Hastings poets, the Dordogne and new technology

Renovation target - but not the subject of what follows!!

 

The Hastings poetry group I belong to meets monthly and we read things we've written on a given theme.  The group isn't particularly highbrow and the members like some light verse thrown in with the heavier stuff.

 

The theme for this week's meeting is "A Memorable Room".  I had great difficulty with it, but interpreted it widely and remembered vividly certain houses that Paul and I visited in the Dordogne for valuations.  They were ruins that had been lovingly "restored" by their doting British owners - usually without the benefit of any prior experience, knowledge of local requirements or indeed understanding of the native domestic architecture.  It was often difficult to break the news gently to these well-meaning people that they had got it all wrong. 

 

I am not sufficiently proud of my achievement to set it out on the page - but thought I might try an experiment with it on this occasion by attaching it as an audio file.   This is the first time I've tried this, and when I listened to it it sounded as if I was speaking at the bottom of a bathtub, but if you like the idea, let me know!  Click here to listen - it will bring up a new screen and you then click on the arrow in the top left corner (and switch the sound on on your computer if you haven't already done so!).

 

Antony Mair

 

Radio 4 - dull, dull, dull

Broadcasting House - temple of dullness

Forgive another little rant.  My father spent the major part of his working life working for the Beeb, and until his death in 1971 I always regarded the Corporation as a hive of creativity and – if not enlightenment – ideas.  On weekends before we went to France I would usually have Radio 4 on in the kitchen, and considered myself something of a fan.  Now, however, I am dismayed to find it – well, dull.

Take an example of the schedule for yesterday, Monday November 26.  After the Today programme, which I’ve moaned about enough in the past (please please John Humphreys do us a favour and retire), there’s Start the Week.  This used to be a jolly magazine programme: it has now become leaden.   At 945, fifteen minutes of fiction, followed at 10 am by the earnestness of Woman’s Hour (actually Woman’s Forty-Five Minutes, since the last fifteen are devoted to a fifteen minute drama).  At 11 am, to lift the spirits: “After a cancer diagnosis, musician Nile Rodgers walks the streets of New York”.  Wow.  At 11.30, Episode 3 of “55 and over”, discussing the prospect of having children as an older person.  Just the thing to listen to after a cancer diagnosis.  12 noon, and we’re into “You and Yours”, the consumer programme that I was already finding insufferably smug eight years ago.  This takes us up to the weather forecast for a few minutes before The World at One – something of a repeat of the Today programme, in which Martha Kearney hectors politicians.

Not much of a laugh in any of this.  I’ll spare you the rest of the day, which continues in similarly turgid vein.  At 6.30 pm there is at last a comedy show – and guess what, it’s “I’m Sorry, I haven’t a Clue”, which started in – wait for it – 1972.   As far as I can see this is the only comedy slot in the entire day.

The BBC has, of course, larger fish to fry with the problems of Newsnight accusing the wrong people of nefarious activity: but it would be nice to have some freshness and dynamism back on Radio 4.   If it were possible to switch it off more than I switch it on that’s probably what I’d be doing.

Antony Mair 

 

Hastings Herring Fair

One of my former clients used to travel over to Rotterdam each year for the local herring festival, invited by a local insurance broker.  The impression I got was of an alcoholic binge involving more aquavit than herring.  By contrast, Hastings' first Herring Fair was pretty staid.  The event wasn't helped by the weather: yesterday we had pouring rain followed by gale-force winds howling in from the sea in the evening; today we were lucky to escape with intermittent torrential showers.  True to form, however, the British public put on their waterproofs and their best foot forward.  On the Stade Open Space marquees had been erected for a variety of stallholders, ranging from the fishmongers and restaurateurs to local gift shops.  It made for a pleasant if modest outing in the course of the weekend.

Behind this event lies a lot of work to support the local fishing community.  There has been a fishery at Hastings for more than a thousand years, and many of today's fishing families can trace their forebears in the fishing industry over hundreds of years.  Hastings has the largest beach-launched fishing fleet in the country, and is proud of its fishing traditions.

However, the broad brush of the EU, with quotas and restrictions, has had a severe impact on the local fishing industry, and efforts are being made to promote their cause with Brussels.  I've held back from any volunteer work to date, feeling I wanted to be sure about anything I took on; but this is a cause I can fully sympathise with, and I'm seeing how I can become involved.  So be prepared to hear more about fish on the blog!

Antony Mair

Trial by the ill-informed

Slot machines on the front, Hastings -

when the rule of law goes out the window, life's just a lottery

 

The appointment of a new Director-General coincided with BBC trustees appearing before the House of Commons public accounts select committee to explain the settlement with George Entwistle.  Today the Guardian newspaper reports: "Labour MP Margaret Hodge, who chairs the committee, was scathing about the size of the payoff.  'It demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of how this is viewed in public given that it is licence fee payers' money,' she said. 'It is incredulous' (sic)."

 

Leaving to one side the fact that Ms Hodge appears not to know the difference between incredulous and incredible, I am concerned above all by the knee-jerk reaction coming from someone at this level.  On the 5 pm news on Radio 4 yesterday, when, predictably, twenty minutes were spent covering the appointment of the Director-General and grilling Lord Patten about his own performance - with needless and insulting aggression on the part of the interviewer - it emerged, unsurprisingly, that the settlement with George Entwistle had been negotiated in detail with the assistance of expert lawyers on both sides, and that the BBC had been advised that if they did not give him the amount now criticised as excessive, they would be likely to face a larger award in the courts.  So the BBC had no choice.  Perhaps Ms Hodge should bone up on the law.

 

Similar moralising has been evident in the Prime Minister's criticism of tax avoidance - described as "morally repugnant".  This in spite of the fact that avoidance is within the framework of the existing law.  No mention of companies' duty to their shareholders to maximise profits, or of the criticism that directors might receive for paying excessive tax when the amount concerned could go to dividends.  If Parliament's unhappy about the ability to avoid tax it should change the law and leave moralising to others better equipped.

 

If you take this together with the Twitter frenzy in the paedophile scandal there is a worrying trend in the direction of mob rule.  Fortunately Lord McAlpine has brought some sense into the equation by suing the media and tweeters right left and centre.  I would like someone equally powerful to remind MPs that they are the legislators and that, instead of criticising legal behaviour, it is within their power to change the law.  Without legal certainty, life's just a lottery and most of us lose out.

 

Antony Mair

 

 

Living with builders

Eric the kitchen fitter, hard at work

 





We're in our I'm not quite sure which week of building works - but it's probably been the most populated.  In No. 7 Tackleway, aka the Shoebox, we've had Eric and Dave fitting the new kitchen, Luke the electrician doing new lighting, and Paul putting down the foundations for the lath and plaster relining.  Meanwhile in No. 8 we've had Jamie measuring up for five new window-boxes (no, not the things you put flowers in, but the boxes that sash windows go into) and Brian painting the exterior.  Plus of course scaffolders, who make intermittent appearances to put up new or tweak existing structures, and Rob, the overseer, who also calls in with a cheery hello - usually to ask for cash. 

Needless to say, there are endless minor decisions: the exact positions of ceiling lights, bearing in mind the need to light pictures as well as fitting in with joists positioned in 1800 without apparent foresight; colours for the two front and back doors; preventing Brian from putting gloss paint on the interior of the windows etc. etc.

And, of course, we get to know the builders as they get to know us: Dave's love of sea fishing, Brian's feeling he's come down in the world, being now employed by someone else after being self-employed for thirty years; Paul's problems with selling his house.  My small friend is adept at keeping them all happy with endless supplies of tea and coffee, and everyone seems very cheerful.  But I am beginning to dread that moment when there's a knock on the door at 8 am, or having a morning bath with a painter at the window!

We thought we'd be finished with everything by the end of the year, which looks increasingly optimistic: that's the other thing with builders - you start off assuming foolishly that they will be there every day for six weeks or so, and then learn that somewhere else someone else has the same idea, and that you're actually sharing the builders rather than monopolising them.  We wish ourselves bon courage on a regular basis and look forward to it all being over!

Antony Mair

We're not the only ones with scaffolding in the neighbourhood...

A weekend in Arundel

Yesterday we toddled along the coast to Arundel, this side of Chichester, to join friends for the birthday celebration of our friend Lucy Hards.  Arundel, which I had not visited for at least fifty years, is dominated by a fine castle, home of the Duke of Norfolk (although not his real home, since he lives in a house in the grounds, which is more convenient).  The town itself consists of a small number of streets full of elegant seventeenth and eighteenth century houses. 

Lucy's partner Emma had booked us into dinner at The Town House, pictured above.  If you are passing anywhere near Arundel, I thoroughly recommend a visit to this excellent restaurant - not only for the food, which was delicious, but also for the ceiling - not something I usually mention in restaurant reviews.  However, this one is exceptional: someone in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century installed a sixteenth century Florentine coffered ceiling, made from gilded walnut, which is something of great beauty.  It was a pleasure to be eating under it - and in my case the foie gras, halibut and honeycomb parfait were made even better for the experience.

I would like to be as complimentary about the Avisford Hilton, where we stayed the night.  They'd given us a great price, so I suppose I should have suspected we would not be in the lap of luxury.  It's a sprawling hotel two floors tall, and the staff were kind and willing.  The effect of the endless corridors was depressing, with doorclosers on every door giving a prison-like effect.  Our room was hopelessly overheated, which made sleep difficult, even with the window open and the heating turned off in both bedroom and bathroom.  The other guests looked as if they had been bumped off an overbooked flight to Alicante - snobbish I know, but it's not what you expect from a Hilton.  You'd have thought you couldn't go wrong for £89 for a room and breakfast, but it's not much good if you can't sleep!  What was particularly galling was that I subsequently discovered that we could have stayed in a nice room in The Town House for about the same amount -  grrr.

Antony Mair

Meanwhile, back in Tackleway...

Scaffolding on the front of No.s 7 and 8

 

Hastings Old Town is a maze of scaffolding at the moment: in addition to our two houses, and that of our neighbours at No. 11, who are doing a major refurbishment, there is a network of scaffold poles on another neighbour's house at the back, not to mention the Crown Inn behind.  "Elfen safety", is the recurring phrase.  Working off a ladder is so old-fashioned.

 

So, while paedophilia and energy price-rigging scandals rage in the UK; while the populations of EU countries take to the streets to protest against austerity, and missiles fly between Gaza and Israel, not to mention Syria; while the Americans fret about their fiscal cliff and China changes its leadership; we are preoccupied with the more domestic concerns of doing up the Shoebox and Matchbox.  In the Shoebox every room on the upper three floors now has the south-facing wall stripped back to the brick, so that slats can be fixed before the plastering starts - three coats of lime plaster, each taking a couple of weeks to dry.  On Monday a separate contingent of workmen is due to appear for the installation of the new kitchen in the basement, together with an electrician who is to redo lighting throughout.  In the Matchbox the façade is being painted to match the Shoebox and a number of sash windows have to have the boxes replaced, since they are suffering from rot.

 

The lessons we learnt when redoing our house in Ribérac can be summarised as: understand the old forms of construction so that repairs are consistent with the original logic;  don't take short cuts since it will prove more expensive in the long run; and keep up the maintenance rather than letting things decay.  Simple really.  But very different from the "botch and skimp" mentality that seems to be prevalent with a lot of houseowners.

 

The chaos will be continuing until the end of the year, which means that we acquire increasing intimacy with builders.  This has its amusing moments: such as when the carpenter innocently asked whether our dog Balzac is named after a Disney character; or when a kitchen installer said he was glad there was a loo nearby since he suffered from a bladder complaint -  the words "too much information" seem unknown in the construction business! 

 

Antony Mair

The BBC - enough, already

BBC Television Centre, White City, London

 

Some days ago I embarked on Ezra Pound's Cantos.  Armed with a commentary, I try and tackle a Canto a day.  A couple of days ago I read Canto XIV, which describes an inferno inhabited by politicians, profiteers, financiers etc.:

 

"...the air without refuge of silence,

      the drift of lice, teething,

and above it the mouthing of orators,

      the arse-belching of preachers.

      And Invidia,

the corruptio, foetor, fungus,

liquid animals, melted ossifications,

slow rot, foetid combustion...."

 

You get the drift.  It has seemed particularly relevant these past days when the BBC has been a revolting spectacle, beginning with obsessive and self-centred conspiracy theories following Newsnight's failure to broadcast the programme on Jimmy Savile, and culminating in the resignation of the Director-General on Saturday for having failed to keep tabs on the same Newsnight's broadcasting of a programme accusing Lord Macalpine by innuendo of being a paedophile - an accusation then found to be entirely without foundation.

 

All of this has been stupid enough.  What has been particularly loathsome, however, is the spectacle of BBC newscasters tearing their own organisation apart.  The resignation of George Entwistle as Director-General became almost inevitable after a disastrous interview with John Humphrys of the Today programme on - yes - BBC Radio 4.  My views on John Humphrys generally are unprintable.  But this antagonism towards the bosses, posing as a quest for objective truth, seems now to be the fashion: on the World at One today on Radio 4, Eddie Mair - no relation, I hasten to add - was persistently aggressive towards the stand-in Director-General, for no evident purpose that could be discerned other than scoring a point.

 

Not only is the process unedifying: the newscasters appear to have lost sight of the fact that other things might be happening in the world, apart from the BBC shenanigans.  On the World at One today we were treated to details of BBC affairs for the first twenty minutes of the programme.  Self-obsessed, riven with internal politics, and increasingly running round like a headless chicken, the BBC needs to get back to its essential job of providing accurate news and information rather than peering up its own fundament.  Pound's words about politicians in Canto XIV could equally apply to the BBC newsmen:

 

"Standing bare bum,

faces smeared on their rumps,

          wide eye on flat buttock,

Bush hanging for beard,

    Addressing crowds through their arse-holes,

Addressing the multitudes in the ooze,

         newts, water-slugs, water-maggots..."  

 

Antony Mair

 



The Quiet Revolution

Holy Trinity Church, Hastings

 

Change in society is always interesting.  And we live in interesting times.  In recent years we have seen uprisings in Middle East states, where people have dared to protest against - and in some cases overthrow - powers in government.  Much emphasis has been placed on social media as an important element in this: but my own suspicion is that social media have been no more than a tool, rather than a prime mover.

 

My view that something was afoot on a more global basis has been reinforced by the re-election of Barack Obama.  It now looks as if the Republicans severely miscalculated in failing to acknowledge the power of racial and social minorities, who voted with their feet.  We are probably witnessing the end of white Anglo-Saxon dominance in American politics.

 

Something similar has been happening in the UK, with the unravelling of sex scandals involving first Jimmy Savile and then a Welsh children's home.  After decades of silence, the victims have dared to speak out.  And whether the Tory right wing likes it or not, any suggestion of a cover-up in both cases appears to be linked inevitably to an Establishment perceived to be exploitative and out of touch.

 

What we are witnessing is a rapid erosion of trust in institutions that have let people down: and the acquisition of courage and a voice by the victims.  Time was when those in power could abuse their position.  That is less and less the case, either in the Middle East or closer to home.

 

The Christian churches have largely been sidelined in this process: the Catholic church has been discredited by a series of paedophile scandals, and the Anglican church is perceived, rightly or wrongly, as part of the Establishment that is failing to carry out its responsibility.  

 

This failure is, in the end, what it is all about.  Poorer sections of the community will tolerate disparities of wealth if they believe that the rich and powerful generally exercise their power for the greater good.  That is the responsibility that comes with privilege.  But history across the Channel shows graphically that where the responsibility is not observed, retribution is inevitable.  

 

Antony Mair

    

Move to the Matchbox

 

Our travelling life continues: from the refugee encampment in the basement front room of the Shoebox we have moved next door to the Matchbox.  To refresh your memories: in the picture above, taken from East Hill, you can see the Shoebox, which is the darker blue of the pair of houses on the corner of Crown Lane.  Beside it, a paler blue/grey, is the Matchbox.  Paul's tenants obligingly moved out last week so we have been able to move across in order to free the Shoebox up for builders who have to go in and dry-line the sea-facing interior walls with lath and plaster - I'll spare you the technical reasons.  Suffice it to say it's one of those irritating things that has to be done at vast expense but which nobody notices afterwards. 

 

We hired a couple of men from a local removals company to give us a hand and it was all comparatively painless.  It's a little strange to have moved house again after five months, and it will be even stranger in around three months' time when we move back.  By that stage, hopefully, we shall be able to look forward to a degree of stability.  I keep on remembering all those statements about moving house being the third most stressful experience in one's life: but in fact I'm so delighted to be back in a working kitchen that the stress has been reduced.  An added bonus is that the two properties are so close that we don't need to have a new telephone number: we just brought the extension phones over!  and our computers can link up via wi-fi with the router next door, so the disruption is pretty minimal. 

 

Disruption will however continue: scaffolding on the street side is due to go up at the end of the week for repainting both façades so that they match.  I am hoping that it will all be worth it in the end, even if we are on bread and water for months!

 

Antony Mair

Revisiting the Pre-Raphaelites

 

Rossetti: The Beloved

(reproduced courtesy of Tate Britain)

 

 

I went up to London yesterday to see the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at Tate Britain.  I've never really cared for the PRB (this trendy acronym was adopted by the exhibition organisers, and denotes the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood - feminists can refrain from comment).  But I wanted to see the exhibition to see whether I might have changed my view, with the passing of time.  But alas, no. 

 

I did come away with two things, however: the first was that I had always thought of the PRB as being later in the nineteenth century than they were: in fact they kicked off in the middle, rather than towards the end, and were therefore ahead of the Impressionists.  So the idea of them as a rather pathetic alternative to their more successful French contemporaries isn't correct, since they weren't really contemporary at all.  Secondly, though, on reflection it had not occurred to me that their preoccupations were more social than the Impressionists' concern with paint and how things are seen. 

 

It may be for this reason that, in the final analysis, they continue to leave me cold.  The anachronistic nature of many of the paintings is incongruous: the costumes are medieval, the facial expressions and poses distinctly Victorian.  More disconcertingly, a number of the persons portrayed are just begging to have bubble comments put beside them: take the lady on the right in the picture above.  She's obviously asking the girl behind whether she's remembered to bring the tickets.  The one on the left appears to be saying to the central figure: "Keep looking him in the eye and he'll give way".  While the central figure herself seems to be saying to the onlooker:  "Ok, this is who I am."  This all builds up to the idea of girls confronting a bouncer outside a nightclub. 

 

I don't want to press the point too much.  Some of the smaller paintings are beautiful.  I also particularly liked the stunning William Morris rug, portrayed below (again courtesy of the Tate), which I could happily have packed up in my bag and brought home had we a room large enough for it.  The colours still gleam like jewels.  But the great set-pieces of the PRB continue, I'm afraid, to leave me unmoved.

 

 

Antony Mair