May angels gild progress to heaven, Sir Bobby Robson. You were one of the greats.

Not quite purgatory, not exactly heaven

Two Saturdays ago, I met up with Grandad Bryan and Joyce in their Camberwell home. We relaxed in the garden with some Pimms and sparkling conversation, occasionally interrupted by a small, excitable dog they were looking after called Hamish. One year old, Grandad Bryan said this canine was physically fully grown, but had some growth left to go on the side of personality.
After admiring Joyce's paintings and a photo book compiled from a recent grand family holiday in the Lake District, we decamped to begin a journey to Tate Britain, primarily to see Richard Long's Heaven and Earth exhibition. The Daily Telegraph describes it as "A beautifully installed retrospective of the quietly radical British conceptual artist Richard Long."
We were first confronted with a wall with muddy handprints that could have come out of any infants classroom that had just had an arts lesson. Try as I might, it said nothing deep to me. Appropriately, this set the tone for the rest of the show, which was either so deep it might as well have been on the bottom of the Marianas Trench or something only a portion of the cognoscenti could comprehend and that's because they're imposing their own ideas on the art. Essentially, this can be done of all art for all people, but it illustrated why lay people are so disillusioned with the Tate prize and the coterie of art luvvies in their ivory tower.
The grand theme was mankind's imposition on nature and the transience of that imposition, though I only got that from reading an art review of this. Many of his landscape portraiture are more meaningful for the natural backdrops rather than naything he has done, like scuffing dirt in a desert or walking in a straight line up and down a field to create the kind of kitten-run gardeners throughout the country are only too familiar with. Wordsworth and Coleridge created great works through their walking, but it wasn't as inane as this. At places, there were tranches of words, that were circuitous in nature, that Grandad Bryan described as verging into self-parody e.g. he liked stillness and he liked movement (was he high - not in a Ruskin-like way - at the time of composing this).
Some pieces were exceptioanlly obscure to anyone who hasn't attended art college, such as swirls of arrows on a local map within "an invisible circle" - the arrows might as well have been wind currents on a meteorological chart and that's not art. One photo in Scotland in which he had arranged smooth stones on a mountainside I imagined, with the aid of shade on the rocks, as a pygmy funeral procession and I thought of the circumstances and scenarios that from thence could result in such a brutal and yet beautiful landscape.
My grandfather who had hitherto been muttering to Altaa and I that it was all 'a con', was more impressed by the rock formations that had been arranged in another room into a rectangle, an oval and various circles of homogenous rocks, the red jagged ones were pretty impressive, though not for any message they conveyed to me. Far better was the fourth whole wall mud portrait (the previous two were just drab interlocking bands) with a white band along the top. It was like a massive forest rising up before you, so thick that beneath the canopy no light penetrates and what goings on occur in such a knotted mass, drawing you in.
We saw some more pictures and smudges masquerading as paintings. Landscaped art comes in for some criticism and this exhibition would not automatically be first witness for the defence. My grandfather had taken us along since he had picked up on the buzzword Mongolia. Nothing of this country was in the main exhibition; in a side room with a video as the artist 'explained' his method and ideas (he creates an effect of scuffed dirt, by walking up and down suffing dirt, apparently), we saw a smidgen - one dated photo in the grounds of Erdene Zuu Khiid (I know because I've been there myself), another of khatags (blue scarves) adorning sticks held in place by rocks that could have been in the Altai mountains and a mention 'Genghis Khan' in an uncredited Bob Dylan song. There was also a mention of the River Medway, from which Long walked until he reached the Severn. The exhibition was not a total loss but the entry price was not worth it for this, so afterwards we headed for some 'traditional' paintings by the likes of Turner which was far more rewarding.
We rounded off the day in Trafalgar Square, catching a view of anthony Gormley's 'One and Other' - spectacle art as Gormley specialises in. Good stuff.

Not the one o'clock news, surely?

Yesterday on the BBC news, there was quite a Monty Python moment. As Rory Cellan-Jones did a report on discrepancies between advertised broadband speed and actual broadband speed, he concluded it in an office, but behind him, head obscured and on knees (and presumably hands) on the floor was a woman in a polka-dot dress. The other bods in the office as the camera panned out were typically disinterested, but as this was a recorded news item (prior to his appearance being interviewed by the news anchor in the studio) why on earth didn't they tell the woman to get up and then film it again? Were they running short on tapes? Was it a dare? Simply silly, but it makes the story memorable.
With their second in a row 'and finally' item, the Beeb showed amateur footage of a four-foot long cat (not including tail) in Faslane in Scotland. That's where they keep the nuclear subs. There wouldn't be any connection to those reports of contamination being leaked into the Clyde River and an abnormally-sized cat, now would there?

Just slips right down - an oyster, that is

Yesterday, Altaa and I went to see friends at the Whitstable Beer Festival, with its attendant oyster-eating competition. At Gillingham train station, while waiting for a train that eventually would be more than ten minutes late, we saw a couple across the rails on the other platform - dressed as Batman and Batgirl. Now either the batmobile and batbikes are at the mechanics or they were going to a superhero fancy dress party - and this was the early afternoon - and had decided to get changed before they left their house. I could understand that just about if they weren’t using public transport. They were going up to London or in that direction anyway and Gillingham is one thing, but walking as that through the crowds of the capital city - well, it would certainly get attention. Then again, it is London - they’d fit right in. While she carried off her Argos outfit and high-heel boots quite well with her slim frame, but he was more fatman than Batman. That’s not a utility belt round his waist but love handles. Get a hold of this, Joker! Adam West would be turning, slowly turning, slowly.
On the train, we met up with Alex Goff which certainly was better than reading the newspaper or gazing out the window. At Whitstable we tramped in the general direction of almost everyone else. It was lovely to meet up with Miriam, Lisa and Bex, though Altaa and I had to do a bit of juggling with fish and chips, fizzy drink cans , when we got to the festival, buying a bottle of ‘traditional’ cider, oysters on a bed of ice and preserves, such as whisky marmalade (can’t get more preserved than that). Watching the oyster-eating competition had its charms, giving that it wasn’t solely given over to downing oysters, but we got to know a bit about the contestants beforehand, but eating our oysters were better since I got all of them (Altaa nibbled a bit of one of hers and then decided against the whole enterprise). Result!
After that, we headed down to the beach and gradually, the crew departed, first Lisa, then Becky. Altaa, I and Mr Goff abandoned Miriam to own devices around quarter past eight, but she had reinforcement of a friend on the way. We had whiled away a few hours on the beach and then outside the Neptune pub. The taxi was eight minutes late which given that we cutting it fine for our once-an-hour train was disconcerting, but the driver was making sure, in no uncertain terms, he wouldn’t be held responsible for us missing it. We got to the station with thirty seconds to spare after he had driven like he thought Steve McQueen was having a mellow cruise in Bullitt. Good times.

Getting jiggy in the stands

A Daily Telegraph sportswriter committed quite a malapropism while typing up Real Madrid's friendly with Irish minnows Shamrock Rovers. Sandy MacKasgill, said that a certain world's most expensive football player performing tricks and turns had the effect of "sending the Spanish commentators into orgies in the process." Really? I didn't realise that exciting footy play was such a turn on in more ways than one for the Latino contingent. I can imagine 'orgasmic ecstasy' or 'paroxysms of joy', but out-and-out group sex? That is male bonding. But come on Sandy, you've libelled these poor Spanish sports reporters. After all, that's what Italian prime ministers and their associates engage in.

Had a delightful time at Tasha's engagement party in Bishop's Stortford, in deepest, darkest Hertfordshire. actually, it was only the combination of forthcoming storm clouds and being at the outset of the onset of dusk, that contributed to weakening of sunlight, but it was certainly was far into Hertfordshire.
On the subject of pleasure, London was a different matter. Pulling into London Victoria, I felt fine; one hour later I was stressed. But the minor headache I had developed dissipated just as I sat on the right train to leave the city. It was a clear illustration of why I prefer the more sedate life away from the constant bustle and frequent hassle of the capital.
Our computer rail planner said the quickest way to Bishop's Stortford, once across the Thames was to catch the Tube's Victoria Line to Tottenham Hale, then swictch to national rail. How simple. Getting into the Victoria Tube station, Altaa and I found what our rail planner had failed to mention, that they are still doing engineering works on the blue Underground network and that they had knocked out the entire line again, not just for Sunday, but the whole weekend. It's been so long since I'd used this mode of transport I'd forgotten. With all their strikes and pay and beneifits increases, you'd think Tube workers would provide a better service than the mass inconvenience this caused (then again, their Union leaders are hard-left so they probably think the unsmiling Soviet system perfect). the bags of time I thought I had suddnely proved to have very large holes in them.
Being advised as the best way to Tottenham Hale by one of the unlucky Tube workers who had to stand by the locked gates to the Victoria Line's entrance and face sharp questioning from irriatetd passangers, it was a dash to the dreeaded District Line (fine this time, thankfully), switch at Monument to walk to Bank (including a section overground) for the Central Line to Liverpool street. That's just one stop, but as someone was "under a train" at Mile End, there were delays in the train pulling into Liverpool Street, which had become the new terminus. sorry, but if a person can't stand life anymore (and there are numerous support groups to help them reconsider), they could stock up on certain pills and have a peaceful end, unless they have a vainglorious temperament that wants everyone else to know their passing. I strongly remonstrated with myself not to wish the the same fate of the RMT leadership. Thankfully for myself, I succeeded in avoiding doing that.
Bursting up into Liverpool Street's main concourse, I found the information desk; asking the best way to Tottenham Hale, she told me the platform and when it was leaving. It would seem we would miss the connection train to Bishop's Stortford. We got on thr train, noting prior on the board how many stations there were between here and Hale. We would be badly late for the dinner. Then, there was a kerfuffle among some other passengers, several of whom rapidly departed. I checked the LED display board again and we were now on the Stansted Express with the train on the adjacent platform becoming the slow train. Moreover, the Stansted Express had only two stops, Tottenham Hale - and Bishop's Stortford. At last, we could relax.
We got to the host restaurant and bar, Hosts at ten past six, but we could have got there at seven given that this is when the meals started arriving. Near to the train station, I asked for directions to the Corn Exxhange - the area - in a local pub. One of teh punters said, "That's in Oxford, isn't it," but the landlord was aware and at the mention of Hosts, his eyes lit up and we got there slightly fashionably late.

Capital gains

In recent months, remote countries have been acquiring new capital cities or rather re-acquiring their old ones. As Sri Lanka's bloody civil war reached its endgame, we were repeatedly bombarded by reports from the country's 'capital' Colombo, when its true locus is Sri Jayawardenapura Kotte. Even worse, was the Central Asian state Kazakhstan when the England football team went out to play there. Ignorant commentators continually referred to Almaty as the centre of power, when for almost a decade, Astana in the north of the country has served that role. In the last few days, Lagos has been attacked by Niger River delta rebels, but it was called Nigeria's commercial capital, an important qualification and a caveat absent in less geographically aware journalists, such as the one who said Sarajevo was the capital of Bosnia's bitter rival Serbia.

It’s a big shame that Arlene Phillips is departing Strictly Come Dancing for this year’s season. The BBC claims to be ‘refreshing’ the show with Alesha Dixon, but Arlene (I’ll refer to her by her Christian name as is the luvvie way) is a big draw and looked twenty years younger than her reported age. Alesha was a worthy winner in her year (unlike last year, when Rachel Stevens should have won; Len Goodman gave a mandated standing ovation to Tom Chambers but the head judge wasn’t smiling), but she’s still an amateur and, to my knowledge, hasn’t created any significant choreography. Contestants could throw her critique of their technique back in their face, if they were less polite. A perfect replacement for Arlene would be Lilia Kopylova, but she’s too good to leave the dance floor yet.
Also, I don’t want to hear about whingeing judges from whingeing commentators. So the panel may be po-faced? So what? It’s their role in the show to be critical when they don’t think a couple has developed the celebrity enough. And that is the crux of it – they are only delivering their zingers and acid put-downs to celebrities and B-list at that (admittedly, a level of ‘importance’ most reality shows can’t muster). It’s the audience who should be voted off if they persist in their puerile antics. You don’t boo an umpire if they call a tennis player out when you thought the ball was in or, conversely, cheer when they call a ball in you thought out (Hawkeye is cheered, but no-one is stupid enough to boo it). There’s a good reason why pantomime is rarely televised and that’s because interactivity with its audience – it’s raison d’etre – is compromised as the large majority cannot access it. Ending these reactions from the studio audience of Strictly really would be a breath of fresh air.

On Tuesday it rained a lot, but this afforded the opportunity to walk down the beach, umbrella in hand. We also had a relax from the previous day's exertions. On Wednesday, we indulged in relaxing on the beach now the glorious weather had arrived, though we could understand why the landlady at our guesthouse said that Swanage had it's own microclimate, as we could see Poole just across from the bay with storm clouds overhead, yet here we were bathed in sunshine.
On Thursday, we went to see Corfe Castle or at least the ruins. In Corfe Castle village, one can see why certain towns that have grown up along throroughfares desire the very negation of their origin with a road bypass around their main street (or themselves altogether). Not just cars, but touist coaches and heavy goods vehichles rattle and rumble through the heart of Corfe, producing a near-ceaseless cacophony noxiously allied to a particle explosion of air pollution. Mind you, 363 years on from when the caddish parliamentarians paid the edifice a slight, this highway's bustling narure emphasises the strategic importance once derived from holdng the castle itself - a living, if not suitably breathing piece of history.
Travelling back on the bus, we took in the gorgeous countryside once again, with hamlets dotted around. One should pity the people who choose to live up Crack Lane in Langton Matravers, the small urbanity outside Swanage. Langton Matravers itself is so small there are sign proclaiming it a 'House Watch Area', since it is unable to qualify in size as a 'Neighbourhood Watch Area'. It seems some take matters into their own hands, including that of the law, one residence calling itself 'The Old Parliament House'.
On Friday, we took a boat trip around the Jurassic Coast. Only 45 minutes long but worth every penny - feeling the refreshing spray of seawater, the beautiful cliffs, the birds nesting in the coves and the lively commentary of capatain to his audience of ten (such as noting the block of flats that were built on a geological fault by a neophyte architect, whose residents then had to get the government to shore up the cliff to the tune of £2.5m for these private abodes). In the afternoon, we walked to Peveril Point and its causeway footpath into the sea and then onto Dulston Head. Unfortunately, the castle - a Victorian construction - was closed for redevelopment (even the contractors were only going to be appointed in November 2009). But we saw the great globe (only Paraguay was out of place and only slightly), chiselled in Greenwich then shipped here, by the castle owner, John Burt (nephew of John Mowlem) and had a walk along the tops of the cliff until we could see the lighthouse.
On Saturday, the rain came again, but at the far end of the beach, before the last groyne, we took shelter in a little alcove under the cliff, then had a bit of swim in water that was chilly, even after moving around.
Sunday was our last day. We paid a visit to Swanage Parish Church for the 10.30 am Eucharist service. They had two crucifers, one for the choir and the other for the clergy, which included a deacon and rector. The rector delivered the sermon without notes, which was impressive, but had a habit of repeating himself and twice confused Capernaum with Nazareth (when it was the latter mentioned in the Gospel read out). One parishioner said to me as Altaa and I were walking out, that we should get married. Showing him my gold ring, I said we already were, which caused laughter among all of us. Someone said we should get married twice then. I declined to say that we already were too. The rector bade farewell to everyone as we left. He knew of Gillingham in Kent (rather than the one in north Dorset, that we had to tell other members of the congregation we not from) since he once ministered in Whitstable.
It was a wonderful way to end the holiday. When we got back home, I watched Roger Federer make history with his 15th Grand Slam. Such a welcome break for us and for him in the 77th game to win Wimbledon. All in all, a very good week.

Well, last Sunday, I got back from a week's holiday in Swanage, Dorset with my wife. It was good to get away from all the stresses of work and ignore the news (which is ever-present in a news-dominated working enviornment).
We were in an excellent guesthouse, Robertsbrook, which was one minute from the local church, one minute from the bus and train station, one minutes from the local Conservative club (though we were not patrons of it) and opposite the local Co-op, with the beach only a few minutes walk away.
On our first night there, we strolled along the new pier (that extends next to the protruding, stubby legs of the old's remains), noticing many brass plaques fashioned into the wooden planks. Many were to remember a loved one yet there were commemorations of wedding anniversaries and even an apology from a failed relationship. It was 40p per adult to stroll along it though we only noticd that the next day; however, there was no attendant around when we had previously perambulated. We paid on our next visit on our last full day in Swanage. At the end of the pier that first evening was a man in a wheelchair enjoying a spot of fishing. What we couldn't fathom was how he navaigated the robust stairs that are the only access to this upper part of the end of the pier (or indeed how he was going to get back).
John Mowlem, the first of two great benefactors of Swanage (the other being his nephew), moved to London with little more than the tools on his back as he put it (a literal aphorism since he was a stonesmason). He found an appropriate firm where he was put in charge "of men old enough to be my father." He wrote of his youthful employment that "I knew little, but still I moved upwards." It seems not much has changed in the capital city in 200 years.
I was last in Swanage something like 17 years ago. I remembered the old tram lines leading into an arcade amusements. 17 years of computer development may be considered 'progress' but cannot compensate for the arcade game experience of 'Ocean Raider'. So many things are retro in our uninspired current times, there should be a comeback for this.
The Swanage Conservative Club was founded in 1911 and on the wall has a picture of the 'Dear Leader', plus another photogrpah displaying the prospective parliamentary candidate for the area. Considering the locale, I cannot imagine it voting Labour, so it must be Lib Dem-held. Given the rise in Tory fortunes, maybe that Conservative will no longer merely be a prospective parliamentary candidate this time next year. The club flew a flag of three white interlocking dolphins (they can be occasionally seen off the coast) on a blue background, but from a short distance it looked like a bio-hazard sign fluttering from the flagpole.
More to follow tomorrow.

Flakjackets at the ready - it's a hail of hilarity

Taking the Flak is one of the funniest of Briitsh TV comedies in ages, which had myself laughing loudly enough I think "wow, that was loud." This sitcom, set in the febrile world of foreign reporting from developing countries, has underlying truth that chimes throughout, including a rich send-up of the 'Liberator of Kabul' John Simpson, no matter how unintentional it is claimed (Martin Jarvis doth protest too much, methinks). A joy.