Friday, August 29, 2003
This evening, before a crowd of people in “The Thinker’s Arms” – well, actually only two, but they were stout yeoman farmers – you know the type -Professor Barstow announced the death of literature. “Henceforth” he declaimed, “literature as we know it is dead. No-one really cares any more about characters, plot, setting. All they desire is entertainment. Literature is dead”.
“But, Professor” – the question came from the back of the room, “if literature is dead, shouldn’t you resign?”
This question was like an unexpected googly, when the professor was lining up to face a fast ball; he hesitated slightly, “Well” he began. The pause seemed to give him confidence, “The twenty first century marks the death of literature, but we are far from understanding or appreciating the literary canon of the previous twenty centuries.”
“So, shouldn’t we study archaeology, then?” the questioner persisted.
“Very funny” the Professor replied, disarming his questioner as if he imagined himself Alistair Campbell wrongfooting the BBC. “But the ideas and thoughts of the literature of the past still affect today’s culture. How we see ourselves is drawn from the nexus of our cultural experiences.”
“Oh, yeah” came a sarcastic drawl, “so how can a ‘Sun’ reader know himself”.
“Well, he just has more limited cultural horizons” replied the professor quickly, “but in our modern society, all cultural horizons are valid.” With a deadpan expression he continued, “who are we to judge the relative merits of Shakespeare and the ‘Sun’ ?. It might be argued that the ‘Sun’, the most read daily newspaper in Britain, reflects our culture with more honesty.”
“Yeah, especially page 3”, a sniggering voice announced.
“As I was saying” Professor Barstow continued, “I come to praise literature not to bury him. Literature died at the hands of lesser authors, who preferred to write genre fiction, and entertain, and sell books, rather than grapple with the real issues of the human condition. There are no more Shakespeares to reveal the men and women within.”
A well-educated voice replied, “But can’t even genre fiction deal with the realities of the inner life. For example, fantasy can provide a mythology that puts the spiritual plane into a way that we can relate to.”
“Nonsense” replied Barstow, “fantasy provides the comforting, and dare I say it, reactionary notion that ‘good’ will always overcome ‘evil’, just like detective fiction. Real life is more complicated than that. ‘Good’ and ‘evil’ often coexist together. ‘Good’ in one setting is ‘evil’ for someone else. Literature brought out these complications, which became more apparent as humanity advanced. That is why DH Lawrence was a better writer than Shakespeare because he did not shrink from our animality”.
“Animality’ said the sarcastic voice., “what kind of made up word is that”.
“It means behaving like animals” the Professor responded briskly, ‘which is what we humans are. We are brute beasts who can write and speak. That is all. Goodnight”.
“But, Professor” – the question came from the back of the room, “if literature is dead, shouldn’t you resign?”
This question was like an unexpected googly, when the professor was lining up to face a fast ball; he hesitated slightly, “Well” he began. The pause seemed to give him confidence, “The twenty first century marks the death of literature, but we are far from understanding or appreciating the literary canon of the previous twenty centuries.”
“So, shouldn’t we study archaeology, then?” the questioner persisted.
“Very funny” the Professor replied, disarming his questioner as if he imagined himself Alistair Campbell wrongfooting the BBC. “But the ideas and thoughts of the literature of the past still affect today’s culture. How we see ourselves is drawn from the nexus of our cultural experiences.”
“Oh, yeah” came a sarcastic drawl, “so how can a ‘Sun’ reader know himself”.
“Well, he just has more limited cultural horizons” replied the professor quickly, “but in our modern society, all cultural horizons are valid.” With a deadpan expression he continued, “who are we to judge the relative merits of Shakespeare and the ‘Sun’ ?. It might be argued that the ‘Sun’, the most read daily newspaper in Britain, reflects our culture with more honesty.”
“Yeah, especially page 3”, a sniggering voice announced.
“As I was saying” Professor Barstow continued, “I come to praise literature not to bury him. Literature died at the hands of lesser authors, who preferred to write genre fiction, and entertain, and sell books, rather than grapple with the real issues of the human condition. There are no more Shakespeares to reveal the men and women within.”
A well-educated voice replied, “But can’t even genre fiction deal with the realities of the inner life. For example, fantasy can provide a mythology that puts the spiritual plane into a way that we can relate to.”
“Nonsense” replied Barstow, “fantasy provides the comforting, and dare I say it, reactionary notion that ‘good’ will always overcome ‘evil’, just like detective fiction. Real life is more complicated than that. ‘Good’ and ‘evil’ often coexist together. ‘Good’ in one setting is ‘evil’ for someone else. Literature brought out these complications, which became more apparent as humanity advanced. That is why DH Lawrence was a better writer than Shakespeare because he did not shrink from our animality”.
“Animality’ said the sarcastic voice., “what kind of made up word is that”.
“It means behaving like animals” the Professor responded briskly, ‘which is what we humans are. We are brute beasts who can write and speak. That is all. Goodnight”.
Thursday, August 28, 2003
With the holidays and harvest in full swing, the conversation in “The Thinker’s Arms” has been very sparse lately. Until today that is when one of our regulars, Timothy Trentt, announced in a loud voice, “What’s the country coming to! A report I read today says the English are the rudest tourists in Europe. That can’t be true. I mean, I always get excellent service when I travel to Gstaad or St. Moritz; have to speak a bit loudly sometimes, but these foreigners don’t always pick up things the first time”.
While Trentt was pouring forth – some have cruelly suggested that he added the second “t” to his surname in order to distinguish himself from the river his verbiage so clearly resembles- a bold stranger piped up, “Well, you could always learn a few phrases of French, or German”
“Sorry, old chap” Trentt replied, holding his hand to his ear to make his deafness clear “didn’t hear what you said. Lost hearing in my right ear on the Normandy beaches, you know”. This is another bone of contention. Monty Longston, who was on the beaches on 6 June,. swears blindly that Major Trentt never went further towards Europe than the Grand Hotel in Brighton.
The young stranger spoke loudly and slowly with exaggerated care, “I-said-you- could-always-learn-a –few-phrases-of-French-or-German”
“What’s the point of that” replied Trentt, genuinely bemused, “everyone knows that all foreigners who serve tourists speak English. They’d be more offended if I mangled their language. Anyway, these languages are so ridiculous and long-worded, unlike the plain straightforwardness of English.”
“Even given that the roots of English are a blend of German, French and Latin” the stranger waspishly suggested.
But Trentt was no longer paying attention. He droned on, “and they say the English are so vulgar and uncultured. Well, I suppose the lower orders are, but who cares about them anyway? How many foreigners would know what “timeo Danaos et dona ferentes” means ?”
“What does it mean?” Professor Smythe, a lecturer in classics, replied.
‘Who guards the guardians, of course’ Trentt eagerly replied, a schoolboy keen to please, ‘the benefits of an Eton education, you know”.
Professor Smythe beamed broadly as Trentt fell into his elephant trap. “Actually that was ‘quis custodiet ipsos custodes ?’ Juvenal’s ‘Satires’ you know. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’ is ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts’ and is from the ‘Aeneid’”.
Trentt was discomfitted now, “Well, what does that matter, anyway? The point is that whenever I spend my summers in Provence or Tuscany, the locals are so pleased to see me. “ ‘Monsieur Trentt,’ they say, ‘you must come and sample the ‘Chateau du Ronnec’, ’39 vintage. I know you are a true “connoisseur du vin’ and this is a rare vintage indeed’. Not that there are too many locals in the village –unless you count the Shepherds from Devizes and the Wiltons from Cirencester.’”
“They’re probably too sensible to hang around a crowd of rich braying drunk upper class snobs” said the young stranger with contempt. He placed his glass on the table with deliberate loudness, and left, accompanied by a shocked silence.
“How rude” said Trentt loudly, and with the crowd around he bemoaned the descent into yobbishness of the lesser breeds.
While Trentt was pouring forth – some have cruelly suggested that he added the second “t” to his surname in order to distinguish himself from the river his verbiage so clearly resembles- a bold stranger piped up, “Well, you could always learn a few phrases of French, or German”
“Sorry, old chap” Trentt replied, holding his hand to his ear to make his deafness clear “didn’t hear what you said. Lost hearing in my right ear on the Normandy beaches, you know”. This is another bone of contention. Monty Longston, who was on the beaches on 6 June,. swears blindly that Major Trentt never went further towards Europe than the Grand Hotel in Brighton.
The young stranger spoke loudly and slowly with exaggerated care, “I-said-you- could-always-learn-a –few-phrases-of-French-or-German”
“What’s the point of that” replied Trentt, genuinely bemused, “everyone knows that all foreigners who serve tourists speak English. They’d be more offended if I mangled their language. Anyway, these languages are so ridiculous and long-worded, unlike the plain straightforwardness of English.”
“Even given that the roots of English are a blend of German, French and Latin” the stranger waspishly suggested.
But Trentt was no longer paying attention. He droned on, “and they say the English are so vulgar and uncultured. Well, I suppose the lower orders are, but who cares about them anyway? How many foreigners would know what “timeo Danaos et dona ferentes” means ?”
“What does it mean?” Professor Smythe, a lecturer in classics, replied.
‘Who guards the guardians, of course’ Trentt eagerly replied, a schoolboy keen to please, ‘the benefits of an Eton education, you know”.
Professor Smythe beamed broadly as Trentt fell into his elephant trap. “Actually that was ‘quis custodiet ipsos custodes ?’ Juvenal’s ‘Satires’ you know. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’ is ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts’ and is from the ‘Aeneid’”.
Trentt was discomfitted now, “Well, what does that matter, anyway? The point is that whenever I spend my summers in Provence or Tuscany, the locals are so pleased to see me. “ ‘Monsieur Trentt,’ they say, ‘you must come and sample the ‘Chateau du Ronnec’, ’39 vintage. I know you are a true “connoisseur du vin’ and this is a rare vintage indeed’. Not that there are too many locals in the village –unless you count the Shepherds from Devizes and the Wiltons from Cirencester.’”
“They’re probably too sensible to hang around a crowd of rich braying drunk upper class snobs” said the young stranger with contempt. He placed his glass on the table with deliberate loudness, and left, accompanied by a shocked silence.
“How rude” said Trentt loudly, and with the crowd around he bemoaned the descent into yobbishness of the lesser breeds.
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Apparently, there was a Bank Holiday earlier this week. Here in Upney St. Mary, though, we don’t set much store by these national holidays. Our breaks reflect the natural progressions of the year, so with a harvest to gather in, our farmers will not want to take any breaks. September is coming soon, so they will want to have the wheat in barns, before the weather breaks down.
It is only recently that the village altered its clocks to fit in with the rest of the country. In most other places, the coming of the railway required each station to harmonise its time with the other stations on the line to ensure punctuality. But the railway never reached here, and so the village always took its cue from the church clock. The previous vicar, in a display of independent bloody mindedness – typical of the man, so I’m told – set the clock ten minutes fast. This was popular with the parishioners because it meant the service finished ten minutes early, giving them plenty of time to natter before ambling to “The Thinker’s Arms” for a leisurely pint.
However, the sad march of progress has finally turned up here. Last 11 November, the local British Legion were joined by a group from Oxcaster for the two minutes silence. Since the time of commemoration was set by the church clock, the silence began and ended well before the official time. All would have been well if one member of the Oxcaster delegation, had not happened to be watching TV just after the commemoration. To his horror, he heard that the “two minute silence” was beginning. He passed on this information to the national president of the Royal British Legion, who wrote a snotty letter to the vicar, demanding that he explain this insult to the war dead. The tone of the letter was so venomous, that it took six cups of strong tea for the vicar to recover.
So, in order to expiate the village’s shame the vicar made the ultimate sacrifice and had the clock set to the correct nationwide time. One small part of individuality is crushed by an iron wheel. Just don’t expect the farmers to celebrate.
It is only recently that the village altered its clocks to fit in with the rest of the country. In most other places, the coming of the railway required each station to harmonise its time with the other stations on the line to ensure punctuality. But the railway never reached here, and so the village always took its cue from the church clock. The previous vicar, in a display of independent bloody mindedness – typical of the man, so I’m told – set the clock ten minutes fast. This was popular with the parishioners because it meant the service finished ten minutes early, giving them plenty of time to natter before ambling to “The Thinker’s Arms” for a leisurely pint.
However, the sad march of progress has finally turned up here. Last 11 November, the local British Legion were joined by a group from Oxcaster for the two minutes silence. Since the time of commemoration was set by the church clock, the silence began and ended well before the official time. All would have been well if one member of the Oxcaster delegation, had not happened to be watching TV just after the commemoration. To his horror, he heard that the “two minute silence” was beginning. He passed on this information to the national president of the Royal British Legion, who wrote a snotty letter to the vicar, demanding that he explain this insult to the war dead. The tone of the letter was so venomous, that it took six cups of strong tea for the vicar to recover.
So, in order to expiate the village’s shame the vicar made the ultimate sacrifice and had the clock set to the correct nationwide time. One small part of individuality is crushed by an iron wheel. Just don’t expect the farmers to celebrate.
Sunday, August 24, 2003
After the Patron’s Day service, “The Thinker’s Arms” is crowded, as the villagers celebrate the munificent generosity of the Scrimley family in the time-honoured English tradition of downing a pint before going home to their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and an afternoon spent in the garden. Although not at the service myself, (being a pub landlord has its advantages), I can get a flavour of it from the conversation.
“Vicar did well today” said Toby Chelkinghorn, “preached a good sermon on how we should be grateful to the Scrimley family for their many generations of service to our village, and to England. He reminded us that in times of peace the Scrimley’s have lavished their attention on the village, and in times of war they have served England and the Empire loyally. God has blessed us and our nation with such loyal and devoted servants, and they remind us of our duties – to serve and honour those whom He hath placed in high esteem’.
Was I the only one who heard the muttered voice – “served their country. Hah! from a safe distance, perhaps”. I wondered again about Uriah Dempster. He had left the village because his questioning of the devotion paid to the Scrimley’s had outraged the tenant farmers. Maybe, though, his spirit was still at work, unsettling the ancient bonds of loyalty on which this village has rested for a thousand years.
“It saddens me, though” Chelkinghorn continued, “that there are those who would tear up that loyalty. What kind of country would it be without great families to lead us?”
“America” said a loud voice with withering contempt, “they believe that everyone is equal there. Of course they say it, but they don’t really believe it. No black kid from an inner city school is going to become their President. No, our ways are better. We know our place, know that we are meant to serve, and leave the ruling to those whose birthright it is to rule. Question anything and the whole structure is brought down”.
“Mere anarchy is loosed on the world” said another doleful voice. “Better the Scrimley’s than that.”
“Anarchy is better than deference” a young, cultured voice remarked. A youth in jeans and T-shirt, clutching an electric guitar by the neck, had just entered the bar. His clothes were ragged, and he wore dirty flip-flops. The crowd looked at him in amazement, for this was Josiah Scrimley, youngest son of the family. He was just eighteen.
“Well, if you say so, young Scrimley” an old man at the bar replied in a quavering voice, “but such words could haunt you.”
“I know my family, though” Josiah replied with a sarcastic laugh, “they’ve bought you all with their displays of public generosity, whilst they manage their estate with an iron grip. How many tenant farmers were evicted because they failed to pay their rent on time?”
“If any were, it is because they were idle and lazy” replied Ranulf Digby, “they wasted their lives on drink and debauchery.”
“Last week, young widow Perkins and her baby son had to leave their cottage, because my mother wanted that land for an extension to the flower garden” Josiah replied. “I didn’t see her drinking or smoking pot”.
“Well, her ladyship knows best young man” Chelkinghorn replied and in a placating tone he continued, “as I’m sure you’ll find out one day”
“I don’t think so” said Josiah, “because I’m leaving England and never coming back.”
A car had pulled up outside. Josiah swung the door open and we saw him jump in. The driver revved the engine. We heard the car’s roar fade in the distance.
“Vicar did well today” said Toby Chelkinghorn, “preached a good sermon on how we should be grateful to the Scrimley family for their many generations of service to our village, and to England. He reminded us that in times of peace the Scrimley’s have lavished their attention on the village, and in times of war they have served England and the Empire loyally. God has blessed us and our nation with such loyal and devoted servants, and they remind us of our duties – to serve and honour those whom He hath placed in high esteem’.
Was I the only one who heard the muttered voice – “served their country. Hah! from a safe distance, perhaps”. I wondered again about Uriah Dempster. He had left the village because his questioning of the devotion paid to the Scrimley’s had outraged the tenant farmers. Maybe, though, his spirit was still at work, unsettling the ancient bonds of loyalty on which this village has rested for a thousand years.
“It saddens me, though” Chelkinghorn continued, “that there are those who would tear up that loyalty. What kind of country would it be without great families to lead us?”
“America” said a loud voice with withering contempt, “they believe that everyone is equal there. Of course they say it, but they don’t really believe it. No black kid from an inner city school is going to become their President. No, our ways are better. We know our place, know that we are meant to serve, and leave the ruling to those whose birthright it is to rule. Question anything and the whole structure is brought down”.
“Mere anarchy is loosed on the world” said another doleful voice. “Better the Scrimley’s than that.”
“Anarchy is better than deference” a young, cultured voice remarked. A youth in jeans and T-shirt, clutching an electric guitar by the neck, had just entered the bar. His clothes were ragged, and he wore dirty flip-flops. The crowd looked at him in amazement, for this was Josiah Scrimley, youngest son of the family. He was just eighteen.
“Well, if you say so, young Scrimley” an old man at the bar replied in a quavering voice, “but such words could haunt you.”
“I know my family, though” Josiah replied with a sarcastic laugh, “they’ve bought you all with their displays of public generosity, whilst they manage their estate with an iron grip. How many tenant farmers were evicted because they failed to pay their rent on time?”
“If any were, it is because they were idle and lazy” replied Ranulf Digby, “they wasted their lives on drink and debauchery.”
“Last week, young widow Perkins and her baby son had to leave their cottage, because my mother wanted that land for an extension to the flower garden” Josiah replied. “I didn’t see her drinking or smoking pot”.
“Well, her ladyship knows best young man” Chelkinghorn replied and in a placating tone he continued, “as I’m sure you’ll find out one day”
“I don’t think so” said Josiah, “because I’m leaving England and never coming back.”
A car had pulled up outside. Josiah swung the door open and we saw him jump in. The driver revved the engine. We heard the car’s roar fade in the distance.
Saturday, August 23, 2003
Upney St. Mary had its annual church fete and flower show today. This is a hallowed and time-honoured tradition that dates back at least…twenty years. Lady Scrimley inaugurated the tradition, with the then vicar’s help, in order to benefit the church roof fund. The church roof was repaired on several occasions, but the proceeds from the fete and flower show all go to this fund. Mediaeval roofs must need ongoing restoration….strange how this one has lasted for about one thousand years.
The fete follows a strictly traditional format. It is heralded by a procession of steam traction engines, and farmers in carts pulled by heavy horses. The horses are groomed until they shine and have gleaming golden horse brasses. They process up to the grounds of Scrimley Hall where the fete is held. Lady Scrimley opens the fete, and then distributes to all of the children under thirteen the “Scrimley dole” – a golden guinea and an orange. The fete has traditional steam-powered fairground rides, as well as coconut shies, rolling old pennies down a slide, and goldfish in plastic bags for prizes. Cream teas are served, with scones homebaked at Scrimley Hall.
After everyone has enjoyed the pleasures of the fair – which they do every year, because the weather is always hot and sunny – the climax is the award of prizes for the flower show. By custom, prizes for the biggest vegetables always go to the men of the village. As they receive them, they tug their forelocks in deference to her ladyship. The final prize is the prize for the most beautiful rose. It is an unspoken rule in the village that only Lady Scrimley can enter this competition, and of course only she can win. This year she did, and made the same acceptance speech as every year before.
“The Thinker’s Arms” has never played much part in the fete. Our one contribution is the trial of strength stall, where each contestant has to strike a pin with a sledgehammer. When the pin is struck, it releases a block which rises up a measuring pole. The one who gets the block highest wins the prize – a year’s worth of pints of Old Sharpleton. This year, Malcolm Corbett won, but no one got the block high enough to strike the bell. That was only done once – by Roland Bell in the contest’s first year (he vanished soon after – rumour had it that he had sold his soul to the devil in return for his prodigious strength, and that he was seen with a black hound at the nearby crossroads; others said he was found sleeping in a ditch drunk, and vanished to avoid his wife’s rolling pin).
Tomorrow, will be the Patron’s Day Service at St.Verna’s. The service thanks God for the bounteous generosity of the Scrimley family. The vicar is expected to preach an oleaginous sermon full of praise for the Scrimley virtues, and reminding everyone how good it is to know your place and stay in it.
After the fete, many of the village’s men, along with the farmers, come down to “The Thinker’s Arms” to flee their wives and children. Drink loosens them up; this year was no exception; Uriah Dempster, a farmer’s son, blurted out, “This fete is all fake. It is completely bogus. Scrimley just puts it on to make her look good. Why should she get all this praise?”
There was the stillness before the storm as he finished. Tension hung like a thick curtain over the room. “What foolishness did you say, Dempster,” a ruddy faced man growled, “How dare you speak thus of her Ladyship!”
Other voices joined the chorus of disapproval. Faces laced with beer grew redder than tomatoes. The scene was like a Bateman cartoon.
Dempster, though was unabashed. “You feudal addle-brained peasants! She owns you, body and soul! Don’t you want to be your own people for a change, rather than enriching her ladyships’s coffers”.
Anger succeeded tension. Beer glasses were placed down. A loud voice said, “Leave now, traitor boy, or we’ll string you from the oak tree.”
I had to act. I moved from behind the bar, and confronted the crowd, who were moving like a giant wall, towards Dempster. “No-one is going to touch him” I said, even though I thought the anger and drink might be too potent a force for anyone to stand against.
“Out of our way, landlord” cried one voice, “This young whelp needs a sound thrashing”. As an illustration of their intent, some of the crowd brandished riding whips.
“No” I said. “Are you in league with the boy, then ?” one very drunk voice cried. The others in the crowd silenced him. “Don’t be silly, Bob. Ted is a loyal villager”. The other was not convinced, “Then how come for the last twenty years I’ve never seen him at the Patron’s Day Service.” “Well, that’s obvious” said another, “who else would serve us our Sunday pints after church”. “Oh I hadn’t thought of that” the first voice subsided.
I turned and whispered to Uriah, “Leave now”. I hoped he would slip out the door but mistook his passion. He yelled, “I am leaving, and I am shaking the dust of this slave village off my feet. You can stay in this prison but I – I choose freedom”.
Then he left, slamming the door quickly. A few seconds later, I heard the beat of hooves on the road. I got up from the floor; I had dived under a table to avoid a trampling as the furious crowd surged out. Later, I learned that Uriah had vanished and was never seen again in the village.
The fete follows a strictly traditional format. It is heralded by a procession of steam traction engines, and farmers in carts pulled by heavy horses. The horses are groomed until they shine and have gleaming golden horse brasses. They process up to the grounds of Scrimley Hall where the fete is held. Lady Scrimley opens the fete, and then distributes to all of the children under thirteen the “Scrimley dole” – a golden guinea and an orange. The fete has traditional steam-powered fairground rides, as well as coconut shies, rolling old pennies down a slide, and goldfish in plastic bags for prizes. Cream teas are served, with scones homebaked at Scrimley Hall.
After everyone has enjoyed the pleasures of the fair – which they do every year, because the weather is always hot and sunny – the climax is the award of prizes for the flower show. By custom, prizes for the biggest vegetables always go to the men of the village. As they receive them, they tug their forelocks in deference to her ladyship. The final prize is the prize for the most beautiful rose. It is an unspoken rule in the village that only Lady Scrimley can enter this competition, and of course only she can win. This year she did, and made the same acceptance speech as every year before.
“The Thinker’s Arms” has never played much part in the fete. Our one contribution is the trial of strength stall, where each contestant has to strike a pin with a sledgehammer. When the pin is struck, it releases a block which rises up a measuring pole. The one who gets the block highest wins the prize – a year’s worth of pints of Old Sharpleton. This year, Malcolm Corbett won, but no one got the block high enough to strike the bell. That was only done once – by Roland Bell in the contest’s first year (he vanished soon after – rumour had it that he had sold his soul to the devil in return for his prodigious strength, and that he was seen with a black hound at the nearby crossroads; others said he was found sleeping in a ditch drunk, and vanished to avoid his wife’s rolling pin).
Tomorrow, will be the Patron’s Day Service at St.Verna’s. The service thanks God for the bounteous generosity of the Scrimley family. The vicar is expected to preach an oleaginous sermon full of praise for the Scrimley virtues, and reminding everyone how good it is to know your place and stay in it.
After the fete, many of the village’s men, along with the farmers, come down to “The Thinker’s Arms” to flee their wives and children. Drink loosens them up; this year was no exception; Uriah Dempster, a farmer’s son, blurted out, “This fete is all fake. It is completely bogus. Scrimley just puts it on to make her look good. Why should she get all this praise?”
There was the stillness before the storm as he finished. Tension hung like a thick curtain over the room. “What foolishness did you say, Dempster,” a ruddy faced man growled, “How dare you speak thus of her Ladyship!”
Other voices joined the chorus of disapproval. Faces laced with beer grew redder than tomatoes. The scene was like a Bateman cartoon.
Dempster, though was unabashed. “You feudal addle-brained peasants! She owns you, body and soul! Don’t you want to be your own people for a change, rather than enriching her ladyships’s coffers”.
Anger succeeded tension. Beer glasses were placed down. A loud voice said, “Leave now, traitor boy, or we’ll string you from the oak tree.”
I had to act. I moved from behind the bar, and confronted the crowd, who were moving like a giant wall, towards Dempster. “No-one is going to touch him” I said, even though I thought the anger and drink might be too potent a force for anyone to stand against.
“Out of our way, landlord” cried one voice, “This young whelp needs a sound thrashing”. As an illustration of their intent, some of the crowd brandished riding whips.
“No” I said. “Are you in league with the boy, then ?” one very drunk voice cried. The others in the crowd silenced him. “Don’t be silly, Bob. Ted is a loyal villager”. The other was not convinced, “Then how come for the last twenty years I’ve never seen him at the Patron’s Day Service.” “Well, that’s obvious” said another, “who else would serve us our Sunday pints after church”. “Oh I hadn’t thought of that” the first voice subsided.
I turned and whispered to Uriah, “Leave now”. I hoped he would slip out the door but mistook his passion. He yelled, “I am leaving, and I am shaking the dust of this slave village off my feet. You can stay in this prison but I – I choose freedom”.
Then he left, slamming the door quickly. A few seconds later, I heard the beat of hooves on the road. I got up from the floor; I had dived under a table to avoid a trampling as the furious crowd surged out. Later, I learned that Uriah had vanished and was never seen again in the village.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
There was an intriguing article in the “Upney St. Mary Bugle”, our local paper. Apparently, old Jack Adams who farms up on the Westcaster Road, looked out over his wheatfield two nights ago. He says he saw the wheat flatten as if a gale was roaring through, but it was hot,. humid and still. As he looked, the thought was implanted, “If you build it, they will win.” He went to bed, and the next morning went out to see his field was exactly as he had left it. Two days later, he looked out of the same window at night, and saw, emerging from the wheat a tall full bearded man, dressed in cricketing whites, and carrying an old fashioned doctor’s bag in one hand and a cricket bat in the other. Now Jack is a living almanac of cricketing lore, and he knew that the man taking his stance at an imaginary crease was none other than W.G Grace. As he looked, he saw another figure appear from the wheat; a tall lean man also dressed in whites, and holding a ball; with a shock he realised it was Ray Lindwall, the Australian fast bowler of the 50’s. Lindwall bowled to Grace, who smote a towering return over cover point. Surely that must have been a six; in his head Jack swears he heard the ripple of applause. The next ball Grace faced, he snicked a quick single. Jack was so engrossed – he swears – that he hadn’t seen that the remainder of the Australians had entered the field. Grace ran and the batsman who replaced him was Denis Compton. He now faced Lindwall and drove a sweet drive past silly point for four. Jack stayed up most of the night – he’s a widower and farms alone- until his eyes nodded shut. When he awoke. He went to the field. It was completely untouched. Not a stalk of wheat was damaged –yet he was sure that he heard a voice announcing “This is the Timeless Test”.
At the weekend his son came to visit. When his father told him of his experiences, he pooh-poohed the whole idea. “You’re getting senile, old man. I should have Dr. Struthers check you out”. But Jack was insistent, and suddenly his son, who is a bit of a local entrepreneur, suddenly got a gleam in his eye. “Dad” he said, “you’ve hit the goldmine.” His father looked at him perplexed. “Why don’t we tell people your story” his son continued , “and set aside a portion of the wheatfield for people to come and watch imaginary cricket matches?” “But who will come ?”. “Cricket fans desperate to relive an era where England could actually compete with and beat the best teams in the world.” His father wagged his head sceptically. But Jack had left the harbour now. His visionary sails aloft he ploughed on. “Corn circles are passe; we aren’t allowed to plant this field under EU rules; so why don’t we sell this story – we’ll make more than we will from farming”. So Jack called Don Quoitt, the editor of the “Bugle” and he sent his newest trainee reporter, Gillian Haverest, to get Jack’s story – they paid for the privilege.
“So old Jack’s going to come into some money at last” remarked Peregrine Fincham, “I’m pleased for him”. There was a general round of approval, tinged with a sense of ‘I wish I’d thought of that one’. “Well, he’d better buy us all a round then” added Monty Norcross genially. Jack was popular, and respected for his hard work and frugality.
It was then that I noticed the tall stranger in a dark suit, standing at the back of the saloon.
He was holding a copy of the “Bugle” in his hand, and had a faint smile. “Will you tell them, or will I ?” he said.
“Tread softly, for you tread on their dreams” I replied.
“Listen up, gentlemen” the man in the suit said. I noticed for the first time that his accent was a soft American accent, “I’m sorry, but you’re too late. This has already happened in America”. There was distinct rustling of disapproval, like the increasing wind before a gale, turned in the smart man’s direction. I distinctly heard a huffy voice say “What’s that blithering fool talking about. Americans don’t know anything about cricket”.
“Yes” the man in the suit softly replied, “but we do know about baseball. In the state of Iowa there is a field outside Dyersville, where people come to watch imaginary baseball games. It was inspired by the movie ‘Field of Dreams’ in which Kevin Costner sees baseball players emerging at night and playing ball. So, I’m sorry, but you are too late”.
No-one saw him leave, but when I looked up he had gone. ‘Another reality check in the way of good fiction’ I thought as I polished some beer glasses.
At the weekend his son came to visit. When his father told him of his experiences, he pooh-poohed the whole idea. “You’re getting senile, old man. I should have Dr. Struthers check you out”. But Jack was insistent, and suddenly his son, who is a bit of a local entrepreneur, suddenly got a gleam in his eye. “Dad” he said, “you’ve hit the goldmine.” His father looked at him perplexed. “Why don’t we tell people your story” his son continued , “and set aside a portion of the wheatfield for people to come and watch imaginary cricket matches?” “But who will come ?”. “Cricket fans desperate to relive an era where England could actually compete with and beat the best teams in the world.” His father wagged his head sceptically. But Jack had left the harbour now. His visionary sails aloft he ploughed on. “Corn circles are passe; we aren’t allowed to plant this field under EU rules; so why don’t we sell this story – we’ll make more than we will from farming”. So Jack called Don Quoitt, the editor of the “Bugle” and he sent his newest trainee reporter, Gillian Haverest, to get Jack’s story – they paid for the privilege.
“So old Jack’s going to come into some money at last” remarked Peregrine Fincham, “I’m pleased for him”. There was a general round of approval, tinged with a sense of ‘I wish I’d thought of that one’. “Well, he’d better buy us all a round then” added Monty Norcross genially. Jack was popular, and respected for his hard work and frugality.
It was then that I noticed the tall stranger in a dark suit, standing at the back of the saloon.
He was holding a copy of the “Bugle” in his hand, and had a faint smile. “Will you tell them, or will I ?” he said.
“Tread softly, for you tread on their dreams” I replied.
“Listen up, gentlemen” the man in the suit said. I noticed for the first time that his accent was a soft American accent, “I’m sorry, but you’re too late. This has already happened in America”. There was distinct rustling of disapproval, like the increasing wind before a gale, turned in the smart man’s direction. I distinctly heard a huffy voice say “What’s that blithering fool talking about. Americans don’t know anything about cricket”.
“Yes” the man in the suit softly replied, “but we do know about baseball. In the state of Iowa there is a field outside Dyersville, where people come to watch imaginary baseball games. It was inspired by the movie ‘Field of Dreams’ in which Kevin Costner sees baseball players emerging at night and playing ball. So, I’m sorry, but you are too late”.
No-one saw him leave, but when I looked up he had gone. ‘Another reality check in the way of good fiction’ I thought as I polished some beer glasses.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Monday 18 August
The end of civilisation is on us. Apparently, in one of the London newspapers there was a headline in bold “The Death of Seriousness”. The gist of the article was that an opinion poll of 2,000 randomly chosen Brits were asked to rate 5 recent news stories in order of importance. The stories were as follows: the death of David Kelly and the Hutton Enquiry; the continuing instability in Iraq; Prince William’s 21st birthday; the European heatwave; the transfer of David Beckham to Real Madrid. The results showed that 55% of respondents regarded David Beckham’s move as the most newsworthy story, followed by 30% in favour of Prince William’s birthday party. Only 2% regarded Lord Justice Hutton as worth paying any attention to, and Iraq elicited only a 5% interest rating.
“This is scandalous” remarked Professor Williams, a lecturer in Middle Eastern history, as he contemplated a pint of Old Sharpleton, “soon no-one will care about anything, except eating, sleeping and being entertained. Humanity is descending into an animal-like pit”.
“Cheer up, Professor” said Isaac Dimmer, one of his PhD students, who had popped in at lunchtime to “The Thinker’s Arms”. “Every generation is convinced that the next one is betraying its inheritance. Wasn’t it Plato who complained about the lack of learning of the students of his day?”
“Yes, I know” replied the Professor wearily, “but when even the broadsheets splash speculation of David Beckham’s future whereabouts across their front pages, what hope is there?”
At this moment, Nathaniel O’ Kelly, a local salesman came in cheerily, “Landlord” he smiled broadly, “I can give you a special deal on big screen TV’s right now. You can liven this place up”. He looked around at the bare wooden floors, and the mostly empty tables – it was early afternoon, so the farmers were still in their fields. To Nat this must have represented a selling opportunity beyond price. Nat, you see was one of those unfortunates who generally latched on to selling a product several years after it was trendy or fashionable. As late as 1986, he was trying to persuade a sceptical public in the village that a Sinclair C5 would be a sound investment.
“Sorry, Nat” I replied, “ ‘The Thinker’s Arms’ has no need of big screen TV’s. We do very well by just being open and providing a place for people to engage in serious discussion. That’s a bit of niche marketing for you.” Nat turned away in disappointment, “Don’t be too disheartened. Here, have a pint. That will cheer you up.”
Isaac Dimmer now had the floor, while Professor Williams puffed his pipe disconsolately. “Don’t worry, Professor. If ordinary people are diverted by the Royal family or football it means that we intellectuals can get on with running the country, like we always have.”
“But Dimmer”, the Professor replied, “don’t you see that the whole point of education is that you diffuse that knowledge so everyone can benefit”.
“Don’t be so old fashioned, Professor” Isaac replied in a tone of gentle mockery, “Education, like everything else belongs in the marketplace, and better that we profit than some unwashed, beer-swilling oaf”.
At that point, a large meaty fist smashed down on the table between the Professor’s and Dimmer’s pints. “Are you calling me unwashed and stupid ?” said a voice with a thick rural accent, “Because oi don’t appreciate it”.
Dimmer, a thin pasty looking man, looked up in fright, to see Giles Farbelow staring down at him. Giles is the archetype of the local farmer to look at, but in his spare time he contributes articles to a net journal on the thought of Soren Kierkegaard.
“No” said Isaac stuttering “N-no offence meant”. He gulped his pint down and left hurriedly.
Giles sat in the vacated Isaac’s chair, “Well, Professor” he said, “and how is the international symposium on mediaeval Arabic thought progressing ?”
The end of civilisation is on us. Apparently, in one of the London newspapers there was a headline in bold “The Death of Seriousness”. The gist of the article was that an opinion poll of 2,000 randomly chosen Brits were asked to rate 5 recent news stories in order of importance. The stories were as follows: the death of David Kelly and the Hutton Enquiry; the continuing instability in Iraq; Prince William’s 21st birthday; the European heatwave; the transfer of David Beckham to Real Madrid. The results showed that 55% of respondents regarded David Beckham’s move as the most newsworthy story, followed by 30% in favour of Prince William’s birthday party. Only 2% regarded Lord Justice Hutton as worth paying any attention to, and Iraq elicited only a 5% interest rating.
“This is scandalous” remarked Professor Williams, a lecturer in Middle Eastern history, as he contemplated a pint of Old Sharpleton, “soon no-one will care about anything, except eating, sleeping and being entertained. Humanity is descending into an animal-like pit”.
“Cheer up, Professor” said Isaac Dimmer, one of his PhD students, who had popped in at lunchtime to “The Thinker’s Arms”. “Every generation is convinced that the next one is betraying its inheritance. Wasn’t it Plato who complained about the lack of learning of the students of his day?”
“Yes, I know” replied the Professor wearily, “but when even the broadsheets splash speculation of David Beckham’s future whereabouts across their front pages, what hope is there?”
At this moment, Nathaniel O’ Kelly, a local salesman came in cheerily, “Landlord” he smiled broadly, “I can give you a special deal on big screen TV’s right now. You can liven this place up”. He looked around at the bare wooden floors, and the mostly empty tables – it was early afternoon, so the farmers were still in their fields. To Nat this must have represented a selling opportunity beyond price. Nat, you see was one of those unfortunates who generally latched on to selling a product several years after it was trendy or fashionable. As late as 1986, he was trying to persuade a sceptical public in the village that a Sinclair C5 would be a sound investment.
“Sorry, Nat” I replied, “ ‘The Thinker’s Arms’ has no need of big screen TV’s. We do very well by just being open and providing a place for people to engage in serious discussion. That’s a bit of niche marketing for you.” Nat turned away in disappointment, “Don’t be too disheartened. Here, have a pint. That will cheer you up.”
Isaac Dimmer now had the floor, while Professor Williams puffed his pipe disconsolately. “Don’t worry, Professor. If ordinary people are diverted by the Royal family or football it means that we intellectuals can get on with running the country, like we always have.”
“But Dimmer”, the Professor replied, “don’t you see that the whole point of education is that you diffuse that knowledge so everyone can benefit”.
“Don’t be so old fashioned, Professor” Isaac replied in a tone of gentle mockery, “Education, like everything else belongs in the marketplace, and better that we profit than some unwashed, beer-swilling oaf”.
At that point, a large meaty fist smashed down on the table between the Professor’s and Dimmer’s pints. “Are you calling me unwashed and stupid ?” said a voice with a thick rural accent, “Because oi don’t appreciate it”.
Dimmer, a thin pasty looking man, looked up in fright, to see Giles Farbelow staring down at him. Giles is the archetype of the local farmer to look at, but in his spare time he contributes articles to a net journal on the thought of Soren Kierkegaard.
“No” said Isaac stuttering “N-no offence meant”. He gulped his pint down and left hurriedly.
Giles sat in the vacated Isaac’s chair, “Well, Professor” he said, “and how is the international symposium on mediaeval Arabic thought progressing ?”
