Operating from Stratford upon Avon the Stratfordian will show off his artwork and offer up heart-felt opinions about his home of choice Stratford upon Avon. Why? God knows.
I know I bang on about Stratford upon Avon and its role as an imposter in the world of artistic content but my walk in the sun yesterday proved it to me.
Ironic really. I was sat on a bench a stone’s throw from the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. Sat like an ocean liner. Neon lights flashing and nothing going on. Due to leave port that evening but for the moment just selling coffee and pamphlets.
It set me off. I had a dream.
I was gazing across the expansive (expensive) pavement that along with the dry fountain, a field, some very nice trees and of course the swans, and known as the Bancroft, thinking, what a lot of dead space.
Now, I have never been to Paris but have seen the pictures.
You know the ones I mean?
The photographs of Artists selling their wares.
I thought to myself wouldn’t that add some much-needed atmosphere? Wouldn’t that be interesting? If we did that.
You know…Painters selling their Art.
Maybe actually painting, drawing. Portraits on the go. While you wait.
Don’t get me wrong. I mean, if it’s your thing you could still indulge in the cramped and themeless LSD markets. If you like being crammed into tight spaces and coming out smelling of street food, then fine. Carry on tatting.
I’m just thinking that a few artists and easels spread along that spacious and expensive pavement leading up to the Royal Shakespeare…on not-market-days…then why not?
Day time – evening even. Imagine. As the Shakespearians head towards their evening worship?
I know I’m not the only one but this time of the year always, always brings me down. I hate January and February.
It feels all wrong.
The light is wrong.
The air is wrong.
The beat of the day is to me, out of sync.
The only thing that used to help me get through was the pills the doctor gave me. I don’t take them anymore, so the dark brain kicks in and I ‘suffer’.
‘Suffer’?
Which is rich coming from a man who lives in a relatively wealthy country that is (at the moment) not being bombed or is at war. A country where the innocents can still go to school and are not being killed in the thousands in the most horrific ways.
Is it any wonder that people in their total desperation turn to a God.
If there is nothing. If there is nothing that can stop the present pain…. then why not Invent something.
Invent hope.
Construct a belief that there is something, something on the way.
I shall come straight to the point. Sadly, it looks like there is the possibility that we (the UK), are going to go the same way as the USA. It is just a matter of time.
Unfortunately, under the guise of ‘free speech’ the usual fascist tropes are beginning to surface and if history is anything to go by, sections of the population could (if we allow it) be in for a rough ride.
Stones are being overturned and a large lump (for that is what they are, ‘Lumps’) of the population are stirring. They are beginning to believe everything they are told. Everything they read (not books) or see on TV is activating their brain cell to 11.
This cannot be allowed to happen.
If there is anyone left in the USA with good sense and courage, we must look to them to deal with the monster trump in whatever way they deem possible ‘before he settles in’. Unfortunately, and at the moment, enquiries to that end are being met with a deathly silence.
It would appear that at this present time, the majority of population in the United States appear to be sleeping their way to disaster. They appear to be mainly concerned with the price of eggs and what they call ‘gas’. So, to be honest, any hope of a popular (non-violent of course) ‘uprising’ is out of the question. When and if they do wake up, it had better be sooner rather than later, as ‘later’ will of course be too late.
Here. The UK.
The quislings and traitors we have in Parliament look like they, (unless rather a lot of the British public wake up too), may be within reachof the power they dream of. Their manipulation of the British sheep public, being herded willingly into misdirection i.e. ‘hate the immigrant’ or ‘anything different sexually’, type seems to be working. The lies they tell continually, are finding homes. Which should be of no great surprise because this is of course, what shit-stirrers (Farage et al) do and have been doing for an age. They are adept at it. It is their skill set. Lie, exaggerate, and lie some more.
It is the job of the tyrant and fake politicians to use the easiest weapons available to reach their joint goals of Power & Wealth. So, without too much expense they do what despots have done throughout history, turn people against each other. They prey on people’s insecurities and fears and as the fake prophets they are, promise a scenario of blood unless…
So, what can good people do?
First and foremost, we must not stay silent.
We must show up and take well thought out ACTION.
We must make a noise literally or otherwise.
Accept that not all of us can become front-line soldiers.
But a lot of us can become members of the resistance.
We must begin to think out-of-the-box because I think it will not be too long before our usual ways of protest i.e. the internet and the usual media channels will become unavailable to us, what with Bezos, Zuckerberg and the despicable Musk taking the knee/bowing their heads and licking the arse of the tyrant trump.
Let us hope and if it is your thing, pray, that these dark times will soon be over.
Let us hope that plans are already afoot here and, in the USA, to go on the offensive, asap.
Before I begin, I wish to convey my sorrow and sadness and say wholeheartedly and in truth, Rest in Peace America.
I’ve been a bit quiet on the opinion front of late because like so many people I am amazed, gobsmacked, call it what you will at the goings on in the U S of A. So once again please accept my condolences and Rest in Peace America. (Although, I suspect ‘Peace’ is one thing that will be sadly lacking over the next few years).
Like so many I have come to the conclusion that the America that held a particular and peculiar fascination in almost every area of modern life, is no more. Orchestrated by traitors it has fallen to a fascist attack from within.
It doesn’t take much brain power to realise that there is a fascist coup happening. And their brain-dead president is allowing it to happen.
For all their songs that they sing with their hands firmly placed on their barely beating hearts, their much-hyped ‘free’ system is collapsing in a heap around their feet…and as far as I can see nobody is doing anything about it.
The rule of law is being ignored and the Mussolini-like Trump digs in even deeper, which is easy as he surrounds himself with paid for quislings and traitors.
America is going full pelt into the realm of designer uniforms, armbands (and woe betide anyone who is different), concentration camps.
For a land that fantasises in their literature and in their films about Heroes suddenly appearing to save the day, all is alarmingly quiet. There are no heroes on the horizon at the moment.
The average American (I wanted to say ‘normal’ but that would be stretching the truth) is swallowed whole. She or He follows the money (literally) and will bow down to anyone who, through fair means or foul, has made a fortune.
In a nod to ‘The American dream’ the gullible fools truly believe that they too will one day become as rich as Elon Musk or even, God forbid, Trump. Rather than get on with their lives they appear to think that it’s just a matter of time and if they follow like sheep, the riches will follow.
Of course, nothing good will come of this. There will be blood.
Those that do protest (or simply disagree) are at the moment losing their livelihoods but soon, very soon that will not be enough.
Once the courts and the justice system collapses, there will be mandatory imprisonment and soon, in this Trumpian dictatorship even more severe punishment for not bowing the knee will undoubtedly follow.
The time is now for all good people to rise.
Unfortunately, the Stratfordian believes that intellect and courage is sadly lacking in the USA. Because of enormous gaps in the systems that allow people to think for themselves, the ability to take one’s mind off the price of eggs and gas is sadly and disastrously lacking.
Once you have got over the shock that Stratford upon Avon is not the Artistic Oasis, that you thought it was, even with the Shakespearean influence, and is in fact a town full of tea shops and Estate Agents, I am here to tell you that all is not lost and there is hope.
There are nooks and crannies, hidden places where Art does exist, (and I am not talking about the same-old/same-old High Street galleries that sell pictures of pop stars in sparkling sunglasses for over a grand).
One room crammed full, (at this point I would like to make a reference to the Tardis, you know bigger on the inside than the outside, but I am going to have to stick with ‘crammed full’), with remarkable works of art in every medium you can think of. Old and new, framed and unframed. Work by the long dead or still with us, local and otherwise. A cornucopia.
In other words, exactly what a working Art Gallery should be. A magical place. And all curated by the knowledgeable master collector and supporter of new artists, Graham.
A place where you can get close up and personal (touching range) to what you may be looking for and not the cold, sterile environment of the High Street Gallery of today. (You don’t even have to risk damaging your back by bending down to read a tiny print label that quotes you a price half of which goes to the gallery in er…’commission’).
To find this real Art Gallery you need first of all to get to Ely Street (Stratford upon Avon) and then the Antique Centre. Up the narrow alleyway where, lo and behold and according to the weather, you will either see the imposing figure of Graham himself or the small Gallery itself.
Prepare to be impressed (and tell him Ian sent you).
Over many years, every now and again I have felt a duty to take it upon myself to give the RSC (The Royal Shakespeare Company) a kick up the bum.
Royal Shakespeare Theatre
It has always felt guilt free, in fact almost a duty for me to remind the cocky buggers down on the river that they do not exist out on a gilded limb taking up valuable space that is the greenery of Warwickshire but are in fact, part of a community.Part of thecommunity that is Stratford upon Avon.
The time for that gentle kicking has arrived once again.
The names and the faces of the top bods down at what was once known fondly as ‘The Jam Factory’, have as they always done every few years, changed. Yet for all the enthusiasm generated by their arrival and introduction in the pages of the local press (the Stratford upon Avon Herald), the ‘sins’ after a period of time, reappear and remain the same.
I write of course of the lack of a ‘community feel’, or to put it another way, the missing sense of ‘joining in’. Or, yet another way…the feeling of aloofness that generates from the vast castle down the road.
The Royal Shakespeare theatre appears to forget how much space they take up. Not just in a physical sense but in the average person’s consciousness too.
They are always there. You cannot miss them, and they aren’t to be missed. Situated on the banks of the beautiful River Avon like some giant luxury liner the RST gives off the specialised air of their worst egocentric actors screaming out, ‘I want to be alone’.
Forever cocooned in the protective net that is Shakespeare. They sit Separate and Special. Outsiders allowed only to critic the work that they produce from Shakespeare’s 37 (38?) never-ending loop of plays. The RSC’s actual presence apparently, taken for granted.
It was not always like this.
There was a time when The Royal Shakespeare Theatre made an effort to draw us all in. Shakespeare lovers or not. A time when the Bard represented Theatre as a whole. A time when there was a distinct possibility that we could all become theatregoers and if not that, an awakening, a realisation that theatre was actually an important part of all our lives and everywhere we looked.
I can remember happier and exciting times when The Royal Shakespeare Theatre attempted to wet the whistles of the wider community with competitions, experiments, invitations etc, to ‘come on in’.
I remember RSC spaces (and there are a few) that were usually empty at particular times of year actually being used in conjunction with members of the community, where the end result (certainly in my case) was a new way of ‘looking’ and ‘feeling’, surely the point of all theatre?
And then it all stopped.
The buzzword became ‘education’. The secret password to refilling the coffers. The magic addition to the recipe for a sure-fire increase in the grant. ‘Education’ the feel-good word that made those in charge feel that they were doing the right thing. The Justification that they were looking for. The permission given to spending all our money.
The neighbourhood was forgotten.
The luxury liner remains safely docked (for probably a couple of decades before it moves permanently to London-another story).
What has been forgotten, what has been buried beneath the ‘spectre of specialness’ (or to put it crudely, snobbishness), is the acknowledgement that The Royal Shakespeare Theatre is just another part of the Entertainment Industry.
I have to be honest here and say that I never thought I would praise the day when I saw Bobbies on the Beat on a regular basis. But here we go…
I have actually seen one, sometimes, two bobbies (proof below-tea break) on the beat in Stratford upon Avon. Walking. 
On the streets. And…smiling at people who were obviously as shocked as me to see the forces of law and order so close at hand.
I think in my case I must be getting old (I am getting old). In the past the presence of too (two) many policemen/women would have set alarm bells ringing along with cries of ‘Big Brother’ and that old favourite, ‘Police state’ but now…with bell bottoms long discarded this old hippy (ish) is hopefully beginning to see some sense in Police Presence, albeit with caution (see the Met).
There appears to be a need. In fact, the ‘need’ was a need a few years back. Even, and this is an important point, even if that need is just about a making people feel comfortable and more importantly, safe. And why not.
Of course, the reality is that if there is an increased visual presence of the copper then the professional footpad, cut purse or ner-do-well is, if any good at his/her er…craft, then they will be up to no good where the policeman is not. But that’s not the point. The point is…’Help is at hand should you need it’.
The presence of the Bobby is useful in other ways. There is such a thing as Community Intelligence. So an approachable Bobby who has listening skills and is available and open to useful information is something that has been lacking for too many years.
Plus, with what appears to be a growth in certain crime i.e. shoplifting and the like, if the Pealer just happens to be near the scene of the crime, or at least can get there quickly, then all the better.
Of course, the Copper in the Car is a necessity and something we have got used to, but there was a price to pay. The men and women in uniform were seen as isolated figures to such an extent that it was easily forgotten that they are just ordinary people, like those they served doing an extraordinary job.
Obviously, there is still work to do on the image but the Bobby at street level goes a little way to correcting that impression.
So good to hear Bishop Marianne Budde giving the head idiot Trump a good going over with a reminder of the teachings of Jesus Christ on of all things, mercy and forgiveness. You know the basic stuff on, even if you are not a Christian, ‘how to be a decent human being’.
What was quite astonishing were the photographs/and videos of the idiot Trump and his assembled ‘friends’ and family and their weird reaction.
Trump and assembled sloths
Sat in cloud formation and as the bishop’s words hit home, they sort of undulated as one. As the Bishop’s wise words fell amongst them, they, like waves of human sludge in shock, rose and fell in slow motion (even the idiot Trump woke up). It was a sight to behold and really did make the Stratfordian wonder if there were any truth in the reptilian theory.
To be fair, most of the idiot’s adoring crowd had no idea what was going on. Most of them looking blankly into space wondering, ‘What is this place. What am I doing here and how much money am I going to make over the next four years.
However, some of the gang did make a word to brain connection and actually did manage to show a reaction. The words had hit home but unfortunately, not in the way they were meant to.
If that was shock on the faces of the plastic gathered there, it was based around the bishop’s audacity, a ‘how dare she’ moment, not on the actual words she was speaking.
The words themselves? Forget them, in one ear and out the other.
There was a moment when one could be fooled that the head idiot knew something was up. However, that went to waste when one realised that the effort he was putting in was to stay awake.
I should imagine the actual moment of awareness and understanding of what had just happened occurred for the idiot Trump when whoever had the brain cell that day told him the bad news, relating carefully the words of the Bishop and Jesus Christ combined.
Anyway, the idiot’s reaction was his usual, using the most powerful words in his arsenal, ‘Nasty’ & ‘Smart’ in various combinations.
Anyway, the point of this rant, is to say how delightful it is at last, to see a clergy person doing their job and standing up for the underdog. And in a public arena too.
Unfortunately, this is something we don’t see much of in the UK. The UK clergy only hitting the headlines when they go off subject and talk about themselves (Archbishop of Canterbury) or admitting their mistakes over rogue, usually oversexed clergy (take your pick).
If there are some clergy out there with balls (no disrespect to Bishop Budde), then I apologise. But you really must come out of your pulpits and shout louder about injustice.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had one of those, ‘Your parcel has been delivered’ emails, accompanied by an annoying photograph of your parcel sitting comfortably on a property that bears no resemblance to where you live. In other words, on a complete stranger’s front doorstep.
Well, happened again today.
And as usual it was basically impossible to get in touch with the Royal Mail’s local delivery hub, their website showing that they were closed (at around 2.30? – come on).
Attempts at phoning them proved just as impossible with numerous press this and press commands that that led nowhere unless you count, ‘we are very busy at this present time with a waiting time of 20 minutes’. Needless to say, I gave up and did what most of us do when confronted by a Royal Mail photographic mystery.
‘Do I recognise that front door (or plant pot?’
It’s fairly obvious that with all their present troubles (Mr Bates etc), that the Royal Mail can no longer cope. The management have proved themselves useless and the once tried and trusted (and loved) service no longer exists. The concept of having mail delivered at promised times is laughable and let’s face it, the time has come to give up the ‘Royal’ tag. and let someone else have a go.
UPDATE: I did actually recognise the plant pot shown in the photograph but only because this mis-delivery has happened before. I managed to retrieve my parcel.
