We wanted to like this. The story, about a medical scandal and whistle-blowing, set in rural China in 1992, sounded right up our street.
Playwright Frances Ya-Chu Cowhig makes a compelling case for her play here…
…but we found the play itself stilted in style, the characters one-dimensional and the story rather too unsubtly obvious.
Chinese theatre perhaps has some of the above characteristics embedded in its culture, but Janie and I are familiar enough with China – we’ve been going there on and off since 1993 for goodness sake – we just felt that this play missed many opportunities to make its points more thoughtfully.
We felt that a talented cast was doing its best with a lengthy wooden script, so try as we might we couldn’t muster the desire to return for 75-80 minutes more after the interval.
A rare miss from the Hampstead these days, although we have noticed a sense of “playing it safe” creeping in to the upstairs scheduling; hence we’re booking less up there. Our next visit will be downstairs.
Actually, this shrieval office is one of the most ancient offices in all humanity that remains in continuous use. See helpful blurb from the back of the breakfast menu below.
Anyway, point is, from the moment I arrived at the Guildhall, I found myself running into and chatting with folk I have known for ages; Michael’s brother Kelly and sister Katy, Elisabeth’s brother Marcus, Chris Smith, Robert Pay… also several of Michael’s high-profile friends, such as Neal Stephenson and Faisal Islam, who for once were in circumstances where they were perhaps less well known than me!
But today was about Michael Mainelli and his partner in crime (I mean in controlling crime of course) Sheriff Christopher Hayward, CC.
First up was the admission ceremony. It is explained on the following page.
This is not a ceremony that one films or photographs, but its ceremonial look might be gleaned from the following Pathe film from 1949 which claims to be the Mayoral Election but its title also claims to be a shrieval occasion, which I think might be an error:
Medieval ceremonial and an uber-historic look to many of the garbs there, from so long ago that the world was in black and white.
The ceremony in the Great Hall was a solemn affair; the Common Cryer and Serjeant-at-Arms broke the silence by commanding silence, so startlingly that several people made audible gasps before falling silent once more. I especially liked that bit.
After the ceremony, a reception downstairs in the Old Library – an opportunity to catch up with many people before going upstairs for the banquet.
At the reception, downstairs in the Old Library
I was too timid to take any pictures that day, but Rupert Stubbs, another of those good friends met through Michael and Elisabeth from decades back, took loads and sent me quite a few; many thanks Rupert.
I have often joked with friends from the North of England about the word dinner, meaning luncheon in the north and evening meal in the south of England. But here is an instance of a lunch-time (or do I mean dinner-time?) banquet being described as a breakfast. Indeed the breakfast invitation says…
the breakfast does not usually conclude before 3:30 pm
…which some of us might mistake for tea-time.
The term breakfast in this context, of course, like a wedding breakfast, has the ancient connotation of being the meal after a solemn ceremony before which, in days of yore, the main participants would be so engrossed in prayer ahead of the ceremony that the after ceremony meal would be, for them, the breaking of a devotional fast.
It did look grand…it was grand
Amazing grub too:
After the repast, the speeches in that glorious Old Library setting
I especially enjoyed Professor Jo Delahunty’s speech, during which she placed great emphasis on diversity and the rule of law; this year’s shrieval theme. Some around me seemed to find her speech, which seemed to me to be the voice of moderation, a bit edgy for the occasion. Apparently it is “the done thing” to restrict that particular speech to “pomping up the incoming sheriffs” (my choice of words for the gripes I heard).
Actually, my only beef with Jo Delahunty’s address was the selection of terrible mustard puns she made at the end of the talk, somewhat apologetically, as she had been told that it was compulsory to end on a joke.
That type of joke is a crime against hilarity in my book and the sheriffs should have done something to restore good order…except that I have a dreadful feeling that one of the sheriffs might have been the sauce of the puns [pun intended].
In any case, Jo did plug The Price Of Fish at the start of her talk, so I would forgive her pretty much anything.
Three hours after we sat down to breakfast, it was all over. Except that, before heading home, there was time to mill around and chat with some of the people I’d missed out on before the event. It really was lovely to see those people again.
The grandees departed in grand style…
…while the likes of me departed on the Central Line straight back to Noddyland and our little mock-medieval cottage:
One of the grander buildings in Noddyland, dwarfing our cottageThis sheriff is not for mocking
So what does a new sheriff do on the weekend after his admission? Why, of course, he drives sheep across London Bridge. What else? Here’s a little film of the very thing that Michael is doing right now as I type (film from the previous year of course):
While the only thing that is driving out here in Noddyland, as I write, is the driving rain against my window pain.
Whose idea was it to play first class cricket in England beyond the autumn equinox this year? I suppose it is inevitable as the authorities try to fit more and more short form cricket into the central chunk of the summer that the first class season will increasingly bookend those tournaments.
Anyway, this round of matches was entirely played after the equinox (which, for astronomical geeks, took place about 40 minutes before play was supposed to start on 23 September). The Lord’s match for this fag end of the season was Middlesex v Derbyshire.
I had work commitments for much of the day but wanted to show the Lord’s pavilion to a couple of Z/Yen’s keen youngsters; Morgan and Sean (the latter being Michael’s nephew).
I got to Lord’s in time to see a little bit of cricket before the fellas arrived, but by the time they got to Lord’s it was raining. Still, I could show them around the pavilion and could also show them some live sport in the form of real tennis, where a couple of my pals were battling out a tournament match.
After my guests departed, I joined the Seaxe Club evening for a quick drink before going home.
Tuesday 24 September 2019
I had pre-arranged to spend the day with DJ at Lord’s, but the weather forecast looked so shocking we expected no play, so we scaled back our arrangement to be lunch only. I agreed to play tennis as a late substitute at 15:00.
The timing worked very well – I was able to get a good chunk of work done before meeting DJ at Lord’s around 12:15 and taking some early lunch and having a good chat with him.
Miraculously, there was a short hiatus in the rain that enabled some 20-25 minutes of play, which we enjoyed in glorious sunshine, before the clouds and rain returned.
I guessed, correctly, that any further breaks in the rain would be too brief to enable play and in any case I think David felt that he had enjoyed the shortened but enjoyable get together and he would return to some work-oriented tasks.
I had a good hour of tennis before learning that stumps had been drawn early which enabled me to shower, change and get to the Middlesex Sponsors party in perfect time.
Very few sponsors turned up as the weather had been so poor, thus, unusually, I chatted with several players, as they outnumbered the sponsors. I spoke with Ethan Bamber for the first time who didn’t seem to realise how impressive he now looks. I hope my pep talk helped; he did go on to take his maiden first class fivefer in this match so i don’t think it hindered.
There was plenty to drink (I was quite moderate) and enormous quantities of cheese (I tried to help out). I also won half a case of wine…again! Half of that half case went in “informal storage charges” to the tennis pros after the party.
Strangely, the rain had completely relented by evening so I decided to partially walk off my wine and cheese.
Wednesday 25 September 2019
I had my prearranged tennis game scheduled for the morning (a couple of hours in the end) and Richard Goatley wanted to see me at noon, so the morning went that way.
I had a good game of tennis and missed little cricket before lunch.
The weather improved (against the forecast) lunchtime, so I grabbed a sandwich and some reading matter, taking up position on the Members’ Bar balcony – a place that is normally hard to get to but which was almost deserted at the fag end of the season.
There I watched, read and chatted for a couple of hours, before deciding that I really should go home and get my work done. What a great idea to have cricket this late in the season when the weather smiles like this:
Let’s be honest about this. Lancashire were already guaranteed promotion and Middlesex were already guaranteed to have missed out on promotion this year before I set off on this trip.
Lesser folk might have bailed out.
Not me. Nor Dumbo, The Suzuki Jimny.
Off we went, at about 7:30 on the Monday morning, arriving at Old Trafford around 11:30 after but one pit stop.
The main car parks were full, so Dumbo had to spend the day at the back of the largest temporary stand in Europe, still there after the Ashes test but decommissioned for this county match.
I then head off to the 1864 Suite to join the other green-bookers – very few from either county that day as it happens – perhaps because this day would have been Day Five of the Oval test, had it not ended in four days.
Splendid hospitality as always, not least from Keith Hayhurst.
I thought Middlesex bowled pretty well on a moderately responsive pitch – although I didn’t witness the first hour, new ball, bowling. But then Middlesex’s day one batting. Oy!
One Middlesex green-booker was so ashamed at the end of day one, he removed his Middlesex tie as he left…to walk the 20-30 yards to the Old Trafford on-campus hotel.
Me? I’d arranged a salubrious AirB’n’B at Stretford/Old Trafford borders:
“You have reached your destination…”Ah, the other side of the road; a bit better I suppose.
A session with Darren Long – very helpful in learning to aim at the tambour with my right arm from the service end and also how to respond to such a shot off the tambour with my left arm from the hazard end. This paragraph must mean a lot of nothing to those readers who are not real tennis aficionados, I do realise.
Rackets Court at Manchester – never tried itReal tennis court resplendent in the early morning light
After showering and changing, back to my digs to drop off Dumbo and then a 10 minute stroll to Old Trafford, to witness Middlesex score the highest ever 1st class score (anywhere by any team) after being 6-down for less than 40. Some comfort I suppose.
To add to my improving mood, I met Clive Lloyd along with Jack Simmons (the latter Janie and I had met at Southport); it’s always a big deal for me to meet one of my childhood cricketing heroes.
Then a chance to wander around the ground and chat with some of the Middlesex regulars.
After stumps, time to go home and freshen up before heading off to the Chorlton Tap to meet Alex (as planned) plus Sam (as arranged the day before) and Steve (who joined the party that very day). A very convivial gathering.
Wednesday morning, back to the tennis court, for an ill-fated match up with a big hitter named Jonathan. My injured right arm had reacted somewhat adversely to the drills the day before and I felt the overuse within 5-10 minutes. Fortunately he is a very friendly, nice chap so we had a good run-around with me playing left-handed off a high handicap and him getting the chance to practice his winners a lot. I donated my Thursday morning court to Jonathan which I thought was the least I could do to compensate him and the chap (a good friend and match for Jonathan) who had arranged an early slot, purportedly for me.
Good cricket on Wednesday, not least a decent second new ball spell late in the day that set up a good position for Middlesex overnight, subject to our boys batting decently Thursday (they didn’t).
A quite evening in with Benji the Baritone Ukulele again Wednesday (did I omit to mention Benji as Monday evening entertainment too)?
Image from Brighton a few years back
Thursday morning – with no tennis I made an early start back to London – dropping off stuff at the house and then passing through the flat on the way to the City for some work and a London Cricket Trust Trustees meeting.
Point is; Garry wrote a very touching reminiscence piece on Facebook the other day, which is very much in keeping with Ogblog. I asked him if I might publish it as a guest piece here. Garry said yes.
I have played fast and loose with the headline above (publisher’s prerogative) but the words below are reproduced verbatim. I think it is a lovely piece.
My 100 Year Old Dinner Lady ======================
It can be uncanny how a chance meeting, in my case acrimonious tussle with authority, can lead to a lifetime connection and create a dear friendship.
I go back to a day in 1964; I was a 7 year old schoolboy at Hamlet Court Road primary, long since replaced by a car park. On this day, mum decided I was to stay for school dinner.
For those of us over the age of 50, maybe younger, there is no need to describe the culinary obscenities of school meals in the 60’s. Needless to say, they wouldn’t meet Jamie Oliver’s standards.
Having managed to keep the main course down I returned to the hatch for dessert. Since infancy I have had a medical intolerance to milk. I asked the server to omit the regulation portion of thick-skinned custard but was told the serving was mandatory. All diners had to eat it without option to decline. Shock, horror. Was I about to project the custard?!
Here comes the dinner lady from hell. I was not allowed to leave the dining hall until I had consumed that congealed mass in the bowl. Just me and her left in the hall. The other few hundred or so kids had already returned to class. Ms dinner lady accompanied me to my classroom, bowl in hand. Strict instruction was given to my teacher. “He is not allowed home until he eats his custard”.
Come 4pm, just me and the teacher, staring at this solidified mass in the bowl on the desk. I didn’t give in.
Here’s a thing; mum had been waiting for me at the gate since half past three. No one told her I’d been held “prisoner”. Eventually there was a door slam and in comes mum faster than an Exocet missile. Her arm was cocked ready to give me a thick ear, or worse and I was willing to take the pain rather than eat that custard.
Thankfully, mum noticed the plate on the desk before making contact. She quickly put 2 + 2 together. I can’t repeat the language directed at the teacher. Let’s say I had the last laugh. I never met Ms dinner lady at school again.
Move on fourteen years. Janice and I got engaged and her parents threw a party for us. Mum-in-law beckoned me over. “Let me introduce you to my best friend, Alice Fraser”. (Got it yet?)
Arghhhh……There she was, Ms dinner lady. Our eyes locked. Despite the transition from boy to man of 21, she instantly recognised me and vice versa. “You forced me to eat custard”, I said. She retorted, “it wasn’t me, the headmaster made me do it.”
We had a laugh. I got to meet Alice and her husband Ralph many times over the years. They came to my wedding and many family events. I realised Alice was a sweet, intelligent lady.
Sadly my in-laws have passed, The Frasers retired and moved to London to be near their children. Alice has kept in touch by phone many times and continues to do so. She is compassionate and her tone conveys genuine interest in our wellbeing. On the last call she mentioned to me that she had a birthday coming up. “Guess how old I’m going to be”, she said. I thought it had to be an amazing achievement but feigned my reply. “You must be in your eighties now”. “I’m going to be A-hun-dreddd”, she said. “Wow, can I come and see you?” “Oh, I’d love that”, she said.
A few days later an official invitation arrived from Alice’s sprightly young septuagenarian daughter inviting us to Alice’s 100th birthday party. Janice and I went last Sunday. Ralph has passed on but it was an honour to meet up with Alice again. Also to meet her extended family including eleven great grandchildren.
And what did she say to Janice? “He’s never forgiven me for that custard”! Oh yes I have.
But was there custard with the pudding at Garry & Janice’s wedding? I cannot remember, but I’m guessing not.Me (furthest left), Carol (Janice’s sister, front left) and several others at Garry & Janice’s (most probably custard-free) wedding
This is a fascinating and original piece of theatre.
The audience sits in a circle. Each member of the audience receives a book, which we are taken through as the performance goes on. At some stages of the performance, audience members are asked to read lines or passages of text.
If it sounds weird, that’s because it is weird. But it is a play; the performances are excellent and memorable.
Tim Crouch is an interesting playwright and performer. We have seen his work before; Adler & Gibb which we really liked, plus The Author which we found impenetrable.
This evening’s short (70 minute) piece was not impenetrable but you did need to interpret pictures form the book as well as the words to get the gist of the story. I enjoyed that part of the process more than Janie did.
I was also quite comfortable reading out loud a bit, which I did, while Janie scrupulously avoided eye contact with the performers to be sure that she wasn’t picked for reading out loud.
I am glad that I bought a copy of the book – which is available in paperback to buy – not the hardbacks lent out for performance – because the illustrations as well as the words are a pleasure to look at again and again.
Actually the story of this one starts a few weeks earlier; the Friday of the Lord’s test between England and Australia. 16 August. A rather wet day as it turned out.
Charley “The Gent” Malloy was my guest that day; our last visit to the Compton Stand prior to its demolition. In fact we got less than two hours of cricket before the rain came…then came and went for a while…then the rain came and made sure that those of us who had stuck it out for a while knew that it was time to go home.
In our rush to flee the mid August rain, Charley’s old faithful Heavy Rollers cap ended up in my bag.
We corresponded on the matter and I promised to put the cap in my “Lord’s bag” ahead of our next meeting; this 10 September date.
But come the morning of 10 September:
I was rushing around like a mad thing getting the picnic ready;
Life had intervened on countless matters to make “Charley’s cap” a little lower on my memory list than certain other things;
The weather forecast said that the day would be cloudy and possibly even a bit nippy.
So when the time came to load up the bags, I thought I could safely offload stuff I wouldn’t need, such as sun screen, sun glasses and what on earth did I need three caps for…one Middlesex cap might even be one to many but I’d retain just that one.
In short, I clean forgot that the Heavy Rollers cap in the bag was Chas’s, promised for return.
To add insult to injury, the morning turned out to be a gloriously sunny one, quite contrary to the weather forecast, rendering several of the rejected items desired items and naturally inducing Chas to enquire about his cap quite early in the day.
Neither of us bathed ourselves in glory during the ensuing post mortem.
Chas was bowling metaphorical googlies at me while I tried to maintain order
Chas was convinced that I was only teasing him and that I really did have the cap with me. I tried to get Chas to share the blame for the mistake, by suggesting that, if it really mattered that much to him, Chas might have sent me a reminder…
…we declared a truce, ironically after seeing Tom Helm receive his county cap, ahead of a lunchtime perambulation on a glorious early autumn day.
Chas, uncapped
Chas’s disposition continued to improve in the Warner, after perambulation, as we tucked in to the picnic of Alaskan salmon bagels, London sour sandwiches containing chicken with elderberry, lovage and lemon stuffing and a bottle of rather juicy Gewurtztraminer.
Middlesex bowled well to extinguish Durham for a modest score and then batted poorly to end the day behind the game.
I did offer Chas the opportunity to stop off at Clanricarde Gardens to collect his precious cap on the way home, which in many ways makes sense from Chas’s ease of journey home point of view. So that’s what we did at the end of a really enjoyable day at the cricket.
Next day selfie with old-style Heavy Rollers cap…MY Heavy Rollers cap
Anyway, fear not. I got a message from Durham fanatic Madz, otherwise known as 668, also otherwise known as Blackbird…wondering if I’d be around in the pavilion on Thursday for the climax of this match. She was planning on meeting up with some of the Durham regulars there.
As it happened, my meetings/scheduled calls all concertinaed into Wednesday enabling me to do that.
I assumed that Madz stands for Madeleine and thought that she might be amused by eponymous cakes as a peace offering. Which, in a way, she was.
Anyway, it took until just before lunch for Madz to find her way to the pavilion by which time I’d made almost no headway with my reading as I’d been chatting with a fine fellow in the writing room.
By the time I found Madz, she was sitting with a gentleman named Pelham who seemed astonished that I’d head of Pelham Humfrey as well as Pelham Warner. Even more astonished when I said that I’d witnessed some Pelham Humfrey recently:
Madz quizzed me about the nicknames Ged and Daisy for me and Janie, suggesting that it was all a bit confusing. I omitted to mention that Madz or do I mean 668 or do I mean Blackbird has (or at least had) plenty of on-line names of her own.
We half-agreed to regroup for the denouement after lunch, but by the time I’d taken some sun and finished reading my papers for tomorrow’s meeting, Middlesex had fallen apart yet again and crashed to defeat.
I walked home in glorious sunshine to find England in a relatively good position in the Oval test match…until they too collapsed before my eyes losing five wickets for diddly-squat on a flatty.
Perhaps I should give up watching my teams play cricket…until tomorrow.
The Compton & Edrich stands looked very sad in their half demolished state today.
I asked Charley “The Gent” Malloy and several other friends and acquaintances if they felt sad to see them go. We pretty much agreed that we didn’t. Not the best designed stands. Time to move on.
Still, the sight of it (or do I mean site of it?) brought on three particular memories I’d like to share.
Amsterdam – Keizersgracht Click picture for attribution and link
Gosh, this was a truly fascinating short play at the Orange Tree – our first venture to see a play for some while and a great start, from our point of view, to our autumn season at the theatre. We were seeing a preview.
This is not a naturalistic piece. The cast of four narrate the piece, about an unnamed Israeli violinist who is 9 months pregnant living in an apartment in Amsterdam, on the Keizersgracht (one of the canal-side streets).
Are we merely being taken on a voyage through the violinists own febrile, paranoid imaginings or is this a thriller about the uncovering of secrets from Amsterdam’s era of Nazi occupation or are we witnessing a strange brew, mixing those things?
Janie would have preferred some more answers by the end of it, whereas I thought this 80 minute piece was very deliberately leaving a trail of enigmas and unanswerable questions, while at the same time keeping us entertained and weaving sufficient plot lines to tell a story.
All four cast members were excellent; we’d seen Fiston Barek and Hara Yannas recently at the Orange Tree. Daniel Abelson and Michal Horowicz were also strong.
We’d also seen director Matthew Xia’s work at the Orange Tree recently. The style is a bit “workshoppy”, but I think that is the nature of the play and it is hard to imagine how the piece might work in a more stagey syle.
But the greatest plaudits from me go to the writing. I have now read and seen one heck of a lot of plays, so it is rare now to find a writer’s voice so novel and pleasing. For sure I will look out for Maya Arad Yasur’s work again.
Did Janie and I decompress/discuss at length over Spanish food at Don Fernando’s this time? Of course we did.
Did we get home in time to see Bianca Andreescu beat Serena Williams at Flushing? Yes, but only because Bianca kindly lost 4 games in a row (including a championship point) to keep the match alive long enough for us to get home and see the last two games.
Anyway, returning to the subject of Amsterdam at The Orange Tree; it’s running until 12 October 2019 and we would thoroughly recommend it to anyone who likes imaginative, modern drama.
Trent Bridge looked an absolute picture under lights
Regular Ogblog readers sometimes comment on the relentlessly positive light Ogblog sheds on life.
Some days make that task a little difficult. Take this day, for example. On the face of it, the focal point of the day was a trip to Nottingham and back to see my beloved Middlesex team being utterly thrashed in a quarter final cup tie. Soon after we set off for Nottingham, Janie called me to tell me she’d had her purse snatched with some cash and all of her credit cards stolen/ransacked. Meanwhile and throughout the day, England were having a pretty rotten second day in the Old Trafford Ashes test; a match England cannot lose if it is to retain hope of regaining the Ashes.
So, how do I take positives from such a day? I’ll try to draw up a list.
Also unlike last time, I didn’t need to drive to the match – Middlesex organised a coach trip for this fixture, which spared me a longer drive than I fancied and at least meant that I was in good company throughout the day;
We got to Trent Bridge some two hours ahead of the match. We strolled around that lovely ground making a close to full circuit (part outside, part inside) to our Radcliffe Road end hospitality. On the way, I met Mark Butcher and Rob Key who were kicking their heels prior to their commentary duties. King Cricket aficionados will be especially excited about the Rob Key encounter, I suspect;
The Trent Bridge hospitality was superb, as always. Several familiar Nottinghamshire faces and quite a substantial contingent from Middlesex. I met new Middlesex board member Edward Lord for the first time and Marilyn Smith, whom Janie and I met at Hove and whose son Ramon used to play tennis as an infant at Boston Manor, brought “little Ramon” with her, which showed that “little Ramon” ain’t so little any more. I had very enjoyable chats with all those people and plenty of others;
Clive Radley went back to the coach early, once the result was no longer in doubt, to finish off reading his book, which was about Auschwitz. As Clive and I agreed, that rather puts the idea of “having a bad day” into perspective;
Did I mention that Trent Bridge, which looks a picture at all times, looks especially so under lights? Worth saying and depicting again.
