"A Curious Poet" by Gail Foster - A review

It’s quite a task to review this tome. Not because one struggles to find anything good to say, or something genuine to critique, but because of its sheer size.  Many poets would be happy to produce a slim pamphlet of maybe twenty poems, exploring a theme…  but Garvey-like Gail throws those curtains wide and provides an entire year year’s worth of poetry and prose in a humongous volume of no less than one hundred and ninety-eight pages of prose and rhyme. That’s a genuine one hundred and ninety-eight pages too… that doesn't include the opening page – in itself a poem! – the introduction or the contents. Bang for buck you are on a winner here. One could say it’s also the book’s biggest failing… it is really a year’s worth of reading, for a year’s worth of writing. And hence my opening sentence. Perhaps too much of a good thing…  (Shakespearean scholars may look away…)

Perhaps the way to approach this work is however to view it a collection of pamphlets – Gail has eschewed a chronological approach to this year-long collation, and has bracketed her poems and prose into chapters. Buy one, get eight free really.

Her stuff encompasses a huge breadth of genres. As she explains in her own foreword it is “sacred and satirical, vulgar and sweet”, and to some degree the pamphlets-cum-chapters reflect that all. Her rapier wit shines forth with no holds barred unconcealed satire in the opening chapter “Fair Game”… name a major public figure in 2015-16 and there’s a chance they’ll pop up.  There’s dissatisfaction at the electorate of the UK as a broader target, political parties, and pressure groups. The language can be ripe too… all grist to the mill. Kim  Jong Un, Katie Hopkins, Jeremy Corbyn, Donald Trump – all come under fire with immense humour and ridicule. Bloody marvellous.

Then her love of the town she calls home shines through in pamphlet two “Down in The Vize”. If you live there, you’ll recognise an awful lot… if you don’t live there you end up feeling you do. Here too though the subject matter is broad and even peripheral and even with the very loosest of connections – “Thoughts on Public transport” isn’t about The Vize at all… but what does it matter? There are clear cross overs between pamphlets – sorry chapters – too… certainly local MP Claire Perry comes in for some treatment from Gail which could have appeared in the opening chapter, in “Shopping with Claire Perry” … perhaps this didn’t appear in “Fair Game” (chapter one) as Ms Perry perhaps did enough to ridicule herself [Ed. – allegedly!]  “The Tale of the wobbly bog” – an attack on the lack of authorities action on inadequate sewer provision which appear in chapter one is as much at home in chapter two, as it is about a street in The ‘Vize..  In this it shows the dilemma Gail was faced with in attempting to bracket these chapters.  So much work, so little time and it’s all a Venn diagram anyway.  (Now there’s an intriguing thought for a list of contents somewhen… as they say in the ‘Vize and may have done so in “Wasson, You?” in this chapter.

It’s not all satire and jibes and coarse language of course. (See what I did there?). “Deaths and Epitaphs” is full of poignant pieces, of those Gail has known mainly.  Possibly this is her finest work in this book… real connections with real people. Not schmaltzy, but “just so”. Not all are tear jerkers or throat lumpers, and not all are people that she knew personally… a couple of poems about Howard Marks are here, with humour too.

Then a chapter devoted to horsing around, being daft, inspired by social media. There’s little context in some of these leaving the reader wondering where the proverbial did that come from. Set this way this chapter comes over as somewhat disjointed – which doesn't make it pointless or wrong….  Just a bit odd in places.  But then again … isn't a writers’ raison d'etre to make us think?  And wonder?  There’s some seriousness here still, and also the trademark rough edged carry-on humour …  “Not much on the telly” is classic in her style here and may be one of the least context-less additions here…  depending how much you remember about old and odd news stories! There are other pearls here too it must be said including some self-criticism in “Monster Twat”.

By now dear reader you must be wondering if Gail has actually written anything that isn’t full of innuendo, filth and satire. It’s probably my own preferences that have highlighted these style of poems so far, I confess. There is truly deep work here too, to be honest far too deep and meaningful for a philistine like me, but the final chapter “Christians, Druids and Light” includes nineteen poems about Gail’s faith and spiritualism. Not that there isn't some nudge-nudge-wink-wink stuff here too, but this is the chapter to delve into her soul, none more so than the almost seminal work “The Curious Offering of the Sacristan”,  then the touching “Midnight Mass, St John’s” discussing simple facets of an annual event… and another annual event’s aspects in “The Solstice Door” illuminating her multi-angles approach to her beliefs.

I've not touched on other chapters here… because to do so would merely exhaust me of compliments and superlatives. As I said at the beginning – the biggest problem with “A Curious Poet” is that there is so much to take in. So I suggest you do take it in… it’s a real day pack book, a toiler library tome.  Dip in and out of it… pick a page, flick through it the bus some time. It’s a winner that is for sure – there is definitely something here for everyone.  So everyone… should own it.

"We are Brontë" by Publick Transport- A review

(photo courtesy of Loz Samuels, DOCA)

Devizes Outdoor Celebratory Arts (a.k.a. DOCA) have in recent times brought to the Devizes International Street Festival the wackier end of  performance theatre - My!Laika's  "Popcorn Machine" in 2018 and Los Galindros' "Udul" this year, 2019, spring to mind. Then as the bank holiday festival 2019 closed there was one final sting in the tail for us all...  the quite bizarre "We are Brontë" by Publick Transport.

It’s not the easiest of tasks to review this show as its anarchic and surreal contents somewhat defy any lineal description. This is not a show in the sense of a beginning or an end - it's more (as indeed its male protagonist Angus Barr explains) an “amalgam” of Brontë orientated inspirations. Is it a biography?  Is it a summary of best known novels? Is it the actors themselves ? In truth it is all of these things but fourth wall breaking aside it’s not clear always which if these areas one is witnessing at any one time...  which is its magic!

Bonkers. Brilliant. Confusing. Hilarious. Surreal. Cringe-worthy (more of that later). Fantastic. All of these things and more.  Angus Barr and Sarah Corbett provided an hour's supremely physical comedy interspersed with very occasional sharp one liners taking us from the Brontës harsh and tragic lives in West Yorkshire in the first half of the 19th century, through their writings and into the 1970’s popcharts and also up to the modern day. And all hilariously done with perfect comedic timing.

Not that you'd need to know much about the Brontës to enjoy the show - and we learnt how many people do actually know anything at all, some of those revelations being somewhat startling. If you do know anything it may not help as we were assured on more than one occasion by the pair of performers that allusion and the artistic thread must be interpreted.  There was a moon - I think - and lots of string, a deconstructed door,  smoke, cling film, a picture frame, some stair climbing enacted on a totally flat stage...  and lots of other stuff I couldn’t fathom that even a vigorous attempt at googling hasn’t entirely unravelled for me.

The stage craft was sublime, and the continual breaking of the fourth wall in that cringe-worthy manner alluded to previously superbly utilised. The Q&A session wasn't everybody's cup of tea but fitted the show perfectly. We vividly learned and witnessed the realities of tuberculosis. Then there was beautifully revealed artwork to close the show. Until the show really ended ...  take a bow those pair of lonely and isolated chairs.

The notoriously challenging acoustics of the venue, St. Mary's, as ever played their part at times. Despite that minor and difficult-to-control issue overall the show was more than a resounding success. Full marks to Publick Transport. Full marks to DOCA. And full marks to the Brontës...  because without them, there would be no show.



(c) Ian Diddams 2019

Theatre and Cricket - a shared problem

A young friend posted via Facebook a link to the following interesting on-line article.

https://www.thestage.co.uk/opinion/2016/richard-jordan-is-this-worst-west-end-audience-ever/

Its very much worth a read - and for me it showed multiple similarities in a non aligned industry - professional sport. Particularly cricket where the promotion of increasingly shorter forms of the game allied to crowd "involving" antics has led to a new genre of supporter... one that clearly brings much revenue into the game but at the same time is poles apart from a more traditional (for want of a better word) involvement and match. Rugby internationals rather than just provide a marching band at half time and pre-match now seem to "have" to provide an hour of pre-match entertainment, plus half time shows ... and I have to really ask "why" ? But then maybe I have to accept I'm just a miserable old git. It just seems such emperor's new clothes to me. Though like the author I see parallels in "reality" TV, soap operas and other instant amusement style shows which actually don't really provide anything but something to watch while filling the time before the next program comes along providing an opportunity to watch something until the next... etc. While real drama and actual comedy gets sidelined.

I suppose in theory these moves broaden the audience - which is an excellent concept especially to help theatre (and sport!) survive. But having expanded the audience what potentially happens is the "new" approach becomes the defacto approach. The audience instead of evolving towards more traditional standards of behaviour, appreciation and expectation, stays where their perceived position is and the theatre has to at least maintain that or - arguably worse still - migrates itself towards that new norm. In cricket we see the most traditional arena of the game, the test match, now have an almost mandatory audience participation level, nay competition, of the most outrageous fancy dress parties within the spectators. Arguably it doesn't affect from the actual cricket played a hundred and thirty metres away - in the same way that the burger eating audience member doesn't affect the play being performed. But they both detract possibly from some others' appreciation of it. Its hard to concentrate on a tension building hour of pressure from a spinner against a set batsman when a dozen Dolly Partons are drenching each other in beer twenty feet in front of you. Its hard to gain the full emotion of a tragic scene played out before you when the smell of chips and fried onions keeps drifting under your nose. Let alone the person who needs to go to the toilet and bar every twenty minutes.

So the once standard variation with accepted levels of interaction becomes sidelined to almost a side show, a freak show where old duffers sit and contemplate and the participants tread the boards, or play their game, in a more muted and historical environment whilst having their own existence threatened. Within the County Championship in English cricket with its two innings format, played in all whites (on the whole!), the calendar and focus has moved to season fringes and often away from weekend days so the working demographic cannot see it. English cricket is, while not abandoning its heritage entirely, moving to a situation if not already attained, or making that bedrock of its game irrelevant while more raucous and immediately entertaining variations grab the weekends, the limelight and define a whole new de facto environment for its new audiences.

Whither historical context and tradition. Welcome to the brave new world of chasing the pound signs, 3D television in effect, and being careful what you wish for.

And watch out for a dozen Dolly Partons in the upper circle, coming to a theatre near you... soon.... (c) Ian Diddams 2016

Corporate Stupidity and inflexibility

Yes I know.  It's me having a moan again. But really...  if a bloke can't have a dashed good moan now and again what IS the world coming to?

Yesterday I had the great misfortune to visit - and there's a word one may use advisedly - Tesco's at Cirencester. Now, I do feel it only fair to say that what I am about to relate could well have happened at any Tesco's, not just the one at Cirencester. Or indeed at any of the other supermarkets that may be available at Cirencester or indeed elsewhere. It's just as likely - within certain offers and caveats - to have happened at any supermarket anywhere.

It was the occasion of my beloved's 50th birthday. We had a picnic day arranged at a beautiful location, but I need a couple of last minute things.  like food.  And something to drink. Nothing major - especially as a Tesco's the size of a small central American nation was only a few miles away. So as the wifelet exercised herself and our two dogs, I set off for what could only be a 30 minute errand ...  surely?

I should have known. As the bank holiday weekend loomed over the horizon where as far as I understand it supermarkets would be open as normal except for Sunday hours on Monday (i.e. ONLY 6 hours available!) half of Gloucestershire had descended on this Tesco's. You never know what you might run out of at 16:01 on Monday after all. Better make sure we are stocked up with car freshener, and light bulbs after all.

That notwithstanding, my shopping was done in no more than 10 minutes, and I joined a queue at a checkout. The woman in front did appear to be shopping for an entire nation - one like Brazil, 5th largest country in the world.  That's OK and fair enough of course.  Except...  she had money off vouchers.

Again...  nothing wrong with that - in itself.  I am certainly one for a bit of value and saving the pennies in life.  However, these vouchers were of the "fiver off a £40 shop variety".  But it transpires that one cannot join these up...  so if you have an £80 shop you cannot get a tenner off.  Oh no.  that would be FAR too BLOODY OBVIOUS!!!

I am sure, dear reader, that you are already "there".  So the shopper - whose fault it is not that this stupid scenario exists - would get the cashier to ring through just over £40 shopping...  then cash that through. Having completed one £40 shop (with a fiver off), the next £40 was then rung through...  and repeat.  Twenty-five minutes later three loads - and three refunds - had eventually been completed. It was like being forcibly stuck watching the chuckle brothers for 25 minutes.  Only less amusing - if that is actually at all possible. I enviously watched other queues dispatching shoppers at a rate of dozens per minute (prob'ly) while this glacial experience unfolded before my eyes. Eventually the shopping was done, the cashier apologised for the delay, and life returned to its normal pace.

But why, oh why, does this occur?  Is it really beyond the wit of man, and the capabilities of software designers and programmers to understand that 2 x £40 = 2 x vouchers = one ring though and one refund?  Really?  We can put men on the moon, replace body organs, operate on people via cameras and tools inserted within a pin hole and broadcast vast quantities of drivel across the globe via satellites 22,000 miles above the Earth.

But we cannot work out a way to make a shopping experience as efficient as it could or even should be.

Its enough to drive one to drink. As long as you don't need to queue in a supermarket for it that is. (c) Ian Diddams 2016

Gap Yahh!

Far too many years ago I was fortunate enough to travel the oceans blue, or at least the world with a backpack blue. North, Central, South America, Australia and New Zealand, then Thailand and Europe in the late '80s, before settling in (initially West, then reunified) Germany and enjoying traveling around Europe more, and a brief sojourn in Egypt. That was followed by another couple of years in the early 90s traveling in Asia, Australia, New Zealand and the South Pacific before again returning to the UK via the USA.

My wife at a similar time spent well in excess of a year in India, south-east Asia and Nepal. Her experiences were similar - of a backpacking camaraderie, and limited connections with parents and friends at home. She must have been desperate for company maybe - we met in Indonesia and now have a house, three children and two dogs together ;-)

Traveling was always hard work, but rewarding and there were always other travelers to share good times, beers and information with. Contact with "home" was limited, mainly by letter and postcard though expensive phone calls were always an option of course.

Last month my son traveled to India for adventures and a good time. He had the MOST amazing time, particularly driven by his interest in Buddhism. His adventures included those shared by his mum - the Rajasthan desert, Agra and The Taj Mahal, Varanassi's ghats. He also enjoyed areas that I included in some of my travels - watching international cricket live, eating indistinguishable foodstuffs and trying to find a cold beer. All in all a hugely positive experience.

But in the intervening years something has changed. Of course modern communications now mean the monthly postcard proving to your parents that you are still alive is usurped by immediate internet chatting. A regular alarm call (!) at about 0430 every day would wake us as he sent us a "Good Morning" message, and we were able to share his experiences and travels with him as he sent photographs and updates via facebook, and we were able to help investigate queries and check out concerns instantaneously for him - it became very much a shared experience, albeit of course a vicarious one for us. I wasn't sure before how the internet would affect backpacking today, but with this experience I would say it is actually positive.

There is however it would seem - at least in India - a downside to the presence of the internet and immediate comms - and smartphones. In a month of traveling he met ONE other traveler to interact with.  Have a coffee, see some sites (and sights!) together, have a chat with. One. Every other backpacker/traveler he encountered just wasn't interested in any social interaction at all. At best totally indifferent, at worst down right rudeness.  It came to a head in Goa, where in a hostel with a shared communal area he sat with seven other travelers. All of them to a man (or woman) watching youtube videos in silence.  Not even chatting with friends at home - just watching youtube videos. Ignoring everybody else in the room, not engaging, even to chat over making a coffee in the tiny kitchenette provided. Nothing.  "Nada" - as they would have said in South America in 1987.


I would always support people's own reasons for doing something. But simple rudeness and a lack of social cohesion I find very difficult to comprehend and accept. I am very proud of my son, who traveled somewhere totally different from his roots, at what is still really a young age, on his own. But I have to say this from a parent's and ex-traveler's perspective; this is for the (mostly) rest of the backpacking fraternity on the sub-continent... and thanks to George Formby for the meter.

Bless'em all.

bless 'em all! bless 'em all,
the boorish, and with minds so small,
gone to India, to travel and learn,
sat in their hostels avoiding sunburn,
never speaking to others at all,
as back to their smartphones they crawl,
There's no conversation, in the Indian nation,
By gap-yearers less than enthralled! (c) Ian Diddams 2016

Singing.

I've not blogged for ages - maybe because I found everything I wanted to say was in some ways increasingly "political" in nature and I don't want this blog to be a political rant. That's what facebook is for! The odd things in life I find these days are so often wrapped up in government policy, or official bureaucracy.

However, a new friend who is a poet has become somewhat of a muse, and so on their prompting I offer the following...

Singing.
An autobiographical poem by Ian Diddams. With thanks to John Miles


  Singing was my first love,
  And it may be my last,
  Singing in the future,
  Came from singing in the past...

  First was singing at school,
  Happy songs and ditties,
  And a solo first verse
  Of 'Royal David's City

  Then to the local choir
  To sing along in church
  hymns and carols, where on
  the edge of a pew I'd perch

  Soon the joys of rugby
  Enticed me from the choir
  With songs of maidens named
  Dinah and Delilah

  We'd sing of Immobile,
  and then "The Sloop John B"
  And a Dickie-Die-Doe
  My rugby team mates and me

  Then a hip replacement
  Stopped all the running stuff
  Rugby and triathlon
  My body had sung "Enough"

  My soul cried out for more
  My brain would not relent
  From finding a way to
  Assuage my musical bent

  Next up was D.M.T.
  And also TiTCo too
  Concerts and musicals
  Sung, and operas with W.H.O.

  Ad-hoc singing as well
  Sea shanties down the pub
  And those stand up, floor spots
  At Seend Acoustic Club

  So here I sit today
  The score upon my desk
  Learning my tenor line
  For whichever show comes next.

  Singing was my first love,
  And it may be my last,
  Singing in the future,
  Came from singing in the past... (c) Ian Diddams 2015

Rotate the Date. Or how 1999 has a lot to answer for.

And so it has come to pass. The annual change in date number has occurred, that ensures that for the next few weeks cheques will be returned undeposited as the year is wrong, and we collectively struggle to overcome the last 46 weeks of cerebral imprinting. 2012 has disappeared before it hardly started, and 2013 has begun. It will be 2014 next week.  We are 12% through another century and the Mayans were wrong. Or rather, those that interpreted the failure of the Mayans to perform the next print run of their calendar as definitive proof of the demise of our planet were wrong. The Mayans never said the world was going to end...  I suspect they just got a new hobby to indulge in that distracted them from drawing up the next calendar. Like macramé. John Cusack would have been gutted.

30 years ago New Year was the peak of my social year...  it was a mandatory night out; an orgy of beer, kisses, hugs and laughter. And there's nothing wrong with that, though sociologists, the temperance brigade and wowsers would all be shaking their heads at such displays of binge drinking undoubtedly. From house parties as a child/young teenager at neighbours houses at "The Willows", to the gathering of the great and the good at the Dyson's ...  to Sittingbourne's pubs ...  to The Hole in the Wall for the unofficial Aber Uni annual regrouping, each New Year passed in time honoured fashion. Happy Days. Though we were unaware, we were practising for the big one, for 1999, when Tony Blair assured us that a year ending in a zero was not the last year in a decade/century/millennia but in fact the first, even though there wasn't a year zero to begin in way back when they nailed people to trees to punish them and to herald a new calendar system.

A few years passed...  the options for Bacchanalian celebration dropped away as life became more rural and responsible with young children. This reached its zenith for 1999/2000 which has some irony possibly given the entire globe was parting like it WAS 1999. Post appendectomy and with the wifelet having given birth recently, 3 children below the age of 5, we watched Blair prove he doesn't understand number systems, raised a solitary glass and went to bed. I'm a mathematician, not a greasy politician. The real millennia a year later passed everyone by. Too boring I suspect.  Though I'd like to think somewhere at CERN maybe Professor Brian Cox and his chums were having a huge time of it parting like it was 2000.

And what of now? Urges to party like its 1999 have generally passed by...  I usually feel I should make some effort..  but...  well, its all a bit of a flap really and the prospect of sharing my evening with a bunch of people hell bent on ensuring THEY have the greatest night EVER since 1999 has lost its appeal. We spent a few years with friends disposing of as much red wine as the euro wine lakes would permit, and most recently a couple of dinner parties - gosh how middle class am _I_ now? And one year a rite of passage with one son telling his mum how much he loved her whilst his brother lifted his dad out of a hedge into which he had stumbled.  Twice.  Names omitted to protect the over indulged.

And last night...?  In the last year I have watched a young girl becoming a young woman. And two teenage boys become fine young men. Not to forget a wonderful woman become an outstanding Occupational Therapist. Right at the end of the year a very clever bloke swapped out a troublesome femur ball joint for a titanium spike and a ceramic ball joint for me. So 31/12/2012 was spent with three children elsewhere and Tracey and I watching drivel TV. One of my fine young men came home early, bored with his party.  So as Big Ben struck midnight, Tracey, George and I were heading to Marlborough to collect Joby, as Charlotte was at my mum's.  It was as the German's would have it "gemütlich".  Sehr gemütlich. God you get sad when you reach 50.

Incidentally...  someone needs to tell the DJ on Radio Somerset that it is not new year until Big Ben has completed the intro and sounded the first BONG. Not when it starts to whir into motion, accompanied by "That's it! It's 2013". Twit.  

Good job it wasn't 1999. (c) Ian Diddams 2013