I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.…

One moment…, above all, had characterized my ascent. As I closed the gate behind me… I glanced backward…. All I could think was how magnificent this view is; how wonderful it is to live here; and how miraculous it was that previous generations had allowed the place to evolve – that glorious medley of stone and brick; of slate and tile – without damaging the heavenly spirit of our miraculous haven.

     But then doubt seized me as hard as any physical pain: and I wondered if this majesty could last; if our children will be the last to see, to enjoy, Tysoe at its best…. I see the prevalence of money (and its cousin greed) beginning to prevail again: dividing, destroying, dominating. I see equality dissolving; monopolies of wealth domineering and discriminating – …and with the power not just to rend the social paradise asunder, but the village’s physical existence, too. Not only that: but those who would fight such change are being quashed methodically and cruelly. What I saw was entropy made manifest… – and made by man.

     Of course, I could thrill in the current material resplendence, and ignore the political shenanigans; roam these splendid pastures, blinkered to their travails, for as long as I am able. But I am not the sort of person who – intellectually – can stand idly by….

A study of 120 neighbourhood forums and plans completed in 2014 by Locality and the University of Reading was not reassuring. Amongst its key findings were that many participants feel oversold on the plenipotentiary powers of neighbourhood planning and that participants do not see neighbourhood plans as radically changing the culture of [the] planning system.

– Nicholas Boys Smith: Is Neighbourhood Planning flourishing or withering? And how can communities do it better?

There are many reasons why I no longer get excited (well, not in a positive way) about the prospect of Tysoe possibly/finally – after years of squabbling; misdirection; bullying; sniping; lack of democratic involvement; character assassination; lack of understanding… – developing/finalizing its own (chimerical) Neighbourhood Plan; and, sadly, many of those “reasons” have been readily rehearsed on this blog. But, in the end (if this is such), there are three main questions to be answered. [My worry being that we will be given the ‘wrong’ responses (again): because, of course, in today’s political climate, we are not meant to (know enough to) actively challenge; just passively and dumbly do what we are told.]

1. Who is it (really) for?

After all this time – probably because no real effort was made to educate (ha!) residents on the back of the stunning enthusiasm that was corralled (mainly by one man) for the original Gladman rejection in Kineton (an easy advantage that was left to rot: principally, from my perspective, as part of a huge stinking pile of arrogance) – I don’t believe many in the three villages know or care what the heck such a beast is; what it should look like; what it can (and, more importantly, cannot) do. Consultations have been tokenistic (even though “meaningful” public engagement is a legal requirement); and no effort has been made – seemingly deliberately (if you can do nothing “deliberately”: which, of course, you can… it is indeed at the core of the majority of such political decisions) – to discover why the Village Hall hasn’t regularly had a queue outside it stretching all the way back to Oxhill Road. Villagers therefore feel utterly excluded; that it (whatever “it” is) is the preserve of a strangely invisible cabal; and do not – like myself – know (as they should do) if it is ‘owned’ (as it should be) by their elected representatives: either at Parish, District or County level. (The obvious response, here, is that it should belong to each and every resident: but, considering many of the previous sentences, this soon ‘resolves’ itself into a circular and pointless argument… – which of course, has become the plan’s unremitting methodology.)

Under the [Government’s] localism agenda, the wheels for private-sector encroachment into public planning have been further oiled, with the introduction of neighbourhood plans. Presented as a means of empowering communities, they have in fact left the door wide open for canny developers to move in, host a few community coffee mornings with felt-tips and post-it notes, and engineer a plan to their own advantage. There is no requirement for those who draw up the plan to even reside in the neighbourhood and, although they need a 50% “yes” vote at referendum, there is no requisite minimum turnout.

– Oliver Wainwright: The truth about property developers: how they are exploiting planning authorities and ruining our cities

2. What is it (good) for?

Fundamentally, Tysoe’s Neighbourhood Plan is unnecessary. It is also irrelevant in its constrained, required form; and useless in the form it last appeared in. Two large proposals – for that field again [if we keep on fighting over this tiny patch of land – and once really should have been enough… – it will soon be as blood-soaked as that at Edgehill (if not the room where Parish Councillors are taken to be unceremoniously knifed in the back)]; and for land above Middleton Close (incidentally, initiated by a local resident, for goodness’ sake) have been, respectively, withdrawn, and (I am told) rejected, on rather simple grounds: that there is enough housing stock in the pipeline. [Whether or not this has anything to do with the Lack-of-Foresight Saga that is the adoption of the Core Strategy, I really do not know… – and, to be blunt, really don’t give a tinker’s wotsit about: apart from the fact that we seem to be replicating its power-skewed process within this very parish. (What I do care about is the spirit of many selfless locals – which manifests itself in a repetitive slog of objections… – and the spirit of the place I live in: which, thankfully, being relatively intangible, cannot easily be bought, sold, or conquered (although I am beginning to have my doubts…).)]

Powers to allow communities to draw up Neighbourhood Plans (NPs) are one of the new “community rights” promoted in the Localism Act. At one level this looks like a welcome development – but it comes from a Conservative-led [Government] bent on austerity and privatisation. We need to ask what exactly is going on, and who will benefit?

     By emphasising communities and neighbourhood organisation, Neighbourhood Plans are part of the ‘big society’ agenda. Following disputes over planning policy, they are a government response to rebellious rural parishes and shire counties opposing urban sprawl and top-down government housing targets….

     However, Neighbourhood Plans… are not an open-ended community right; the right depends upon conditions set down by government and local authorities. For example, the government has bowed to pressure from the house building industry and has said that NPs cannot be used to oppose new development – much to the disappointment of many (mainly rural) communities who want to use the power to block new housing schemes they don’t want in their back yard.

     NPs must also conform to the National Planning Policy Framework [NPPF] recently announced by government, and also to local authority approved plans; they cannot buck approved planning policy…. This means that administering the NP process will be highly political….

– Bob Colenutt, Northampton Institute for Urban Affairs: A conditional right: the Localism Act and Neighbourhood Plans

3. Why is it (even) necessary?

If there truly is “enough housing stock in the pipeline” – and, although, once upon a time, I would have been the go‑to guy for the answer, I do not know… – then why are we being asked to nominate parcels of land for developers to cherry-pick? Or, as I wrote sixteen months ago:

We do not need a shopping list of fields for developers to target. What we need is a Tysoe which develops – as much as it can: as much as any “precious stone set in the silver sea” – in a way that we all recognize and wish for; and which does not lead our children and grandchildren continually to curse us for bequeathing them a village that is sterile through repetitious housing developments; even more isolated than now, because we did not grasp the chance to become subsistent in non-fossil-fuel-based power and motivation; or that has crumbled into a hollow, unrecognizable ghost and an uncomfortable locale to inhabit… because all we cared about was now, was instant gratification, was ourselves.

During the last Parish Council meeting I went to – which, for many reasons (health and accessibility being concrete ones; a lack of faith being, well, not theoretical as such, just in line with my fellow villagers’ disregard, disbelief, and dissatisfaction), was quite a long time ago – one of the councillors actually said, confidently, that “having a Neighbourhood Plan will protect the village”. (Perhaps they had imagined building a high Trumptonesque wall out of the rejected drafts…?) Whether this was ignorance, or evidence of subscription to a mis-sold view, or simply political disingenuousness (or even a weirdly-coloured cocktail of all three), I actually could not work out. (The only result, really, was that this was the moment when I had confirmed to me the tenet that if codswallop is repeated often enough, it soon gains, in some people’s wrong-heads, a palpable veneer of authenticity.) At least I knew, in my ultra-puzzled state, that it was blatantly wrong.

Firstly, because, at the time, the Core Strategy was just a fluffy cloud floating above Chris Saint’s head (rather than in his back pocket) – and therefore, even if we had accepted the mess then on the table, it would just have been an inconsequential piece of paper, as waved by Neville Chamberlain. And, secondly… because that is not what it does, or can do, at all. All it is, is another “piece of paper” to be added to the administrative burden of the rapidly shrinking Stratford-on-Avon District Council Planning department, when someone tries it on again with yet another time-wasting, ridiculous proposal. [Have we really got the resources – time, people, expertise, huge wads of cash… – to endlessly take developers to court to enforce a rethink each time they propose something that whoever is ‘in charge’ of Tysoe dislikes? (Oh, and don’t be surprised if they do the same to us – permanently and repeatedly challenging whatever it is we end up with – when they don’t like the look of what we have idealized…!)]

And, yes, I know we can “say” (to quote the latest glossy missive) what we would like such “ridiculous proposals” to look like, once built somewhere inappropriate. But that can also/similarly be ignored and challenged, of course… – and, as I have asked before (two blummin’ years ago), do we really want to stamp our unimaginative Country Life-reading mark all over centuries of beautiful, charming, sporadic and spontaneous architectural evolution with identical clusters of identical ironstone ‘cottages’? (Our parish truly does not need designing: it just needs to evolve – as it has done for millennia.)

If the answer to the previous (admittedly rhetorical) question, though, is “yes” – from those that have (or think, ahem, they have) power (and possibly taste: whichever end it sits on that particular spectrum) – then, the “backward glance” (and its associated deep love for the place I live), as I hauled myself past Old Lodge Farm, that simultaneously lifted my heart and prompted this rant, has absolutely no value. (And this, of course, needs to be multiplied by the number of all those who similarly “love” this place….)

All we want is something simple, that we all can understand:

Nothing complex or beyond us; notions rooted in the land;

A village with a future; where each to each is known;

A place which folk find welcoming; that is everybody’s own;

Where, gradually, in union, with corresponding power,

We spread this presence evenly, and remember well that our

Stay upon this well-tilled soil means little to time’s sprawl;

Though man is one of many visitors whose impact may be small

Next to heaven’s mighty globes and the voyages they’ve turned;

But that yet we must be wary of the furrows that we’ve churned.

And, what is worse (and so much worse): this means that my worry that Tysoe has just become a ‘condensation’, an enclave, a miniature representation of prevalent national right-wing attitudes, government, power – where the proletariat are ignored; ‘otherness’ is actively reviled; and everything is decided by the privileged few for that few… – has in fact become reality: whilst we were cleverly being distracted by the beauty that currently surrounds us; instead of watching out for Boojums with attitudes that you (once?) thought only existed in public school quadrangles. Farewell, democracy.

Tomorrow will be dying…

Here I am, sitting at the garden table, wringing out the occasional, disconnected phrase – with the encouragement of a variegation of beautiful, purring, tiny hoverflies feasting on the pansies, whilst revelling in the scent of proximate herbs, honeysuckle and ivy; sheep bleating stochastically from the Edge Hills; the call of St Mary’s tower punctuating my stop-motion creativity; interrupted by the passing murmurations of neighbours, occasional squabble of sparrows, and annoyance of dogs… – trying to express the joys (and consequential griefs) of being wilfully, ill-fully alive in Tysoe, during an Indian Summer that could dent even my well-armoured atheism.

Yesterday, however, I was a coincident Superhuman. Although – demonstrating the unequivocal effect of medication on the body’s ability to transcend its own physical and mental limits – I must admit that a form of ‘cheating’ was at the root of this accomplishment. Inadvertently, it has to be said. But, yes, I would do it again – despite feeling, this morning, through hyper-overexertion, as if I had gone ten rounds (geddit) with a steamroller… – although it is unlikely such an opportunity will present itself for quite some time….

[The medicine in question has been prescribed to try and reduce the stratospheric levels of my neuropathic pain; and the impact – that is, the frequency and intensity – of my almost-constant cervicogenic headaches. (They’re not really ‘migraines’, in the usual sense: because they are provoked by the huge tangle of nerve damage in and around my cervical spine.) A temporary side-effect of this – which is why some people take huge, ever-increasing, risky overdoses recreationally – is a ‘buzz’, once you reach a certain, individual level. I, though, am at only half the (mammoth) maximum dose – which is where I will stay for the next few months – and have only noticed its energizing effects (initially just a gentle, almost inaudible hum) in the last fortnight: after nearly three months of titrating the quantity I take (because of its potential for ‘evil’). Last week – as I was about nine‑tenths of the way to my currently-prescribed limit – this then-new bombilation lasted a couple of days. But it seems that yesterday – and I’m therefore glad I gathered rosebuds while I could… – was it: my last chance at glory. (Well, until my GP and I decide – if we ever do; and depending on the drug’s efficacy – to head a little further towards its sensibly-imposed ceiling.) So I grasped that chance as if my life depended on it.]

Usually, as the regular reader of this blog will know – however ‘easy’ the average onlooker may think it appears – I struggle intensely to put one foot in front of another: because such an activity exacerbates the already high levels of pain I continually experience – and from the first step onwards. (And trust me, it gets exponentially worse with each succeeding one.) As that poor soul (either the reader or the onlooker) will also know: this doesn’t stop me – when other factors don’t intervene (such as those three-day ‘migraines’) – from battling onwards: always hoping that the reward of a good walk won’t be spoiled by the consequent agony and downtime. Sadly, of course, it always is. (If my abilities were magnified by a factor of ten, yesterday; then the consequences are of at least the same factor.)

Such innate (and well-exercised) stubbornness is probably, realistically, at the root of yesterday’s remarkable achievement – however much its effects were magnified. If I had not already possessed the willingness to push myself, then the drug would have had nothing to amplify. (I obviously cannot speak to the truth of this statement for athletes caught doping: but I think it is not difficult to extrapolate from my experience and draw your own conclusions.) However, it was nice to be reminded of what – many years ago – I could do every day, week in, week out, without harm or effort. And, therefore, for me, my decrepit, torturous state, today, was simply an immensely worthwhile exchange.

I had decided to scale, again, the west face of Spring Hill, via Centenary Way; and then split off, around Sugarswell Farm, to head for Brunchfast at Upton House. This I achieved – despite fighting the slithering mud above Old Lodge Farm (where the thrum of building work melded with the passing cars above and below) – and with time to spare. I therefore spent a happy half-hour sat on a stile above Blackwell Wood, jotting down some initial aide-mémoires about my climb.

Apart from the promising weather and the dispersing school traffic, there was little to mark of my traipse through the village. A couple of brief chats – about the chilly breeze, the forecast, the scudding clouds… – and then no sign of another being until I reached Sugarswell Lane: where the hedge was carefully being flailed. There weren’t even that many birds around until I reached the expansive field of linseed on the other side of the road.

A small portion of this had been recently harvested (the combine now silently parked on the far edge): leaving the soil coated with a muesli-mix of flakes and stalks; but the remaining crop hid small feastings of goldfinches (especially amongst the thirty-three-strides-separated tyre tracks): which I regularly disturbed, despite my best efforts, until they formed a large tinkling charm bobbing and circling above me. They only settled when I did – but what divided them into their separate resting-places, I cannot say.

The only other interlopers here were infrequent, tall, proud stalks of barley – glowing head and shoulders above the main crop – escapees from the margins: where a ready mixture of generously-furnished plants (the agricultural equivalent of those suspended peanuts in our front gardens) would soon go to seed as winter food for non-migrating flocks.

One moment, though, above all, had characterized my ascent. As I closed the gate behind me, before entering the treeline – which I think always looks like a well-organized gathering of broccoli, from the Stratford-upon-Avon road, especially when well-lit – I glanced backward. Or at least this was my intention. I must have stood there for at least fifteen minutes: focusing on various parts of our parish – the sunlit church tower the most obvious… – from the gold-green patchworked plain beyond, up to our idiosyncratic trinket of a windmill. All I could think was how magnificent this view is; how wonderful it is to live here; and how miraculous it was that previous generations had allowed the place to evolve – that glorious medley of stone and brick; of slate and tile – without damaging the heavenly spirit of our miraculous haven.

But then doubt seized me as hard as any physical pain: and I wondered if this majesty could last; if our children will be the last to see, to enjoy, Tysoe at its best. And, yes, reader – despite the temporary drug-induced ‘high’ – I shed a tear or two: because – although I accept that each generation may think their time the ‘best’ – I see the prevalence of money (and its cousin greed) beginning to prevail again: dividing, destroying, dominating. I see equality dissolving; monopolies of wealth domineering and discriminating – …and with the power not just to rend the social paradise asunder, but the village’s physical existence, too. Not only that: but those who would fight such change are being quashed methodically and cruelly. What I saw was entropy made manifest… – and made by man.

Of course, I could thrill in the current material resplendence, and ignore the political shenanigans; roam these splendid pastures, blinkered to their travails, for as long as I am able. But I am not the sort of person who – intellectually – can stand idly by (even if my corporeal existence couldn’t remain upright for a minute or two without agony or vertigo instantly dragging it to bed; or to the floor). I am a natural-born resistance movement of one… – even if all I can do is pen the words that might, one way or another, motivate others to follow….

After a brief, breezy wander around Upton’s mirable orchard, gardens, and woodland, I set off to retrace my steps. Again, the linseed field was dotted with rising goldfinch; but, this time, the challenges of “the slithering mud” were accompanied by the mew of a buzzard, the calls and whistling flaps of pigeons, and the burbling annoyance of a discomposed robin. Emerging from the trees into a balmy atmosphere so unlike Upton’s crisp clarity… again, that view gave me pause; but I was – finally – beginning to wane, and decided just to enjoy the remainder of the walk ahead of me.

This time, as the path levelled out – parallel with the road between Lower and Middle Tysoe, where I had espied a lark earlier in the year – I was suddenly greeted by fifty or so house martins bobbing and weaving along, around and over the tall, untrimmed hedgerow – a rill running alongside it, the obvious attraction – gliding just above the freshly-ploughed field’s surface (as fine as any mole’s tilth), scooping the uplifted insects which had caused me to don my cap. Intermingled with a handful of red-bibbed and deep-fork-tailed, dark-blue-glistening swallows, they seemed unworried by my presence – parting to let me through, and then re-forming behind me – and delighted in their exercise. Sadly, though, of course, as the warmth of September fades, and summer dies away – nothing is permanent… – these birds will leave us; their nests already deserted until next year…. Farewell, summer.

A fine bromance…?

The first rule of Knight Club is: You do not talk about Knight Club.

Let’s get one thing out of the way, before I begin my actual review: The Two Noble Kinsmen is not a particularly brilliant, or original, play – it being a curious admixture of intermittent senior Shakespeare and under-pressure junior Fletcher – not part, therefore, of the ‘true’ canon: but staged, here, in celebration of thirty years of my favourite theatre.

As well as its hotchpotch of a ‘plot’ (there will be many such ‘finger-quotes’ – you have been warned…) owing quite a lot to Chaucer’s The Knightes Tale – itself derived from Boccaccio… – and not as well-adapted as you would normally expect from Stratford-upon-Avon’s most famous son – many of its characters (some of whom, in the original text, aren’t even given proper names) appear to have been ‘borrowed’ from a random selection of his other dramas – even if in (light) disguise. [At least there are no girls pretending to be boys, or vice versa: although the play – and the production – is somewhat heartening in its attitude to same-sex relationships and bisexuality (perhaps a reflection of the authors’ own personas…?). It’s just a shame that the same can’t be said for mental illness.]

We’re the middle children of Shakespeare, man. No purpose or place.

For example: Hippolyta and Theseus are directly transposed from A Midsummer Night’s Dream – but I’m not sure I remember them waging war on their neighbours on their way to be wed; nor being in a love triangle with Pirithous, their master of revels (Egeus, by any other name). Additionally, Palamon and Arcite [pronounce Ar‑kite (lemona‑a‑ade!)] appear to be two noble gentlemen ex-pats from Verona – perhaps bringing Emilia with them from Milan on the way. (Her Waiting-Woman, though, is surely Katherine’s Alice, sans accent – “Oui, vraiment” – from Henry V.)

Furthermore, the Jailer’s Daughter is a combination of Ophelia and – yes, of course, there’s a play (of sorts) within a play…! – an initially unwilling member of the Rude Mechanicals [here rudely replaced by unnecessary Country Folk/Morris Dancers: who themselves are probably taken directly from Beaumont’s The Masque of the Inner Temple and Gray’s Inn – and whose leader, (originally) Gerrold (here a Hyacinth Bucket-like Schoolmistress), may well be Holofernes’ cousin…]. After that, I sort of lost count… – if not the plot….

This is not the worst thing that can happen.

I shall instead, therefore, concentrate on the quality (of which there’s quite a lot; and of many differing and opposing kinds) of the RSC’s current production – on until 7 February 2017 (possibly… – although I have never seen the Swan quite this empty: so no wonder they were handing out £10 tickets…). After all, there is no point metaphorically docking a (crucial but metaphorical) star from my rating (as may others) just because the mishmash of a text is not up there with Bill’s best. It’s not like it’s new writing – we’ve known it’s been held together with Jacobean filler for over four hundred years… – so let’s just get over it, and see (like Mrs Lincoln) if I enjoyed the show.

Go ahead, Tysoe, you can cry.

Well, it turns out that the text is the least of the problems: although, you could, if you were being mean, blame all the other flaws on it… – but there are simply far too many; and that would, in reality, be a disingenuous excuse of the lowest order.

Normally, I would argue against performing major surgery on Shakespeare’s words – but the majority, here, are Fletcher’s: and they are not his best (by a long way); nor is the plotting – so, taking your lead from the box-cutter taken to Doctor Faustus, I, personally, would have completely expunged the irrelevant padding of the Jailer’s Daughter subplot – especially as her downward spiral into madness should not be made into something the audience continually and insensitively titters at (was I the only one seething with discomfort and anger…?) – thrown the clodhoppers in a blender; and instead concentrated on the relationship between the two eponymous leads. [Surely we stopped laughing at the mentally ill many, many years ago? I thought the days of paying to see the ‘exhibits’ at Bedlam were long over. (Seems I was wrong.)]

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways…. Basically, the production suffers with a bad case of what from now on will be known in these ’ere parts as Cymbelinitis – an inflammation of the importance of appearance and ‘design’ over the strategic and fundamental narrative and directorial arc (caused by giving precedence to tactical gimmickry); resulting in a distension of the play’s temporal existence (that is: it is far too bloody long) and a concomitant shrinkage of the remaining budget; along with a rather blotchy appearance (or ‘rash’). [Are we supposed to be so utterly chuffed at ticking these ‘rarities’ off our list of seen Shakespearean plays (I choose my words carefully) that we’re then required to turn a blind eye to the calibre of the finished article…?]

You’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life.

Like her work on the aforesaid disappointment, Anna Fleischle’s design is clunky, and (sometimes literally) all over the place. (It actually looks as if the cast have been told – one at a time; without any regards to, or desire for, consistency or period; or knowing how the others have chosen… – to go into the costume store and simply pick out the outfits they feel they look best in, or have taken a fancy to. And, surprisingly, some of them obviously felt more comfortable still wearing the jeans and Converse trainers they already had on.) It does not help that the overall ‘style’ (ha, bloody ha) is from the school of 1970s Doctor Who – or, indeed, the school of 1970s The Bard of Tysoe: when teenage me was producing and directing the likes of Oliver! with a budget of thruppence-ha’penny; building sets with rolls of wallpaper, volunteers from the sixth-form art and woodworking clubs; and lighting the results with rigs from the 1950s, and bits of melting, coloured plastic. (Many of the costumes came from second-hand shops: to which they were later returned. I’ll let you draw your own parallels….)

It also doesn’t help that the royal court consists of petulant, hormonal, overgrown teenagers: permanently on the verge of either snogging or squabbling; and with about as much authority as an overripe banana (although I thought Chris Jack, as Pirithous, delivered Shakespeare’s description of Arcite’s death – oh, bugger, I’ve spoiled the plot… – with real, intense feeling, and great clarity…).

This farrago of ‘ideas’ – perhaps to match that ‘plot’ (he said, generously) – thus overwhelms our vision, and distracts from (most of) the action: which, of course, does nothing to aid understanding. (In fact, just the opposite.) Having expunged the Prologue – which at least has the decency to say sorry; whilst attempting to warn us that what follows might leave Chaucer rolling in his grave at the way his material has been treated… – the rich-as-treacle, delightful-as-a-diadem language (yes, this bit is undoubtedly Bill) that (now) begins the play doesn’t sink in: because your senses are overloaded with the gallimaufry (no, that is not Doctor Who’s home planet: it’s a polite word for “dog’s breakfast”); and your brain just cannot cope. Sadly, by the time it’s recovered (apologies for the dents on the upright in the Gallery: my head, it seems, is made of sterner stuff…), we’re deep into Fletcher territory.

How much can you know about yourself, if you’ve never been a knight?

Thankfully, Jamie Wilkes (Arcite) and James Corrigan (Palamon) are now on stage: mesmerizing us with their chunky biceps, camaraderie, and top-notch acting (as well as matching clothes – how the heck did that happen…?!) – all whilst clambering around that set like well-trained chimpanzees (sorry, lads). That they manage to pull this off is solely due to their huge matched volumes of talent and charisma. Their swings (cough) from BFFs to mortal enemies and back are beautifully controlled and delivered; and – apart from a couple of notable exceptions – they act the rest of the company offstage. (Perhaps this is wishful thinking…?)

Those “exceptions” are the luminous Danusia Samal as the Jailer’s Daughter – who portrays the loss of her sanity with Natalie Simpson‑levels of empathy, conviction and veracity… – and her gentle, sincere Wooer (the sympathetic Patrick Knowles). Their final scene together is immensely touching: and, to be honest, the only time I was really moved. (There were no shiny golfing bags, or fluttering blue birds, or a singing-ringing tree, to distract… – just love, pure and incredibly complex: “But you shall not hurt me.” “I will not, sweet”. “If you do, love, I’ll cry.”)

When the fight was over, nothing was solved, but nothing mattered.

Other credits must be given to Tim Sutton, for the subtle and alluring score; and Clare-Louise Appleby, Ivor McGregor, Nick Lee, Andrew Stone-Fewings, Kevin Waterman and John Woolf (music director) for bringing it to life with such skill and feeling; and to Kate Waters (fight director), for some extremely convincing swordsmanship and wrestling. Oh, and thank you to Donald Cooper and the RSC Press Office – as always – for the wonderful photographs.

I’m gonna go inside, and I’m gonna get a chainsaw.

Before I go, if anyone can explain Hippolyta’s weapon ‘metaphor’, then I’ll buy them coffee and a bun in The Other Place. Like so much of what passed in front of me – and yes, there was a cuddly toy (a dog, I think – perhaps in reference to the one in A Midsummer Night’s Dream…?) – I will be having vivid flashbacks and nightmares about it for a long time to come. (I may need more therapy.)

[By the way, this is – in the last five years: that is, since I returned to the RSC… – only the second time I haven’t (thoroughly) enjoyed an evening in the Swan.]

Something on your mind, dear?

One last grump, to end on (appositely). Why on earth has Shakespeare’s last sentence – below – been cut? It is so typically his: and therefore beautiful, and laden with meaning. I sat there waiting for it; and, instead, got some berk applauding well before the house-lights went up. I suppose if you’re going to fuck something up, you might as well do it with attitude….

                    O you heavenly charmers,

What things you make of us! For what we lack

We laugh, for what we have are sorry, still

Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful

For that which is, and with you leave dispute

That are above our question. Let’s go off,

And bear us like the time.

– Shakespeare: The Two Noble Kinsmen (V.iv.132-138)

I’m not just talking about books…

Before I say goodbye to – and (attempt to) let go of – the RSC’s sensational Making Mischief festival (all the photographs of which are by Richard Lakos), there are a few things I need to get off my chest. But first – and I should probably give them their own page: so that I can continually refine them, formalize them, and then link to them… rather than keep on reiterating them – a reminder of the Bardic Principles of Theatre and Art (for want of a better moniker):

I appreciate that many simply go to the theatre to be entertained…. I don’t.

     I go to be challenged. I go to have my mind opened; my heart broken; my soul riven. I go to be educated. I go to weep; to grow – emotionally and psychologically – to laugh; to discover my place in the world that is created in front of me, as well as its relevance to the troubling complexities that exist beyond its literal and figurative bounds. I go to be absorbed into that new interior world; to escape from the old exterior one. I go to be distracted from my constant pain with an injection of a different sort of masochistic agony. I go to retain my sanity. I go to witness and admire deities transform themselves beyond the ken of us mere mortals; to mark miracles. I go to be shocked; to have my opinions and beliefs confirmed, or challenged and transformed; to see and hear and feel things that I have never seen and heard and felt before. And may never see and hear and feel again. I go because it is incredible, unreal: but also because I know I will still believe. I go because I know that, each and every time, I will emerge transformed. In other words, I go to connect to everything I am not; to have my life enriched. I go because it is Art; because Art is humankind’s greatest invention; its saving grace; its redemption; and because it speaks to me so directly, as only Art can. I also go, because, to be blunt, it is so bloody awesome!

     And if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have experienced some of the greatest plays ever written, performed by some of the greatest actors ever born…. And my life would be so much poorer for that lack; and I would not know that, in the blackest depths of my despair, there could be – there was – salvation. So I will – I must – continue to go: to discover yet more reasons for going. And – of course – to be entertained…!

I would like to supplement this with some words (“yet more reasons for going”) shared yesterday – before the final shows of Always Orange and Fall of the Kingdom, Rise of the Foot Soldier – by Laura Howard (who is (wonderful) in both plays):

When we create or appreciate art, we set free the spirit trapped within. That is why art arouses such joy. Art – whether skilfully executed or not – is the emotion, the pleasure of expressing life as it is. Those who see art are moved by its passion and strength, its intensity and beauty. That is why it is impossible to separate life from art. Political and economic developments may seem to dominate the new, but culture and education are the forces that actually shape an age, since they transform the human heart.

– Daisaku Ikeda: Wisdom for Modern Life (27 August 2016)

I may not agree with everything stated here: especially the words “joy”, “pleasure” and “beauty” (I think their antonyms are equally valid; and perhaps crucial…). And I do not, for one moment, expect everyone who sees art to be moved by it (see above). But I do concur with the general proposition.

When I wrote my original “principles” – almost a manifesto – I was discussing “theatre as therapy”: because of my current war with depression and PTSD (which I am beginning to win, one tailgating truce at a time…). And I felt ‘safe’ in doing so: because I am undergoing formal treatment. However, it occurred to me on Wednesday, at my second viewing of Always Orange, that the play itself contains several ‘trauma triggers’ – although I accept that these are so specific that there will be very few people watching that might be affected by them. This is not to say, though, that those, such as myself, who suffer from PTSD with other origins – but who aren’t being treated – won’t be similarly disturbed.

This is from my original review:

I described Always Orange as “devastating… important and necessary theatre”…. Having written twice, recently… about “theatre as therapy”, this was probably the toughest (but most rewarding) of the three plays to sit through, for me: its depiction of post‑traumatic memory searingly (and, in my case, tear-jerkingly, shoulder-shudderingly) accurate – and perfectly portrayed by the mesmerizing Ifan Meredith, as Joe (“a British man”).

Having seen audience members turn a funny colour when Gloucester’s eyes are gouged out; yet laugh at the decapitation of Cloten – an act that would seem horribly contemporary… – it is obviously impossible to predict how people will react. I myself tittered at the warning sign outside King Lear, at the Royal Theatre in Northampton – “During this performance there will be: Smoke, Gun Shots, Smoking, Flashing Lights, Strobes, Loud Bangs” – because of the absence of any mention of the frequent violence, and the resultant copious amounts of blood that are spilled. And yet, if there is one Shakespeare play that I would not venture near, it is Titus Andronicus…! (But I say this, of course, having been forewarned by both reading the text, and by others’ experiences.)

Before you have a go at me for being over-sensitive – although this is surely a state we all want to be in, if we’re going to be moved to the max…? – I’m not demanding EastEnders‑type “If you have been affected by issues…” paragraphs printed in red ink on the front covers of programmes; nor for leaflets for the Samaritans to be handed out at every show. (I do know that this would be impractical. Mebbe.)

What I am asking – as an extension of considering the physically disabled, when designing access policies – is that we consider how the power of theatre affects individuals – especially those with mental health problems – in different ways: hoping that, firstly (and accepting that there is a suspension of disbelief for many), well-directed and -produced drama will, in most cases, be beneficial in some way. Secondly, though – where theatre deliberately sets out to provoke: as the four plays that made up Making Mischief so successfully did… – we (both creators and consumers) need to be prepared for those provocations to not only upset (which, surely, is one of the many duties of art: “I go to be challenged…”); but, occasionally, cross some sort of personal boundary. And we need to be ready to make allowances; deal with the consequences; and accept responsibility (not that there are – or should be – easy answers…).

The crux of this issue is probably hidden somewhere in the mix of how we are affected (where those “personal boundaries” lie; what experiences we bring with us; and our general sensitivities); the motivation behind the challenge itself (is this a wake-up call; are our beliefs being teased or taunted; or are we deliberately being insulted and/or offended…?); and the context (which is why relaxed performances are such a wonderful thing…). It is therefore a tricky balance to achieve: especially if one wants to (as one should) instigate change (via drama) – and especially when so many people are resistant to it; and only see and hear what they want to.

To my way of thinking: even with such considerations, there are risks that are worth taking – otherwise theatre (as a subset of art) becomes diluted and ineffectual. I would rather be shaken to my core (physically, mentally, emotionally – even in my current, relatively-fragile state), than bored: “I appreciate that many simply go to the theatre to be entertained…. I don’t.” And, yes, this can be achieved with texts that are centuries old: whether reinterpreted through the eyes of a contemporary director; or revised by the pen of a modern playwright. Otherwise, the works of Shakespeare, Marlowe and Jonson; Aeschylus, Sophocles and Aristophanes – although simply reading their words can be transformative – would have been tossed in the bin years ago.

Thanks to the wonderful access policies of the RSC (especially the saintly Jim Morris), I had a reserved seat front and centre for the last performance of Always Orange. I could blame it on the captions at the first viewing; or trying to see through tears at the second; but, this time, everything clicked: as if some sort of automated “aleatoric” jigsaw had finally completed itself in my head with a resounding – yet whispered – “Bang”. (Knowing I would not see it again, perhaps, additionally, my concentration was dialled up even further than normal?)

This is, I think, a ‘writerly’ play – Fraser Grace’s words are “of the highest quality and laser-guided precision (the prologue reads as poetry; yet the craft is invisible)” – almost certainly, if I had the talent, the kind I would like to author. But I wonder if this ‘precision writing’ is at the root of some people’s emotional disconnection with it…? (Ignoring the cardboard boxes – perhaps – and any other ‘Faustian’ parallels – there is a quality to the text that, for me, recalls Marlowe: especially the rapid “tragicomic” contrasts of tongue-in-cheek and transcendent; as well as the intrinsic lyricism and power.)

I admit that (as detailed above), Joe’s scrambled memory and resultant actions speak to, connect with, me with heart-piercing accuracy. I am Joe. The flying metal that shredded my mind (“I’m a mist now”); the paper cuts that flailed my skin; the thunderous collision of books and stage… all too close for comfort. But, if I am the only person (which I don’t for one moment believe…) that sees through and past the wordplay, the surface jokes, the thudding visual metaphors; who is then ‘spoken to’ loudly and clearly… – a bloody immersion in belief; rather than a dismissal of doubt – well, is that how you measure a play’s success (at least on the individual, micro level…)? Or maybe it is just one of those dramas – like Cymbeline, “actually a damnably good read” – that just works better on the page?

Just not for me. This was truth writ in blazing, large capital letters. It hurt like hell – especially when Joe bellowed “I don’t remember anything.” But there is always comfort in understanding: whether it is your own; or someone-else’s shared vantage point and sympathy.

There is a risk, of course, that, in also weeping all the way through Fall of the Kingdom, Rise of the Foot Soldier (and for the fourth time), I was only following the same well-trodden path of “middle-class tolerance” as represented by “good person” Hawkins. And yet my belief (my personal reading; taking all the above into account) is that everyone’s perspective (moulded by nature and nurture) carries some form of validity – even if we violently disagree with it. The problem lies in actually establishing equality… – of perspective; of achievement; of entitlement; of opportunity… – although my emphasis here (from the viewpoint of a middle-aged, working-class, well-educated deaf and disabled man, with ethnicity running through his extended family like a rich vein of gold) may be different from yours. “This is our England.” YMMV, as they say.

But that is where the potency of this play – as it is performed here – lies. The actors in the principal roles (apart from Ifan Meredith as Archie, I would guess) could all be seen to have sympathy (if not empathy) with those they represent. The actors playing the Chorus, definitely not. This dichotomy – “the deep wound of cultural tension cutting through modern England” – for me (“from the viewpoint”, etc.) fuels its impact: propelling the already powerful script – again laced with poetry – into the political stratosphere. However, for others watching, I can accept that they may only see their personal prejudices – whether similar or different to mine – reinforced.

In a nutshell… this is why we need art that forces us to question ourselves. (That’s why “I was glad, though, that I saw [Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again.] twice on the same day”.) If you’re not willing to face those inner demons (not necessarily face them down…), then just go and be “entertained”. That’s fine. But I worry that you’re missing something, missing out on something, in doing so….

Postscript…

I found a shred of paper – a shard from “the sea of glass” – trapped in my copy of the text of Always Orange. “I’m very collected. Thankyou.” But I wasn’t… – not for some time. “I remembered something, from before.”

Tin or aluminium; not titanium…

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

– Charles Dickens: A Tale of Two Cities

Yesterday (Wednesday) was a birthday of sorts… – not the anniversary of my coming into this world (that’s in a week or so – hint, hint); but of me being given my life back, thoughtfully and carefully, and by a very special human being indeed: who has, with his family, also had to endure some very tough challenges. But, for many reasons – although I am immensely and eternally grateful for that great man’s incredible skill and deep compassion; and have been so every single day for the last ten years – it was not an occasion I had been looking forward to.

The circumstances prompting such dejection include a deterioration of my physical health that those who know me will have seen or suspected. And those with a brain (and, yes, if you peruse the images on this page, you will notice that I also possess one…) will have quickly grasped this decline’s bitter, but inseparable, relationship with the struggle I am currently undergoing with my mental wellbeing. What no‑one could have known – because, despite my suspicions, I was only finally brave enough to put myself through my umpteenth MRI scan a few weeks ago… – is that both of these downturns stem from marked physiological changes all too similar to those I endured in the years before (and which prompted) the complex operation that, a decade ago, vastly improved my quality of being (and continues so to do).

As I said to my current neurologist:

Although the experience was actually quite painless – I was discharged thirty-six hours after admission in a much, much better state than I had entered the hospital: having [reclaimed] the use of my left arm and hand (which was now full of sensation again); regained some movement in my neck; and didn’t walk like a drunken penguin – it is the associated risks I do not like. Nor do I enjoy the thought of this having to be repeated over and over again.

[Technically – for those who may be interested in such things – the procedure was a dual-level anterior cervical discectomy and fusion at C5/6 and C6/7. In other words, I have a metal plate screwed into the front of three of my vertebrae: which holds my head on to my body. (Yes, this makes me Steve Austin! Yippee!) Most of the time, though, I forget all that scaffolding is there. However, without fail, every anniversary, my neck feels more bulky; somehow inflamed and heavy… – even though, of course, nothing has really changed; and the implanted alien structure is truly featherweight.]

All last week, we had an orphaned great tit – several times each day, regular as nature’s clockwork – try to enter the house through the same closed windows. It seemed so determined; and would cling to the frames, pecking at the panes, with all its might: not perturbed even when face-to-face with us scary, ginormous humans. It obviously knew the glass was there (although may well have imagined itself duelling with a mirror-image protagonist); and appeared to suffer no harm, physically, when constantly thwarted. It was also growing rapidly: quickly evolving from fluffy rotundity to sleek, smooth adulthood. I was therefore not overly-concerned for its wellbeing.

I sensed loneliness, though. Unlike the many young blackbirds, thrushes, finches, sparrows, dunnocks, robins and wrens who similarly perch on our back garden fence; cling to the feeders; or scrabble amongst the flowers, shrubs and vegetable patch for insects, worms and snails; this one’s long streams of repeated single tweets evoked no parental response; nor did it, to my knowledge, congregate with the many others of its kind – the flocks of further great, blue and coal tits that often visit (although which are now to be found feasting in the freshly-harvested fields… – hopefully now joined by my absent visitor).

I also perceived – probably because I was feeling it myself… – a great deal of frustration. I know I shouldn’t really anthropomorphize – although where would we be without the wonderful Watership Down and The Wind in the Willows…? – but I felt its pain; and now miss its recurring calls. It had become my daemon; and was, I suppose, a manifestation of what I was – and still am – going through.

Of course – as those few loyal readers of this blog will have anticipated – my response to all of this has precipitated more insomniac wanderings through the benighted village. For instance, early last week, stricken with vertigo, I lay on one of the benches in the churchyard, swaddled in my unseasonal body- and neck-warmers, my legs over the armrest, staring directly upwards: revelling for an hour in the bells’ quarterly chimes, as my eyes grew slowly accustomed to the darkness; praying for Perseids. But it was too soon: and I saw only one such meteor – although that was utterly breathtaking. I was, however, rewarded with the sight of a trillion individually-polished gems: some of them lining up to form the impressionistic backbone of the Milky Way. It was thus hard to drag myself away – even though my body had melded painfully with the rigid woodwork. Unfortunately, the rest of my wanderings, that week, were under gathered clouds: with only rare glimpses of what lay above; of what I sought.

Yet, this Tuesday night, lit by an almost full moon – and with even the Plough struggling to make its presence known against such radiance – I felt truly at peace: my long, accompanying shadow a reminder of the miracles that our planet’s journey through the firmament can produce; rendering the church tower a glowing bastion; the golden hands of its clock easily legible; as were the familiar names etched into the headstones. I could have limped all the way to Kineton: such was the energy I was imbued with.

But yesterday, the (inner) gloom returned: reminding me that troublesome decisions have to be made; that I may have to carry out a pilgrimage to my original saviour; that – just as I find a way of life that is approximately practicable, and completely fulfilling, as well as within the limits of my disability – I may have to put everything on hold once more; or attempt to adapt, yet again, to another step-change in infirmity. I honestly feel as if I am that small bird, endlessly pecking away at the indestructible….

But that’s all in the future. Now, it’s just time to pull my boots on, and head out into the night again: acknowledging that there are far too many people in much, much worse situations. If nothing else, being enveloped by the moon’s cooling light is a great reminder of my position in the universe; and of the beauty that completely surrounds us.