my life as a artist
You are viewing all posts from August, 2007. To return to the front page, click here.
grand
Wednesday 29th August 2007 10:47 PM
Hello there! How ya doin'? Grand!
An overseas reader asks, 'Where have you been Rory?' to which the answer is, cutely, but without being coquettish, 'overseas'. I've been to a bijou arts and literary festival, called Flatlake, nestled in the drumlin breasts of central Ireland.
The festival took place in the 500 acre grounds of a stately home, appliquéd with lakes and studded with exotic mature trees. It was organised by the writer Pat McCabe and the film-maker Kevin Allen (whose google-fame has been subsumed by being related to Lily Allen, and now, rather ignominiously, he is more commonly found under the title 'Uncle Kevin').
There were more artists and poets there than you could shake a chewed pencil at, and it felt unusual not to be unusual. I was there as a guest of Tony Allen (No relation to Kevin, Lily, Keith or even Dave) and had no official duties to perform, although due to the slightly organic nature of the event, I did end up helping to erect a marquee and doing a bit of compering in the stripy red tent.
The other main venue was a bizarrely converted barn, with a parked lorry as a stage, which also served as the headquarters of a pirate radio station, 'Radio Butty', D.J.'d by Pat McCabe, who was a bit like Terry Wogan, but more visceral. There was also a cinema tent, down by the lake, which kept showing a film about Joe Strummer. There was a tortured, but not squealing, hideously skewered whole pig being spit-roasted on the baronial lawn, but because the flaps were tightly drawn on the tent, our enjoyment of the film was neither impaired by the smell of its burning flesh, nor the attendant whiff of ancient privilege.
Sunday lunchtime was spiritual hour. Keith Allen was advertised as doing yoga in the red stripy tent, so in my new-found role as assistant stage manager, I asked him how he wanted the venue laid out. He told me, in a direct and colourful fashion, that it didn't really matter, because contrary to what it said in the programme, he wasn't doing any fucking yoga.
Disappointed, I took my yoga mat back to the tent, and went to the barn to see what spiritual nourishment was on offer there. There was about thirty people sat about on hay bales, and in the middle was Shane MacGowans wife, Victoria, holding a large crystal and channelling angels. Snuggled up to her was Sinead O'Connor, and sat behind them both was Shane, wearing his shades, holding a bottle and pulling on a fag. There was some silent-movie piano music, from an unattended sound system, playing quietly in the background. It's difficult to know if it was an event or an installation.
The Guinness in this part of the world is dangerously sublime, and flies down ones throat on feathered wings of loveliness, and though they say in the advertisements that it's good for you, they never actually specify the dosage, and to be honest I think I overdid it a bit.
On Sunday I night I saw the best gig I've seen for three thousand years. It was a bloke called Jinx Lennon, accompanied by a woman called Paula Flynn. He had a beat-box and a guitar and some mighty words of white light and wisdom, which he was hurling, in a highly original manner, in the general direction of the demon-controlled structures of the planet. He was somewhere between Flann O'Brien, Ian Paisley and Captain Beefheart. The mellifluous, crystal purity of Paula Flynns voice, which elicited a hitherto unseen tenderness in him, served as perfect counterpoint and balm to his fierce fire. Fair fucks to ya Jinx, it was a grand gig!
On Monday I headed back to Yorkshire, flying from Dublin to Manchester with Ryanair, or to give them their full name, 'Ryanair Would Like To Apologise'. On the outward journey, the advertised price turned out to be 4% of the eventual cost of the flight. How cheap is that? One common problem with airports and airplanes is that they're usually completely airless, and compared to a rolling green field full of poets, are rubbish. I've always thought that if God had intended us to fly, he would have given us more leg-room.
Posted 10:47 PM | 1 Comments | Permalink
football again
Sunday 19th August 2007 10:02 PM
Over the summer, every Thursday night, I've been playing five-a-side football in the university sports hall, with my Corinthians over thirty-five team mates. (that is to say we're all over thirty-five years of age, not that there's over thirty-five of us playing. When that happens, we go into Heslington village and challenge the locals to 'chasing half a goat up and down the main street')
This coming Sunday sees the first fixture of our new season, against Hardly Everton over 35's, and I'm a bit worried I've got too used to a smooth playing surface, and might struggle on the bumpy unpredictability of a grass pitch, so yesterday morning I had a kick-around in the field, with Jimmy the donkey and Molly the Shetland pony, and some of the chickens.
Jimmy, Molly and two Old English bantams took on me and three silkies. (the geese wanted to play, but under a joint FIFA and MAAF ruling, they're all serving six month bans for violent conduct and hissing) A silky is a breed of chicken that appears to be a cross between an exotic French dancer and a poodle called 'Fifi', and by just looking at my new team mates, I knew they weren't going to play with any of the fierce determination or physicality of a Roy Keane or a Patrick Viera. They didn't have the attention span to stick to a 1-1-1-1 formation, nor did they have the technical skills to play in the free-form, fluid as jazz style, known as 'total football', as exemplified by the Brazilians and Jimmy.
I expected Jimmy, as a donkey, to play at centre half and adopt a long ball game, but he surprised us all by playing up front, sometimes as a maverick lone striker, and sometimes in the hole just behind the front chicken, and with good hooves for a big animal, allied to pace and power, he was quite a handful for the silkies.
It was a clean, fast-flowing game, and at the end of the day, Gary, the score was immaterial because a) it's the beauty of the game and the spirit in which it's played that's most important, and b) we lost 4-2. Some of the goals, in my opinion, and probably Alan Green's, were inconclusive, mainly due to a badly delineated touchline and the fact that we were using cow-pats for goalposts.
THREE DAYS LATER
This morning we ( meaning The Corinthians over 35's, and any readers of this blog, who without present affiliation to any football team, might like to dip their cyber-toe into the semi-divine folly of football sectarianism), managed to beat Almost Neverton, 5-0. We hired a football pitch from the university that was as flat and moist as the fens, thus rendering my pre-match training on the muddy Pennine ridges of a farmers field, as irrelevant. All the goals were scored by our centre-forward, Bustling Brian, half amiable teddy bear and half assassin.
Except for a shot off the post and a goal assist, my own performance was fairly undistinguished. A few times in the second half, our industrious midfielder, Sergeant Vic, shouted at me, partly for not moving into space and demanding the ball, but mainly for being a vegetarian.
'Who's Alan Green?' an overseas reader might ask, at once curious, and at the same time disappointed that I'm writing about football again. Alan Green commentates on the football on Radio 5 live, which every weekend goes out on the world service, and his voice is thus heard in Alaska, Albania and Algeria, Chad, China and Chunisia, Bali, Mali, Malawi, and so many other places, that I'm sure 'overseas reader' could hear him if they wanted. I listened to him commentating on the Liverpool Chelsea match, this afternoon, while I was painting.
Alan Green was so scornful and cruel to the referee, who in his humanity had erred, that my heart welled with compassion for him. (the beleaguered official that is, not Alan Green)
The referees need to be dispassionate and unaffiliated can sometimes lead to feelings of alienation and isolation, and if unchecked, to a terrible, soul-crushing loneliness. They are at their most vulnerable just after a bad decision, and instead of berating them, players would contribute more to the sum of world happiness, by hugging them and forgiving them. Sometimes, referees just wants to be held.
Posted 10:02 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
we are normal and we dig bert weedon
Tuesday 14th August 2007 11:56 PM
An overseas reader asks 'Who is Ricky Gervais?' Indeed.
'A hippy from the horn queries the provenance of the phrase, 'Old Nobodaddy who farts aloft'. I'd like to say it's one of mine, but it's from William Blake. He is sometimes eerily contemporary. Jerusalem the hymn is taken from a longer poem by Blake, called 'Milton', and immediately prior to the words, '..and did those feet…' Blake says;
' Rise up young people of the new age, set your foreheads against the ignorant hirelings, for they are in the courts, camps and universities, and would, if they could, forever depress mental, and prolong corporeal war. Artists, sculptors, bloggers, on you I call. Suffer not the fashionable fools to depress your powers by the prices they pretend to give for contemptible works, nor the expensive advertising boasts they make of such works. Believe there is a class of people whose whole delight is in destroying.'
I once did it as a moody preamble to a country and western version of 'Jerusalem', at a gig at Birmingham University. Afterwards, one of the students commented admiringly, in a strong local accent, 'Yer must have been really shit-faced when yer wrote that.'
Last night, on the Guardians rabid recommendation, I watched the Richard Dawkins thingy, 'Enemies of Reason', on the telly. It was surprisingly enjoyable. He's got a bit of the hawk about him, and it was no surprise to see him bagging a few rabbits at a psychic fare, but later, when he met a fox and a lion, he got a bit ruffled.
The fox was an astrologer. 'Let me experiment on you' pleaded Richard.
' No', said the fox. 'You're mischief-making, and my art relies on good intention.'
'When you say that, that puts you in a win-win situation' replied Richard.
'Yes', purred the fox, 'I'd like to think so'
Then Richard met Satesh Kumar, who's a lion, and who roared at Richard with a ferocious smile. Richard turned into a rabbit.
'It's all your projection' said Richard.
'No', said Satesh 'It's my understanding. Spirit is everywhere, that tree, that rock. The tree has treeness.'
Richard smirked, and said in a patronising voice ' And I suppose that rock has 'rockness'?'
'Exactly', said Satesh, and beamed.
What I found amazing, infuriating, saddening, and by force of habit, amusing, was the fact that on both occasions, Richard came away from the encounter feeling that he'd bagged another rabbit. So did the Guardian reviewer. He said it was like lambs to the slaughter, and not really a contest, because all the people Richard talked to were a 'crazy bunch' and 'bonkers'
During the programme, Richard lovingly described an experiment by Professor Skinner, famous for his theories of really quite selfish and unacceptable behaviourism. In it, a pigeon, who only really achieves full expression whilst soaring above laboratories, shitting on behaviourists, was put in a small metal box and fed dry pellets, randomly, down a chute.
If a pellet fell down the chute, at the same time as the bird was looking over it's left shoulder, and this event was repeated soon after, the pigeon would think that the looking over the left shoulder was the thing that had caused the pellet to arrive, and would then keep repeating the action to the point of mania.
What Richard deduces from this, is that human beings are prone to superstition. If you're a sensitive, spirit-filled denizen of sunshine and sky, and you're being held in a small metal box against your will, and being tortured by a white-coated psychopath, then looking over your left shoulder, to the point of mania, sounds like a good afternoon out to me.
Posted 11:56 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
bloomin fundamentalists
Monday 13th August 2007 12:45 AM
I've just read a preview of Ayatollah Richard Dawkins latest TV programme, 'Enemies of Reason', by one of his acolytes, the fiery rationalist cleric, Charlie Brooker, of the Guardian.
Blimey! If newspapers employ columnists because they think they represent a sizeable aspect of the zeitgeist, then God help us! (I'm being provocative there, by mentioning the Big G, The All, The One, Allah, Brahman, The Almighty, Mr and Mrs God, Old Nobodaddy who Farts Aloft, The Nameless One… I'll come back to it later, but I just thought I'd give you an insight into the structure of the blog, in the hope that you'll like me more)
Fundamentalist preachers brook no argument, you're either with them or against them. Charlie's recommendation, that anyone who claims to be spiritual should punch themselves in the throat until they've destroyed their voice box, suggests a certain reluctance to engage in dialogue. He says that cold, clear, rational thought and contemptuous mockery of those who believe in an intelligent universe, is the only way to save the planet. Personally, I stand firm with Errol Brown, of Hot Chocolate fame, when he says 'I believe in miracles, you sexy thing'.
Richard Dawkins, wilfully ignoring the overthrow of materialism by modern physics, still thinks that the universe is like a really big car, (honestly, it's massive), whose complex workings are gradually being demystified, while-we-wait, by really brainy Quick-fit mechanics. I'm sorry to say this Richard, but we're going to have to scrap your car. We've discovered that your ball-bearings are 99.9% empty space, and it's difficult ordering spare parts when we don't know if it's a particle or a wave.
Dawkins states that science is the only route to knowledge. If we could just show him an inch of compassion, a gram of love or a hermetically sealed plastic bag, containing a thousand and eight metric tonnes of truth and beauty, he could measure them and acknowledge them. Until then, for poor old Richard, it's all just chemical illusion.
The idea that the universe is random, and operating entirely through physical laws, without any evidence of innate intelligence, is something my Great Uncle Albert would have strongly disagreed with. Without contemptuous mockery, because he was a nice man with curly hair, he would have pointed out that God does not play dice with the universe. Fred Hoyle, who used to go out at night with a massive binocular, looking for heavenly bodies, said the chance of creation being random was the same as a hurricane blowing through a junkyard and coming up with a Boeing 707.
So, Richard Dawkins thinks I'm superstitious and deluded while Charlie Brooker thinks I'm just a credulous cretin. Tomorrow morning, during meditation, I'm going to forgive them, then I'll pray for them and send them healing energies. That'll really annoy them.
Posted 12:45 AM | 4 Comments | Permalink
Lily got the two cheese straws
Saturday 11th August 2007 12:26 AM
There's a festival going on in the capital city of Scotland at the moment. As someone who's performed there, I feel it's unlucky to mention it by name. I prefer to call it 'The Scottish Festival', or 'Fear of Las Vegas in Lothian'
The fringe, by its name, suggests the edge of things, the strange and undiscovered, the unusual and surprising, a place where one can chance upon unearthed treasures and enjoy the innocence of the new. (£37:50 to see Ricky Gervais at the Assembly rooms anyone?)
York, meanwhile, goes for underkill. In May 'we' had the York literature festival. As one of the leading literary figures in my caravan park, I rang up the organiser to see if there was any work going, but she said they only had a budget of twenty pounds, which they were using to print leaflets, recommending every York citizen to read a book, and if we all did it at the same time, it'd be a sort of festival.
Yesterday morning I met Jimmy and Molly for the first time. They're near neighbours, and I've seen them around, but never really talked to them. I was telling Jimmy about Naom Chomsky's theory of oppressive tolerance when Molly started licking my toes. Jimmy and Molly are a very attractive couple, and I felt flattered by her show of affection, so as some sort of response, I started stroking her neck. Jimmy, who seemed to be quite a laid back sort of character, was so relaxed about the whole affair, that he just defecated, there and then.
In the afternoon Tom came round with his three daughters, Daisy, Betty and Lily. The girls wanted to take a closer look at the new calf with his mother, so we went over to the field edge, closest to where they were. A few of the old English bantams gathered round, and when I saw Jimmy the donkey and Molly the Shetland pony walking over, I knew what I had to do.
As quick as a really quick thing, before you had a chance to say Anne Robinson, I'd organised The Heslington Really Cute Animal Festival. The girls had a great time fetching sheaves of fresh grass for the acts, while me and Tom sat drinking tea, soaking in the atmosphere of one of Europe's premier really cute animal festivals.
As far as I was concerned, it was a free festival, but Tom and the girls insisted on paying, so after some delicate negotiations, we came to an agreement, and they gave me a packet of multigrain cheese and onion hula hoops and a hard peach.
Next time I want the Heslington Really Cute Animal Festival to be bigger and better, more cutting edge and yet more inclusive. I'll do more leafleting and it'll have puppies. If I can persuade the geese to stop hissing like Linda Blair in 'The Exorcist', they can be in it too.
Posted 12:26 AM | 3 Comments | Permalink
[Front Page] | Page: [1] [2]
