A day in the life - The Outsider Art of Ian Frederick Harris...

Aftermath: Trump’s downfall

Aftermath. Trump’s downfall.

Contact was sporadic. It was hard to believe that a country that basically ran everything a few months ago was now so difficult to get hold of.

Trump’s downfall and sudden removal from office had caused a massive shockwave. And that in itself was a huge surprise. Wasn’t that what everybody had wanted. Wasn’t that what everyone had predicted. And yet when it happened the shit hit the fan bigtime.

Trump disappeared. As did his cronies. The VP. Bondi. Meon. Hegseth, Patel et al. All of them. To a man. To a woman. Gone. Hopefully, was the word on many lips, never to be seen again.

The general consensus was that they were dead. To put it bluntly, murdered in their beds, as some might say, deservedly. Others, conspiracy nutters of course, insisted that they had been transported to that place where Micheal Jackson and other stars of stage, screen and music (Epstein?) now reside. Whatever. Who cares? As long as there was some kind of justice to be had, was the general mood. Hopefully a worthy punishment for their many, many sins.

The point was, what the hell was going on now?

No-one seemed to know.

There was hell to play. Guns were drawn and fired in the aftermath. There were sides taken. Fat men in military fatigues waddled on to the streets armed to the teeth and fired on anyone who looked different. Just like they always did. But this time things weren’t the same.

Trump had gone and the downtrodden hordes had grown in confidence. Guns were a plenty and fire was returned, so it wasn’t long before the fat bully men ran, out of breath and wetting themselves. Very, very frightened they retreated to their bunkers to gorge themselves on the huge supplies of canned comfort food that they had stored up for Armageddon.

The streets were wild and vengeance was there to be taken. And quite understandably so. There were scores to be settled. Families to be avenged. ICE officers to be made to pay the price for their indiscretions and murders. A few weeks of blood and before long communications dropped out.

To be continued?

A quick fix

e have become obsessed with the notion of success achieved by ‘a quick fix’.

Whereas once, a long time ago, the dream was to raise a happy family, have a good job and see our children on their way, we have now turned inward. The ‘dream’ that appears to permeate our every waking hour now has to do with being noticed. We all want to be famous. We see ourselves as somehow, ‘more’.

Not only have we become dissatisfied with our lot we are easily bored and absolutely dissatisfied. We want more than the 9 to 5 can offer. Money, (easy money), quickly, rather than a workaday route to a bigger house, has become the road to escape.

My plan was, on writing this to blame everything on the digital age and the growth of the internet but in moment of clarity I realised that was too easy and what was ‘old people do’. I actually became suddenly aware and realised that it was probably all my fault. That in fact it had all started some time before Bill Gates and the like got a grip on us.

I blame the Beatles and the Boomers (like me).

I confess.

The fact that we now have an insatiable appetite and desire to be noticed and recognised, is the fault of four working class kids from Liverpool. Oh yes, and us boomer idiots who took everything at face value without thinking.

It was these four ‘rascals’ who showed us boomers that, anyone could do it. Anyone could become rich and famous. We were suddenly festooned with colour and sounds we hadn’t heard before. Our sad little lives changed in what seemed overnight, and… we caught the bug. We were fooled yes, but we walked willingly, straight into a trap of our own making.

We (boomers) interpreted the fact that as they (The Beatles), came from where we were, it meant we could go where they went. In short, if they could do it, so could we.

In truth, they did in fact break barriers. The class thing cracked. Doors opened up to the obvious.

Holy Mother of God, there was talent within the working class. The notion that the working class were more than rough labour with dirty fingernails and tattoos of anchors and saucy ladies, could indeed harbour poets, painters and musicians. It was true. Amongst these uncouth people there were talents that with nurture (money), could prove lucrative.

Inevitably, those with the filthy lucre noticed the profit potential and the realisation that there was ‘gold in them thar hills’ struck home.

For us of working-class origin we noted a way out from the sheeple pen and so, as you do, away we went.

Or so we thought. Away we went, totally forgetting the one basic need that everyone who wants to forge a new path so absolutely needs, talent. Talent and the fortitude and where-with-all to work at it. What we really wanted (and some of us still do), was ‘The Quick Fix’, an easy way out. (The need to escape is strong in this one).

Anyway. None of this is an apology or a plea to return to some golden age. It’s just a ramble amongst sad and sorry thoughts. A note on evolution and what can happen when there is a sudden shift in what we believe is the norm. An experience of a social revolution that I now realise can take some time to recover from.

The need for an easy life is still there. Success without too much hard work continues to pulsate in the background. The 9 to 5 still exits (unfortunately), albeit in different forms. Some of us are still dissatisfied and would give anything to escape. The trouble is time has moved on and life (for some) has become easier. And it has become increasingly more difficult to define what it is we want to escape from. Hey ho.

The demise of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre/Company

**‘Royal Shakespeare Theatre presents – Scene 1. Destruction.’ Oil on 12″ x 12″ canvas board. £50.**

landscape art — **‘Royal Shakespeare Theatre presents – Scene 1. Destruction.’ Oil on 12″ x 12″ canvas board. £50.**

The demise of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre/Company in Stratford upon Avon has been predicted for a number of years now, yet somehow this once great theatre company continues to exist. Gutted and a mere shadow of its former self, it clings to the idea that 37 (?) plays will sustain it to the end. It swallows up a grant that a quite number of smaller theatre companies would survive on and pushes a system of weird ‘repertory’ (my opinion), that is slowly killing it. The Royal Shakespeare Theatre must adapt to thrive in today’s theatrical landscape.

The time has obviously come for someone to be brave (and take a drop in salary) and make the decision that would have its vast resources (buildings/theatres/rooms etc) dedicated to all theatre, and not to one (great as he may be) playwright.

Moreover, the Royal Shakespeare Theatre should explore innovative programmes that attract diverse audiences.

In other words, all Theatre celebrated (and dedicated in Shakespeare’s name if need be).

And to (re) start the process I would advocate a return to the repertory system. A system that would help in its own way to reduce the never-ending conveyor belt of unemployed actors by offering them a year/2-year contract where they could perform Shakespeare (if need be) and more modern plays (lots of them), ongoing, all year round.

In doing so, the Royal Shakespeare Theatre can build a bridge between classical and contemporary works.

Detractors of this system and their usual cries of ‘The RSC couldn’t hope to offer actors wages that compete with TV and films’ have perhaps not noticed that film and TV are experiencing their own problems and as a result are making massive cuts.

A return to repertory, a return to variation and a celebration of all theatre would (in my opinion) attract the new audiences that theatre and especially the RSC is crying out for.

It is essential that the Royal Shakespeare Theatre honours its roots while embracing new artistic expressions.

I should make it clear that I am not advocating a return to a golden age that more than likely did not exist. In my experience and my time at the Jam Factory, there were departments within, that all played their part in its slow death.

Be it greed, self-importance, bullying, hierarchy and a tendency to invent mysterious, self-imposed cultures and ‘rules’, they all played their part in jumping on the gravy train. Thankfully, some of those departments no longer exist.

Sadly however, chances were missed during one of the many ‘clear-outs’ and there was no-one with vision (courage?) enough to build on the free spaces that were left behind, so even today we still find existing and new (ish) departments who have become more important than the basic purpose of the RSC itself…i.e. Producing Theatre.

Soon, someone will write a book about the death of Shakespeare’s theatre which in turn will become a screenplay, unfortunately too late to become a stage play as the Royal Shakespeare will be, like its master’s grave, dust.

Failing to evolve could mean the Royal Shakespeare Theatre becomes a relic of the past.

A Health Update

The silence in our house that (I described in my last post-One car family) is slowly breaking down and is now punctuated by the odd ‘good morning’ or stuff that doesn’t crack the ice too much.

All this accompanied by a scowl or a frown either from me (I confess), or her. In all our years of marriage (54 years – Holy mackerel) this present outbreak must rank in the top ten. The hate, the anger is palpable. Thank God we live in a country where weaponry is hard to come by (actually there is always the kitchen).

Anyway…did I mention I am on a diet? I didn’t? In that case, let me give you a health update (bear with me).

The diabetes (type 2) is insidious. It’s a nasty bastard that eats you up from the inside out and it looks like it’s having a good go at me now. Reports from the front are telling me that my kidneys are ‘leaking’ i.e. not doing what they should be doing with proteins.

All this was discovered because I noticed that there hadn’t been any reference from those in the know of late to those naughty (failing?) kidneys. There had been previous reports of dodgy behaviour on the part of these necessary organs some years ago but I, and others had not followed through. I should say that I accept some responsibility because I haven’t turned up to my yearly diabetes check up with a bottle of pee to be looked at for some time.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I did this time and mentioned to my lovely doctor that it was some time since I had an actual report on the state of the kidneys. She leapt into doctorly action, and the pee was sent off to Pee Central. We waited.

When the report came back it was, on the dark side. It was not good, and (if I survive) it looks like I will be going onto a new drug in the very near future…. oh yes, the diet.

I had read somewhere that type two diabetes can be reversed with diet, so determined to beat this nasty fucker that is what I chose to do.

Diet, diet, diet.

Amazingly I lost 5lbs in just as many days… and then disappointedly it stopped. I was left very slightly thinner with a bunged-up feeling I put down to, too much Slim-Fast.

Fast-forward, I’ve dropped the Slim-Fast but am still dieting and regulating what I eat with sheer willpower.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had the courage to get back on the weighing machine. I feel depressed enough already what with Gaza, the idiot trump and the UK knuckle-draggers who come out from under their stones every (hot) summer to complain. They come to threaten and scare anyone who is different than them, i.e. not fat, not bald and has a vocab of more than 10 words oh yes. Oh yes, not forgetting the dress sense.

I shall keep you informed.

One car family

We have a blackboard in the kitchen because we are a one car family.

The blackboard enables each of us, me, my son and my wife to chalk up who is doing what on a particular day. This supposedly stops each of us clashing in the use of the one car. Most of the times it works, but now and again things get confusing. Usually because of simple things like bad, by that I mean undecipherable, handwriting, but as I said, most of the time it works.

Rosie: Mums at 11.00.

Seems clear enough.

‘Mum’ (100) is Rosie’s mother and at her great age things are slowly…well, slowing down. She sleeps most of the time, is bed-ridden and I think it is fair to say semi-conscious. She is in no pain; she eats and drinks but sadly that is about it. Conversation and even her avid TV watching is sadly, gone forever.

For the past few years, she has been well catered for in a local home for the elderly. She has her own flat, with her own furniture. She has friends and has for some time lived a comfortable life. Unfortunately, as she hit her 100^th, in fact just before, things changed dramatically and to cut a long story short she has had to be moved from the home for the elderly to a nursing home.

Her flat is now empty, and her daughters are having to face the inevitable. Preparations are being made for what is, everybody knows, to come.

The point I’m trying to make here is, everybody, especially the close family, i.e. Rosie and her two sisters are under a lot of stress. Emotions are to the fore and tensions are running high.

Which takes me back to the message on the blackboard.

Rosie: Mums at 11.00.

(This gets complicated but stick with me).

We were running slightly late but as I had to deliver a sample to my doctors which was on the way (NOT), I offered to drive.

Pee delivered I proceeded to head for Mums. Except as it turned out, right Mum, wrong place.

I was headed well on the way to the nursing home when Rosie suddenly said, ‘You know we’re going to the home for the elderly right’?

Slightly annoyed, it was when I replied something to the effect, ‘but the message on the board said, ‘Mum’s (i.e. the nursing home – i.e. where Mum actually IS) at 11.00’. (Not the home for the elderly where Mum actually, WASN’T), that all hell broke loose.

*Apparently, I was supposed to know that the message referred to where she wasn’t and NOT to where she IS.

At this point I should perhaps make it clear that ‘Mum (s)’ was not involved in this debacle at all. It was nothing to do with my dear old Mother-in-Law, no this was to do with the sisters meeting at 11.00 where Mum used to be (her empty flat), to go through her personal items.

Anyway, if you are still following this…

…to cut another long story short and in an effort to keep this piece clean by leaving out the obscene language…

Have you ever had one of those all-mighty screaming and shouting matches while mobile. Dangerous to say the least. How we arrived at the er…destination (where Mum wasn’t) without being involved in a major road accident I do not know.

This happened two days ago, and we have yet to speak to each other.

IFH.

*Mind reader