my life as a artist
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football again
Sunday 19th August 2007 10:02 PM
Over the summer, every Thursday night, I've been playing five-a-side football in the university sports hall, with my Corinthians over thirty-five team mates. (that is to say we're all over thirty-five years of age, not that there's over thirty-five of us playing. When that happens, we go into Heslington village and challenge the locals to 'chasing half a goat up and down the main street')
This coming Sunday sees the first fixture of our new season, against Hardly Everton over 35's, and I'm a bit worried I've got too used to a smooth playing surface, and might struggle on the bumpy unpredictability of a grass pitch, so yesterday morning I had a kick-around in the field, with Jimmy the donkey and Molly the Shetland pony, and some of the chickens.
Jimmy, Molly and two Old English bantams took on me and three silkies. (the geese wanted to play, but under a joint FIFA and MAAF ruling, they're all serving six month bans for violent conduct and hissing) A silky is a breed of chicken that appears to be a cross between an exotic French dancer and a poodle called 'Fifi', and by just looking at my new team mates, I knew they weren't going to play with any of the fierce determination or physicality of a Roy Keane or a Patrick Viera. They didn't have the attention span to stick to a 1-1-1-1 formation, nor did they have the technical skills to play in the free-form, fluid as jazz style, known as 'total football', as exemplified by the Brazilians and Jimmy.
I expected Jimmy, as a donkey, to play at centre half and adopt a long ball game, but he surprised us all by playing up front, sometimes as a maverick lone striker, and sometimes in the hole just behind the front chicken, and with good hooves for a big animal, allied to pace and power, he was quite a handful for the silkies.
It was a clean, fast-flowing game, and at the end of the day, Gary, the score was immaterial because a) it's the beauty of the game and the spirit in which it's played that's most important, and b) we lost 4-2. Some of the goals, in my opinion, and probably Alan Green's, were inconclusive, mainly due to a badly delineated touchline and the fact that we were using cow-pats for goalposts.
THREE DAYS LATER
This morning we ( meaning The Corinthians over 35's, and any readers of this blog, who without present affiliation to any football team, might like to dip their cyber-toe into the semi-divine folly of football sectarianism), managed to beat Almost Neverton, 5-0. We hired a football pitch from the university that was as flat and moist as the fens, thus rendering my pre-match training on the muddy Pennine ridges of a farmers field, as irrelevant. All the goals were scored by our centre-forward, Bustling Brian, half amiable teddy bear and half assassin.
Except for a shot off the post and a goal assist, my own performance was fairly undistinguished. A few times in the second half, our industrious midfielder, Sergeant Vic, shouted at me, partly for not moving into space and demanding the ball, but mainly for being a vegetarian.
'Who's Alan Green?' an overseas reader might ask, at once curious, and at the same time disappointed that I'm writing about football again. Alan Green commentates on the football on Radio 5 live, which every weekend goes out on the world service, and his voice is thus heard in Alaska, Albania and Algeria, Chad, China and Chunisia, Bali, Mali, Malawi, and so many other places, that I'm sure 'overseas reader' could hear him if they wanted. I listened to him commentating on the Liverpool Chelsea match, this afternoon, while I was painting.
Alan Green was so scornful and cruel to the referee, who in his humanity had erred, that my heart welled with compassion for him. (the beleaguered official that is, not Alan Green)
The referees need to be dispassionate and unaffiliated can sometimes lead to feelings of alienation and isolation, and if unchecked, to a terrible, soul-crushing loneliness. They are at their most vulnerable just after a bad decision, and instead of berating them, players would contribute more to the sum of world happiness, by hugging them and forgiving them. Sometimes, referees just wants to be held.
Posted 10:02 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
we are normal and we dig bert weedon
Tuesday 14th August 2007 11:56 PM
An overseas reader asks 'Who is Ricky Gervais?' Indeed.
'A hippy from the horn queries the provenance of the phrase, 'Old Nobodaddy who farts aloft'. I'd like to say it's one of mine, but it's from William Blake. He is sometimes eerily contemporary. Jerusalem the hymn is taken from a longer poem by Blake, called 'Milton', and immediately prior to the words, '..and did those feet…' Blake says;
' Rise up young people of the new age, set your foreheads against the ignorant hirelings, for they are in the courts, camps and universities, and would, if they could, forever depress mental, and prolong corporeal war. Artists, sculptors, bloggers, on you I call. Suffer not the fashionable fools to depress your powers by the prices they pretend to give for contemptible works, nor the expensive advertising boasts they make of such works. Believe there is a class of people whose whole delight is in destroying.'
I once did it as a moody preamble to a country and western version of 'Jerusalem', at a gig at Birmingham University. Afterwards, one of the students commented admiringly, in a strong local accent, 'Yer must have been really shit-faced when yer wrote that.'
Last night, on the Guardians rabid recommendation, I watched the Richard Dawkins thingy, 'Enemies of Reason', on the telly. It was surprisingly enjoyable. He's got a bit of the hawk about him, and it was no surprise to see him bagging a few rabbits at a psychic fare, but later, when he met a fox and a lion, he got a bit ruffled.
The fox was an astrologer. 'Let me experiment on you' pleaded Richard.
' No', said the fox. 'You're mischief-making, and my art relies on good intention.'
'When you say that, that puts you in a win-win situation' replied Richard.
'Yes', purred the fox, 'I'd like to think so'
Then Richard met Satesh Kumar, who's a lion, and who roared at Richard with a ferocious smile. Richard turned into a rabbit.
'It's all your projection' said Richard.
'No', said Satesh 'It's my understanding. Spirit is everywhere, that tree, that rock. The tree has treeness.'
Richard smirked, and said in a patronising voice ' And I suppose that rock has 'rockness'?'
'Exactly', said Satesh, and beamed.
What I found amazing, infuriating, saddening, and by force of habit, amusing, was the fact that on both occasions, Richard came away from the encounter feeling that he'd bagged another rabbit. So did the Guardian reviewer. He said it was like lambs to the slaughter, and not really a contest, because all the people Richard talked to were a 'crazy bunch' and 'bonkers'
During the programme, Richard lovingly described an experiment by Professor Skinner, famous for his theories of really quite selfish and unacceptable behaviourism. In it, a pigeon, who only really achieves full expression whilst soaring above laboratories, shitting on behaviourists, was put in a small metal box and fed dry pellets, randomly, down a chute.
If a pellet fell down the chute, at the same time as the bird was looking over it's left shoulder, and this event was repeated soon after, the pigeon would think that the looking over the left shoulder was the thing that had caused the pellet to arrive, and would then keep repeating the action to the point of mania.
What Richard deduces from this, is that human beings are prone to superstition. If you're a sensitive, spirit-filled denizen of sunshine and sky, and you're being held in a small metal box against your will, and being tortured by a white-coated psychopath, then looking over your left shoulder, to the point of mania, sounds like a good afternoon out to me.
Posted 11:56 PM | 3 Comments | Permalink
bloomin fundamentalists
Monday 13th August 2007 12:45 AM
I've just read a preview of Ayatollah Richard Dawkins latest TV programme, 'Enemies of Reason', by one of his acolytes, the fiery rationalist cleric, Charlie Brooker, of the Guardian.
Blimey! If newspapers employ columnists because they think they represent a sizeable aspect of the zeitgeist, then God help us! (I'm being provocative there, by mentioning the Big G, The All, The One, Allah, Brahman, The Almighty, Mr and Mrs God, Old Nobodaddy who Farts Aloft, The Nameless One… I'll come back to it later, but I just thought I'd give you an insight into the structure of the blog, in the hope that you'll like me more)
Fundamentalist preachers brook no argument, you're either with them or against them. Charlie's recommendation, that anyone who claims to be spiritual should punch themselves in the throat until they've destroyed their voice box, suggests a certain reluctance to engage in dialogue. He says that cold, clear, rational thought and contemptuous mockery of those who believe in an intelligent universe, is the only way to save the planet. Personally, I stand firm with Errol Brown, of Hot Chocolate fame, when he says 'I believe in miracles, you sexy thing'.
Richard Dawkins, wilfully ignoring the overthrow of materialism by modern physics, still thinks that the universe is like a really big car, (honestly, it's massive), whose complex workings are gradually being demystified, while-we-wait, by really brainy Quick-fit mechanics. I'm sorry to say this Richard, but we're going to have to scrap your car. We've discovered that your ball-bearings are 99.9% empty space, and it's difficult ordering spare parts when we don't know if it's a particle or a wave.
Dawkins states that science is the only route to knowledge. If we could just show him an inch of compassion, a gram of love or a hermetically sealed plastic bag, containing a thousand and eight metric tonnes of truth and beauty, he could measure them and acknowledge them. Until then, for poor old Richard, it's all just chemical illusion.
The idea that the universe is random, and operating entirely through physical laws, without any evidence of innate intelligence, is something my Great Uncle Albert would have strongly disagreed with. Without contemptuous mockery, because he was a nice man with curly hair, he would have pointed out that God does not play dice with the universe. Fred Hoyle, who used to go out at night with a massive binocular, looking for heavenly bodies, said the chance of creation being random was the same as a hurricane blowing through a junkyard and coming up with a Boeing 707.
So, Richard Dawkins thinks I'm superstitious and deluded while Charlie Brooker thinks I'm just a credulous cretin. Tomorrow morning, during meditation, I'm going to forgive them, then I'll pray for them and send them healing energies. That'll really annoy them.
Posted 12:45 AM | 4 Comments | Permalink
Lily got the two cheese straws
Saturday 11th August 2007 12:26 AM
There's a festival going on in the capital city of Scotland at the moment. As someone who's performed there, I feel it's unlucky to mention it by name. I prefer to call it 'The Scottish Festival', or 'Fear of Las Vegas in Lothian'
The fringe, by its name, suggests the edge of things, the strange and undiscovered, the unusual and surprising, a place where one can chance upon unearthed treasures and enjoy the innocence of the new. (£37:50 to see Ricky Gervais at the Assembly rooms anyone?)
York, meanwhile, goes for underkill. In May 'we' had the York literature festival. As one of the leading literary figures in my caravan park, I rang up the organiser to see if there was any work going, but she said they only had a budget of twenty pounds, which they were using to print leaflets, recommending every York citizen to read a book, and if we all did it at the same time, it'd be a sort of festival.
Yesterday morning I met Jimmy and Molly for the first time. They're near neighbours, and I've seen them around, but never really talked to them. I was telling Jimmy about Naom Chomsky's theory of oppressive tolerance when Molly started licking my toes. Jimmy and Molly are a very attractive couple, and I felt flattered by her show of affection, so as some sort of response, I started stroking her neck. Jimmy, who seemed to be quite a laid back sort of character, was so relaxed about the whole affair, that he just defecated, there and then.
In the afternoon Tom came round with his three daughters, Daisy, Betty and Lily. The girls wanted to take a closer look at the new calf with his mother, so we went over to the field edge, closest to where they were. A few of the old English bantams gathered round, and when I saw Jimmy the donkey and Molly the Shetland pony walking over, I knew what I had to do.
As quick as a really quick thing, before you had a chance to say Anne Robinson, I'd organised The Heslington Really Cute Animal Festival. The girls had a great time fetching sheaves of fresh grass for the acts, while me and Tom sat drinking tea, soaking in the atmosphere of one of Europe's premier really cute animal festivals.
As far as I was concerned, it was a free festival, but Tom and the girls insisted on paying, so after some delicate negotiations, we came to an agreement, and they gave me a packet of multigrain cheese and onion hula hoops and a hard peach.
Next time I want the Heslington Really Cute Animal Festival to be bigger and better, more cutting edge and yet more inclusive. I'll do more leafleting and it'll have puppies. If I can persuade the geese to stop hissing like Linda Blair in 'The Exorcist', they can be in it too.
Posted 12:26 AM | 3 Comments | Permalink
questions, questions, questions
Monday 6th August 2007 9:19 PM
In November, I'm doing a couple of readings at the Aldeburgh poetry festival, and having an exhibition of my art in the Peter Pears gallery at the same time. The recognition is quite gratifying, although I do miss the romance of being a criminally overlooked and deeply misunderstood renaissance figure, crying in the wilderness. The festival are publishing a poetry paper and have asked all the participating poets to answer a questionnaire, the questions coming from famous poems. Here are the questions and answers. I don't know how many of them I got right.
a) How is it that you live, and what is it you do? William Wordsworth.
To be honest with you, Willie, I don't know how it is I live. In the words of your fellow bard, Toyah Wilcox, 'it's a mystery'. I can only imagine that God got bored of eternity, and he willed us into existence so he'd have someone to play blind-mans bluff with. I write poems and paint pictures, blindfolded.
b) What manner of man art thou? Why lookst thou so? S.T.Coleridge.
Well Sam, I'm a Yorkshireman/spaceman cross, and there might be a bit of collie in there somewhere, as well. I look like this because I attempted to cut my own hair with some cheap hair-clippers that I got at the car-boot sale.
c) What is that sound that so thrills the ear? W.H. Auden
Glad you like it Wystan! It's a track called 'Moonlight on Vermont', and it's being performed by Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band. You can find it on the album 'Trout Mask Replica', along with other traditional folk songs from other planets.
d) Say, is there beauty yet to find? Rupert Brooke
I think there might be some left in the fridge.
e) What's heaven? George Mackay Brown
There's a few schools of thought on this one, George. Gogol says it's a place 'where angels live in sadness', whereas Google says it's a gay discothèque in London. Until those two get together and sort it out, it's difficult to say. To me, heaven is striding out over Cader Idris, on a sunny day, eating vegetable dansak.
f) Is there anybody there? Walter de la Mare
I don't know Walter, have you tried knocking? It's the second moonlit door on the left… and by the way, it may look like the 'forest's ferny floor' to you, but that's actually my garden your horse is eating.
g) Were we led all that way for birth or death? T.S. Eliot.
Lighten up, Tom! It doesn't matter! With existence being an eternal cycle of death and rebirth, they basically amount to the same thing. Thank your lucky stars that at least you saw silken girls bringing sherbert. We don't get anything like that round here, not since they built the by-pass.
h) Okay, what shall we do now? Roger McGough
Tom's suggesting that we go through half-deserted streets that follow like a tedious argument, but the last time we did that, we ended up watching the smoke that rises from the pipes of lonely men in shirt sleeves. I think I'd rather go to the Lake District with Sam and see if we can't peak under the blindfolds.
Where do your poems come from?
From that luminous, thin strip of beach, where the sand is still wet from the waves.
I think I got seven out of ten.
Posted 9:19 PM | 5 Comments | Permalink
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