.Sansom‘s distinguished sequence of weighty historical crime novels featuring the hunchback lawyer Matthew Shardlake, set in the reign of Henry VIII.  Innocent traitor (2006) was popular historian Alison Weir‘s first novel after nearly two decade’s worth of non-fiction mostly touching on the same era.  The lead protagonists of both novels witness the burning at the stake of the heretic Anne Askew at Smithfield in 1546; Henry’s 6th wife – Katherine Parr – features strongly in each book as a good woman; and his prolonged miserable death is a very big deal in both – well it would be, you’d suppose.

That I read them one after another was pure coincidence; I’ve followed Sheldrake’s fortunes from the start in 2003’s Dissolution, while Innocent traitor was the latest Book Group book.  Add the spellbinding adaptation of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall on the telly and a surfeit of Tudors could threaten, were the latter not so beautifully done; Thomas Cromwell – not one of Shardlake’s favourite people when alive – is long gone by the time the novels begin.  And what a time: when failure to believe in transubstantiation – that the bread and wine taken at Catholic Mass actually become the blood and body of Christ – could be fatal; when even sacramentarianism, the sop of metaphor, just wasn’t good enough.

Innocent traitorWhile its narrative is driven by events at – and it spends a fair amount of time in –  royal residences and the corridors of power, Lamentation also shows us Tudor London in its vivid entirety.  Along with the sights, sounds and smells of its mean streets and the river you get to see an interesting selection of London’s other ranks.  The drama of Innocent traitor, on the other hand, is almost exclusively played out in the opulent royal courts and in the mansions of the high and mighty.  Similarly, while the issue in Innocent traitor is seen simply as being between Catholic and Protestant, in Lamentation we get to meet some real radicals, those handy folk devils – socialist Levellers precursors no less – the Anabaptists.

Lamentation is an astute, gripping, sometimes violent, layers-of-the-onion conspiracy thriller, an examination of the nitty-gritty of realpolitik at close quarters, delivered with a beating heart and a finely tuned moral core.  A sub-plot involves a hopeless legal case Sheldrake has been engaged in, which functions as both light relief and to underscore what is going on in the wider world.  There is an easy continuity of Shardlake’s likeable social circle with previous volumes; you care about him and his friends.  He gets involved again against his better judgment, basically because he fancies the Queen; not that anything’s ever gonna happen but, you know, she’s got a nice smile.  What I found particularly interesting this time around is his growing disillusion with it all, his radicalisation.  Here’s the evidence.  Postmodernist intrusion? – maybe, but not beyond the realms after what he’s seen:

  • I no longer had sympathies with either side in the religious quarrel, and sometimes doubted God’s very existence … (p6)
  • Nicholas shook his head firmly.  “Now the war is over, prosperity will surely return.  And the security of everyone depends on people staying within the ranks to which they were born.  Otherwise we should have the anarchy of the Anabaptists.”
    That bogey again.  I said, “I confess the more I see of mankind, the more I think we are all of one common clay.” (p160)
  • “I thought the proceeds from the monasteries would be used to bring justice to the poor; that the King, as Head of the Church, would have a regard to what the old church did not.  Yet all that money went on extending Whitehall and other palaces, or was thrown away on the war.  No wonder some folks have gone down more radical paths.” (p225)
  • I looked over all these rich men and women and thought of Timothy, somewhere alone out on the streets.  The notion came to me that perhaps the Anabaptists had something after all: a world where the gulf between the few rich and the many poor did not exist, a world where preening peacocks like Thomas Seymour and Serjeant Blower wore wadmol and cheap leather might not be so bad a place after all. (p561)

Right on, brother Shardlake!  Who it is almost time to leave, save to ponder what it can mean as the hunchback lawyer says, when mightily surprised, “I sat bolt upright” – a miracle? – and wonder how he’s going to fare in the months and years to come after Henry’s death, which is the crisis at the heart of Alison Weir‘s book.  Something to look forward to.  I note that Sansom has already cleverly set his man up with a young mate who is to achieve a prominent position when Elisabeth is on the throne, but there’s a lot of muddy water to wade through before that happens.

Innocent traitorThe innocent traitor of Innocent traitor is Lady Jane Grey: at age 16, the 9-day queen, holder of the record for the shortest reign of any English monarch.  The girl was cruelly used as a pawn by her parents and various others at court in order both to secure a Protestant succession to the throne and as a blatant exercise in self-aggrandisement.  She ended up – spoiler alert – quite unjustly, because of the specific utter stupidity of her very own father, losing her head, as happened quite often in those times.  I knew nothing of her story before reading this, but I do now, and for this sympathetic retelling I am grateful.

I wasn’t quite as annoyed by certain aspects of Innocent traitor as some in my Book Group.  Because of time constraints (I was reading Lamentation) I skim-read a lot of it and so missed the others’ detailed objections to the prose, the unlikely adverbial and adjectival elaborations, that particularly got up people’s noses.  The tale is told in first person mode by a number of participants including Jane herself, her Lady Macbeth of a mother (the book opens with her giving birth to Jane), her loyal loving serving woman Mrs Ellen, Queen Katherine Parr, Queen Mary to be, and a couple of others, with the final words coming from The Executioner (which was rather a nice touch, I thought).  The trouble is, they all sound the same, with practically no variation in voice at all, even from Mrs Ellen, the closest to a pleb we get in these pages.  As first person narratives they work better as third person voiceovers for a tv documentary.  The one that really made us laugh in bemusement was Jane’s, “Today I am four year’s old,” followed by some elaborate scene-setting with no concessions to toddler talk, which might have been interesting.  And her mum telling us, early on, “After two disastrous marriages, and a cataclysmic quarrel with the Pope, my uncle, King Henry VIII, at last has a son and heir” is no isolated example.

I was moved by Jane’s plight, I’ll admit, but I didn’t cry, so according to the quote on the cover of the paperback edition, I “must have a heart of stone“.  “What young girl would not giver her all to be Queen of England?” Tom Seymour (for it is he) asks rhetorically.  Alas, not poor bullied Jane, the kind of gal who scorns all the young nobles out a-hunting: “Their sport is but a shadow to the pleasure I find in Plato.  Poor souls, it seems to me they do not know what pleasure means,” she tells her tutor.  Maybe, but she didn’t have a chance to have much fun.

Back to the Time Machine …

Time machineThere is much to engage with in How to construct a time machine – Mark Wallinger’s highly reflective aluminium TARDIS which “disappears into the space-time continuum by reflecting its own surroundings” and the butterflies ‘flying’ in the zoetrope, to mention but two – but the thing that really absorbed me, and I shall probably go back and watch it all the way through, just because, was Thomson & Craighead‘s The Time Machine in Alphabetical Order (2010), a re-editing of the classic 1960 film of the H.G.Wells novel featuring Rod Taylor as the time traveller; that’s right, only the one with the actual time machine prop the lads successfully bid for on eBay in an episode in the first series of The Big Bang Theory .  Each word of dialogue, and the spaces in between after the last words of a sequence (I appreciated the rest), appear in alphabetical order.  Never mind the artspeak justification, it works because you vaguely know the story, but it also works … beyond narrative.  I guffawed loudly a number of times in the 15 minutes I was in there in two sessions (it runs for 1 hour, 36 minutes) and hung around for specific words: ‘love’, for one – just the once, as it happens.  You probably have to experience it to understand why I’m so enthusiastic, but for the high frequency words like ‘time’, ‘machine’ or ‘future’ the rapid fire succession of speakers and backgrounds is a joy to behold.  If I were to meet the perpetrators I would not be able not to ask whether they took at least some inspiration from the notorious Short f***ing version compilation of The Big Lebowski(Go on: you probably want to).

Before I move on I’ll say something about the gallery experience.  Another of the exhibits is a small (non-flat) television showing a performance of John Cage‘s 4’33 – you know, the one where the concert pianist sits at the piano and ‘plays’ silence (in three movements) for precisely 4 minutes and 33 seconds.  The telly’s on the floor and on the wall above it there’s a facsimile of the original score sheets (oh, yes – full of rests).  Now you can see the same bit of film right here on your computer or other digital device in much better picture (and sound) quality, but … context … it’s just different, worth being there.

Briefly, some other cultural adventures …

In chronological order:

Scribal Feb 2015

Archivists of the future please note: Glass Tears were nowhere to be seen.

HB Scribal 5What can I say?  It was Scribal‘s fifth birthday and there was cake courtesy of Caz.  The mighty Antipoet were mighty lots of things, among them being rhythm section to the wonderful Dodobones, who were surviving admirably after their self-imposed cover-a-day for a month stint on YouTubeMitchell Taylor showed a sensitive side but still managed to shout/sing “Fascist scum” with some glee at another song’s end; shame because his The blood of St George stands well enough (nay, better) without it.  New Bard Pat Nicholson continues to blossom in the role.  Can’t remember much else about it.

SSSAnother grand night at York House for S.S.Shanty! 3, a benefit for the RNLI. (for non-MK readers the SS stands for Stony Stratford, as well as the traditional nautical nomenclature).  An acapella evening of great variety with, naturally, a maritime theme one way or the other.  We had the many-handed Sloop Groggy Dogg from the shores of Woburn Sands, barber shop from B-Flat, a round the world trip from Oxford’s Manchoir, and the stirring Trim & Doxy up from Liverpool (one of whom played accordion).  The sheer power of The Five Men Not Called Matt (all 6 of ’em) gets me every time, with, this night, the occasional sweet bonus of aiding and abettment from Michèle Welbourn.  All the beer was drunk.  Unexpected were the low-level murmurings of demurral at the last mentioned (wait for it) when MC Ken kicked off the evening by addressing the assembled multitude, “Ladies, Gentlemen, and UKIP supporters.”

All six of The Five Men Not Called Matt in action.  Photo (c) Alison Holden.

All six of The Five Men Not Called Matt in action. Photo (c) Alison Holden.

esAnd then there was Matthew Bourne‘s splendid production of Edward Scissorhands at the theatre.  Has to be one of the highlights of the year already.  I’ll say it again: I don’t do ballet, but I do do Matthew Bourne.  What’s to add?  All the superlatives.  Even though I’ve never actually seen the Tim Burton movie, I’ll presume you know the story.  It had everything.  Energy, humour, wit, rhythm, romance, compassion, satire, a touch of goth.  Brilliant moves, exhilarating ensemble work, suitably corny stage business and a great set.  Glorious shiny happy ’50s American suburban stereotypes paraded and parodied, and the fears lurking behind.  Dominic North as Edward was magnificent.  Was moved greatly by the dramatic, then poignant, ending.  And we got snowed on.  Biggest genuine standing ovation I’ve ever been a part of.

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New Year’s Eve I was Trotsky’s cousin
on a boat to England
in the company of Russian aristos
a proto-capitalist & a journo,
escaping the Revolution.
Spoiler alert:
it was not me what done it.
Funny how
with each murder mystery party
you’re a part of
you hanker to be the one that did the deed;
I was not alone in this thought.

Nostalgic for a touch of Andy Stewart
or Jimmy Shand in that night,
for Kenneth McKellar taking
the low road,
Chick Murray’s drollery.

Austin 6Morris Major
New Year’s Day
and the motors are out
in Market Square,
ancient and not so modern.
Lucky with the weather this time:
an Austin 6 and a Morris Major,
my pick this year
another so cool
blue Citroen.

Citroen

In the first few days of 2015
Cinderella, an hour in the dentist’s chair,
a downbeat movie,
misunderstood hilarity at an open mic,
a funeral and
Je suis Charlie.

15209_10154947389425500_1811519934788905596_nFirst panto for me in decades
but this was Stony’s own
So, hi Danni, hi you two,
great job Caz, everyone;
Buttons’ pissed off at being called
Zipper and Velcro fresh jokery to me,
the Ugly Sisters
metaphorical (rhyming) blisters.
Had a great time.  Oh yes I did.

Out of the Cock and the engrossing gloom
of
Inside Llewyn Davies
– “a study in failure” –
into the Old George,
guffawing, trying to remember
where we’d seen a young man
with ‘TWAT’ written on his forehead
looking into the mirror
puzzled: what was ‘TAWT’ was supposed to mean?
No, sorry Plucky, we weren’t laughing
at you singing Dolly’s Jolene.
(Benidorm, as it happens).

At the funeral
nearly blubbing to the Beatles,
Lennon’s In my life.
Cliff was our Ringo,
our goalie, a fast bowler supreme.
Charming, handsome: a gentleman.
Different paths taken
from school, so seldom seen.
Shame; no blame.

Scribal Jan 2015Another cracker of a January Scribal Gathering:
A fine energised set
from Mark ‘slow hand’ Owen.
Standing up, belting out
a hard-driving new song to finish.
The dapper (I want that jacket) Alan Wolfson:
cultured bewhiskeredly, a delight.
No stranger to rhyme or dirt, adroit.
Delivered this little gem
(lifted here verbatim from his FB ©AW):

Je suis Charlie Hebdo, tu es Charlie Hebdo, il est Charlie Hebdo, elle est Charlie Hebdo, nous sommes Charlie Hebdo, vous êtes Charlie Hebdo,
ils sont Charlie Hebdo. elles sont Charlie Hebdo.
The sound of a million people conjugating in the centre of Paris.

Great and lesser spotted
woodpeckers in the singular
on different days
in the local nature reserve.
An hour in the dentist’s chair
and a brand new tooth.
Biting the Nutribullet,
supping green goo
from a red wine glass.

And now we can say something
if there’s talk of
Breaking bad;
yup, good as everybody said.
But
Broadchurch is losing me,
and the
Big Bang Theory a series too far,
whimpering; Penny,
grow back your hair.

Old for new metal
Saw rats
and cats
at the MK Materials Recycling Facility,
an interesting time to be had.
Heath Robinson lives!
State-of-the-art, proud
and getting prouder:
Oh, the excitement building over the road
– we’re in a race with Edinburgh –
the sheer poetry of the
Residual Waste Treatment Facility
“Diverting black bag waste from landfill.”

Sipped spiced cider
wassailing the apple trees at York House
on Saturday, turning back time with
the Julian calendar and the Turning Wheel.

Linford Wood 1Linford Wood 2
Meeting
up with old friends again
in Linford Wood, and finding
some new ones too.

Can’t not but mention
“Manchester City 0, Arsenal 2”
on Sunday; celebrating inside
at The Old George
with The Outside This
tick-tocking,
The Last Quarter
& the lovely Ugly beauty
at Aortas.

The annual January jigsaw
nearly done, but …
Jigsaw 2015

And so it’s adieu for now with a couple of January songs, subtly chosen because they have the month in the title.  No, not that one; apology due if that released an earworm, and duly given.  Maybe this one of these will banish it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uH4pXuUIhko

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqDlTKqxu2w

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Spent a couple of weeks in the Algarve.  Liked what I saw of Portugal.  Got back a week ago.  Stayed in Alvor, what was once a small fishing village and is now a small but not overwhelming tourist town.  Had a great time – brilliant beaches, vino verde, et al – but never mind that.  Here, in no particular order, are a few things that struck me (click on the pictures, and click again to enlarge):

  • Teresa Paulino - The plane watchersOn the main roundabout in or out of Faro Airport this wonderful set of figures by sculptor Teresa Sofia Paulino.  It’s called Os Observadores, or The plane watchers.  Nice idea, beautifully executed.  (Not sure calling it ‘The plane spotters’ really does it justice, Val.)  Didn’t have a chance to take a photograph myself but it would have been hard to do justice to them all in one shot; the image used here is the cover photo of the sculptor’s Facebook page.  Her website (click here) has a homepage of exquisite simplicity (at time of writing, of course).
  • FishermanAnother intriguing work was João Cutileiro‘s Homenagem ao Pescador, or Homage to the (well endowed) fisherman, in the harbour area at Alvor.  No, we couldn’t work out what the head was all about either, but it’s a striking piece.  This was close to a restaurante called O Navegador (The Navigator – see, I’m practically bi-lingual already on the page) where I had a taste of the Algarvian Trilogy – a tart made using figs, almonds and carob – and had the most flavoursome boiled potato I can recall, ever; I do not have the words.  Divine is not one you would normally use in conjunction with boiled potatoes, but it wasn’t just me, either.  On the subject of eating out, as a piscatorian with a paranoia of fish bones, let us hail the monkfish.  Had a fine time in the Adega d’Alvor restaurante – brilliant welcome and friendly service, lovely food (monkfish again) – only let down by them having run out of the Algarvian Trilogy.
  • The statues and tile work in Monchique are worth a nod here too.  Someone has cared, the town has lots of nice touches.Monchique mural
  • Alvor Praia dos Três IrmãosGot to mention all the textures and colours, the naturally sculpted cliffs, all those varying strata, the reds in the sunshine.  Seems once an A level Geography student always an A Level Geography student; I’m not ungrateful.  The photo is from but a small part of the spectacular structures at Praia dos Três Irmãos, or Three Brothers Beach, the Three Brothers being the survivors of a promontory, like The Needles on the Isle of Wight but more colourful.  Good swimming water for those up for a sea dip I am assured.Boardwalk
  • The western side of the Rio Alvor estuary has been generously graced with a European Community funded boardwalk over the tidal shallows and vegetation down to the beach; money well spent, I’d say.  Mies van der Rohe (“God is in the details”) would be pleased with the rusted  structures that occur – satisfyingly to my eye – at intervals and junctions along the boardwalk’s length.
  • Iberian barcodesThe local supermarket was part of the Pingo Dolce chain; hard not to succomb to calling it Pingu.  In translation ‘Sweet Price’ doesn’t have the same ring to it, removes an element of mystery, suggests less than the tremendous bread and fish counters.  Leaving the bird life for a while yet, I will venture that while the Iberian Magpie is a slimmer, more graceful and nuanced creature than we are used to back in the UK, the same cannot be said for the Iberian Bar Code.  As it happened one of our happy band had packed a DVD of Fellini’s 1960 black and white movie La Dolce Vita, which some might call synchronicity, others coincidence.  Whichever way, ‘dolce’ losses something in translation.  As it happened I kept nodding off (I was tired – we were sampling our own sweet life) for its duration and missed the – I’m told – iconic fountains of Rome scene altogether.  Film seemed to go on for a long time but the bits I saw mean I may return.
  • Ilha ecologicaA different model of household waste recycling: no house by house collections.  Instead we have the Ilha Ecologica, spread at frequent intervals around the town.  Under the pods – specific to bottles, cardboard, plastic and metal – are removable tanks that are replaced by empty ones every day.  Bottles descend into a cavernous echo chamber; the clatter of a single bottle is an experience, the depositing of a party-load spectacular (and possibly fatal with a hangover).  Hard not to refer to them as Illogical Islands (though they seem to work well enough) the Ilha Ecologica would appear to be an absolute gift to crime fiction.
  • FrogAnd speaking of echo chambers, the local marsh frogs, hanging around by the pipes taking the occasional streams under the back lanes make a remarkable noise of a summer evening.
  • Didn’t see a lot of the World Cup, and, Portugal’s matches aside, what was available to us in the villa was fairly random, so I missed England’s last two matches altogether, which was probably a bonus.  With commentary in Portuguese it was refreshing not having to – with the odd honourable exception – put up with the usual witterings that I returned to for the quarter finals in the UK.  What sort of a life has Rio Ferdinand had that so much of what he sees happening on the pitch is “unbelievable”?   My knowledge of the Portuguese language was essentially nil as far as the spoken word went so it was football all the way.  When Portugal were knocked out at the group stage all the shops were suddenly promoting Brazil tat.  At least Portugal won a game.  I find it hard to remember an English player displaying any of the real football passion seen in this World Cup from the likes of the USA (as opposed to John Terry being ‘patriotic’ aka thuggish) since that Beckham performance against Greece back whenever.
  • FrameMarshall amp framedMarshall amp situ 2Abandoned buildings off the beaten track intrigued and provided interest both as supporting frames for the local flora and platforms for some unlikely graffiti.  That’s a life-size Marshall amp and the poem on the other side of the same cottage reads, “Her eyes pierce the void / Cr??? (cross?) deep dreams of chaos / He whispers Meerkat” and it’s signed Meerkat.  Google gives up no source.  There’s a story there – a band not getting it together in the country?
  • SwallowSwallows had chosen to build a nest on top of the villa’s patio floodlight.  They work so hard.  It was decided to not use the light for the duration (so no midnight swimming in the pool) and there was definite feeding but no fledging before we left.  Would love to know how it turned out.  As a result of all that and plentiful other swallow activity  and some undeniable swifts at the airport I’m hazarding a boast that I can now tell the difference.  Lots of other bird interest.  The aforementioned Iberian magpies, black winged stilts, a flamboyance of flamingos, the storks nesting on turrets and chimney pots in Silves, a good look at some resplendent bee eaters (kingfishers of the air in their iridescence) and, hey! – a fleeting glance (for some of us) of a hoopoe.
  • Oh wotthehell, here’s a photo of a beach:Fishing
  • The ladyPedestrian crossingSo I leave you with an image of the Lady who graced (or was it haunted) the villa hall.  And another survival from a back road in Monchique.  Never mind Abbey Road, I need to get a bowler hat.

Big thanks to V & P, ta to A, R & J.
Not forgetting other A, of course.
And Jess: how can I throw it
if you won’t let go of the ball?

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