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 Let me see…at a £1000 a throw for council tax…that’s 39 people’s council tax…withdrawn to go where…?)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,…
Friday, February 09, 2007
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.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
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