I nearly waited too long for Godot. My cyber-alert system had been primed to let me know when Becket’s enigmatic piece was coming to Edinburgh but it had obviously decided that I was denying its existence by creating its memory and decided to be “of itself” and ignore my instructions. P erhaps it had been reading over my shoulder when I googled Becket.
Telephoning the theatre, I got what was, if not the last seat in the house, the next but one. I was seated in the top right hand corner of what is politely referred to as the Upper Circle but is generally known as “the gods”. I haven't sat so high up for years. It reminded me of school trips to pantomimes of yesteryear when gangs of nine and ten year olds were bussed up to Edinburgh for a Christmas treat and sat in jostling, unruly rows like so many pigeons on window sills, peering down from the giddy heights as Jimmy Logan or Stanley Baxter went through their routines.
Ah, the austerity of the fifties, when will we see the likes again? Gey soon, it would seem if the financial pundits are to be believed.
I hadn’t seen WFG for about thirty years and I had forgotten, or never realised, how funny it is. I suppose asides about prostatism, senior moments, incipient senility and daytime somnolence didn’t have the same relevance for me thirty years ago.
A superb production. McKellen, Stewart, Callow and Pickup were as good as all the revues said they were, The set, the lighting, even a very passable Merlot in the Upper Circle bar, all contributed to a tremendous experience. Yet after the buzz, the enjoyment of the theatrical experience, there was a bleakness that grabbed you unawares. We are all waiting for…for what ?
The swallows are back. I have seen my first of the year. 24th of April. Always the same, within 48 hours, every year! I have been waiting for them to arrive. We are always waiting for something but at least the swallows never disappoint.
Monday 27 April 2009
Monday 20 April 2009
Artful Dodging
I took myself up to Edinburgh to see the “Turner in Italy” exhibition at what used to be the Royal Scottish Academy, now part of the "National Gallery Complex". Auld Reekie is really in a mess. In preparation for the new tram system, the streets have been dug up into a system of trenches to rival the Western Front. Peering down into them you could see exposed the network of pipes and cables and conduits that keep the city functioning – telephone, electricity, water, gas. It reminded me of times spent in the dissecting rooms tracing the paths of the brachial artery or the lateral cutaneous nerve of thigh on formalin-bronzed cadavers in what was, in my case, a rather vain attempt to commit the complexity of the human anatomy to memory.
But the Turners were worth all the crossing and re-crossing of streets and finding a way through the maze of health-and-safety mesh fencing ( hard hats must be worn).
The earlier pictures were great but the later ones of Venice, of the Santa Maria del Salute rising ghostly in the miasma off the canals, were astonishing.
A step round the back took me to the National Gallery proper to pay homage to Velazquez’ “An Old Woman Cooking Eggs” that has been away, starring in the BBC series "The Baroque", and is now back where it belongs. It also gave me a chance to feel the warm glow of ownership as I contemplated the acres of naked flesh that are the Titians, proudly purchased on our behalf, by the government of Scotland. They have spent money on less worthy causes.
All those dimply bums, love-handles and cellulite would certainly merit a stern lecture from the practice nurse on the perils of BMI’s over 25 and the danger to the skin of over-exposure to ultraviolet.
Waving my free pass, I clambered aboard the bus to trundle round the countryside back to the village, my I-pod suitably charged to while away the couple of hours it takes to reach the sticks.
Despite all the twinges and niggles and general falling apart, getting older can be quite enjoyable at times.
But the Turners were worth all the crossing and re-crossing of streets and finding a way through the maze of health-and-safety mesh fencing ( hard hats must be worn).
The earlier pictures were great but the later ones of Venice, of the Santa Maria del Salute rising ghostly in the miasma off the canals, were astonishing.
A step round the back took me to the National Gallery proper to pay homage to Velazquez’ “An Old Woman Cooking Eggs” that has been away, starring in the BBC series "The Baroque", and is now back where it belongs. It also gave me a chance to feel the warm glow of ownership as I contemplated the acres of naked flesh that are the Titians, proudly purchased on our behalf, by the government of Scotland. They have spent money on less worthy causes.
All those dimply bums, love-handles and cellulite would certainly merit a stern lecture from the practice nurse on the perils of BMI’s over 25 and the danger to the skin of over-exposure to ultraviolet.
Waving my free pass, I clambered aboard the bus to trundle round the countryside back to the village, my I-pod suitably charged to while away the couple of hours it takes to reach the sticks.
Despite all the twinges and niggles and general falling apart, getting older can be quite enjoyable at times.
Friday 17 April 2009
seven of one
A sunny spring day and where better to be than The Greenyards for the Melrose Sevens or the Melrose Sports as the old men would call the tournament, harking back to when seven-a-side rugby was only part of the day’s events alongside kicking competitions, sprints and races. Now, this, the oldest sevens tournament in the world, the begetter of all others up to and including the Sevens World Cup, is great social event with fancy dress, Easter bonnets, a carnival atmosphere and literally, gallons of hospitality. It is still the Blue Riband event though, the one tournament every great player wants to win or at least play in. Waisale Serevi, probably the greatest exponent of the short game and playmaker of world champions Fiji was there for the swan song of his career and was reportedly happy just to have been involved despite his side being well beaten in the first round. My old home side suffered the same fate.
Sevens is a game for sheer blistering speed. There is no place to hide with only half the number of players on a full sized rugby pitch. Miss a tackle or throw a stray pass and like as not the other side are in under the posts. Seven and a half minutes doesn’t sound like much but it is a long time to keep running especially on a warm spring afternoon, then turn round and do it again and, if you win, you do it again and again, all afternoon. My only sevens medal came from a wet, dank afternoon on a muddy pitch in a junior tournament. The next week, on a sunny day and a dry pitch, my lack of pace was exposed, we went out in the first round and I was dropped.
I’ve always enjoyed sevens as a spectator sport having watched the great club sevens of the past when the perfect combination of backs and forwards were playing for one team at just the right time. Melrose themselves, Hawick, Kelso, Gala and the great visiting sides London Scottish, Loughborough the composite sides like the Barbarians, French Barbarians Irish Wolfhounds, Co-optomists and the overseas visitors, Randwick, Bay of Plenty, Stellenbosch, Narwaka have all had their day in the sun. Despite Melrose’s brave effort in getting to the final, I can’t see a Border side winning the sevens again such is the power, pace and pool of talent of teams like this year’s winners - University of Johannesburg.
A ten-a -side match between the finalists of the veteran’s tournament held the previous day took place between the semi-finals and the finals of the main event.
I felt the dead hand of Time on my shoulder when I heard the son of someone I was at school with described as a veteran!
Oh dear.
Sevens is a game for sheer blistering speed. There is no place to hide with only half the number of players on a full sized rugby pitch. Miss a tackle or throw a stray pass and like as not the other side are in under the posts. Seven and a half minutes doesn’t sound like much but it is a long time to keep running especially on a warm spring afternoon, then turn round and do it again and, if you win, you do it again and again, all afternoon. My only sevens medal came from a wet, dank afternoon on a muddy pitch in a junior tournament. The next week, on a sunny day and a dry pitch, my lack of pace was exposed, we went out in the first round and I was dropped.
I’ve always enjoyed sevens as a spectator sport having watched the great club sevens of the past when the perfect combination of backs and forwards were playing for one team at just the right time. Melrose themselves, Hawick, Kelso, Gala and the great visiting sides London Scottish, Loughborough the composite sides like the Barbarians, French Barbarians Irish Wolfhounds, Co-optomists and the overseas visitors, Randwick, Bay of Plenty, Stellenbosch, Narwaka have all had their day in the sun. Despite Melrose’s brave effort in getting to the final, I can’t see a Border side winning the sevens again such is the power, pace and pool of talent of teams like this year’s winners - University of Johannesburg.
A ten-a -side match between the finalists of the veteran’s tournament held the previous day took place between the semi-finals and the finals of the main event.
I felt the dead hand of Time on my shoulder when I heard the son of someone I was at school with described as a veteran!
Oh dear.
The Times they are a-changing
The times have certainly changed.
AOL no longer supports blogs so I have had to pack up my hyphens, commas and ellipses and seek cyber-pastures new.
Post-traumatic avascular necrosis of the femoral head some thirty years after dislocation of the hip in an RTA has limited my walking range so no more big hills for me unless and until I get a nice shiny new one.
I am now confined to circuits round the village where the times are changing rapidly. I saw my first butterfly of the year, a peacock, sunning itself in the shelter a clump of aubretia that has sprouted and blossomed on the needs-a-bit-of-pointing-that-does garden wall. On the same day as I came across an ermine in full fig looking some what embarrassed to be still wearing last season’s colours.
The garden has been invaded by the golden yellow stars of celandine. A pernicious, if attractive, weed, it has proved impossible to eradicate. I console myself with the words of Old Jimmy Brown, a local market gardener who survived the Somme and lived to be ninety- umpty. Contemplating the encroaching invader with its tiny bulbules that scatter with every attempt to dig them out, he shrugged and remarked “It’s syn past”. In a week or two the fleshy leaves will wither away - until next year. It gets its name from the Greek for swallow though it will be long past before they arrive. That won’t be for a fortnight yet.
The swallows seem fewer in number every year and more so the swifts. Only two graced the skies above the village last year where dozens used to scream round the eaves when we first came here. The buzzards are on the increase and have been conducting their aerial courtship, diving and wheeling with outstretched talons. Their “pee-you” cries are so elemental they make the hairs on your neck prickle. I suppose the dawn take-away of last night’s road kill helps to sustain the rising population. It is certainly so of magpies, an uncommon bird here thirty years ago and now commonplace.
Nary a hedgehog is to be seen around the lanes and gardens where dozens snuffled in times past. BFC was adept at finding them and suffered for his inquisitiveness with prickles to his nose.
The times are not what they were.
AOL no longer supports blogs so I have had to pack up my hyphens, commas and ellipses and seek cyber-pastures new.
Post-traumatic avascular necrosis of the femoral head some thirty years after dislocation of the hip in an RTA has limited my walking range so no more big hills for me unless and until I get a nice shiny new one.
I am now confined to circuits round the village where the times are changing rapidly. I saw my first butterfly of the year, a peacock, sunning itself in the shelter a clump of aubretia that has sprouted and blossomed on the needs-a-bit-of-pointing-that-does garden wall. On the same day as I came across an ermine in full fig looking some what embarrassed to be still wearing last season’s colours.
The garden has been invaded by the golden yellow stars of celandine. A pernicious, if attractive, weed, it has proved impossible to eradicate. I console myself with the words of Old Jimmy Brown, a local market gardener who survived the Somme and lived to be ninety- umpty. Contemplating the encroaching invader with its tiny bulbules that scatter with every attempt to dig them out, he shrugged and remarked “It’s syn past”. In a week or two the fleshy leaves will wither away - until next year. It gets its name from the Greek for swallow though it will be long past before they arrive. That won’t be for a fortnight yet.
The swallows seem fewer in number every year and more so the swifts. Only two graced the skies above the village last year where dozens used to scream round the eaves when we first came here. The buzzards are on the increase and have been conducting their aerial courtship, diving and wheeling with outstretched talons. Their “pee-you” cries are so elemental they make the hairs on your neck prickle. I suppose the dawn take-away of last night’s road kill helps to sustain the rising population. It is certainly so of magpies, an uncommon bird here thirty years ago and now commonplace.
Nary a hedgehog is to be seen around the lanes and gardens where dozens snuffled in times past. BFC was adept at finding them and suffered for his inquisitiveness with prickles to his nose.
The times are not what they were.
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