The Bard of Tysoe: Cheltenham Town Hall

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Showing posts with label Cheltenham Town Hall. Show all posts

Thursday, 1 February 2018

I knew our music would allure him…

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Sometime during last weekend, I came downstairs to find The Good Lady Bard transfixed by a recording of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue on Cl...

Sunday, 27 November 2016

Gentle breath of yours my sails must fill…

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Once he hears to his heart’s content, sails on, a wiser man. We know all the pains that the Greeks and Trojans once endured on the ...

Monday, 21 November 2016

Music of the Spheres: an Earth-dweller’s guide to The Planets…

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On Saturday, 26 November 2016, Cheltenham Symphony Orchestra – joined by the ladies of the Cheltenham Bach Choir – will perform a quite...

Sunday, 29 November 2015

This above all: to thine own self be three…

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The unabashed melodiousness of Brahms is without apology. – Steve Spice I like to imagine Brahms wandering around Europe – or eve...

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EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT THE BARD BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK:

The Bard of Tysoe: Copeland, Cumbria, United Kingdom; Originally an amateur musician… — yet having worked in IT and marketing communication for a quarter of a century — both as manager and consultant; as well as writing for the Guardian… — the Bard retired for medical reasons; and now devotes his life to keeping as healthy as possible by putting one foot in front of another (badly, but semi-frequently); watching the world, with all its vagaries, go by (in great puzzlement); capturing what he sees (in words and pictures); and trying to leave a trail of happiness in his wake. What matters most to him are beauty, truth, cats, and fairness — in whatever myriad forms they occur — and he despises inequality, greed, fascists, and hate. His favourite occupation is thinking; and he was (therefore) — for a handful of years — the Orchestra of the Swan’s ‘writer in reticence’. You are now, though, most likely to encounter him staring into space, with a thoughtful grin beneath his wonted hat and dark glasses, walking stick in hand, somewhere in the quieter parts of the Northern, North Western, and Western Fells of Lakeland. (He resembles nothing so much as a badly-dressed Herdwick.)

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