Three-make that 4 things I don’t understand.
1. Grown men (and women) crying over an aeroplane?
(I can understand a tear shed for the Spitfire but the Concorde? It was a rich man's plaything for God's sake).
2. The hoo-ha over the gay guy about to be made Bishop.
(Isn’t the Church for Sinners? And who the hell is without sin? The words
whited and seplecures spring to mind, or if you like, whitewashed tombs (see
Matthew 23 v27). What about the planks in your own eyes you bunch of smartarses. (Sorry getting carried away..)
3. America’s total disregard for the environment
(Read yesterdays Guardian, *‘America is killing itself’. By Matthew Engel)
4. Why everyone is attacking Paul Burrel (the butler did it) without questioning the content of Lady Diana's worrying letter? Isn't this shooting the messenger? And why still no inquiry concerning her death?
*and us too.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Friday, December 05, 2008
AGINCOURT II. The Sequel
I promise you hand on heart that I’ve been looking around desperately for something positive to write about. I’m fed up with all the doom and gloom. Unfortunately these days it’s becoming more and more of an impossible task to find good news. Stratford and surrounding areas (e.g. the whole country) appear to be locked in an ongoing battle with the forces of darkness.
In a desperate effort to find something, anything, to make me smile I read The Herald (I wish no other Herald blah blah blah blah blah) from cover to cover. Twice. Nothing. Not even the combined monikers of le Vack and Witts raised a titter. God forbid that the sparkle should fade from even those hallowed pages.
Oh well, in for a penny…and in keeping with the dark mood…
I was shocked and horrified to read that violent crime across leafy Warwickshire has risen by 49 percent in the first six months of this year. Now, when I was at school, maths and especially percentages were a long way down the importance ladder but correct me if I’m wrong but 49 percent? That’s nearly half isn’t it? 49 percent? Stone me. In six months? What the hell’s going on I ask myself? I ought to underline the fact that the violence we’re talking about here is the real stuff and not the usual turnip throwing and cudgel prodding that goes on in Stratford Town Centre as a matter of course.
Lets have a look at some figures…
Robberies 238, Public disorder (Mother!) and violence in public places 3,698 incidents. Of which 11.6 percent were GBH (Grievous Bodily Harm or more serious). Surely some mistake? These must be the figures for the Bronx? And then…and then as if to underline these dreadful facts and figures a report on a particularly disgusting act of mass hooliganism last weekend and outside of all places Bill’s Birthplace in Henley Street…French and English fight in Street (under Local News).
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mission Statement.
‘The force’s focus is on catching more criminals and bringing them to justice….’
Assistant Chief Constable Bob Golding.
Well that's a relief Bob. I was beginning to wonder...
In a desperate effort to find something, anything, to make me smile I read The Herald (I wish no other Herald blah blah blah blah blah) from cover to cover. Twice. Nothing. Not even the combined monikers of le Vack and Witts raised a titter. God forbid that the sparkle should fade from even those hallowed pages.
Oh well, in for a penny…and in keeping with the dark mood…
I was shocked and horrified to read that violent crime across leafy Warwickshire has risen by 49 percent in the first six months of this year. Now, when I was at school, maths and especially percentages were a long way down the importance ladder but correct me if I’m wrong but 49 percent? That’s nearly half isn’t it? 49 percent? Stone me. In six months? What the hell’s going on I ask myself? I ought to underline the fact that the violence we’re talking about here is the real stuff and not the usual turnip throwing and cudgel prodding that goes on in Stratford Town Centre as a matter of course.
Lets have a look at some figures…
Robberies 238, Public disorder (Mother!) and violence in public places 3,698 incidents. Of which 11.6 percent were GBH (Grievous Bodily Harm or more serious). Surely some mistake? These must be the figures for the Bronx? And then…and then as if to underline these dreadful facts and figures a report on a particularly disgusting act of mass hooliganism last weekend and outside of all places Bill’s Birthplace in Henley Street…French and English fight in Street (under Local News).
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mission Statement.
‘The force’s focus is on catching more criminals and bringing them to justice….’
Assistant Chief Constable Bob Golding.
Well that's a relief Bob. I was beginning to wonder...
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
STOP PRESS, HOLD THE FRONT PAGE (and all other such sayings)
UPSIDE.
As I write Stratford upon Avon Council are delivering Enormous green Wheelie Bins to all residents!
(Collapses in amazement).
DOWNSIDE.
For garden waste only.
A prayer for The Chief Executive.
Oh God...
We thank you for Our Lord Lankaster.
For his insight and wisdom in all matters recycling we give praise.
We thank him for the provision of One Large Green Wheelie Bin for garden waste only
and ask that he may see fit to provide more than one black plastic bag for the disposal of household rubbish.
We pray also that he may put the remainder of my One Thousand Pounds Council Tax to further good use.
In your mercy hear our prayer.
UPSIDE.
As I write Stratford upon Avon Council are delivering Enormous green Wheelie Bins to all residents!
(Collapses in amazement).
DOWNSIDE.
For garden waste only.
A prayer for The Chief Executive.
Oh God...
We thank you for Our Lord Lankaster.
For his insight and wisdom in all matters recycling we give praise.
We thank him for the provision of One Large Green Wheelie Bin for garden waste only
and ask that he may see fit to provide more than one black plastic bag for the disposal of household rubbish.
We pray also that he may put the remainder of my One Thousand Pounds Council Tax to further good use.
In your mercy hear our prayer.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Timetable of Entertainment
4.00pm The Mayor, Town Clerk, The Beadle and Macebearers arrive at the Town Hall.
4.10pm School Choirs and members of the Town Council assemble.
4.25pm The Civic Party assembles on the Town Hall steps.
4.30pm Welcome and introduction to the Christmas Lights Switch on.
Christmas Carols and prayers
4.40pm The Consort and Paddington Bear switches on the lights.
4.50pm The Civic Party, Choirs and children process along the High Street, round Market Cross traffic island and back to the Town Hall. Coffee and mince pies will be served.
PS. I've just been told by one of my team of elves that Council employees are at this very moment erecting the Stratford street lighting.
Which reminds me....How many Stratford Council employees does it take to change a light bulb...?
4.10pm School Choirs and members of the Town Council assemble.
4.25pm The Civic Party assembles on the Town Hall steps.
4.30pm Welcome and introduction to the Christmas Lights Switch on.
Christmas Carols and prayers
4.40pm The Consort and Paddington Bear switches on the lights.
4.50pm The Civic Party, Choirs and children process along the High Street, round Market Cross traffic island and back to the Town Hall. Coffee and mince pies will be served.
PS. I've just been told by one of my team of elves that Council employees are at this very moment erecting the Stratford street lighting.
Which reminds me....How many Stratford Council employees does it take to change a light bulb...?
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Ho, bloody, Ho...
Christmas is always a good time in Stratford. By good I mean weird and that’s good because I enjoy weird, especially at Christmas. It brightens up what can be a long and tortuous holiday. In Stratford it’s after the celebrations when it all turns nasty. After the pudding (so to speak) when the recriminations start.
You can forget all that goodwill towards all men stuff, Post-Christmas in Stratford usually ends up a battleground of angry shopkeepers all blaming various arms of the dear old Town Council for causing a black hole in their expected profits. One year the Town Council got it in the neck for closing off one of the main streets (Bridge Street) for Carol singing! According to many of the traders this caused a drop in income because people i.e. customers weren’t able to park their cars and had to (wait for it)…walk, which in turn caused them to shop elsewhere. For once I felt sorry for the Town Council.
Every year they try to do the right thing. And every year it just doesn’t seem to come off. No matter how great the efforts they make to light up the Town in the appropriate manner someone, somewhere cries…Bah Humbug. Mind you, sometimes one can’t help but wonder at the methods used to ensure everyone enjoys themselves.
Take the efforts of the mysterious organisation ‘The Christmas Lights Committee’.
An unhappy body of men and women whose sole purpose is to raise the much needed dosh to literally light up the Town. Unfortunately, after the light comes the darkness. Threats from The Christmas Lights Committee to ‘name and shame’ those stores who didn’t donate to the fund doesn’t really help. One year there was even talk of not illuminating those areas where the shops who didn’t contribute operated from. And so it goes on. The excitement mounts. And talking of excitement, I’ve managed to find the programme for Christmas 1998, a vintage year I’m sure you’ll agree. I can’t wait to see who they get to switch on the lights this Christmas.
You can forget all that goodwill towards all men stuff, Post-Christmas in Stratford usually ends up a battleground of angry shopkeepers all blaming various arms of the dear old Town Council for causing a black hole in their expected profits. One year the Town Council got it in the neck for closing off one of the main streets (Bridge Street) for Carol singing! According to many of the traders this caused a drop in income because people i.e. customers weren’t able to park their cars and had to (wait for it)…walk, which in turn caused them to shop elsewhere. For once I felt sorry for the Town Council.
Every year they try to do the right thing. And every year it just doesn’t seem to come off. No matter how great the efforts they make to light up the Town in the appropriate manner someone, somewhere cries…Bah Humbug. Mind you, sometimes one can’t help but wonder at the methods used to ensure everyone enjoys themselves.
Take the efforts of the mysterious organisation ‘The Christmas Lights Committee’.
An unhappy body of men and women whose sole purpose is to raise the much needed dosh to literally light up the Town. Unfortunately, after the light comes the darkness. Threats from The Christmas Lights Committee to ‘name and shame’ those stores who didn’t donate to the fund doesn’t really help. One year there was even talk of not illuminating those areas where the shops who didn’t contribute operated from. And so it goes on. The excitement mounts. And talking of excitement, I’ve managed to find the programme for Christmas 1998, a vintage year I’m sure you’ll agree. I can’t wait to see who they get to switch on the lights this Christmas.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
The CockingsGate affair
I must admit that at times living in Stratford makes me wonder what rabbit hole I fell down and when. Just a quick glance (often the best way) through the Weakly Herald (Today’s news-Tomorrow’s fish ‘n chip paper) is enough to send you reeling in disbelief at the sheer horror of daily life in Shakespeare Country.
Take the CockingsGate affair for instance.
As far as I can gather and to cut a long on-going saga short, what we have here is a Town Councillor who appears very much against further building in beautiful uptown Shottery (where he lives and Anne Hathaway lived too. Not together I hasten to add) . Which is great. I couldn’t agree more. However, and as they say, the plot thickens…it seems he has actually applied to the appropriate planning authorities to knock down his own bungalow (sawn-off house), so that he can build three brand-spanking-new 4 bed-roomed properties on the land.
(Deep breath…aaaand relax…)
As if that weren’t baffling enough, tonight (and this is where it gets difficult) the Stratford Planning Committee, who will decide if the Cockings boy can go ahead with his (some might say) dastardly plan and which by the way has himself as a member (you still with me), meet to decide if the very fact that they know (not in the biblical sense of course) Councillor Cockings would mean that they would have to declare an interest. They then (not necessarily in this order) have to decide (writes the magnificently named Preston Witts) what actually declaring an interest will incur. For example (nearly finished) if declaring an interest means that they have to withdraw from making a decision re Cockings proposal, will there be enough members left (a quorum) in a position to make a decision anyway…aaagh!
Anyway, enough of this rubbish. I’m just looking forward to tomorrow and the demonstration of Tea Bag folding at the new craft store just opened in Stratford. Actually I’m not sure if you have to provide your own tea bags? And what about those ones with string attached? Do they count? Blurgle-blum-biddledum-boddle….
Pills…left-hand pocket…quick…too late...I am a tea pot.
Take the CockingsGate affair for instance.
As far as I can gather and to cut a long on-going saga short, what we have here is a Town Councillor who appears very much against further building in beautiful uptown Shottery (where he lives and Anne Hathaway lived too. Not together I hasten to add) . Which is great. I couldn’t agree more. However, and as they say, the plot thickens…it seems he has actually applied to the appropriate planning authorities to knock down his own bungalow (sawn-off house), so that he can build three brand-spanking-new 4 bed-roomed properties on the land.
(Deep breath…aaaand relax…)
As if that weren’t baffling enough, tonight (and this is where it gets difficult) the Stratford Planning Committee, who will decide if the Cockings boy can go ahead with his (some might say) dastardly plan and which by the way has himself as a member (you still with me), meet to decide if the very fact that they know (not in the biblical sense of course) Councillor Cockings would mean that they would have to declare an interest. They then (not necessarily in this order) have to decide (writes the magnificently named Preston Witts) what actually declaring an interest will incur. For example (nearly finished) if declaring an interest means that they have to withdraw from making a decision re Cockings proposal, will there be enough members left (a quorum) in a position to make a decision anyway…aaagh!
Anyway, enough of this rubbish. I’m just looking forward to tomorrow and the demonstration of Tea Bag folding at the new craft store just opened in Stratford. Actually I’m not sure if you have to provide your own tea bags? And what about those ones with string attached? Do they count? Blurgle-blum-biddledum-boddle….
Pills…left-hand pocket…quick…too late...I am a tea pot.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Credit where credit's due...I have to say that find myself quite impressed with the council's website. Power to our Lord Lankaster's mighty elbow. I shall check in frequently and look forward to rich pickings...
# posted by Lawn Greengrass : 11:49 AM
And so farewell IDS
now you’ve gone
and left a mess
and you’ll never have the key to Downing Street.
Just slip away and softly fade
remove the knife from your shoulder blades
‘cause you’ll never have the key to Downing Street.
So take your leave
get on your bike
you William Hague look-a-like
Just know you’ll never have the key to Downing Street.
# posted by Lawn Greengrass : 11:49 AM
And so farewell IDS
now you’ve gone
and left a mess
and you’ll never have the key to Downing Street.
Just slip away and softly fade
remove the knife from your shoulder blades
‘cause you’ll never have the key to Downing Street.
So take your leave
get on your bike
you William Hague look-a-like
Just know you’ll never have the key to Downing Street.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Stratford One in the Clear
‘It wasn’t me Guv’ says M P.
Top Tory no Traitor.
Identified by a number of major newspapers this week as the man behind a plot to oust Duncan Iain Smith as leader of the troubled Conservative party, MP for Stratford upon Avon John Maples declared himself in the clear after a meeting with the Conservative Whip David Maclean.
Smiling confidently the MP for Shakespeare’s home town said, ‘I told him I ain’t dun nuffink and I reckon he believed me. I told him straight didn’t I? I said, what do you take me for? There is no plot or organisation or conspiracy’. I fink it went well. Now all I want to do is spend more time with my family.’
Stratford resident and self-declared spokesman for Conservative voters everywhere Mr Ron Liar said today….’How a man with such a neat haircut could be labelled traitor I do not know. John hasn’t got a bad bone in his body. Anyway, I’m off to the pub where I shall drink myself under the table. Afterwards…we’ll celebrate’.
Top Tory no Traitor.
Identified by a number of major newspapers this week as the man behind a plot to oust Duncan Iain Smith as leader of the troubled Conservative party, MP for Stratford upon Avon John Maples declared himself in the clear after a meeting with the Conservative Whip David Maclean.
Smiling confidently the MP for Shakespeare’s home town said, ‘I told him I ain’t dun nuffink and I reckon he believed me. I told him straight didn’t I? I said, what do you take me for? There is no plot or organisation or conspiracy’. I fink it went well. Now all I want to do is spend more time with my family.’
Stratford resident and self-declared spokesman for Conservative voters everywhere Mr Ron Liar said today….’How a man with such a neat haircut could be labelled traitor I do not know. John hasn’t got a bad bone in his body. Anyway, I’m off to the pub where I shall drink myself under the table. Afterwards…we’ll celebrate’.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Mop rule
Just when you thought it was safe more Mop news I’m afraid.
What do you want first the bad news or the good news?
The good news?
Well, the good news is, the Mop’s gone and the bad news…?
Seems the whole affair was over run with hobbledehoys, footpads and cutpurses. Young men fought running battles on the streets and the streets ran with... that horrible sauce you get from McDonald’s. Actually it’s not funny, somebody could have got hurt. One slip on that sauce and you could break a leg easy.
Apparently (writes The Midweek), a gang of 70 young men (some as young as 14) had gathered for the kick-off at 11-30 when they were split up into warring factions ( Jets/Sharks? Montagues/ Capulets?) by 14 police officers. (Is there mystical meaning to these numbers? If there is I think we should be told).
Anyway…having apparently kicked the s*** out of each other the night before one can only wonder where these unruly rival gangs of youths get their energy from. Is it the drugs or just the sheer joy of being alive and young (and on drugs).
Insp Bailey (a policeman on the scene) said ‘I am a local officer and I take pride in my town. It causes me concern that at midnight there are still gangs of such young people on the streets’.
Well Insp it's extremely heartwarming to know that you take pride in your Town but actually if I were you I’d be a little more concerned about the gangs of older people who seem to be frequenting Stratford streets at midnight and later. Just take a wander up to Stratford’s Golden Mile (Greenhill Street) at chucking out time Saturday and you’ll see what I mean. Beirut, Belfast and Baghdad have got nothing on Stratford weekends. Getting home intact is a risky business and who for the love of God would be a taxi driver?
What do you want first the bad news or the good news?
The good news?
Well, the good news is, the Mop’s gone and the bad news…?
Seems the whole affair was over run with hobbledehoys, footpads and cutpurses. Young men fought running battles on the streets and the streets ran with... that horrible sauce you get from McDonald’s. Actually it’s not funny, somebody could have got hurt. One slip on that sauce and you could break a leg easy.
Apparently (writes The Midweek), a gang of 70 young men (some as young as 14) had gathered for the kick-off at 11-30 when they were split up into warring factions ( Jets/Sharks? Montagues/ Capulets?) by 14 police officers. (Is there mystical meaning to these numbers? If there is I think we should be told).
Anyway…having apparently kicked the s*** out of each other the night before one can only wonder where these unruly rival gangs of youths get their energy from. Is it the drugs or just the sheer joy of being alive and young (and on drugs).
Insp Bailey (a policeman on the scene) said ‘I am a local officer and I take pride in my town. It causes me concern that at midnight there are still gangs of such young people on the streets’.
Well Insp it's extremely heartwarming to know that you take pride in your Town but actually if I were you I’d be a little more concerned about the gangs of older people who seem to be frequenting Stratford streets at midnight and later. Just take a wander up to Stratford’s Golden Mile (Greenhill Street) at chucking out time Saturday and you’ll see what I mean. Beirut, Belfast and Baghdad have got nothing on Stratford weekends. Getting home intact is a risky business and who for the love of God would be a taxi driver?
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
The Mop fair has gone and good old S-on-A has returned to some sort of ‘normality’ (I forgot to mention in my previous post that the fair is erected over Friday and er…dis-erected on the stroke of midnight Saturday. All gone by Sunday morning. Amazing). However it will be back in two weeks, thankfully a smaller version with less hot-dog stands and fewer goldfish in plastic bags. And this time known as the Runaway Mop.
History Lesson. Apparently, the main Mop fair was traditionally a time when farmers hired workers and the Runaway Mop a chance for those hired to legally ‘runaway’ from their employers. (I’m sorry if the above appears a bit sketchy but history was never my strong point, which will be proved by my next sentence concerning dates). All this happened…a long time ago.
I promise I shall do some more research (who said blogging was the new journalism?) and report with the facts at a later date, if you can stay awake that long.
Anyway…on the political front…Stratford never seems to have much luck with its Tory ( *Conservative) Members of Parliament (see Profumo & Keeler). Stratford’s present representative John Maples is in deep doo-doo for allegedly plotting his leader’s downfall (Ian Duncan Smith) and has been summoned by the powers that be to explain himself. Things could turn out nasty for The Stratford Herald’s ( I wish no other Herald-we know…we know) diarist. Already the Town’s buzzing with talk of a public execution opposite Tory Headquarters followed by the displaying of Mr Maples head on a spike outside Shakespeare’s Birthplace. All good fun but you can bet they’ll (The Shakespeare Trust) charge a hefty fee to watch the exciting spectacle.
Apart from that bit of political nonsense nothing much else seems to be happening. Stratford is slowly starting to doze in preparation for the long winter months and hibernation, although I did hear that the thespians down at the Jam Factory are holding their breath and stamping their feet, distressed, annoyed and near to fainting at the news that apparently none of the plays this season will be going up to the Smoke (London). This is bad news. Apart from the fact that there's nothing worse than an actor who can't get his/her own way, it means that the poor darlings won't be able to show off in front of their friends. I have no pity. The RSC only has itself to blame. It should never have given up its underground bunker at the Barbican.
* Stratford is and always will be a Tory town. The devil/Adolf Hitler/Jack the Ripper etc could stand for election, no matter, as long as they were Conservative they’d be voted in.
History Lesson. Apparently, the main Mop fair was traditionally a time when farmers hired workers and the Runaway Mop a chance for those hired to legally ‘runaway’ from their employers. (I’m sorry if the above appears a bit sketchy but history was never my strong point, which will be proved by my next sentence concerning dates). All this happened…a long time ago.
I promise I shall do some more research (who said blogging was the new journalism?) and report with the facts at a later date, if you can stay awake that long.
Anyway…on the political front…Stratford never seems to have much luck with its Tory ( *Conservative) Members of Parliament (see Profumo & Keeler). Stratford’s present representative John Maples is in deep doo-doo for allegedly plotting his leader’s downfall (Ian Duncan Smith) and has been summoned by the powers that be to explain himself. Things could turn out nasty for The Stratford Herald’s ( I wish no other Herald-we know…we know) diarist. Already the Town’s buzzing with talk of a public execution opposite Tory Headquarters followed by the displaying of Mr Maples head on a spike outside Shakespeare’s Birthplace. All good fun but you can bet they’ll (The Shakespeare Trust) charge a hefty fee to watch the exciting spectacle.
Apart from that bit of political nonsense nothing much else seems to be happening. Stratford is slowly starting to doze in preparation for the long winter months and hibernation, although I did hear that the thespians down at the Jam Factory are holding their breath and stamping their feet, distressed, annoyed and near to fainting at the news that apparently none of the plays this season will be going up to the Smoke (London). This is bad news. Apart from the fact that there's nothing worse than an actor who can't get his/her own way, it means that the poor darlings won't be able to show off in front of their friends. I have no pity. The RSC only has itself to blame. It should never have given up its underground bunker at the Barbican.
* Stratford is and always will be a Tory town. The devil/Adolf Hitler/Jack the Ripper etc could stand for election, no matter, as long as they were Conservative they’d be voted in.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Mop Day. (Twice a year extravaganza-Main Mop followed by the Runaway Mop 2 weeks later-Will explain Mop tradition some other time. For now all you need to know is that it’s a major money making exercise.)
Mop day in good old S-on-A. In case you don’t know, on this day the town centre is closed off to traffic (hurrah) and the streets taken over by a huge funfair (oh). I use the word ‘fun’ carefully as the only real enjoyment I get out of the occasion is seeing how much the prices have gone up compared to last year but then, I am a miserable bugger. To be honest, I’ve always found the coming of the Mop a sad moment in Stratford’s yearly cycle. It’s as though it marks the end of something, something that never quite happened.
The other interesting thing about the Mop is its technology. Every year the rides get more sophisticated. It’s amazing to think that a devilish mind somewhere has spent the past year poring over a drawing board thinking up more complicated and expensive ways to induce vomit.
The last time I went to the Mop the ride that was commanding all the attention was based on centrifugal force. The Stripper I think it was called. I remember it span so fast that after five minutes into the experience all the participants had lost their clothes and were stark naked. (Actually, none of that's true, I just made it up). However I am reminded of that wonderful episode of Father Ted (TV – did America get it?) the time when the fair came to Craggy Island. There was this spectacular ride consisting of nothing more than a crane lifting a park bench slowly up to about 30ft, before slowly lowering it down. That was it. Up and down. Slowly. Made me think.
I bet you any money if that ride appeared at the Mop tonight there’d be people willing to spend a fiver to have a go.
Mop day in good old S-on-A. In case you don’t know, on this day the town centre is closed off to traffic (hurrah) and the streets taken over by a huge funfair (oh). I use the word ‘fun’ carefully as the only real enjoyment I get out of the occasion is seeing how much the prices have gone up compared to last year but then, I am a miserable bugger. To be honest, I’ve always found the coming of the Mop a sad moment in Stratford’s yearly cycle. It’s as though it marks the end of something, something that never quite happened.
The other interesting thing about the Mop is its technology. Every year the rides get more sophisticated. It’s amazing to think that a devilish mind somewhere has spent the past year poring over a drawing board thinking up more complicated and expensive ways to induce vomit.
The last time I went to the Mop the ride that was commanding all the attention was based on centrifugal force. The Stripper I think it was called. I remember it span so fast that after five minutes into the experience all the participants had lost their clothes and were stark naked. (Actually, none of that's true, I just made it up). However I am reminded of that wonderful episode of Father Ted (TV – did America get it?) the time when the fair came to Craggy Island. There was this spectacular ride consisting of nothing more than a crane lifting a park bench slowly up to about 30ft, before slowly lowering it down. That was it. Up and down. Slowly. Made me think.
I bet you any money if that ride appeared at the Mop tonight there’d be people willing to spend a fiver to have a go.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Bring me the head of the Director of South Warwickshire Tourism…oh yes…and the Chairman’s too…and while you're at it a few District Councillor's?
Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear…seems hoteliers in the Holy Land (Shakespeare Country) are up in arms, crazy at the decision of South Warwickshire Tourism to close the Tourist Information Centre in Stratford for the winter. (A spokesperson for the Info Centre retorts: ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about. When else are we expected to hibernate? No more questions. I’ve got nuts to collect’)
The Stratford Upon Herald (I wish no other Herald, no other-shut up) repeats the Hotelier’s anguished cry that the Bard’s home has been demoted to a ‘a third rate tourist town’. So what’s new? (There you are then all you third-rate tourists, somebody loves you after all. You are very welcome in good old slowly going down the plug hole S-on-A).
Meanwhile back at the Director of South Warwickshire Tourism’s office Alex Holmes (for it is he) defends the decision by saying Stratford District Council has reduced funding by 39 Grand (is some of that my rates? Let me see…at a £1000 a throw for council tax…that’s 39 people’s council tax…withdrawn to go where…?) Anyway, the plot thickens…Mr Nic Walsh, the Chairman of South Warwickshire Tourism wades in with a mouthful of Shakespearian gobbledygook…’We looked very closely at the footfall at Stratford TIC the previous winter’. Er…yes. Right. Well Mr clever boots Mr Nic Walsh perhaps the footfall you should have been looking at whilst at the same time learning some valuable lessons, was the highly successful footfall at The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust where their Estates and Tourism manager has come up with some very exciting plans to ‘offset the loss of revenue from the downturn of tourism’. All hail to E & T manager of the year (at least in my book), at The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust the one, the only Mr…er…oh…Mr Nic Walsh…surely some mistake...unless...no...no it must be a coincidence...
Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,…
Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear…seems hoteliers in the Holy Land (Shakespeare Country) are up in arms, crazy at the decision of South Warwickshire Tourism to close the Tourist Information Centre in Stratford for the winter. (A spokesperson for the Info Centre retorts: ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about. When else are we expected to hibernate? No more questions. I’ve got nuts to collect’)
The Stratford Upon Herald (I wish no other Herald, no other-shut up) repeats the Hotelier’s anguished cry that the Bard’s home has been demoted to a ‘a third rate tourist town’. So what’s new? (There you are then all you third-rate tourists, somebody loves you after all. You are very welcome in good old slowly going down the plug hole S-on-A).
Meanwhile back at the Director of South Warwickshire Tourism’s office Alex Holmes (for it is he) defends the decision by saying Stratford District Council has reduced funding by 39 Grand (is some of that my rates? Let me see…at a £1000 a throw for council tax…that’s 39 people’s council tax…withdrawn to go where…?) Anyway, the plot thickens…Mr Nic Walsh, the Chairman of South Warwickshire Tourism wades in with a mouthful of Shakespearian gobbledygook…’We looked very closely at the footfall at Stratford TIC the previous winter’. Er…yes. Right. Well Mr clever boots Mr Nic Walsh perhaps the footfall you should have been looking at whilst at the same time learning some valuable lessons, was the highly successful footfall at The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust where their Estates and Tourism manager has come up with some very exciting plans to ‘offset the loss of revenue from the downturn of tourism’. All hail to E & T manager of the year (at least in my book), at The Shakespeare Birthplace Trust the one, the only Mr…er…oh…Mr Nic Walsh…surely some mistake...unless...no...no it must be a coincidence...
Half a league, half a league, half a league onward,…
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Somewhere to ponce about in
It’s been a month or two since I last wrote about Stratford’s ‘other theatre’.
So, just to remind you…
...there’s a very nice first floor building about a hundred yards from the RSC’S Jam Factory that’s been standing empty now for 3/4 years (maybe more…God doesn’t time pass when you're enjoying yourself). I remember how the building was well used in the daylight hours as a tourist-pulling waxworks (Elizabethan street scenes), then converted in a couple of hours to Stratford’s one and only cinema opening its doors when the darkness came and the children of the night roamed the poorly lit streets. It’s final transformation a few years ago was to be a restaurant (downstairs) and a very pleasant but rarely used theatre space upstairs. (Even though I once saw something quite boring performed there I can vouch enthusiastically for its effectiveness as a fantastic space for poncing about in). Anyway…to cut a long and sad story short, while the restaurant’s still in use the theatre space stands forever empty waiting for someone exceedingly rich to buy up its lease.
I have always supported the continued use of the space as theatrical and remember being horrified when some Stratford worthies wanted to put up the money to buy the long lease and transform the building upstairs into a milk bar (?) for Stratford’s calcium-starved young. That, thank God, does not appear to have come to pass, in fact, a week or two ago the sale of the lease came and went without any sign of the milk bar devils and no sign of anyone else either. As is the way of property for sale in good old S-on-A the asking price was way, way out of a normal mortal’s reach, so the space remains just that, a space. But wait, maybe all is not lost.
I was very pleased to see that a group representing Stratford Amateur (I hate that word) Theatre has got together to see what they can do. Power to their theatrical elbows although to be honest I can’t see them raising the two/three million that I believe is the asking price, so I have some advice, a bit of a long shot maybe but no matter, what have they got to lose.
Go, I say, go, cap in hand to see the rather wonderful Mr Felix Dennis (late of OZ magazine). He’s a local boy, is not short of a bob or two and I hear he’s very approachable. Just don't tell him I sent you.
So, just to remind you…
...there’s a very nice first floor building about a hundred yards from the RSC’S Jam Factory that’s been standing empty now for 3/4 years (maybe more…God doesn’t time pass when you're enjoying yourself). I remember how the building was well used in the daylight hours as a tourist-pulling waxworks (Elizabethan street scenes), then converted in a couple of hours to Stratford’s one and only cinema opening its doors when the darkness came and the children of the night roamed the poorly lit streets. It’s final transformation a few years ago was to be a restaurant (downstairs) and a very pleasant but rarely used theatre space upstairs. (Even though I once saw something quite boring performed there I can vouch enthusiastically for its effectiveness as a fantastic space for poncing about in). Anyway…to cut a long and sad story short, while the restaurant’s still in use the theatre space stands forever empty waiting for someone exceedingly rich to buy up its lease.
I have always supported the continued use of the space as theatrical and remember being horrified when some Stratford worthies wanted to put up the money to buy the long lease and transform the building upstairs into a milk bar (?) for Stratford’s calcium-starved young. That, thank God, does not appear to have come to pass, in fact, a week or two ago the sale of the lease came and went without any sign of the milk bar devils and no sign of anyone else either. As is the way of property for sale in good old S-on-A the asking price was way, way out of a normal mortal’s reach, so the space remains just that, a space. But wait, maybe all is not lost.
I was very pleased to see that a group representing Stratford Amateur (I hate that word) Theatre has got together to see what they can do. Power to their theatrical elbows although to be honest I can’t see them raising the two/three million that I believe is the asking price, so I have some advice, a bit of a long shot maybe but no matter, what have they got to lose.
Go, I say, go, cap in hand to see the rather wonderful Mr Felix Dennis (late of OZ magazine). He’s a local boy, is not short of a bob or two and I hear he’s very approachable. Just don't tell him I sent you.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
By my calculations this site should see its 1000th reader in the next few minutes.
I’ve been fantasising about what I would offer as a prize if I could afford it (which I can’t so don't get excited) and have finally decided that if this was the real world…
First Prize: (for 1000th visitor) A free day in Stratford.
Second Prize: (for 1001st visitor) Two free days in Stratford.
I’ve been fantasising about what I would offer as a prize if I could afford it (which I can’t so don't get excited) and have finally decided that if this was the real world…
First Prize: (for 1000th visitor) A free day in Stratford.
Second Prize: (for 1001st visitor) Two free days in Stratford.
Monday, January 29, 2007
What planet is this?
Sometimes, when there’s nothing better to do I look around this strange little Town that I call home, and wonder when the actual moment was when my life started to go downhill and pear-shaped. I mean, this place is weird. Weird with a capital W. This Town is so weird that it ought to be a sit-com. If there was an award for weirdness, you know the sort of thing, Gold, Silver and Bronze, then good old S-on-A (and surrounding areas) would win the lot, hands down, no problem, no doubt.
For example. Ask me to nominate for the Bronze and I’d have to point you in the direction of Michael Boyd, the Artistic Director of the Royal Shakespeare and his recent attempt to come over all Shaolin monk. Describing his plans for the ‘new’ RSC and how he will move the Company forward he said ‘…you cannot set foot in the same river twice...(Grasshopper)’. (So that's what reading too much Shakespeare does to you).
For Silver my nomination would have to be Top Cop of Warwickshire Chief Constable John ‘don't bother me, I'm busy’ Burbeck and the ‘sensitive’ way he advised the concerned people on his patch to tackle crime and disorder themselves by confronting the culprits with the devastating threat of a Citizen’s Arrest. Well done John, that’s put the fear of God into Warwickshire’s criminal fraternity without a doubt.
Gold is easy.
Outright winner, The Stratford Standard and their front page headline for today (Friday 3rd October)…FRESH SOUP WAS TWO WEEKS OLD.
For example. Ask me to nominate for the Bronze and I’d have to point you in the direction of Michael Boyd, the Artistic Director of the Royal Shakespeare and his recent attempt to come over all Shaolin monk. Describing his plans for the ‘new’ RSC and how he will move the Company forward he said ‘…you cannot set foot in the same river twice...(Grasshopper)’. (So that's what reading too much Shakespeare does to you).
For Silver my nomination would have to be Top Cop of Warwickshire Chief Constable John ‘don't bother me, I'm busy’ Burbeck and the ‘sensitive’ way he advised the concerned people on his patch to tackle crime and disorder themselves by confronting the culprits with the devastating threat of a Citizen’s Arrest. Well done John, that’s put the fear of God into Warwickshire’s criminal fraternity without a doubt.
Gold is easy.
Outright winner, The Stratford Standard and their front page headline for today (Friday 3rd October)…FRESH SOUP WAS TWO WEEKS OLD.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Not many people know this…
…but there are within these ancient confines a couple of rather mysterious organisations dedicated to the propagating of the Word, the Shakespearian word.
I refer of course to the dark workings of The Shakespeare Trust & The Shakespeare Institute. Let’s have a look at the ST first.
Perhaps the best way to describe the Trust’s work would be to compare it with another powerful organisation whose headquarters are situated in good old S-on-A, the rather scary and inexplicable teletubbies. Against all odds the TT’S, (a figment of someone’s fertile imagination remember), have become an institution, as real as the Royal Family, as well known and just as rich (richer probably) . The teletubbies shop on one of Stratford’s main streets has become a shrine for visiting pilgrims and the creatures themselves fixed in the imagination as though they really existed. The kid who doesn’t know who Po, La-La and the er...other one are, will not go very far in this world mark my words. The same with Bill and the Shakespeare Trust.
Also bought into being by someone with an eye for a fast buck the ST is there to keep it (the Shakespeare Industry) going by any means necessary. Running every aspect of Bill’s bits and pieces the Trust keeps a close eye on Bill’s family houses, Bill’s bric-a-brac and anything deeply personal that Bill might have left behind (supposedly) before he shuffled off this mortal coil. From indecipherable documents (Bill’s bills), the equipment with which he wrote (Bill’s quills-sorry) to a piece of dried Elizabethan bread (Bill’s meals-I have no excuse). It’s all there, refrigerated and germ-free, in, as they say…the archives.
Run by a lot of men in suits and pointy beards the ST has always intrigued and fascinated me. And that one nagging question that will not go away? How do they survive, these faceless employees? Seeing as Bill no longer receives royalties for the plays, poems, sit-coms and soaps wot he wrote, where on earth does such a top-heavy organisation like the ST get its money from? The headquarters of the ST is sumptuous, well-placed and large enough to cope with the numerous members of staff. So who pays their wages?
Unless…unless…unless of course they have a hidden factory somewhere turning out thousand upon thousands of porcelain busts (that’s busts as in plaster heads of Shakespeare not what you were thinking). Mmm…the mind boggles.
I refer of course to the dark workings of The Shakespeare Trust & The Shakespeare Institute. Let’s have a look at the ST first.
Perhaps the best way to describe the Trust’s work would be to compare it with another powerful organisation whose headquarters are situated in good old S-on-A, the rather scary and inexplicable teletubbies. Against all odds the TT’S, (a figment of someone’s fertile imagination remember), have become an institution, as real as the Royal Family, as well known and just as rich (richer probably) . The teletubbies shop on one of Stratford’s main streets has become a shrine for visiting pilgrims and the creatures themselves fixed in the imagination as though they really existed. The kid who doesn’t know who Po, La-La and the er...other one are, will not go very far in this world mark my words. The same with Bill and the Shakespeare Trust.
Also bought into being by someone with an eye for a fast buck the ST is there to keep it (the Shakespeare Industry) going by any means necessary. Running every aspect of Bill’s bits and pieces the Trust keeps a close eye on Bill’s family houses, Bill’s bric-a-brac and anything deeply personal that Bill might have left behind (supposedly) before he shuffled off this mortal coil. From indecipherable documents (Bill’s bills), the equipment with which he wrote (Bill’s quills-sorry) to a piece of dried Elizabethan bread (Bill’s meals-I have no excuse). It’s all there, refrigerated and germ-free, in, as they say…the archives.
Run by a lot of men in suits and pointy beards the ST has always intrigued and fascinated me. And that one nagging question that will not go away? How do they survive, these faceless employees? Seeing as Bill no longer receives royalties for the plays, poems, sit-coms and soaps wot he wrote, where on earth does such a top-heavy organisation like the ST get its money from? The headquarters of the ST is sumptuous, well-placed and large enough to cope with the numerous members of staff. So who pays their wages?
Unless…unless…unless of course they have a hidden factory somewhere turning out thousand upon thousands of porcelain busts (that’s busts as in plaster heads of Shakespeare not what you were thinking). Mmm…the mind boggles.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
The Italian Tomato Garden
An old Italian man lived alone in the country. He wanted to dig his tomato garden, but it was very hard work as the ground was hard. His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison.
The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament.
>
> Dear Vincent,
> I am feeling pretty bad because it looks like I won't be able
> to plant my tomato garden this year.
> I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot.
> If you were here my troubles would be over.
> I know you would dig the plot for me.
> Love Dad
>
> A few days later he received a letter from his son.
>
> Dear Dad,
> Not for nothing, but don't dig up that garden.
> That's where I buried the BODIES.
> Love Vinnie
>
> At 4 a.m. the next morning,
> FBI agents and local police arrived and dug
> up the entire area without finding any bodies.
> They apologized to the old man and left.
>
> That same day the old man received another letter from his son.
>
> Dear Dad,
> Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now.
> That's the best I could do under the circumstances.
> Love Vinnie
The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament.
>
> Dear Vincent,
> I am feeling pretty bad because it looks like I won't be able
> to plant my tomato garden this year.
> I'm just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot.
> If you were here my troubles would be over.
> I know you would dig the plot for me.
> Love Dad
>
> A few days later he received a letter from his son.
>
> Dear Dad,
> Not for nothing, but don't dig up that garden.
> That's where I buried the BODIES.
> Love Vinnie
>
> At 4 a.m. the next morning,
> FBI agents and local police arrived and dug
> up the entire area without finding any bodies.
> They apologized to the old man and left.
>
> That same day the old man received another letter from his son.
>
> Dear Dad,
> Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now.
> That's the best I could do under the circumstances.
> Love Vinnie
Making Cakes
A little girl and her mother were walking through the park one day when they saw two teenagers having sex on a bench. The little girl said, "Mommy, what are they doing?"
The mother hesitated, then quickly replied, "Um, they're making cakes."
The next day they were at a zoo and the little girl saw two monkeys having sex. Again she asked her mother, "What are they are doing?"
Her mother replied with the same response: "Making cakes."
The next day the girl said to her mother, "Mommy, you and Daddy were making cakes in the living room last night."
Shocked, the mother asked, "How do you know?"
She said, "Because I licked the icing off the sofa."
The mother hesitated, then quickly replied, "Um, they're making cakes."
The next day they were at a zoo and the little girl saw two monkeys having sex. Again she asked her mother, "What are they are doing?"
Her mother replied with the same response: "Making cakes."
The next day the girl said to her mother, "Mommy, you and Daddy were making cakes in the living room last night."
Shocked, the mother asked, "How do you know?"
She said, "Because I licked the icing off the sofa."
A Perfect Diet
I was buying a large bag of Purina at Wal-Mart and was in line to check out.
A woman behind me asked if I had a dog?
On impulse, I told her that no, and that I was starting Th Purina Diet again. Although I probably shouldn't because I'd ended up in the hospital last time, but that I'd lost 50 pounds before I awakened in an intensive care ward with tubes coming out of most of my orifices and IVs in both arms.
I told her that it was essentially a perfect diet and that the way that it works is to load your pants pockets with Purina nuggets and simply eat one or two every time you feel hungry and that the food is nutritionally complete so I was going to try it again.
I have to mention here that practically everyone in the line was by now enthralled with my story, particularly a tall, guy who was behind her.
Horrified, she asked if I ended up in intensive care because the dog food poisoned me.
I told her no; I'd been sitting in the street licking my balls and a car hit me.
I thought the tall guy was going to have to have help as he laughingly staggered to the door.
A woman behind me asked if I had a dog?
On impulse, I told her that no, and that I was starting Th Purina Diet again. Although I probably shouldn't because I'd ended up in the hospital last time, but that I'd lost 50 pounds before I awakened in an intensive care ward with tubes coming out of most of my orifices and IVs in both arms.
I told her that it was essentially a perfect diet and that the way that it works is to load your pants pockets with Purina nuggets and simply eat one or two every time you feel hungry and that the food is nutritionally complete so I was going to try it again.
I have to mention here that practically everyone in the line was by now enthralled with my story, particularly a tall, guy who was behind her.
Horrified, she asked if I ended up in intensive care because the dog food poisoned me.
I told her no; I'd been sitting in the street licking my balls and a car hit me.
I thought the tall guy was going to have to have help as he laughingly staggered to the door.
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