I joined the nice “front Row couple” I quite often see and chat with at SJSS (and also occasionally at The Wig). They asked after Janie, as usually do and we chatted about Janie’s mild aversion (or I should say relative aversion) to SJSS.
We also discussed the ageing demographic at both venues and I alluded to the fact that I sometimes still get called “young man” at The Wig, whereas not so at SJSS.
One of their number, Emily Worthington, describes the project well in the following vid:
…and also the next one, which is about one of their earlier Beethoven projects:
I couldn’t help but think of the Noel Coward song, “Don’t Put Your Daughter On The Stage, Mrs Worthington” despite the fact that the charming young clarinettist shows none of the unfortunate characteristics attributed to Mrs Worthington’s daughter in the song.
Anyway, the ensemble treated us to Czerny’s wind ensemble arrangement of Beethoven’s Septet in Eb Op 20. A light piece which was apparently very popular in Beethoven’s day.
Here is a charming performance of the original Beethoven septet:
The Czerny wind version has only recently been revived – essentially Boxwood & Brass seek out such versions for revival.
Returning to the phrase, “young man”, that really does apply to Carl Czerny, who was all of 14 years old when he arranged this piece for wind ensemble. Precocious little fella.
Meanwhile, as we upped and left the hall at the end of this excellent lunchtime concert, the nice man from the nice couple patted me on the shoulder and said, “see you soon, young man”. It doesn’t really count once you’ve seeded the idea to someone, but still I thought it was a kind, friendly touch.
Remember where you first heard the name of this Yorkshire-based wind ensemble, Boxwood and Brass; ‘appen they were champion – I were well chuffed wirrem.
I was keen to see this concert of young award-winning artistes, including two young guitarists, Jesse Flowers and Andrey Lebedev, who would be performing Elizabethan music. Actually, the Elizabethan theme included both Elizabethan periods – i.e. Tudor music and also music from the last 60 or so years.
Ian Pittaway gets really irritated when I mention Janie’s aversion to the lyrics of a certain type of Tudor secular song, which she describes as “Hey Nonie No” music.
Ian P points out, perhaps with some veracity, that there is only one Elizabethan song that actually contains the offending words, “Hey Nonie No”. Well, Ian ran out of road today, as the concert contained, amongst many other things, Thomas Morley’s It Was A Lover And His Lass, which certainly contains that line. I felt some of Janie’s finger nails digging into the back of my hand when we got to that bit.
But the Dowland songs were his usual darker stuff: In Darkness Let Me Dwell, Now O Now I Needs Must Part and Come Heavy Sleep, which Janie and I both tend to prefer both musically and lyrically.
Janie wondered why the words to these more substantial songs are not credited to their authors. I didn’t know the answer to that question but my guess is/was that they are words that had been handed down through oral tradition and that the first time they were published along with (e.g. Dowland’s) music, the authorship was lost in the mists of time. But at the time of writing I seek an authoritative view on this point.
Anyway, below is a more comprehensive list of the music played, taken from the programme.
Both of the guitarists played using modern, vertical fingers on the right hand rather than the horizontal finger technique Ian P is encouraging in me. I must say I thought the Tudor music sounded lovely on the modern guitar in the hands of both of these guitarists.
Janie and I also both enjoyed the modern-Elizabethan solo guitar pieces; Britten’s Nocturnal after John Dowland and Philip Houghton’s Ophelia…a Haunted Sonata. Let’s just say that we found the modern songs too difficult for us.
I had spotted sitting near to us one of my occasional real tennis pals from Lord’s, Michael, who I knew was an accomplished guitarist, as he had studied Benjy (my baritone ukulele/Tudor guitar) with great interest one time at Lord’s.
We chatted with Michael for a while during the interval, choosing not to bother with refreshments at that hour, before hunkering down for the short but more difficult second half of the concert.
Janie and I had never been to a Saturday lunchtime concert before and I’m not sure we’ll be returning on a Saturday lunchtime again in a hurry. It just doesn’t time well with our other regular activities, so it all felt like a bit of a rush, early in the weekend, getting to the Wig on time. Mind you, it is surprisingly easy enough to park around there on a Saturday lunchtime, we learnt…
…and we did very much enjoy the concert. Janie has decided to hedge her bets in the matter of the term “Hey Nonie No” music, by rebranding it as “Ring Around The Rosebuds” music. Very cunning.
Meanwhile I cannot find any examples of these youngsters playing Tudor music on-line, but here is a very young Jesse Flowers playing some Bach lute music transcribed for guitar, beautifully:
Oh dear. No this one wasn’t for us. It came at the end of a long week for both of us, but any week we would have found the oppressive family situation depicted here difficult to bear for two hours.
The central characters are escapees from the Armenian genocide and as such both are sympathetic characters. But the writing seemed, to us, laboured. The progress through the plot is well signalled in advance and therefore seemed very slow. Here is the playwright’s own take on the piece, which includes a video snippet.
But the acting was all very good and as always with the Finborough, you feel that you are seeing a tiny place punch well above its weight.
I have no idea why people think I would be a useful member of a quiz team. Perhaps it is because I am so intelligent and witty and knowledgeable about the topics I am willing to discuss.
It doesn’t seem to occur to people that top notch quizzers aren’t very much like me at all – or rather the selection of topics that top notch quizzers are knowledgeable about don’t overlap much with my topics of interest.
Anyway, every so often I get asked…
…once…
…but on the occasions I have said yes, I cannot recall ever being asked back…
…and very often I say no. In fact, unless the event or companionship pleases me, I say no.
Anyway, my point is, I was keen to meet up with this charming crowd as long as Jasmine recognised that I am not the quizzer she might have been hoping for. So when she asked me to join her MoneyMagpie team, I replied:
How could I possibly say no to that? But surely we have better general knowledge quizzers than me in our orbit? Still, it would be lovely to join you and your team if I’m as good as it gets.
In fact, I arrived in Soho a little early, so took a stroll down Chinatown memory lane at New Year time for a few minutes before entering De Hems.
It was great to see Brian Jordan again after all these years and it is always a treat to spend time with John and Jasmine. Also on our team were Susan and Annie, who were also delightful company, as was Annie’s son (who works for Marcus) and Tony Elliott who was our Marcus host on our table.
As usual, nothing that I really know about came up. No theatre, no early music, no sixties and seventies popular music, no cricket, no real tennis…
…what’s the matter with these quizzes?
On the few occasions I could answer a question with authority, at least one other person if not several others on the team knew the answer.
So I opted for the role of team cheerleader, to try and maintain the concentration and positive energy of my teammates. I also acted as the runner to take our answer sheets in – a role I tried to perform with as much gusto as my aching body could muster.
In the former matter, I (and indeed the team) was only moderately successful – we came fourth out of seven teams.
Somewhere on my bookshelves is a so-called humorous book from the 1980s called The Mackeson Book Of Averages – which was an alternative, stout antidote to the Guinness Book Of World Records. It is a very ordinary book. But if there is ever an update to the Mackeson Book Of Averages, perhaps The MonyMagpies team result in this pub quiz should be recorded in that book. That would enable me, Brian, Jasmine and John to add to our stupendous Guinness World Record via NewsRevue, plus my other Guinness World Record via Goodenough College.
But I digress.
In the matter of my role as team runner, I was awarded an MVP award (MVP normally means most valuable player, but in my case it was presumably most volatile player) – in the form of a bottle of Prosecco, which I proudly displayed in my trophy cabinet for about 2 minutes (long enough to photograph it):
…before handing it over to Janie for a more suitable purpose (drinking).
I think that Janie thinks that I won the bottle of bubbly for quizzing, so please, readers, do not disabuse her of that belief.
…and of course Rohan is the author of The Little Book Of Stress. I think Janie’s waiting area needs copies of both of those books…
…while the surgery itself is of course, in book terms, dedicated to The Price Of Fish.
On that final subject, I did a very clever deal with Tony Elliott of Goldman Sachs, who offered to buy a copy of The Price Of Fish if I, in turn, shovelled thousands of poundsworth of savings towards Marcus by Goldman Sachs. Good deal makers, these Goldman Sachs people – who knew?
Anyway, I shall not be using “mother’s maiden name?” as one of my security questions.
In short, the food, the wine, the company and the event were all top notch and most enjoyable. Our team’s quizzing though? Very average.
When Rohan was organsing this evening, he sent round a note asking us to “pencil in” this date.
Now I’m not one who is naturally disposed to doing what I am told…
…so I joined the small band of pencil-resisters and informed Rohan and others:
I have written “Rohan Thing?” in big letters in my diary, in ink. If my inflexibility in the pencil verses ink aspect deems me ineligible for the event, I quite understand.
Rohan responded:
Ian, it’s mainly your hat that I’m inviting. But, apparently, it can’t make it without you wandering about underneath. As for ‘Rohan Thing’ – that makes it sound like you’d met me at a party the night before, but can’t remember my surname. Despite all this, I still want you to come along.
Now I know what some of you are thinking. You’re thinking that I am buying time here, in a rather pitiful way, by quoting Rohan’s witty remarks while avoiding actually telling a story of my own.
Well, y…
…NO! Not at all. But that bant does form part of my story.
Let’s start with Rohan’s initial reference to my hat. Now it seems to me, that Rohan was, rather obviously, dropping a heavy hint that he wanted me to tell the story about the day I bought this hat.
And in many ways it is perfectly understandable that Rohan should try to coax me, kindly, gently, directorially towards telling that story. Because it is a darned good story. Within three minutes of buying this hat, from Lock & Co. in St James’s, in early June 2016, I was afforded the opportunity to accost Boris Johnson while he was on his bicycle and had to stop for me at a pelican crossing on The Mall. I waved my real tennis racket at Boris – an implement which, I have subsequently been told, has the unfortunate look of a sawn-off shotgun when in its archaic canvas bag. It wasn’t my intention to seem quite so threatening. Oh well.
Here are some of the items for you to peruse
Anyway, I let Boris know what a knob he was being by supporting Brexit, endangering our economy and potentially causing geopolitical mayhem. My noble gesture was temporarily cathartic for me but ultimately, it seems, futile for the nation and the world.
I could milk that anecdote into a full blown dramatic…or perhaps I should say tragi-comic recitation…
…if I wanted to…
…but as you know, I’m not one who is naturally disposed to doing what I am told…
…or even what I am kindly, gently, directorially coaxed towards doing…
…so I’m not going to talk about the June 2016 hat.
Instead, I’m going to talk about the trousers I bought four weeks earlier. These red trousers.
I made an emergency trip to the Retro Clothing Exchange shop at 28 Pembridge Road in Notting Hill Gate, to try and find an appropriate pair of trousers for a 1960’s party. Actually it wasn’t for any old 1960’s party. It was for my wife, Janie’s party.
The likely source of the party trousers was the basement of that retro shop. Despite its change of purpose within the “Exchange Empire”, I recognised the space immediately as the old bargain basement of Record and Tape Exchange.
[On with Sisters Of Mercy]
I inhabited that basement a great deal in my youth. Initially and several times subsequently, those visits were with my Alleyn’s School friend, Paul Deacon.
It was probably the pull of Record and Tape Exchange and my resulting familiarity with Notting Hill Gate that drew me to move into that part of London ten years later, almost exactly 30 years ago, when I was ready to find my own place. A most fortuitous draw, as I have been profoundly happy living there.
Now as some of you might know, I indulge a retro-blogging habit, writing up my diaries and memorabilia in the form of a life blog going back as far as I can go. Ogblog, I call it.
So, when I got home with my bright red retro trousers, I did a diary trawl of my 1970s second hand record shop expeditions, in order to Ogblog those memories.
Paul Deacon and I first succeeded in visiting that shop in late April 1978. I bought several records which had a profound effect on me. Most memorably from that first batch, a CBS sampler album, The Rock Machine Turns You On, which had, amongst other treasures, Sisters of Mercy by Leonard Cohen. I remember the hairs on the back of my neck standing up when I first heard that track. I played it over and over again, to the irritation of my parents who wondered why I was hell bent on playing “such dirgy stuff”.
But the dusty and musty smell of the 28 Pembridge Road basement actually reminded me most about a visit some three months later, during the school holidays, not with Paul, but with a young female known as Fuzz.
[Off with Sisters Of Mercy – On with Me & Mrs Jones]
You might recall that Rohan thought the term “Rohan Thing” appropriate for someone you met at a party whose second name had evaded you. Of course, back in 1978, when we were 15/16 years old, it was not uncommon to get rather friendly with someone at a party without ever finding out their second name.
But I must confess that Fuzz, with whom I’d had a gentle squeeze at Anil & Anita Biltoo’s party a couple of weeks before she and I made that July 1978 Pembridge Road visit, has a unique place in my junior romantic canon. Because I don’t think I even found out Fuzz’s real first name, let alone her second name.
How we arranged that “date” at Pembridge Road is a bit of a mystery now…but nowhere near as much of a mystery as her name. “Everyone calls me Fuzz”, is, I think, as far as I got, name-wise.
But in other ways, Fuzz and I got a little bit further. I was on the lowest foothills of learning about romantic entwinement that summer, but I had discovered tonsil hockey a few months earlier and was quite keen to practice that sport when the chance presented itself.
During one of the quarter breaks in our tonsil hockey match at Anil and Anita’s party, I inadvertently overheard Fuzz excitedly telling her pals, that…
…I blush to report this…
…words to the effect…
…I was the best tonsil hockey player she had ever encountered.
[Off with Me And Mrs Jones]
Now please bear in mind, folks, I went to the sort of school where the only feedback you got from games masters, even if you were one of the best sporting boys the school had seen in years, was a phrase such as, “you’re uncoachable”, delivered with a clip around the ear…
…and I was far from being one of the best sporting boys the school had seen in years…
…I was one of those boys who would try hard at sport, but whose abundant enthusiasm could not compensate for my dismal shortages of athleticism and talent.
Not that my school sporting career was completely devoid of success. Oh no. Three years earlier I had, famously, defeated the mighty John Eltham – who was certainly one of the more sporty boys – in the fives quarter finals of 1975. I even have a “winning quarter-finalist” trophy emblazoning my drinks cabinet, a trophy mysteriously uncovered by a certain Rohan Candappa, as evidence of that victory.
But my point is, I was not used to hearing encouraging sporting words at all and I had, until that juncture, the low confidence of a novice in the matter of tonsil hockey. My previous experience at that sport (otherwise known as French kissing) could, in July 1978, have been counted on the fingers of one hand. Possibly even the finger of one finger. But I was hearing it on good authority that I was already up there with the very best exponents of the sport globally. Wow.
Of course, it occurs to me now that Fuzz’s prior experience of tonsil hockey might have been as limited as mine, or even less so, making “best ever” a somewhat meaningless comparative term. Oh well.
What Fuzz might have thought of my sartorial talent back then is lost in the mists of time, but it is very unlikely to have been good news. Baggy flared jeans and a yellow PVC waterproof garment, which my youth club friends teasingly described as “Ian’s Banana Jacket”. Little did those folks know that I was, in fact, a proto leader of the yet-to-be-formed gilets jaunes movement. The non-violent, social justice, French chapter. Not the Neo-Nazi English chapter that likes to describe centrist Tories as Nazis. But I digress.
Anyway, back to my date, on a hot day in late July, with Fuzz, in the bargain basement of the Record & Tape Exchange shop where, years later, I bought these red trousers. I suppose I became engrossed in my gramophone record searches and it seems that Fuzz became overwhelmed by the mustiness and dustiness of that Notting Hill basement. Fuzz fainted, banged her head while collapsing and needed to be revived by worried staff in the shop.
But apart from that, young Mr Harris, how was your hot date?
Reflecting on this ill-fated first (and perhaps unsurprisingly, last) date with Fuzz, I realise that it could have been a truly disastrous incident. Had Fuzz lost consciousness and needed attention from the emergency services, I might have had some explaining to do to the other type of fuzz when trying to assist them in identifying the young woman and notifying her next of kin. I don’t think the answers “Fuzz” or “Thing Thing” would have gone down terribly well with the fuzz.
Roll the clock forward again to May 2016, the day I bought these retro red trousers and a month before I accosted Boris Johnson while wearing this hat…
…I wrote up those 1978 Record and Tape Exchange memories on Ogblog and corresponded with Paul Deacon over the next couple of days, tidying up and expanding some of the text.
Paul emigrated to Canada some years ago now, where he now pursues his career as a voice-over actor, music archivist and part-time DJ.
As an aside to our e-reminiscing, Paul asked me if Janie and I had listened to his weekly broadcast on The Grand At 101 lately, which is available on-line. I had to admit we hadn’t. The show is on Saturday afternoons in Ontario, therefore Saturday evening in the UK. Janie and I are almost always out on a Saturday evening.
But, as luck would have it, our Saturday evening plans that weekend had, for practical reasons, been switched to Sunday lunch. So I told Paul we’d tune in. A few other old school friends also tuned in that evening and we had some fun with Paul, messaging in obscure requests for shout-outs and spins.
Paul then messaged us to say that John Eltham (yes, he of the historic fives quarter final in 1975) would be joining Paul at the studio “any minute”. I was aware that John Eltham was due to visit Paul, but I hadn’t twigged that the visit was so imminent, let alone that day. Then another message from Paul:
John’s here now! He’s just told me about the Rohan Thing…
Thus we learn that there is more than one Rohan Thing. Indeed, there are many Rohan Things.
And as for my red trousers, you must be wondering whether they worked with my 1960s party get up?
Well…
[Remove hat and jumper to reveal bandanna, party shirt, CND medallion and don the CND whacky specs]
…the red trousers were a groovy happening thing amongst many groovy happening things at that party, man. Peace and love.
Footnote: At the end of the evening, Rohan ceremonially handed out a lengthy thread to all who had performed, to symbolise the thread of story-telling that leads from Chaucer through Shakespeare and Dickens to our evening and evenings beyond.
Ben Clayson captured that moment and has kindly consented to me publishing a Photoshopped version of his photo here – (not that Ben knows it at this actual moment, but if the photo is still here when you look, then he probably has actually consented):
Thanks, Ben – and thanks Rohan for organising it all.
David Wellbrook (standing) loudly performing, Rohan Candappa (seated) quietly reading
Many thanks to David for allowing me to publish his performance piece as a guest piece on Ogblog. The version below is not only a thoroughly enjoyable piece, but it also explains the context to Rohan’s show, which means that I don’t have to write that bit.
Anyway, here is David’s Threadmash piece on clothing:
From my perspective, it all began with a photograph that I had stumbled across whilst clearing out some old stuff a few months ago. It was taken in 1978 at Chris Grant’s sister’s wedding and depicts four young men for whom the word “fashion” was no more than a theoretical concept to be explored by others.
The excellent Rohan Candappa, author of numerous best-selling titles, and now Edinburgh Festival stalwart, decided than an evening of story-telling, with a theme around fashion, would be a good idea, upstairs at a London pub on a wet Tuesday evening in February.
And lo, it was so. There we all were. Nine of us, with stories to tell. Rohan decided that I would go on first. “You’re the Status Quo of our Live Aid extravaganza,” he assured me, giving my left buttock a gentle squeeze.
“Whatever you want,” I replied, “whatever you like.”
And so, with my “just-in-time” reflections, this is what I said: Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen. Hopefully you all have an envelope. (I had handed out a number of envelopes by this point.) Please resist the temptation to open the envelope just yet because my piece is entitled “The Story Behind the Photograph” and indeed within that envelope, almost as if it was planned, is the photograph in question. Now, you may find the photograph amusing in it’s own right, who could blame you, but you will have no context and in this instance, context is important. As the famous Italian philosopher Rigatoni Tortellini, once said, and I believe I’m translating from the original Hebrew, “Contexti esti importanti.”
I might have just made that bit up.
Anyhow, The Story Behind the Photograph:
Rohan has dragged me…invited me along here this evening to talk to you about the thorny subject of fashion and how, in the wrong hands, these hands, it can all go cataclysmically wrong. As you can tell from my underpants, I take fashion very seriously. I always have and I suspect I always will.
But where to begin? Marianne was seven years older than us and by a strange quirk of arithmetic and no one having died, she still is seven years older than us. Marianne is also my mate Chris’s big sister. (It was fortunate that Chris was in attendance as I now had someone to blame). My mate Chris has two big sisters and Marianne is the bigger of the two. Certainly in terms of age. She’s seven years older than us as I think I might have mentioned.
But what has this got to do with fashion you may ask?
(I waited a few moments at this stage and as if by magic, everyone shouted: “BUT WHAT HAS THIS GOT TO DO WITH FASHION?”)
Well, since you’re so kind as to ask, let me explain. Marianne decided to get married. To Alan. I had met Alan several times before and despite originating from north of the Watford gap he seemed like a decent sort of chap. He, Marianne and Chris had managed to get me drunk a year earlier, and at the tender age of fifteen, had dumped me on my parents’ doorstep, had rung the doorbell, and had FUCKED OFF. Not that I bear grudges you understand. With their nuptials fast approaching, I was invited to Marianne and Alan’s wedding (an expression of guilt if ever there was one), along with Chris’s three other friends, Ben, Nigel and Paddy Gray. Chris may very well have more than four friends, but I’ve never met them.
So, and my point is, at sixteen years of age, what to wear to the wedding of someone seven years older than us? I’m obviously looking at this from a singularly personal perspective, and I’m sure Ben, Nigel and even Paddy Gray suffered an equal number of sleepless nights dwelling on the same dilemma.
I didn’t own a suit, other than the suit I wore to school. I didn’t own a dress either, and although I could drag up quite impressively, to wear a dress I didn’t even own at someone else’s wedding, seemed a little self-indulgent. No one wishes to upstage the bride now do they?
So, what to wear? I went through my wardrobe and having come out the other side, concluded that there was very little of interest in there. C.S. Lewis had promised so much and yet had delivered so very little. At this point I would normally insert a scathing joke about Brexit but I fear I would alienate 51.9% of the audience. If I haven’t already.
So, like most 16 year olds vexed by a matter of clothing, I turned to my parents. Unfortunately, they had already left the room, and so I had to wait a good three or four hours before they came back in again.
“What’s up with you?” they said realising that I was still there.
“I’m worrying about Chris’s sister’s wedding on Saturday?” I cried.
“I have simply nothing to wear.”
In all matters costumery, my parents would often defer to Mr. Schindler. Mr. Schindler was a family friend who owned a gentleman’s outfitters. He was a kindly old man as I recall with a beautifully waxed Hercule Poirot moustache, and a lisp. Mr. Schindler bore his speech impediment with a stoicism that was no doubt forged by his own wartime heroics, and, you know, much like his more illustrious namesake, Oskar Schindler, I’ve always hoped that someone, someday would make a film about Schindler’s lisp.
(There was some genuine laughter at this rather contrived gag, but the groans of comedic pain knocked me onto the defensive).
Look, (I said), this is a cracking joke. (I feigned disgust at the lack of appreciation for such a beautifully crafted punchline). In 2009 I did this joke at the Cheltenham Womens’ Institute and, you know, one woman fainted she was laughing so much. This is possibly the funniest joke in the whole piece. Umm…I might have peaked early just so you all know. It may be all downhill from here…
(I cracked on)…
Anyway, not entirely trusting the wise words of Mr. Schindler, I decided to have a ring around. With a phone. We didn’t have texts in 1978. We had Teletext which was altogether something quite different and we had telex which had a similar number of letters and also an ‘x’, but we didn’t have texts. So, the phone it was. I rang Ben.
(Ben, by the way, was sitting in the front row, and could clearly see where all this was going).
“What are you wearing on Saturday?” I asked. It was a sensible question to start with as it was the only reason I was ringing.
Ben ummed and aahed a bit and then said: “Probably my blue leather jacket with Chelsea tie to match.”
I briefly considered Ben in church with nothing on other than a blue leather jacket with Chelsea tie to match and so I very quickly rang Nigel.
“Light brown three piece suit in wool,” he replied to much the same question as I had thrown at Ben. Nigel was probably the sensible one amongst us four, which kind of speaks volumes for the rest of us.
I rang Paddy Gray. “Pad the Lad”, announced that he would be wearing his big brother’s work suit because the wedding was on a Saturday and his big brother didn’t work at the weekend. I wasn’t at all sure what Paddy’s big brother actually did for a living, but prayed he wasn’t a professional clown, a waitress or the rear end of a pantomime horse.
None of this actually got me any further but it wasn’t really until Friday lunchtime that I began to panic. Mr. Schindler had tried to fob me off with a blue pinstripe suit which he assured me would look really good for work if I was ever kicked out of school early. Mr. Schindler clearly new his clientele.
I went through my wardrobe again and much like my previous journey there was no lion or even a witch, but what I did find was a brown and white striped shirt with white collar, a huge velvet brown bowtie, a pair of green synthetic flared trousers and some brown cowboy boots. Put all this together with my fawn coloured print jacket and they’ll still be speaking about me in forty years time, I thought.
I put it all on. It looked horrendous. “Perfect,” I decided. But actually, there was still something missing.
I rang my girlfriend.
“Can I borrow your school boater for tomorrow’s wedding?” I asked.
“Of course you can,” she replied, clearly either very much in love with me, or not worrying one way or the other whether I looked like a complete cock or not.
So, come the big day, there we all were. Chris looked me up and down and shook his head, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. “Have you been experimenting with the old wacky backy?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “this is all my own work.”
The wedding, by contrast, went off without incident. Ben’s blue leather jacket with matching Chelsea tie escaped unhurt, Nigel’s light brown three piecer survived unharmed, and Paddy Gray’s big brother’s business suit caused no major international terrorist alert.
Not that that could be said for my brown and white striped shirt with white collar, huge velvet brown bowtie, green synthetic flares, cowboy boots and printed jacket. The boater, which I had chosen to wear at a jaunty angle, proved to be something of a hit however and I’m led to believe that many of the guests were heard to comment on my bravery in wearing such an outfit in public.
Now, many of you here this evening, will question the veracity of what I’ve been talking about. Particularly those of you that know me. I have in the past been accused of exaggeration, of hyperbole, of low perbole, and indeed all manner of perbole. But somebody took a photograph that day, and so in those envelopes is evidence, evidence ladies and gentlemen of the jury, of a young man’s desire to shock, to stand out from the crowd, to present himself as a fashion icon for the 70s; a match for such luminaries as Mick Jagger, Bryan Ferry and Arthur Mullard. Feel free to open the envelopes and marvel at the vestmental mayhem.
(Envelopes by this point had begun to open and a mixture a gasps, laughs and general disbelief filled the room).
How I was ever allowed out of the house dressed in such a fashion remains a mystery to me. I suspect social services cannot be alerted retrospectively particularly after forty years and so I’ll need to cope with the emotional fallout in my own way. But all is not lost. As you can see from the photograph, there appears to be a shaft of sunlight cascading down from the heavens illuminating my bowtie, and so I shall have to console myself with the knowledge that at least somebody up there loved me.
Feel free to keep the photo. Use it as a bookmark. A coffee table coaster. Show it to your friends and neighbours and use it as a warning against ignoring the advice of old men with lisps and recreational drug use.
Thank you all very much.
(I made an exaggerated bow and exited stage left, to raucous applause and a general relief that it was all over).
We booked to see the Saturday preview of this one more or less as soon as it was announced – it looked right up our street from the rubric – click here for that rubric.
Sort of chamber play, sort of about big global issues, some top quality, familiar (to us) names in the cast and crew…
One thing I had forgotten about Yous Two was our beef about the set and the resulting sight lines. Strangely, that indifference to audience concerns was replicated in the set of Cougar.
The designer, Rosanna Vize, has designed the sets for a great many plays we have seen recently, as a click through to her Ogblog tab reveals. Her sets are always imaginative and only occasionally impede the audience – in the case of Cougar both physically and visually. The ushers asked us not to walk on the set as we entered the auditorium, but we needed either to walk on the set or stomp on a couple of audience members in one or two places – we went for the set.
Back to the play – here is the trailer:
The play is basically about an increasingly chaotic, globe-trotting relationship between a forty-something woman who is a big cheese, professional environmental expert and her twenty-something lover/paramour. It is a short piece – about 75 minutes long.
An interesting and intriguing play in many ways. The power woman comes across as a rather one-dimensional monster at times, yet her self-centred, ego-fuelled behaviours would seem less monstrous and more nuanced if the gender roles were reversed.
The cross-over between the global issues around climate change and the domestic issues of excessive consumption of resources (real and emotional) pervaded the piece rather well. The short scenes jumping forwards and backwards in time seemed more like a device to maintain the sense of chaos and confusion than an essential structural device for the (straightforwardly linear) story.
If we were being hyper-critical, Janie and I agreed that the female role is perhaps over-written and the male role under-written. Rose Lewenstein more or less owns up to that in the interesting programme interview. Well acted by Charlotte Randle and especially Mike Noble.
Anyway – amongst all this – why have I described the experience as bruising, I hear you cry?
Well, in one chaotic scene, the young man smashes a camera, which I imagine is supposed to break on the stage but not spray everywhere…but spray it did – with the lens (an 18mm-55mm beastie, seeing as you asked)…
Muhammad Mahdi Karim [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html)], from Wikimedia Commons
…flying at me, striking me on the shin. Ouch.
A few minutes later, in another chaotic scene, the young man who has a couple of walk-on, walk-off moments (I assume Ryan Laden, who is thanked in the programme) ran off the stage in the dark, crunching into the same leg as he ran. Ouch again.
Janie wondered if I was OK. I felt a bit like the Black Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail: “Tis but a scratch”…
…although my equivalent phrase was, “Tis nothing – I play hard ball sports”.
When we got home after the show (and after dinner at Don Fernandos) Janie offered to put some arnica on my bruises.
Oh, that is a big bruise…
…said Janie, admiring a bruise on my left leg.
That’s one I picked up playing real tennis last week. The new bruises are on the right leg,
I said.
I’m sure the cast and crew will work on those production issues between now and press night. It would be well worth going to see this play/production if you read this piece in time – it runs until 2 March 2019. Perhaps best not to book the front row for this one, though, unless you are as brave as The Black Night or a Mountain Lion (Cougar).
Malcolm [CC BY-SA 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
Highly recommended – we always enjoy Cardinall’s Musick concerts. We love their sound and we like the way that Andrew Carwood talks to the audience with a likeable mix of deep scholarship and folksy delivery.
Lots of unfamiliar pieces and even unfamiliar composers in there.
Here is a little vid of this group rehearsing and talking Byrd a few years ago:
https://youtu.be/8bMiYnzkZx4
I’m starting to get a bit fussy in my old age – perhaps because I am learning more about early music.
For example, it seemed to me that the Gregorian Chants interspersed in the Guerrero in the first half, were delivered (at least by the bass and tenor voices) in a staccato style when changing note within a word, quite contrary to the “smoothing” technique Ian Pittaway suggested to me. Patrick Craig, the countertenor, sang with that smoothing technique and it sounded cleaner to my ears. Janie thought the staccato was deliberate and fine.
I also found myself comedically irritated by a spelling mistake in the words for the Agnus Dei in the programme lyrics for that Guerrero mass…spelling that phrase Angus Dei at one point. It made me wonder whether there is a beef of God as well as a lamb of God.
But these are tiny points. The concert was a feast for the ears and just the calming experience I needed after a long day.
I particularly enjoyed the second half of the concert, with shorter pieces by Peter Philips, Philippe Verdelot, Adrian Willaert, Francisco Guerrero, Luca Marenzio, Daniel Torquet (“who he?” I hear you cry – Andrew Carwood is struggling to trace him too) and William Byrd taking the first 40-45 minutes of that second half.
There was a Christmassy encore by Hieronymus Praetorius – we were horrified to learn that, liturgically/technically speaking, we only reach the end of Christmas this weekend.
Still, we loved the concert and thoroughly recommend the broadcast to lovers of this type of music.
Janie and I had a super day at the Tate Modern, primarily for the members’ preview of the Pierre Bonnard exhibition.
It runs until 6 May 2019, so you have plenty of time to get to see this exhibition if you are looking at this article reasonably fresh. And in our opinion it really is well worth seeing. Comprehensive coverage of the work of this wonderful artist from the first half of the 20th century.
They let you take pictures at the Tate Modern these days and Janie most certainly went for it:
The painter of happiness, he was known as. We weren’t quite so sure about Pierre Bonnard’s personal life, which seemed to get complicated (to say the least) at times and resulted in the suicide of one of his mistresses – not so much happiness there – it might have been a better deal to be his dog:
But if you ignored artists of his generation because of doubts regarding their personal lives, you wouldn’t see much 19th or even 20th century art.
Here is a lovely little video about the exhibition:
If that video doesn’t make you want to see the exhibition…it’s not an exhibition for you!
We spent longer in that exhibition than normal, because it was so good, so we decided to get some refreshment next. The main members cafe was heaving with people (I suppose it was a preview day), so we went into the new extension to try the cafe in there – which hadn’t even opened when we went for the members early look at that building.
We were surprised to find that this new cafe is named Granville-Grossman Members Room, after Renee Granville-Grossman, a major benefactor to the Tate. She and her late husband were clients of Janie’s for many years. There we ate some lunch in far quieter surroundings than the heaving main members cafe.
After that, we returned to the main building to take a quick look at the Anni Albers exhibition which closes in a few days time.
Ah, so it was the equivalent Saturday two years ago – that’s a bit uncanny.
This time we enjoyed lavish hospitality at Caroline and Alan’s place. We also enjoyed son Alex’s company for much of the evening. Alex is now a strapping young man, which was somewhat predictable when you think about it, but always comes as a bit of a shock when you haven’t seen a youngster for a few years.
I tried to avoid saying, “haven’t you grown since I last saw you”, but that phrase came out anyway – at least half in jest.
Yummy nibbles before dinner with a very jolly Viognier. Caroline tried to assess which of the nibbles we liked best, but we were wise to the risk of saying, e.g. “the salmon ones”, because that would have enabled Caroline to say, “oh, so what’s wrong with the asparagus ones and the avocado ones?”. Janie and I are old hands at that game, even when the host/hostess isn’t actually playing it. Then a yummy main meal of:
red pepper soup;
herb-crusted lamb rack with poshed-up rice and roasted vegetables;
chocolate tart and fruit cocktail.
A very tasty Châteauneuf-du-Pape complemented the main meal, especially the lamb.
Conversation naturally covered the biggest issues of the moment – i.e. cricket, with me, Alan and Alex all in the same room. We also discussed politics and world affairs to some extent – without any irony whatsoever, of course.
Alex stuck around for a higher proportion of the evening than was necessary for good manners, but when he returned downstairs having gone upstairs after dinner to watch a movie, Janie and I both realised that the time had flown, it was getting really late and that we were in danger of outstaying even the warmest welcome.
![Malcolm [CC BY-SA 2.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons](https://i0.wp.com/ianlouisharris.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/02/512px-Cougar.jpg?resize=512%2C384&ssl=1)
