Austerity cuts compel the masses to bleed…

Character

THE BARD OF TYSOE (‘Uneven Stephen’, to his few friends)

Stephen is of indeterminate middle- to old-age. He looks like a tramp trying to dress like a teenager (and failing). He writes to survive; but is unsure why people – or how many of them – read his ‘essays’. He is less clever than he believes; and uses long words to impress – as well as a defence mechanism. He walks with a limp (and a stick); and his politics also lean leftwards – alarmingly so. His style is all over the damn’ place, though. He is not a woman… – although he can, of course, be played by one (see footnote).

THE BARD OF TYSOE is sitting at a dining table in a small, rural semi-detached cottage. It could be anywhere aspiringly middle-class. It is dark: therefore very late; or too early. There is a cold, half-drunk mug of coffee on the table, within the half-drunk’s arm’s reach. It smells – as does he – of brandy. He is surrounded by play-texts; creased theatre tickets; a dictionary; a thesaurus; the complete works of Shakespeare; boxes of pills; and small squares of almost-illegible (even to him) scribbled notes, in different-coloured inks.

     The only light emanates from a small desk-lamp and the iPad he is staring intently into, glasses halfway down his protuberant nose. All that can be heard is a clock ticking; and the sporadic, half-hearted, three-fingered pounding of the well-worn keyboard in front of him. Occasionally, he mutters, as he attempts to write. Frequently, he swears. Eventually, a percussive rhythm is established: and he speaks the words aloud as he types.

The daft thing is… that I knew what I was walking into: that I knew that walking through those doors would mean having my brains beaten and scrambled like an oversized egg (an ostrich egg?); my heart eviscerated, then macerated, before being cleverly reassembled and reinstated, yet soggy: a grown-up version of those wonky papier-mâché bowls we made at primary school. I mean – for goodness’ sake… – I’d not only been there before; but I had personal experience from – if you see what I mean… – the other side of the curtain. (Beat.)

My other half (“partner” sounds so officious…) has cared for girls like Joanne; has witnessed their attempts at self-harm; has felt repeatedly powerless against the destructive dragon of Government insult – no Saint George rode in on a white steed to save fair Sure Start… – felt pained and drained by it all; yet, somehow, responsible… – and I had (therefore) shared in its overwhelming catastrophic affect; held hands with the profound loss of hope and meaning. (He tries to sound actorly.) “My dad was a teacher”, too. (Back to his usual voice.) A council estate comprehensive. It was his voice I therefore heard saying: (His tone of voice changes again.) “The real thing is knowing what’s right, and what’s best. And the difference between the two. They can’t teach you that.” It sounded like something he would – does – say.

(Pause. He wipes a tear from his right eye with his hand; smearing his glasses. He removes them; wipes them clear; puts them back on.)

That was why, (His voice cracks a little.) after gritting my teeth through all that pain (no, (Beat. He smiles.) not saying “nneerrrrr…”, thank you…!) – (His face and voice return to the previous state.) not wanting, sat on the front row, to distract; to even make contact… – why, finally, all those tears flowed. And wouldn’t stop. (Beat.) “I cry too easily,” I’d said to the lovely, patient, lady next to me. But this wasn’t easy – how could it be…? This was so true to life, so real. This was hard as fuck… (sorry) – because this happens every day. A thousand times. Every. Single. Day. And, even though we know who is to blame… – (Beat.) what is it: cowardice; lack of thought; prejudice; better-the devil-you-know; laziness, even…? – even though we know who, we won’t get rid of the buggers. We won’t. And we don’t.

(Pause.)

Some of us tried. God knows. (Look at my Twitter avatar: and read the small print.) But not enough. (Not enough people. Not enough effort.) And, now, even those we thought could at least pull together some rusty foil and a donkey – I know: shit Don Quixote reference (just to show I ‘get’ theatre, okay?) – are pulling themselves to pieces, instead. Thank god for contemporary theatre: it – when it’s this good – understands; it ‘gets’ us – shows that we’re not alone. Not like poor Joanne. Sadly, it too flits in and out of our lives. I, personally, need it on a twenty-four-hour-seven-day-a-week-fifty-two-weeks-of-the-year-for-eternity loop; (Beat.) or at least on speed-dial.

Yes: I know I keep rabbiting on about “theatre as therapy” – but, as someone wiser than I said, earlier today (A brief smile flickers across his face.) (thank you, Ms Wilkey): “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” (Beat.) (I’d never heard this before. And it’s spot on. So credit where it’s due…. (Beat.) Don’t carp: it’s not pretty. It doesn’t suit you.) (Beat.) And, although I fall into both camps… – rather, I hope, than between two stools… (ugh) – yes, the comfort that comes from knowing your worldview isn’t quite as unique as you’d sorta hoped (but really, really, really didn’t want it to be…) isn’t half as thrilling as being further disturbed. (Beat. He looks up: as though gazing at someone across the table; and smiles, lovingly and humorously.) (This is the point where “my other half”, reading this, says that I “was disturbed enough already”. Hence that “further”…! Natch.)

(Pause. Returns to previous state.)

I don’t want to sit easily within my comfort zone. Not that I have had a physical one for quite some time. And it seems my psychological one is creeping along in that one’s shadow, anyway. And not that I know how to sit comfortably, anyhoo. (Beat.) That I sat still for over an hour, in discomfort and discomfit (not that that’s a real word – unless you’re Milton – and, sorry, John, even if it was, it’s not the same as what you may have meant: it just sounded clever in my head… – funny how these things always sound stupid once I open my big gob…). (Beat.) What was I saying? Oh, yeah: that I sat still for over an hour was testament to so many talented women… – yes: I know that sounds patronizing; but I have balls (last time I looked); (He looks down, wistfully.) and, try as I might, I can’t seem to break free of my genetic determinism. (If I’d have just said “genes”, you’d have thought I was trying to throw in one of my stupid puns. So I tried to show just how multifaceted, how bloody clever I was, instead. A lose-lose situation. Just hopefully not for my dangly bits.) (Beat.)

“What does it show?” you ask. (Yes, I can hear the sardonicism: more-than-half-expecting me to put my foot in my mouth again.) Well, I’m no physical contortionist – as those of you who know me will attest… – but I do love to muck around with words: tying my readers up in knots. (No: not like that.) (Beat.) What it shows – I reply… – is that, in some quarters – hoping not to offend… (which I’m bound to do: me being little old little autistic me… – that’s my excuse, etc.) – is that women are, for me, on the whole (please, please don’t go there…) so much more insightful; so much more honest; so much more caring; so much more creative in expressing these things than the typical (whatever that may mean) man. (Note I said “typical”. A typical masculine, feminine-ending, get-out clause.)

(Pause.)

Seriously. (Beat.) From where I sit, women have got matters – validity, especially – much more sussed than we men have. (I know I’m stereotyping, here: but this is a sodding review – well, it was meant to be… – not a faux-academic paper on feminism. I’m not qualified for that.) (Beat.) Sadly, though, since the worlds (real or imagined) of Graves’ The White Goddess, their (women’s) position of superiority… – no: I honestly believe, at least creatively, thoughtfully, heartfelt-fully, they are waaaay beyond equality (the word you were probably expecting): they are, sadly, just not recognized for it as much as they should be… – we men (and you can put that in finger-quotes if you so wish) have used our greater physicality to subsume them. (Beat.) But not for much longer.

To be blunt: I don’t want the world to be comfortable, either. (Beat.) Both meanings. (Do I have to spell it out? No. Thought not.) (Beat.) Selfishly, I don’t want it to be comfortable for anybody – having also played my own part in requiring such help as Joanne; such aid… – aid that often never comes; or comes in the wrong size and shape; or time….

(Pause. He gathers his breath, and looks up: as if expecting a thought, or maybe even a magical being, to suddenly appear.)

“I don’t want it to be comfortable for those that are already comfortable” is what I should have said: having fought so hard for myself that it was obviously to the detriment (no doubt) of others – my only weapons (I believed… I believe…) being intelligence and intransigence. (Beat.) But, nearly always – or I wouldn’t be facing these doors in the first place: would I…? – even these, fired at close range, double-barrelled, have not been enough. And when I had called on what I used to be able to rely on – had found myself alone, staring into an abyss, filled with an intolerable echoing vacuum – all I really had were doors like these. So I had no option but to walk through them.

The first time, I hadn’t known what to expect. At all. (Of course.) And that’s how it should be. (Of course.) (Beat.) That big gob of mine was smacked about so hard that I lost my focus, a little; forgot to lip-read; thus missed a few of the jokes. (Beat.) I got the punchline, though. Straight to (and through) my heart, my guts, my head. It hurt so much I had to go back for more. So, in between times, I read the script. More pain. (“More masochism, you mean!”) No lesser impact. (Beat.)

Now I knew all the words; and you’d have assumed, knowing “what I was walking into”, I also knew what to expect. But this is, of course – “as those of you who know me will attest…” – why I try never to go to a play just the once. Yes, I’m deaf. (See above.) Not dumb, though. But even with every single one of your umpteen senses working overtime, you’d still have missed something. (It could be that “punchline”, of course.) And I know I always miss lots of things: because – even over nine visits (He smirks.) (sorry: no links, tonight: so no explanations…) – every repeat visit, each new bruising, sheds new light; brings new detail to the fore. (Beat.) And, when you’ve got a script this stunning (sorry, that’s a crap word: but, currently, it’s all I have…): performed by someone whose every single facial muscle is connected to their most raw, honest emotions through some magical circuit not possessed by us mere mortals; someone who can change convincingly into another’s skin at the flick of a switch; whose voice ranges – emotionally, aurally, tonally, subjectively, geographically… effectively… – wider than the chasm between truth and politics; whose eyes shed glistening tears in harmony with yours… – when all that comes together: you really, really, really want to be there. (Again.)

(Pause. His face, which had seemingly flickered constantly with a mixture of hurt and happiness, now fills with utter confidence. The words come spilling out.)

Yes – oh ye of little faith! – miracles can not only repeat, but grow in power. Lightning strikes twice in your heart and brain: and the pain is more than doubled. The thrill: even more so! (He lowers his voice a little.) (The pain of not being there a third time is one of vacancy. (A crescendo begins….) This pain is one of presence. Of beauty. Of truth. And therefore vice versa. Of being hollowed out; and refilled: with all the pieces not quite fitting any more. Thank god. But it is a thrill.) (Beat. We have reached the top of that build.)

I described it as “electroshock therapy”, after my first time. How do you beat that…? Well, don’t ask me, for heaven’s sake. I was ‘only’ watching. Ask the Muses who made it happen. See if they know. (Beat.) Call it a confluence of sorts. A celestial alignment. Five writers, on bloody fantastic, almost indescribable, form. (His voice drops almost to a whisper…) (That would be multiplicative, rather than summational. He said. Showing off again. With all those long words. (…and then rises again.) “I bet he ate a bloody thesaurus for breakfast.”) (Beat.) A director with more coercive, collegiate magic than all of Hogwarts. (No: that – what you’re thinking… – is not my sodding idea of contemporary sodding theatre, thank you very much.) Designed, lit, directed, managed, produced by a team of genies; a team of geniuses.

(His voice returns to normal.) The Q&A opened a little chink. (Helped, subtly, by The Numinous One.) (Beat.) But these were no rude mechanicals. (Titania, cloned, maybe?) To be honest, I don’t want to see too much of what goes on behind that curtain. My road to enlightenment is rather long. (I’d “rather” like it to be infinite, as well. But that’s not how it works.) And I have not yet taken many steps. (He smirks again.) (And, with a gait like this, it’s gonna take a while!) (Beat. His voice returns to normal again; the confidence draining. The light dims in parallel.)

That Q&A also helped salve some of the pain – in the right sort of way. But rubbing such ointment on your bruises just reminds you that, why, how, they exist. At first. Sadly, I know they will eventually fade. But, until then, I’ll keep rubbing. It’s good for the soul. And – being brutally blunt – it’s a relief to have pain that’s externally inflicted. In fact, it’s cleansing – good for what’s left of your soul… (if you had one in the first place… – unfortunately, those who are comfortable prefer to remain so; they relish being undisturbed…).

(Pause. He looks at his left wrist. His voice is suddenly urgent.)

Bloody hell: is that the time?!

(We hear the sound of a switch being flicked. The lights instantly fade to darkness. Through a window we may not have noticed before, the first light of dawn very faintly outlines him standing, then limping off stage.)

Footnote…

This would almost certainly read and sound a whole lot better were it written by Deborah Bruce, Theresa Ikoko, Laura Lomas, Chino Odimba, and Ursula Rani Sarma. It would be more cohesive and appealing were it then directed by Róisín McBrinn, assisted by Laura Asare; designed by Lucy Osborne, and lit by Emma Chapman; had its sound designed by Becky Smith; was stage-managed by Breege Brennan; and produced by Emma Waslin and Helen Pringle – all mixed in with a little dose of mischief from Erica Whyman and the RSC (whose staff – especially at The Other Place – are, quite possibly, extremely accommodating and helpful wizards).

     Sadly, though, I fear not even the awe-inspiring vocal, emotional and physical talents of the goddess that is Tanya Moodie (photographed here by Katherine Leedale) could rescue it from its certain failure as pastiche. You never know, though: she’s so incredibly gifted that she could probably make this rubbish break your heart into a thousand pieces….

Merry Sproutmas…!

For Alex and Mike…

This year, for the first time in living memory, the Winter Solstice coincides exactly (in fact, to the minute) with the (as yet) little-known celebration of Sproutmas: where we commemorate the budding of the Monster Sprout; and remind ourselves of our gemmiferous saviour’s miraculous creation story.

Today’s lesson is therefore taken from the first chapter of The Book According to Cranberry (an arguable source, admittedly) –

1. In the recipe was the Sprout, and the Sprout was with Chestnut, and the Sprout was Chestnut.
2. The same was in the ingredients with Chestnut.
3. All things were cooked by her; and without her was not any thing cooked that was cooked.
4. In her was taste; and the taste was the feast of diners.
5. And the feast smelleth in the kitchen; and the cooker-hood extracted it not.
6. There was a chef sent from Chestnut, whose name was Floyd.
7. The same came for a toasting, to raise toasting of the Feast, that all diners through him might be satisfied.
8. He was not that Feast, but was sent to raise toasting of that Feast.
9. That was the true Feast, which feasteth every diner that cometh into the restaurant.
10. He was in the restaurant, and the restaurant was made by him, and the restaurant knew him not.
11. He drank unto his socks, and his socks carried him not.
12. But as many as carried him, to them gave he menus to become the fans of Chestnut, even to them that believe on her name:
13. Which were cooked, not with sauce, nor of the turkey of the flesh, nor of the bill of diners, but of Chestnut.
14. And the Sprout was made festive, and eaten among us (and we beheld her greenness, the greenness as of the only pistachio of the Nut), full of relish and flavour.

Thanks be to Chestnut. Worship the Sprout.

The Pard of Avon (ye seconde parte thereof…)

Blow winds and crack your cheeks…

Time had moved on. And the experience had made her vow never to do it again – what with all the packing; still-unopened cardboard boxes; complicated fees; broken Emma Bridgewater crockery; crooked solicitors; and estate agents who wouldn’t recognize any version of the truth if it poked them in both eyes with a hot poker. This time, she swore (for the umpteenth time), it was permanent: even if the cottage had proved not to be quite as perfect as it had first looked on that bright spring day; and all the paint had obviously been applied hastily with a thick roller by a one-legged moose. Especially the skirting-boards. This meant that it was now winter, of course. (Nice carpets, though. And extremely well fitted.)

Flakes of snow were therefore dutifully drifting lazily down outside The Peacock, in Oxhill: so lazily, in fact, that some of them just couldn’t be bothered to land; whilst the majority took the shortest route to the ground possible, whilst still trying to look as ballerina-like and graceful as they could: imagining they were in some wonderful Disney cartoon (and wondering when “whilst” took preference over “while” in a sentence).

Inside, two familiar-looking oldish gents (you might have to saw them in half and count the rings) were sat in front of the log-burner: which didn’t so much roar, as just hint at the odd, low, unthreatening growl. Our two subjects were long past the coat-steaming stage; and well past their first pints of the night. They were the only customers, though.

“No: I didn’t mean the plays and sonnets weren’t any good, when I said that. I just implied that, having been around this long, it’s just slightly easier to keep them in print, and help build importance, and an industry around them – that’s all. I mean, there isn’t a Royal Jonson Theatre, is there? Although I’m sure that would bring the Yanks over here even more! Or the Royal Marlowe Company? All it takes is the very occasional, very little nudge. Obviously I don’t make any money from it… directly. But the fame’s nice.”

“So how do you survive – er, financially, I mean?”

“I used to, er, help out at the Birthplace Trust. But, at the moment, people seem to think I’m some sort of retired archaeologist, ‘off the teevee’ – which isn’t that wrong, of course; and I, for one, am not going to convince them otherwise: especially if it gets me free pints of ale…! Another?” he asked, clinking his almost empty glass against his greying, close-cropped companion’s. “I must do some research, though: they seem to expect that I should always wear badly-knitted, colourful jumpers….” He stroked his stubbly, white chin with his free hand.

“Don’t mind if I do,” replied the other, a ruminative smile on his face. “Mind you, I’ve got to get back home, later; and look at it,” he said, glancing outside into the darkness; and then lifting his darkened spectacles – which didn’t help. “Two miles. In wellies. And with my gammy leg….”

“No problem,” his friend grinned, then laughed, at the obvious ploy. You can bunk at my hovel. But shouldn’t you be writing more of that Kenneth Grahame eco pastiche rubbish…?” Just at this moment, a gaggle of middle-aged women entered, snow piled like advertising-manufactured dandruff on their hats, hoods, and thick coats’ shoulders; and, after a ritual removal of said items, scarves and gloves (but not necessarily in that order), they plonked themselves down around the large ‘Reserved’ table in the window of the pub: some of them snuggling amongst the cushions on the large bench; others choosing and shuffling chairs around, governed by some innate, feminine law of organized chaos – including a couple from under the gentlemen’s table: who courteously nodded their tacit agreement in return, touching their long-eroded forelocks politely. “Oh bugger,” suddenly whispered the older one, with the wispy hair, after rising from his seat. I don’t bloody believe it.”

As if on command from some invisible sergeant-at-arms, all the women [see subsequent book description] had removed various editions of King Lear, of various ages, and in various states of repair, from their handbags [ditto]. “Hello, Book Club!” welcomed the barmaid. “Hello, Linda!” they all replied in unison, cheerfully; and then a discussion followed – literally over the gents’ heads – about the sudden change in the weather; the inaccuracy of forecasts; would they be having their usuals, or something a little more warming; and were they happy with their food orders. “I think a couple of extra bottles of that nice South African Merlot would be nice!” chirrupped one of them (as the others nodded, sagely). Somehow, it was obvious that this (obviously Waitrose-shopping, Boden-wearing, Range Rover-driving) slightly older, less rural-accented lady, was the leader of the group. And it would become more obvious as the night wore on; and the snow deepened, dependably.

¶

Once the hubbub had resolved itself, and all were back at their respective tables (and Linda positioned behind the bar, of course: after many trips to and from the kitchen), the two men listened in on the discussion; realized it was probably growingly obvious that they were doing so; and ordered some food, too, so they could eat in silence, and listen some more. “They just don’t get it, do they?” muttered the senior of the two, chewing appreciatively on a chunk of gravy-coated Charlecote venison sausage. “Honestly, it’s not that complicated – it’s just about a bloke who goes senile; his nasty, greedy, dysfunctional family; and a critique of mental healthcare. The rest is just filler. Oh, apart from the storm. Everyone loves a good storm – I mean, look at them… – special effects will make everyone forget the dross; and a sad bit at the end – especially someone or three worth caring for dying (and the more the merrier, if you see what I mean…) – that means that those with hearts leave the theatre in a turmoil, knowing that it moved them, and therefore must have been really good. Honestly, it’s just a formula. Well-written, I’ll admit; and cleverer than Jonson or Marlowe, of course; but nothing particularly original. You could even set it on a council estate, now, if you wanted ‘edginess’, or modern relevance….”

“What about the Fool?”

“In this winter and rough weather? Mind you: the ‘mango and lime’ one sounds rather nice! Perhaps followed by a large cup of coffee?”

His companion sighed. And not for the first time. Nor the last. Not by a country mile. Or twain.

The Pard of Avon (the first part of several…?)

Thou hast seen these signs…

Perhaps it was the poor council intern from K.E.S., pulling the trolley up Chapel Lane, loaded with identical-shaped and -sized R.S.C. bags, in the sweltering heat, narrowly avoiding a collision, firstly, with the last open air bus of the day, and then a man, with sunglasses and closely-cropped greying hair, badly parallel parking in the Disabled spaces? Perhaps it was the yells emanating from the opened windows of Elizabeth House, as the councillors who had held their seats for the fifteenth time quizzed their new, fresh-faced colleagues as to whatthefuck an “app” was anyhow; and how were they then supposed to downsize it on their mobile telephones, anyway? Perhaps it was the row of white vans on Henley Street, all labelled – some considerably better than others: which did not bode well for the results of their work – with the words “sign”, “design”, “print”, or “type”; and the endless hammering from men with muscles, hard hats, and sweat: all perched precariously on a parallel row of stepladders, and a serial row of planks? Perhaps it was the rapid desecration and sacking of the dictionary corners in what were currently Waterstones and WHSmith – the raping and pillaging of books leaving anything behind, scattered on the floor, not synonym-, paronomasia- or Bard-related? Whatever it was, some powerful plague had infected – or some virulent concoction had been injected into – the retail arteries of Stratford-upon-Avon. And all just before nine o’clock, one unseasonably hot Friday night at the end of May (just as the shops were about to close).

In her first week as the United Kingdom’s second female Prime Minister, Nicola Sturgeon had declared that localism – or “subsidiarity”, as she preferred to call it: seeing as how it was so badly tarnished by Cameron’s feeble, skewed attempts – was the number one policy that would unite a nation riven by the petty squabblings of a general election campaign that, in its final days, had dissolved into name-calling and, sometimes, even outright racism. It was therefore “up to local people to take back local control” – and the newly-formed Stratford-on-Avon District Council (with an unlikely make-up of one representative from each major party – including the freak selection of an SNP member for the newly-defined Red Horse constituency – several ‘outliers’ – including a 97-year-old woman claiming to represent all Warwickshire badgers and hedgehogs – as well as an Independent ‘poet’ named Steve) had interpreted this (or was trying to) as meaning that every single business – especially those which ‘interfaced’ with tourists (and whose onrush was already making its mark in the town) – should be named – and relevantly – with an apposite Shakespeare quote, term, character or play name. Puns were allowed – under certain circumstances (which would be determined by Steve) – but no bastardizations or misspellings. Oh, and all retailers had to apply for their Shakespeare Nominative Outline Term (or S.N.O.T.) licences by midday, the next day. Hence, the “rush into the secret house of death”; or – less poetically – the long tailback from the council offices all the way down to Holy Trinity.

At the head of the queue was a man with a strong French accent screaming that a café sold food: so why could he not retain “Ze Food of Lurve”…? And, for what felt like the forty-seventh time, wafting her face with a battered copy of Twelfth Night, the poor girl behind the counter, trying also to hide behind the necessary rotating fan, now that the air-conditioning had sensibly retired, not wanting to get involved, replied “Because it’s to do with music. Music. M. U. S. I. C.. Not food. And it says here that your ‘appetite may sicken’, and you’ll ‘die’. D.I.E.. I know. I did it for G.C.S.E.. Is that what you really want…? To be associated with food poisoning…? And it’s already been given to the guitar shop, anyway….” But her fading words went unheard.

What was needed was someone (or something) with authority. But, in a building centred around politicians (that is, people with skill-sets that ill-prepared them for government: especially of a town whose population increased, tsunami-like, at the beginning of summer; and whose definition of multiculturalism was a takeaway Balti from Thespians Indian Restaurant), this was as likely as not stumbling into parading columns of famous actors with vast, flaunted, velvet cloaks, pacing perpetually up and down Bancroft Gardens – even in this heat – waiting to be accosted (“Oh: how did you know it was little meee? I was trying sooo hard to blend in, my dear boy…”); or a drunken ex-Hamlet in a dark corner of The Dirty Duck (“Itsh wash my finesht hour, you know. My very finesht. Yesh: mine’sh a double. Thank you, good man. Oh. And a pint of Stella…”).

But, as the Man once said: “A most high miracle!” [Tourist tat and legal potions; 26c Union Street; surprisingly, perhaps – or maybe not – run by an arrogant, and, of course, bearded, hipster, named Sebastian (or so he says).] And, in through the front door – miraculously parting the infinitely long, increasingly stressed and dehydrated crocodile of shopkeepers – entered a tall, quiet, man; in fact, entered what can only be described as a tall, quiet, very wizardy-looking man. Just detectable was his voice. And, just detectable in that voice was a distant Irish brogue – as distant as Dublin and Dubai, maybe; or Dudley and Dundee – but detectable, nonetheless. But was there also a tinge of rural Warwickshire in there…?

“Excuse me,” he said (or possibly whispered: the only noise now was the whirring fan – and even that seemed to have dwindled in the man’s mysterious and powerful presence). “I’m trying to find Fairer Fortune. [Tourist tat and predictions; 26d Union Street; predictably run by a raven-locked woman of indeterminable age and thickly-applied make-up, named Helen, of course.] I have an interview there in ten minutes. But none of the shops have signs on them. And it looks like the street names are all being removed.” The receptionist gave him a map, and scribbled directions – a long arrow, basically – on it. He said “Thank you”; hesitated for a moment, and added: “It looks like you’re having some sort of trouble. I’ll be back. Later.” By the time she had looked up, after putting down her pen, all that was left in front of her quizzical, grateful eyes was an impression of wayward, wispy white hair, a kindly smile, and spectacles that somehow glistened mischievously. She didn’t even wonder why anyone would attend an interview so late. And on a Friday night, too.

¶

The following morning, all the hubbub had died down; the street signs had returned; and finally, after decades of complaints from furious letter-writers to the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald, the fascias on every shop in the centre of town were not only aesthetically pleasing in themselves; but, somehow, magically, you may say, formed a rather wonderful grouping and concatenation of hues and typography. There were even gaps in-between catering establishments – some, even, not purveying “tourist tat” at all. Or coffee.

And yet, for a while, no-one noticed. Only a couple of weeks later, wandering along by the theatre, did a man named Jack notice that Sheep Street’s clothing shop, All the Men and Women, was next door to Merely Players, the gaming-related souvenir shop; followed by Exits and Entrances, the funeral directors; One Man in his Time, the clockmakers; what used to be Mothercare; their offshoot, selling school uniforms; Ann Summers; a sheet-music shop; an Oxfam specializing in ex-military uniforms; a new public house (specializing in roast lunches and dinners); and an old-people’s home. And, on Ely Street, Flat 2b was – possibly amusingly – next to a flat labelled “2c (not 2b)”; next door to a philosopher’s; and then a gun shop; the relocated, and much-expanded, Fairer Fortune; Games Worskshop; and another funeral directors.

But, by the time he reached what he was convinced he believed he knew to be Pizza Express, all thoughts of abnormality had been replaced by hunger: and he singularly failed to notice, that, although the logo looked similar and familiar, his favourite restaurant had been renamed, weirdly, The Proud Man’s Contumely; and the previously friendly waiters had somehow become very rude indeed.

Freedom of screech…

It’s funny (depending, of course, on your definition of that word): but I thought I saw Jim Davidson in Bart’s, the other day; in the queue just in front of Jethro, and Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown – all proudly wearing their four-inch-diameter “I heart Bernard Manning” badges on their chests: featuring a portrait of the man once described as “a comedic dinosaur” (although I would debate the use of that word “comedic”). What I didn’t know, though, was that Davidson was Scottish; or had “Alasdair McAlasdair” as a non-de-fume.

I’m not quite sure either what the point is (simply put, of course, there isn’t one…) of giving over two pages of February’s Tysoe & District Record to the misogynistic, almost-racist, nonsensical rantings of a self-important, self-deluded worshipper of Onan; what it achieves; or who – apart from its author – finds its puerile, snide scribblings entertaining, or remotely (as in the distance from here to Betelgeuse) amusing. Perhaps he will accuse me of having a sense-of-humour bypass (not true: I find Jeremy Hardy, for instance, intensely side-splitting – although deeply intelligent…); but I found this month’s Letter from abroad both insulting (particularly to all other Scots – excluding Frankie Boyle, perhaps) and demeaning; and wholly appalling and insulting as a portrayal of Tysoe being equivalent to an eighteenth-century, overly-privileged (meaning sneering down your gout-ridden nose at people who aren’t like you; don’t have your health or wealth; or your nasty, patriarchal, patronizing attitude to people not of your ilk, sex, colour or brainlessness) Royston Vasey.

What worries me even more is that such awful garbage really does appeal to villagers: and that I am therefore in a decent (probably classed as a limp-wristed, liberal, left-wing, lesbian-hugging, Guardian-reading, heart-on-sleeve-wearing, fox-loving – all of which I am proud to be…) but tiny minority: which has suddenly woken up in the insensitive nightmare of a place that is a village in a real-life Little Britain.

Perhaps Nadhim Zahawi – as our most famous resident – should also be worried: not just that he’s also “from abroad”; and not that we’re all going to vote sensibly for the Green Party (or perhaps even Labour: in a tactical attempt to emerge from austerity); but that we’re slithering, as a representative part of his constituency, quickly even more down to the right: and will, as a result, be backing a member of Nigel Farage’s ragtag bunch of “fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists, mostly” as M(C)P in the upcoming General Election?

I sincerely hope not. Otherwise, as someone who is disabled, I might find myself banned from driving. Not a good position to be in, in such rural isolation.

¶

No doubt, as a result of this post, I shall be the subject (not that I care) of cliché-bound derision and yet more ignorant, dribbling prejudice in next month’s column – perhaps labelled as a “scrounger”; perhaps even described as a “cripple” (a word, of course, which I am allowed to use: but you are not – unless, of course, you are also one: in which case I will be happy to spend my underserved benefit on buying you more fags and booze, so we can kill ourselves slowly together slobbing in front of your ninety-two-inch plasma behind closed curtains; only, though, of course, after standing in the queue in poor Bart’s again, behind a string of other obnoxious twerps who think their every bigoted utterance worthy of sharing, and even being committed to print)?

Feel free to publish: but don’t be surprised to be damned instantly, and laughed at – rather than with – for being both utterly despicable and inane, and demonstrably absurd and ridiculous. Je suis Charlie. Je suis Ahmed. Je suis Juif. Je suis Policier. Je suis Bard. Je suis Disgusted of Upper Tysoe.

Ooh, ooh, my ears are alight…

True satire is not just posturing, in a cosily collusive middle-class milieu, as “anti-establishment”. It is freedom laughing in the face of tyranny. That takes courage of an order demonstrated by the assassinated journalists at Charlie Hebdo, whose slain editor simply stated that he would rather die than “live like a rat”.

– Hugh Hetherington: The Guardian

Free speech comes at a price; it even costs human lives. The bottom line for an open and free democracy seems to me to be that I have to accept that someone, somewhere, sooner or later, will say something that offends me. But I have to live with my feelings, and not assuage them in any violent way at all. In fact, we can all have a “right” to cause offence, if we do not also demand the “right” to take offence too. It is likely that some of those who reject this principle, whatever their religion, or lack of it, will continue to make martyrs of those who practise it.

– Fr Alec Mitchell: The Guardian

Editor’s note
This morning, I received an email purporting to be from a certain Charlie Tyso, and his esteemed colleague Xavier O’Duss. I here quote it in full, for your edification and, I hope, amusement…

And it came to pass on the third day in the evening, at the seventh hour, that there were thunders and lightnings, and a thick clod upon the hill, and the voice of the strumpet exceeding loud; so that all the people that were in the House of Words trembled. And Supposes brought forth the people out of the House to meet with the Great Lord Sod, who must be obeyed in all things; and they stood at the nether part of the hill, in the Parish of Tysoe. And the Hill of Tysoe was altogether in a smoke, because the Great Lord descended from His moated mansion upon it in a rusting diesel 4x4: and the smoke thereof ascended as the smoke of a fire of damp, unseasoned logs, and the whole hill quaked greatly.

And when the voice of the strumpet sounded long, and waxed louder and louder, Supposes spake, and Sod answered him by an angry voice. And the Great Lord Sod graced the mass of people with his almighty presence, coming down upon the Hill of Tysoe, on the top of the hill; and the Great Lord cast his shadow over Supposes and summoned him up to the top of the hill; and Supposes went up. And for Supposes there was much going up, and much going down: because the Great Lord is obeyed in all His contrivances.

And the Great Lord said unto Supposes, Go down, charge the people, lest they break through unto the True Plan to gaze on its reality, and many of them get pissed off thusly: Give them in its stead this Tablet of Sand, which showeth well my Word and its Meaning, even though it appeareth as the Word of Supposes, all guised as the Law of the Land: And let the parish priests also, which dare to approach near to the Great Lord, pacify themselves, lest the Great Lord break forth wind upon them. And Supposes said unto the Great Lord, The poor mass of people, thy humble and obedient servants, cannot come up to the Hill of Tysoe: for thou chargedst us, saying, Set bounds about the hill, and protect it from wind power.

And the Great Lord said unto him, Away, get thee down, and thou shalt come up, thou, and thy servants; those who trade with thee: the candlestick-maker, who stands high with his candles but sheds but little light; and the baker, who produceth humble pies of puff pastry and filled with fluff. But let not the parish priests and the mass of people break through to come up unto the Great Lord, lest it be to dance at His bidding of a summer’s day in the grounds of his moated mansion. So Supposes went down unto the people, and waffled unto them. And they considered that they saw much light in his endless words; and believed those words bright, and gave much praise: although, verily, the words were dull and hollow to their simple minds.

¶

And Sod spake all these words, saying, I am the Lord thy Sod, who knoweth everything, which have brought thee out of the land of Braveheart, out of the house of porridge, and into the mire at the foot of the hill, where floods and pestilence cometh at my whim. Thou shalt have no other Lords before me. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven bloggage, or any criticism of any thing that is in the Tablet above, or that is in the footnotes beneath, or that is in the water under the earth (even when it rises above the earth): Thou shalt not bow down thyself to mine enemy of mine own making that is Braveheart, nor serve the critic that is but Bardolatry, nor yet even the parish priests: For I the Lord thy Sod am a jealous Sod, visiting the iniquity of all that is written in the Tablet of Sand upon the common mass of people unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; And shewing insincerity unto the two or three of them that can abide me, and keep my suggestions.

Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy Sod in vain; for the Great Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain. Remember the Tablet of Sand, to keep all that is written therein holey, for it ticketh all the boxes that be in the land: And disavow all that might be espied within any True Plan, lest it bear the false witness of base common people. Six months shalt thou cheweth upon the Tablet of Sand, and be all thy flummoxed at its meaning: But the seventh month is the Referendum of the Great Lord: In it thou shalt not vote “No”, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates; nor thy badger: For in six months the Great Lord manufactureth great policies and rules, through His servant Supposes, as the Tablet of Sand, and all that in it is (and then buggered off to the pub in his 4x4: wherefore the Great Lord blessed the pub, and drained it dry as the sand from which the Tablet was made).

Honour thy compost bin and thy rainwater butt: that thy days may be long upon the New Tysoe which the Great Lord giveth thee, and all the lands therein which He shall order according to His Word that is a fathomless Algorithm. Thou shalt not question. Thou shalt not commit bloggery. Thou shalt not oppose. Thou shalt not bear witness against the Tablet of Sand. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s ironstone cottage. Thou shalt not query thy Supposes’ spreadsheets, nor his solar panels, nor his checklists, nor his calculations, nor his assets, nor any thing that is thy Supposes’, or his servants the candlestick-maker and the baker and all that they serve and that serve unto them. Thy shalt build thy noddy-houses out of stone, and render them identical, as unto ticky-tacky, and exceeding ugly unto the eyes of the Bard.

¶

And all the people saw the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the noise of the strumpet, and the hill smoking: and when the people saw it, they removed, and stood afar off. And they said unto Supposes, Speak thou with us, and we will hear: but let not the Great Lord Sod speak bollocks with us, lest we perish of tedium. And Supposes said unto the people, Fear not: for Sod is come to prove to you the Tablet of Sand is great, and that His fear of censure may be wiped from your trembling faces, that ye oppose not. And the people stood afar off, and Supposes drew near unto the thick darkness where the Great Lord was. And the Great Lord saw that it was good, and saw that the Bravehearts and Bards that slithered upon the face of the earth were as fork-tongued serpents: creatures crafted by the very claws of Beelzebub.

But, lo, even as he understandeth them not, the Great Lord thought mightily that he could smite them from the height of His New Tysoe which bore the yester imprint of His great boot; and trample the serpents’ tongues before and beneath. But he was mistaken sorely. For, verily I say unto thee, he had no true power within or without, except that which the mass of people could remove from him in the twinkling of an iPhone, obliterating the very ground beneath His boot. And the serpents’ words were not as He opined; nor even were they serpents, but mere twine; and their words mere leaves of multitudinous colours, blowing in the winter wind. And when they saw this, the people trembled, and quaked, and spoke many tongues of Babel and Stratfordonavondistrictcouncil.

And then the people, renewed with great hope, girded their loins with vast mornings of coffee, dunkings of biscuit, ravings of music, and growing rumblings of mutiny throughout the parish and in all the places thereof that were increasingly hidden from the Great Lord. And thence the people saw a yet brighter light and rose up with joy, and with it manufactured the True Plan.

At this, the Great Lord raged, giving off a furious roaring as big as to a whining mouse. But the people and the parish priests had grown deaf and blind to the Great Lord Sod. And when the people looketh past the smoke, and behind the glass of looking, that kept shrouded so much and yet so little, the Great Lord was no more to be set eyes upon, verily nevermore, until the end of time. And, in the place of the Tablet of Sand, which crumbleth and vanisheth as it shifteth and moveth with the desert wind, came forth the True Plan which they had made, and bound with the golden twines of Veracity and Desire. And it was good; and truly had concrete meaning unto them all, and even to their neighbours, and the strangers within the parish and without. And the mass of people rejoiced greatly for seven days and seven nights; and went forth sustainably: lo, unto the fifth generation, and the sixth, and for evermore.

¶

Here endeth the lesson. Clays be to Sod. Amen.