Genius x 3

I don’t generally do film reviews. Having read some of those of the Banksy film, Exit Through The Gift Shop, crafted by some of the more well-known Fleet Street (or wherever it is that they hang out now) scribes, it would probably be just as well if they didn’t bother either. My excuse is that no-one ever likes the films I recommend; or, conversely, they all rave over those which I detest. The recent travesty that purported to be Alice would be a good example of the latter. But, I digress.


Peter Bradshaw, writing in the Guardian got it. Well, you’d expect him to really wouldn’t you? Chris Tookey, writing in the Mail, didn’t. Well, you’d expect that too. I’m not convinced the folk sat behind us got it either. Neither am I certain that the hooded being with the shaded face and the disguised Brissle accent who comments sporadically throughout, is the man himself. Ever heard of Hughes Mearns? Five pounds says you haven’t. But I bet you know his poem which begins:

‘Yesterday, upon the stair

I met a man who wasn’t there’.

Originally written about a ghost, it has transcended time to meet all kinds of allegorical needs. Most recently, it’s been resurrected to illustrate the dangers of befriending people online. Had it appeared yesterday, we could argue that it reflects the illusion that is Banksy. Last year, I entitled my blog on a visit to the artist’s exhibition in Bristol ‘a bit of a grin’. Now, I take one step further and claim Exit Through The Gift Shop to be a huge laugh. Yes, it has some messages, mostly at the expense of those who have been told street art rules ok. Largely, the laugh is on those who believe this to be a genuine documentary.

Whilst I’m on this rare incursion into film, I must mention a visit last week to the Rex in Wareham to see the Ian Drury biopic, Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll. It’s the second time I’ve seen this and it was even better than the first viewing. I remember when the genius died. Not for the Independent a mediocre obituary hidden somewhere towards the back: they bravely and righteously acknowledged the passing on the front page with the immortal heading, ‘Ian Drury dies: what a waste!’ I know the Blockheads are, at the least, ambivalent about the portrayal and I know that some people claim Drury wasn’t a very nice man. So, you try being crippled by polio and spending your childhood institutionalised with vicious bullies. You might not be a very nice adult either. I posit Drury as a poet of his time. (I can do that because no-one cares what I think).

I also vote Andy Serkis the most non-acclaimed actor of his generation. How did he ever miss an award for his superb portrayal? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I am not alone: the packed audience in the last gas-lit cinema in Britain received this film with a resounding and well-deserved round of applause. Now, that’s what film reviews are about.

Therapy

One of the benefits of working in an establishment of (alleged) higher learning is that there are sometimes free lectures one can attend on the pretence of staff development. For example, on Monday, I attended a whole raft of these held by the psychology department. To be fair, they were, largely, enjoyable and informative. Maybe the lecture on environmental psychology, which focused mainly on the benefits of using your hotel towel for more than one day could've been missed. Nonetheless, I learned a lot about childhood disorders which has subsequently made a geat deal of sense in relation to my own famiy.

Aged friend is a believer in a) anything free or recycled and b) anything alternative. At this point, I should mention that aged friend, because she is aged, rarely locks into this blog preferring, somewhat traditionally, face to face comunication. On the off-chance that she eventually gets around to viewing my ramblings, and because I want to keep her as a friend, I would like to make some things clear. Firstly, she is not really aged. At least, she doesn't look the part. But she is unique in not divulging her age. Quite right too. Secondly, I am much drawn to Dickens referral to 'aged parent' which, it seems to me, infers a lot without unnecessary explanation or historical logistics...so that's my excuse. Also, she called me a 'Jonah' the other evening.

Anyway, due to whatever, we set our sails this lunchtime for a lecture on Traditional Chinese Medicine. Or something of that ilk. We started off with a vague allusion to the one finger therapy with which, I feel, we are all consumate. The speaker who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be English, spoke in a Chinese/Dorset patois. Further to this, he had an assistant: a doe-eyed creature who frequently interspersed with a threatening 'surely there must be a question?' Like good students, we all looked the other way. We were Yin and Yang...all trying to balance our incomings and outgoings. This pair of wannabe Ant & Dec,s were Yang and Yang sharing the same year of the Ox hymn-book.

It was nice. I learned that, due to the location of my earth sign, coupled with the timely predominance of my stomach at the best time of my day, which is between the morning hours of five and nine am, I could expect to spend a lot of time in the loo first thing in the morning. Or something like that. So much for the alternative view. Being a person trained to examine all perspectives, I promtly ignored the Oriental view and took myself off for a pedicure which I always find very therapeutic.

Growth

Can you write something about plants and growth they asked? You trundle along to these writing groups in the hope of being challenged: trying to get out of your safety zone; writing outside the box. That sort of thing.

Look at a box of plants and I’m depressed. Unlike other people in my family, I’ve never been one for the old green fingers. Give me a house-plant and my heart sinks; my soul descends into the very core of the earth. It’s not that I’m ungrateful. How lovely I say. How kind I gush and secretly know that it won’t see the week out. It’ll be too dry so I over-water it. It wants to be wet so I forget it. It likes the dark so I put it in the kitchen window. I place it in the gloomy hall and it cowers in fright, scared of the dark. I move it around the house when it’s still recovering from the journey here and wanted to stay still. It might want to be talked to but it curls up in embarrassment when I attempt a conversation. Never will it indicate what it wants out of life apart from an overwhelming desire not to reside in my home where nothing survives except dust.

I have an old footstool in the corner of the inappropriately named living room that has been requisitioned to display not mouldy old smelly feet, but beautiful deep red roses. Are they real the folk that don’t know me ask in wonder and envy? They’re not real are they those that do know me ask in shock? Of course they’re not real; close though.

Out in the garden things are different: growth is abundant. I have a fig tree that currently boasts seven figs. No leaves, but seven figs. They bear little resemblance to any figs that I’ve ever seen but I know that this is what they are because…..it’s a fig tree. I also know that by the time the leaves make their appearance, the figs will have gone. They might have blown away in a Dorset summer hurricane or something may have eaten them. What the something might be is anyone’s guess because readers of this blog will know that if there’s one thing that grows in my tiny garden, it’s wildlife. Especially since other nameless Twilight Zone inhabitants had all the trees in the area cut down. My little patch of grass and overgrown bushes are certainly reaping the benefits of the non-eco friendly neighbours. In fact, I’m thinking of opening my garden to the public.

Each day that I look out provides a source of joy and amazement surpassed only by the triple episodes of Judge Judy available on Tuesdays. We’ve had the rat saga, the nesting pigeons and the giant cuckoo attacking its small surrogate starling mother. If you want to know where Britain’s missing sparrows are, look through my patio doors. Want to see the biggest squirrel in the world? Look no further than the one with a six foot tail that hangs off the nut dispenser. Sunday, a Jay arrived; a startling flash of blue investigating a small uninhabited patch of Leylandi. And yesterday? No, of course it wasn’t a Dodo. That was last week. Crawling around the herb filled tubs was David Attenborough.

Of course, there is one thing that grows more prolifically in my garden than in anyone else’s I’ve ever seen. Other people’s rubbish. I am the queen of car boot sales and I have the evidence to prove it: painted pots, old lamps and heaters; hanging things that glisten and catch the sun; strange ornaments that ring and clatter; a herd of miniature elephants; two mirror tiles to offer distorted perspectives; varnished cast-off furniture and battered stone owls. No flowers but I like it. And so does my not-easily pleased granddaughter.

And talking of the brat…. after fifty-seven years, I discover that my bright-green-fingered mother and I do, in fact, have something in common. Six-going-on-thirty year old granddaughter, on considering visits to my house and that of my mother, raises a question of huge philosophical and intellectual importance: ‘why do grandmas cook better dinners than mummies?’

A step back

Back in the mists of time, aged friend and I perused a list of guided walks that had arrived through the ether from our Earth Mysteries group. In the gloomy depths of January, an evening walk on a May evening seemed like a nice thing to look forward to; especially in the company of Peter Knight who knows everything about anything weird and wonderful.

We chose Maiden Castle, the biggest hill-fort in Europe and possibly the universe. Meeting time, 7pm in the car-park. Lovely. Anyone noticed the weather lately? As it happened, after a day during which black clouds hovered uncertainly, the sun managed to make an appearance in time for our departure. Just as well, as the climax of the outing was to see it set over the Dorset countryside from our viewpoint of twelve milllion miles above sea-level.

Eleven of us climbed up into the past. We crossed the labyrinthine mounds designed to confuse would-be invaders and watched the sun-soaked sheep on the iron-age barrows before exploring the ancient ceremonial footpaths that are only now visible via Google-Earth. We waited apprehensively for the appearance of ghostly Roman centurians who had materialised to others who were minding their own business with their dogs. We looked at the new earthworks: the ones where modern folk have dug their way through a hill to build a new road in order that folk can have easy access to the sea-borne events of the 2012 Olympics in Weymouth. Being well-prepared, we put on our wind-proof coats against the chill of the evening wind before dowsing the site of the Romano-British temple. Well, I put on my coat and watched everyone else wandering round in circles...sorry, spirals....with their metal rods.

Then, we came over the hill-top in time to see a huge orange sun disappearing into the sea, as it has since time immemorial. And just as others did three thousand years ago. Just think: I could've been indoors watching Britain's Got Talent and missed all of this.

Spring is sprung......

...... or not. Ne'er cast a clout till May's out they used to say. I don't know whether they meant May as in the blossom or May as in the month. (Doubtless that Watman bloke who leaves the comments will enlighten us). Neither do I know who 'they' were: some rural bumpkin types possibly. Or it could be the mission statement of the facilities section where I work. That crowd who turn off the heating the minute the bank holiday has passed regardless of the fact that we are entering the new ice age.

I've been increasing the layers of protective clothing necessary to maintain an existence in my office throughout the week. It was only today that I discovered a covert exercise of military proportions, in which fan-heaters were selectively distributed to members of the hierarchy, had occurred three days ago when we were all busy looking the other way for a government. Is this an omen of the even greater divisions we have to look forward to under the rule of the toffs I ask myself. Enraged, I 'phoned a boiler god to report that I was currently wearing a liberty bodice, a resurrected vest, a polo-neck jumper, a thick cardigan, a wind-proof coat and a pair of woolley slippers whilst running in and out of the ladies' to de-frost my fingers under the hand-dryer. I'm not fibbing either. Well, the bit about the liberty bodice may be an untruth. Boiler chief either thought I'd gone mad with cold or mistook me for someone of importance. The heating is back on.

A portent of spring manifested in my garden tonight, however. The homeless starlings arrived to feed on whatever lives in my small piece of grass. One had brought its monstrous baby; a gaping mouthed giant who chased its mother around the garden pecking her continuously until she, with some difficulty, deposited a selection of goodies into baby's cavernous orifice. I was entranced enough to miss a whole fifteen minutes of Judge Judy as I watched my first ever cuckoo in action.

What happened whilst Gordy made his speech

Conjoined twins share terraced house

Shed not a tear

Well, there you have it. You always know that something momentous is going to happen when they wheel out that old piano stand from number 10. We thank our god for living in an advanced technological country. That one where the electric cable stretches from the lecturn, across Downing Street and into the seat of power where it meets the extension lead which is plugged into the socket where the kettle normally resides. Three cheers for Gordy who brought out his small sons to savour the taste of defeat. This after having to refer to his notes to remind himself what it was that he had to thank Sarah for. Turning up at the literal last moment I suppose.

And now we have a brave new future in the hands of the toffs and the 'we're not proud, we'll talk to anyone' party. Dave's been down to B & Q where, owing to the current winter climes, there is a sale of collapsable garden chairs. He's purchased a couple to erect in the cabinet office for Nick and his significant other. William Hague's been in with a tin of Cuprinol (unlike them, it does what it says on the tin) to give a good impression and George Osborne's hurried round to number 11 to borrow a couple of the cushions that Alistair hadn't secreted in his packing case. No point investing in anything longer lasting as it'll probably all be over come October.

The election observers, sent over from Nigeria to ensure fair play, have returned home with the good news that, despite international misgivings, they've apparently been doing it right all the time. Whoever came up with the idea that several million folk shouldn't have to forfeit their vote clearly had no idea how the mother of parliaments works. Doesn't matter if you didn't vote for Gordy; you still got him. Doesn't matter if you didn't vote for Dave; you got him. And obviously it doesn't matter if you didn't vote for Cleggie because you got him too. That's what's great about our country: everyone gets a go. Except me and you. Roll on the next election when all bets are taken on possible turn-out. My guess? 15%.

Spring fayre

It was whilst we were sat under an assortment of umbrellas, in a crushed melee on a damp patch of grass outside the White Horse, that I happened to remark to the ladies on the bench, who had come all the way from Harrow and had another four hours to kill before their coach returned to collect them, that it never rains at fetes in Midsomer Murders. Quite so they agreed. At the time, we were eating lukewarm New Forest pasties, doubtless made with the remains of crushed ponies, with wooden knives and forks. Daughter number one was wearing the remains of a jar of piccalilli and a particularly unpleasant face. Son-in law wore the matching visage.

Well, what can you expect? Who in their right minds would bring a man to a country fayre? Particularly Downton Cuckoo Fayre which is the largest of its genre in the universe and packs the combined populations of three small European countries into one village street for a few hours once a year. These young folk have no stamina. Aged friend and I had been up since dawn and had managed to avoid all queues into the car-park prior to ensuring we saw EVERY stall available. Sensible old folk like us, having done a reccy and discovered that the pub had hospitably shut its toilets to the public and erected conveniences that were only convenient for stick insects, had identified alternative facilities in the church hall. We had also located something purporting to be coffee, bought more things than could be humanly carried, including a giant metal mouse, and transported said goods back to the car before meeting the others for lunch. You have to have a plan.

Plan B was the Georgian Fayre at Blandford on the bank holiday Monday. Not so well-thought out as it happened. First mistake of the day was in never giving a thought to the notion that daughter number one and offspring would pick today of all days to attempt entry into the Guinness Book of Records by actually turning up on time. I was just about to put the hoover round when they arrived. Mistake number two was in believing the weather forecast: I dressed in summer trousers and my nice new butterfly-encrusted (thin) top. First stop on arriving in the hinterland of north Dorset was the nearest charity shop to purchase a suspect fleece to help the fight against the biting wind. Like a lot of things in England’s green and pleasant, Blandford Georgian Fayre has gone downhill. A shabby sort of affair but, strangely, the small people seemed to enjoy it. However, it got colder and colder and we retreated back to the micro-climate of Poole to eat cheese sandwiches and change into winter clothes.

There was a brief hiatus as we looked out on seasonal black clouds and thought how nice it would be to have a little nap but, given that there were no grown men in the vicinity, we decided to press on to the donkey derby. A small detour was made to collect the even smaller dog who is my biggest (and only) fan. Small dog was delighted to see his family but half way down the road noticed me lurking in the back of the car. Pandemonium ensued until he was allowed to sit in the rear with me. At the donkey derby, which was particularly conspicuous by its absence of donkeys, small dog was entered into a competition with a diverse mixture of other far too friendly canines. Small dog is now not so small in some parts and repeated instructions had to be delivered to the grandchildren to retain a short lead. Sadly, this was not the competition for dog who can mount the highest number of other dogs. Small dog’s general enthusiasm, however, served him well as he came away with first prize and accompanying rosette for the waggiest tail. A brief interlude occurred wherein I was able to purchase huge quantities of other people’s junk from the Rotary Club stall; then back to the ring for best in show. The heavens opened, the submissive canine that our dog had his eyes glued on won the event and we hurried home to put the heating on.