Bent double…

…it’s impossible to argue that people should be forced to stay where they were born – certainly not Belgium or Aldershot – so it follows that we’re allowed to move about. Isn’t that really the point?

– Jeremy Hardy

I went to see – or rather, listen to (although there was some wonderful mime…) – Jeremy Hardy (one of the funniest, most profound people on the planet) present his “restrained burlesque show… where Shakespeare danced” at Stratford ArtsHouse, on Saturday night. This is probably the sixth time I’ve seen him do what he describes as his “real job” – stand-up – although, as defined by Hardy’s impromptu hands-up, I was amongst a minority of those who had seen him perform live before.

In the second half (of a two-and-half hour show: with “two intervals” – the second one of infinite length: during which time he headed down the M40 towards home…), this prompted ponderings on his demographic. As he says, he’s mostly known for his appearances on Radio 4, “whose audience is mainly made up of Telegraph readers”; and, although this brought a big laugh, and a light ripple of applause – because the first half (as is his wont) was a wonderfully funny dissection of current politics, from Hardy’s slightly self-mocking, but longstanding and truly-felt viewpoint quite far out to the left of the continuum – some of the hilarity (I felt) was tinged with nervous self-recognition. (There’s a reason Bart sells so few copies of The Guardian – but that’s exaggerated, I would surmise, by our rural isolation.)

Hardy had started the show lightly pointing out how – although he was only basing his assumptions on a sample of one: Stratford’s most famous son – we were all racist and misogynistic (a theme he brilliantly returned to, later, when discussing gender identity). But, looking around, when the lights went up, it was startling – and somewhat discomfiting for someone who grew up amongst the satanic mills of East Lancashire, where there is a large (and mostly integrated) Asian population – to discover that every single face there was white. For a town whose economy relies utterly on tourism, this seems somewhat ironic: as if we are happy, as a population, to accept Johnny Foreigner as a temporary visitor, but not as a resident.

In the twenty-first century the economic benefits of tourism to the area are well known. A report released in July 2013 by the Heritage Lottery Fund revealed that heritage tourism’s importance to the UK was increasing. Robin Tjolle, Destination Manager for Shakespeare’s England commented, “We estimate that 4.9m people a year visit the Stratford-on-Avon district and our wide variety of tourism businesses help to generate more than £335 million of spend per year into the local economy which supports over 8000 jobs.”

– Sylvia Morris: The Shakespeare Blog

¶

Now it may be that Stratford holds no attraction as a permanent home for immigrants of any generation – but I find that difficult to believe, being one (by Hardy’s definition, anyway: even though my face is a becoming shade of Pantone 91-8 C…); and not forgetting that we have, of course, an Iraqi-born MP. It may also be the case that Hardy holds no attraction for them, either: but, at previous performances (even in Cheltenham: the spiritual homeland of the Telegraph reader), audiences were a bit more varied.

Hardy himself lives in Streatham – “next door to Brixton” – and, the night after his appearance in Stratford, was taking part in a benefit gig in Bloomsbury for the Kurdish Red Crescent… – so I don’t think the problem lies there.

¶

According to the Office for National Statistics, however you measure it, Stratford-on-Avon district just has less immigrants living here than either the rest of the West Midlands, or the whole of the UK. For example, if you compare Age of Arrival in the UK (QS802EW), only 6.2% of Stratford’s residents were born ‘abroad’, measured at the last census (2011); compared to 11.2% for the West Midlands; and 13.8% for the UK. It’s even more marked when you compare people’s stated Ethnic Group (KS201EW) – with only 6.4% of Stratford’s population classing themselves as non-white (English/Welsh/Scottish/Northern Irish/British); versus 20.8% in the West Midlands; and 20.2% overall.

So what on earth is going on? Is it to do with Stratford’s less-affordable housing, compared to the rest of the region? Or is there some other factor?

¶

Well, if you delve deeper into the census statistics, it turns out that not only does “Stratford-upon-Avon [have] 20% more Higher and Intermediate managerial, administrative or professional households than the national average”; but we also have fewer people on benefits (7.7%, compared to the UK’s 13.5%) – whether that be incapacity benefits (Employment Support Allowance: 1.5%/2.4%) or Jobseekers Allowance (1.0%/3.3%) – and this in an almost entirely service-based, somewhat seasonal economy. Our population’s median age is also high (46, vs. 39 for the UK): but that could just mean that we’re healthier (which is hinted at in the numbers) because of all the wonderful countryside, fresh air, and culture – not just that people like to retire here (which they do appear to…).

In conversations with other incomers – especially those who live or work in Stratford itself – it seems that these skewed figures do manifest themselves as subtle, mostly-lingering-beneath-the-surface, airs and graces. But this is both hard to quantify and to find evidence of… – although I did stumble across this:

There is plenty to do in this town. We are no different from any other town in England. I think the Stratford upon Avon snobbery and sense of entitlement is filtering down to the younger generations. Oh dear.

– James Minty Turvey

If there is a basis to (and for) such superciliousness (or is it smugness…?), then maybe it stems from some form of protective jealoushood regarding “Stratford’s most famous son”, and our perceived ‘ownership’ of him? Or at least a fear that if he was found to be some sort of ‘fake’ – not just a characteristically undocumented Jacobethan figure – that the local, tourism-based, financial system would collapse (which it might well…)?

I only suggest this because, when the ‘anti-Stratfordian’ (and surely that word says it all?) film Anonymous was released – as part of a growing campaign ‘proving’ that Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, was posh enough to write Shakespeare’s works (under a pseudonym, of course); but that grain merchant “Shaxper” himself was just an ill-educated Warwickshire oik who couldn’t rub two braincells together – the town was at the heart of an exercise (defensive, maybe; ludicrous, certainly) to redact every public reference to my hero: blacking out every sign with his name on; and even draping the Gower Memorial statue with a black cloth…! (Surely it would have been better just to promote (and read) James Shapiro’s entertaining and erudite Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?)

I understand such defensiveness when faced with such trolling. (I only call it this because I do not see what the anti-Stratfordians have to gain. It just seems to me the equivalent of microwaving your pet rabbit.) But I’m still not convinced that this then readily translates into the uppishness I sense. Perhaps it is, after all, just a consequence of our demographics; coupled with the feeling that Stratford-upon-Avon – seen as the home of English literature as we know it – is a special (and therefore more expensive) place to live.

¶

Anyway, after rambling, and leaving behind the subject I started with (not an uncommon trait – which I blame on my grammar school English teacher, Eric ‘gild the lily’ Whittle: who always prompted us to “begin on a wing and a prayer”), I leave the final word to Jeremy Hardy – one of my favourite “apes with broadband” – who prompted the whole shebang:

For me, ancestry is just one thing that connects us to people, and feeling connected to other people is generally a good thing, as long as one kind of connection does not have primacy over all the others. Heredity, race and nationhood are not the best criteria by which to judge our fellow humans.

The devil’s in the dog-tail…

Ever since the Swan Theatre opened in 1986, there’s been a running quip in the Bard family – when one of us attends a play there we get asked: “Have they changed the seats yet?!”

As much as I adore the Swan as a venue – it’s probably my favourite theatre, just above (sorry) the Barbican’s Pit; the acoustics (because of the size, and the beautiful walls of exposed, aged brick) in my (deafened) opinion are superior to the main Royal Shakespeare Theatre: and I therefore hardly needed the captions at Thursday evening’s thrilling performance of The Witch of Edmonton (only on for one more week) – I do find the reupholstered seats still quite challenging: especially as the majority are nothing but shared, padded benches, some with cinema-style bases. (I noted John Woodvine – whose daughter, Emma, is in charge of the company’s text and voice work – also struggling to fold his imposing frame into one of the stall seats: although he had wisely, and knowledgeably, picked one with somewhat better legroom.)

This time, unusually, I was in the first gallery, directly opposite one of the two surtitle screens; but the Lebensraum (I originally put “wriggle room”: but I like my fellow audience members to keep still, please…) must have been designed by someone (Michael Reardon himself?) with shorter trousers and smaller boots than I: because I felt tightly squeezed between the chair (in front of a standing rail) and the (sumptuous golden wood) balcony – although this did have the advantage of almost forcing me to lean over the stage, gaining what, at times, felt like a private performance, because of the intimacy of the space. (Which is one of the reasons I so love it.)

Being disabled, I always ask for (and so far, have always been granted – by the brilliant RSC Access team) a seat at the left-hand end of a row: which does provide many, many options in the Swan. This week, though – because there was nowhere for me to rest my duff left leg in such a constricted gap – the flip-down seat immediately to my right, fortunately, was vacant: but I therefore spent most of the second half twisted round, at a peculiar angle, resting my right side on the seat-back, to make things a little more expansive. Let me just say that this gemelli impersonation didn’t do the core injury in my neck many favours; and, although I easily ignored the growing pain whilst enthralled in the play, boy, have I paid the price since.

I would therefore ask (by way of drawing the RSC’s attention to this post – them having kindly promoted my previous writing on disability matters) that, as well as flexible wheelchair spaces (which seem so accessible, from what other disabled patrons have told me), can we please have designated chairs with more space in and around them for the walking wounded, as well (of which there were quite a few, on Thursday: some even with crutches): perhaps just moving back, say, one of the single Gallery One rows a couple of feet (ahem) – assuming that Health and Safety would not mind the incursion into the walkway behind…? (In the main theatre, most of the left-hand positions leave plenty of leg-stretching and walking-stick room: so this isn’t usually an issue.)

Apart from that, Mister Bard, how was the show?

Well, it certainly was entertaining, thank you, and distinct (Swan traits, I think); and, although I had read through the prompt book in the Swan Reading Room, beforehand (as is my wont), the company was uniformly excellent in pulling real thrills from it and bringing it to more than life (and death) – as they have consistently throughout this immensely successful Roaring Girls season: from the blood-soaked Arden of Faversham and The White Devil to the uproarious The Roaring Girl itself; and whose Moll Cutpurse was compared to the (supposed) witch’s devil of a Dog at one stage (oh dear) in this play.

The season has also shown how adaptable the bare bones of the Swan can be: and Niki Turner’s deceptively austere set of labyrinthine whispering withes at the rear of the stage – through which Tim Mitchell’s lighting creates haunting spookiness (paralleled with Paul Englishby’s music – especially violinist Zhivko Georgiev’s fiendish demonstration of the darker side of ‘the devil’s instrument’…) – continues behind the stalls, where some of the hectic action takes place.

Each of these productions has featured a guest ‘star’ in the lead rôle: and this time it is the charismatic Eileen Atkins as Mother Sawyer – not so much “roaring” as cursing (and rightfully so) as the eponymous ‘witch’ (who brings a new meaning to ‘spell checking’…) – directed imaginatively, and prudently in period, by the RSC’s artistic director, Gregory Doran (“an honorary Roaring Girl!” according to Erica Whyman: under whose stewardship the season was put together).

The text – somewhat chunkily assembled from the multiple authors’ contributions (you can definitely see the joins…) – ranges from scenes of the sublime (the grief of Ian Redford’s Carter and Geoffrey Freshwater’s Old Thorney is heart-tugging indeed; as well as the grace of Faye Castelow’s murdered bride) to the undoubted star of ridicule, Dafydd Llyr Thomas, as cocky Cuddy Banks (part of a crew of somewhat rude Morris men mechanicals).

This isn’t to say that the play’s messages are dulled in any way by such piece-work; and Doran – who also edited the performed text – gives it air, and lets it speak for itself: thankfully not stopping the audience from seeing – and thus delighting in – its obvious dénouements and dramatic irony. Nor does he shield us from the violence – the blood which is spilled eventually flows into true forgiveness: a salve to the prejudices and differences at the core of the drama.

Ma Sawyer is something of a stooge, a scapegoat for “scandalous malice”, because of her age, sex, and looks: anything or anyone unusual is feared or taunted, or both – “’Tis all one To be a witch as to be counted one…” – sadly, still a leitmotif with applicable significance, nearly four hundred years on. (The play – by William Rowley, Thomas Dekker, John Ford “&c” – was first performed in 1621.) Although initially peeved by this, once she actually gains the powers she has already been accused of having and using – granted by a magnificently cunning Jay Simpson as Satan in canine form (“Were it not possible for thee to become an honest dog yet?”) – revenge is far too tempting: and Atkins portrays this grasping of dark (but not fatal) energy with great subtlety; as well as its eventual, inevitable loss, and her eventual, inevitable (although possibly undeserved) fate – both prompted by devil Dog’s malevolence. Only Cuddy’s simple goodness and strength is a match for the manipulative Lucifer, who is never far from – especially behind – the action: “I know thy qualities too well… therefore henceforth I defy thee. Out, and avaunt!”

The almost accidental nefariousness of Sawyer is contrasted with tangible, innate evil – the eruption of a seed we are all said to possess… – principally Ian Bonar’s astute portrayal of Frank Thorney as an emerging swindler and bigamist: who, rather than trying to extricate himself peaceably from his predicaments, spirals crime upon crime. At first, it is hard not to sympathize with him – perhaps another “scapegoat”? – as he takes us in (knowingly), as well as those around him. But it is not long before we see him for what he truly is – and he gets what he truly deserves. However malevolence emerges and is practised, we are shown, it must be punished.

So let’s every man home… with heavy hearts, yet as merry as we can, though not as we would.

Only sensible in the duller parts…

In October, last year – exactly (and coincidentally) thirteen months ago – I wrote what I hoped was an encouraging email to fellow members of the then Tysoe Residents (Neighbourhood Planning) Group; and, as a result, was asked by David Sewell (also a member) if he could reproduce a shortened reading of it in the Tysoe & District Record. I was more than happy to oblige: as we were in the midst of the opening stages of our skirmish with Gladman Developments, and I thought it might act as a rallying call to the village. However, precious as I am of my words (and the effort it takes to produce them), I also felt that the full version deserved a proper repository.

Initially, I linked it to a photograph of Tysoe, taken from Windmill Hill, in my longstanding online gallery. But so many words, in a repository of images, seemed to jar. (I usually accompany my photos with just a couple of sentences, at most.) And so, an idea that had been bubbling under, somewhere in my subconscious, for many a year – of starting a blog (although I had no particular theme in mind: which, happily, shows to this day!) – rose to the surface, and began to be made concrete: and, on 20 November 2013, I launched this site. (Although, sadly, not a single bottle of champagne was hurt in the process.) And, so that my original post wouldn’t feel lonely, and there would be a hint of progression, and of great(?!) things to come… – one foundation stone does not a building make… – I added a recently-completed poem, to keep it company.

But what to call it?

Keith Risk – who was then chairman – had, good-humouredly (because of the length and content of my many emails and other (public) writings for the Group; as well as my growing addiction to Shakespeare – currently the fifth most-used label on the blog…), christened me “The Bard of Tysoe”. And, for want of any other name (Holofernes may have been as apposite…) – and giving me a sort of core theme to riff on (particularly as I was so heavily involved, at the time, in that “skirmish” for what was left of a small field of ridge-and-furrow on Oxhill Road…) – it stuck. And has been stuck at the top of every post, and every page, ever since. (I’m quite attached to it, now, thank you.)

I also hoped that such a moniker would (maybe; modestly) hide my true identity from most readers. Although, at a celebration following the village’s first victory – at the Stratford-on-Avon District Council Planning Committee (East) meeting, on 8 January 2014 – an acquaintance sidled up to me, and said (with a big grin on his face): “Are you the Bard of Tysoe?” Admittedly, he could have asked this of everyone he met, reverse Spartacus-style: but, having stumbled onto this website looking for information on “planning in Tysoe”, he had put two and two together, and there I was: unmasked! (Darn it.)

In a way, though, it truly doesn’t matter who I (really) am: the version of me that I present, and that you read (and therefore infer), on here – and my varied thoughts on various topics: from Charlecote to Shakespeare; torment to Tysoe (of course!); the windmill to The Wind in the Willows – are all that are important (in the tiny, dark corner of the Web that I inhabit…). I just hope that they are also of interest to someone other than myself – although, as James Joyce declared:

It is my idea of the significance of trivial things that I want to give to the two or three unfortunate wretches who may eventually read me.

As Michael Foley says, as well, in his entertaining book Embracing the Ordinary – well worth getting hold of: especially for phrases such as the sublime “by the sweaters of Benetton I sat down and wept” –

[Proust and Joyce] both understood the crucial paradox: if you write for yourself it will be relevant to everyone and if you write for everyone it will be relevant to no one.

So I wrote for myself – quite happily – wondering how long I could keep the words flowing; hoping to give them some sort of relevance to something; fully expecting to quickly run out of ideas (and split infinitives on which to clumsily hang them…), and therefore last a month at most; and for only “two or three unfortunate wretches” to stumble upon my words (and (occasionally) convoluted grammar).

Which would have done, to be honest.

But, twelve months on (exactly to the day), after over a hundred posts of extremely varying length (and, some would say – including me – quality…), the site has been visited nearly 6,000 times – and by people from all over the globe.

You would think that I would be speechless at such numbers. And I am. (Why are they so low…?! And why, with so many page hits, have I only got three subscribers…?!) But my fingers are obviously connected to a different part of my verbal cortex, it seems (and, yes, I have just made that term up… – but, as always, the link does go to somewhere relevant – although I am unsure as to how many readers actually venture out into the wider realms of the ’Net: hitting on, and trawling for, my various references, side-swipes and Easter eggs…). So, the written words continue to flow. And will do so, for as long as I can hold a book, a thought, a virtual pen, and a glass of single malt. (Although maybe not all at the same time.)

Beginning with a single step…

There is something richly rewarding about putting one foot in front of another – as has probably been said as many times I have actually done so… – particularly over several miles; and especially when the weather is clement, and the landscape picturesque (although I also love walking in the rain and snow, in certain cities, and on the flat…). There is also something richly rewarding about overcoming the pain and effort that each step takes – especially when the (small) sensible part of my brain is telling me to turn around, before I go too far (literally beyond the point of no return).

But, without stretching my limits, pushing the boundaries, then one of the reasons that I walk would lose its allure: as that last mile – when my legs are wobbly; bits of me ache that I didn’t know I had (as well as those I did); and then, finally, my destination comes in sight – suddenly pushes all negativity away: and a final rush of acceleration (or imperceptible increase in speed, to those observing me…) rewards me with a rush of endorphins and adrenaline (the body’s natural painkillers and energy bars), that, like an emphatic, crescendoing Elgarian finale, wipes out any memories of the heartrending passages that have preceded it. (A bit like childbirth, I am told.)

On Monday, on a whim, I ended up taking more steps in one day (just over 14,000) than I had done in total over the last three weeks; and remembered – even through the next day’s subsequent fug of tiredness and worsening symptoms – why I have always walked to deal with my pain: even if, in the short term, it so increases it. Not only does it improve my fitness, and therefore my ability to deal with daily challenges; but, whilst I am “putting one foot in front of another”, I am also directing my gaze mainly outwards – and not concentrating on what ails me – whether that be on the scenery (and framing a reasonably good photograph), or chatting to the other walkers I meet, and engaging in some reciprocal fussing with their various canine companions.

Let us fix our attention out of ourselves as much as possible: Let us chase our imaginations to the heavens, or to the utmost limits of the universe; we never really advance a step beyond ourselves, nor can conceive any kind of existence, but those perceptions, which have appeared in that narrow compass.

– David Hume: A Treatise of Human Nature

Coping with aches and pains by focusing elsewhere is, of course, an ancient trick; and one that has been used in all sorts of ways: from meditation to pushing through the effects of injuries inflicted by war. We distract ourselves – sometimes deliberately, sometimes not – and ignore our own needs – sometimes temporarily, sometimes for long periods of time – to care for others, or simply to get through the day: perhaps the two sides of a coin featuring a self-serving head and altruistic tails.

Pacing and distraction (usually by some form of relaxation) are key parts, therefore, of most pain (self-) management programmes – once you have gotten over the fact that this is how it’s (always) going to be. That doesn’t mean stopping fighting, of course: just applying whatever energies you may have in a more organized, consistent fashion. On a day like Monday, though, when there is suddenly the strength, or the urge is felt, only a true ascetic would have stuck to their self-imposed limits, ignoring the resulting enjoyment and reward (which, despite accepted wisdom, is not wiped out by the agonies of the morning after the day before – unless you let it).

The real challenge – for me, though, in my current state (in the bottom dip of an infinite sine-wave of permanent ill-health) – is in repeating such achievements: so that they become habitual, and don’t depend on whim or chance. This I used to be good at: walking between twenty-five and fifty miles a week, up hill and down dale, and in all sorts of conditions (both me and the weather…). In fact, in many ways, it became an addiction (but much less harmful than most analgesics); and I think there wasn’t a footpath within five or ten miles of my front door that didn’t bear the fading imprint of my favourite walking boots (which I have replaced with an almost identical pair; but still can’t bear to throw away: even though their soles have long been treadless and flat – an apt metaphor, perhaps, for my current lethargy: which I keep telling myself is enforced; and yet I know that Monday’s trek is eminently repeatable…).

A week or so ago, in the Guardian, Ben Okri wrote – in the King or queen for a day column – that…

If I had the power to impose my will, I would get people to walk more. We walk only when we have to, hurrying between places where vehicles can’t take us…. I would have people walk to the next bus stop rather than stand there waiting. I would have people get lost walking just for the special pleasures of discovery. I would have people walk when they are depressed, walk when they are overwhelmed with problems, when they are anxious, when they are sad. I’d have them walk when they are happy, just so they can infect the world with their precious mood.

It is not an accident that the ancients linked walking and thinking. Images of Plato’s Academy show master and pupil walking. The peripatetic philosophers walked thinking. There is a Buddhist practice of mindful walking, walking as a form of meditation, walking linked with breathing as a liberator of consciousness.

…walking is its own thing. It keeps us close to the right level of life and close to the natural pace of things.

And, having already grumbled in this blog about…

…our lazy ways of driving our children to school; or arriving at village meetings by car; or nipping down to Bart’s for a loaf of bread in our 4x4s, when all of our local amenities are central, and easily accessible on foot even to those, like me, who walk in pain, and with a stick; and when the three hamlets – from Tysoe Manor to Lane End Farm – are less than two miles from end-to-end (and that’s using the roads; not cutting corners with our frequent footpaths, or as the numerous crows fly…)

…all I can do is concur – and hope to lead by example – by just continually “putting one foot in front of the other” as I used to do; and remembering, as Laozi famously said, that “The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one’s feet.”

Infamy, infamy…

Anatomy of a migraine

A migraine may begin in many ways:

Quite instantly, or with some challenging delays,

With auras like the borealis, or the singing of the whales –

But however it may start, the pain then never ever fails

To lay you low, with potions, pills and ice,

In darkness and in silence, and not feeling very nice.

It keeps you down for hours, or even several days,

And punishes in many different ways:

Not just the hurt, but losing half your sight,

Or even half your body (that’s not right);

And feeling sick and dizzy, and quite crushed –

But then, a migraine is not ever to be rushed.

And even when it’s gone, it leaves you out of phase:

Your brain feels ground from diamond into clays;

Your appetite is gone, and you feel weak;

And sometimes you don’t even have the strength to speak.

Some sleep will do you good, and give you energy to burn –

Until, of course, the damned thing cruelly chooses to return.