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.
What seems to be a major talking point at the moment here in Stratford upon Avon is the sudden and surprising physical growth of up-market jewellers, Pragnell. Or as the Stratfordian likes to put it…Pragnell and the demise of shopping as we know it.
From a single (ish) unit (complete with comedy bouncers/security), in Wood Street, Pragnell has over the past year or two snaked its way around the corner into High Street eating properties as it goes and basically changing the face of the town centre as we know it. A sudden growth that has come as a shock to many residents for a number of reasons.
First of all, the demise of shops that Stratfordians had become familiar with. For instance, Wilfred’s the sweet shop was particularly quirky and a family business, a shop some might say that added to the ‘Stratford feel’. Gone.
Secondly. The element of surprise. I don’t think people realised that the properties and shops Pragnell took over, actually existed on Pragnell’s own estate. Pragnell were the actual landlords. The shops that they took over had come to the end of their lease and Pragnell as landlords had the legal right to do…well…whatever.
There is of course another reason as to why Pragnell has turned out the villain of the piece and that is to do with the thought some have on Pragnell marketplace and particular speciality, high-end jewellery and watches.
Perhaps it is understandable that some local people consider this a slap in the face.
Maybe too much for the ordinary, struggling Stratfordian who loves his/her town and finds the presence of Pragnell incongruous, especially when it includes the ‘taking over’ of the centre of town. Bordering on an insult it reminds people that we are not ‘in this together’. Especially for the Stratfordian who is more likely to visit Stratford’s well-used foodbank than ever darken Pragnell’s doorway to buy a Rolex.
As the times have changed so too the plot has thickened…
We are continually told that the nature of shopping and therefore the face of our High Streets, precincts and shopping malls has changed. I wonder, could that change be part of a wider plan.
The Stratfordian wonders if we have, over the years been manipulated and thereby ‘encouraged’ to let our idea of a traditional shopping centre/High Street go.
The Stratfordian remembers how it all started with the sudden movement of retail out of the centre of town all at the behest and encouragement of local businessman, Tony Bird.
Looking back, it feels like we were corralled and shifted about like a herd of cattle, ‘encouraged’ to follow the retail trade to the outskirts of Stratford upon Avon. Which begs the question, what was the plan for the spaces that these shops left behind?
Promised at the outset that out-of-town-shopping was more convenient, we discovered shopping actually based around supermarkets and the like. The big names. Everything under one roof. Under protest we moved.
Time has passed and for various reasons these out-of-town shopping areas are disintegrating. Run-down areas where big name shops come and go when profits drop. What we have are shopping centres bereft of personality. Bland concrete monstrosities, where the individual his/her shop is totally non-existent. (Napoleon was wrong?).
Falling for the promise of convenient shopping, we deserted the High Street in our droves and like sheep headed out-of-town. We abdicated any right we had to have a say in what shops we want to spend our money and left the wealthy and powerful landlords to do what they will over time, with the rich estate we had abandoned. A land grab, a gold rush by any other name.
Pragnell is just the beginning.
The basics will continue to disappear from the town centre. Food and the essentials for basic living will continue to be for sale of course but will be found out-of-town and on market stalls.
The centre of our town will become unfamiliar to the ordinary resident and as is happening now before our very eyes, cater more for the wealthy visitor who will find everything they need in the luxury goods market.
The Stratfordian has to say how pleasant it feels in fact, like a breath of fresh unpolluted air.
At last, we can experience a proper politician. Someone who really does have the interests of Stratford upon Avon residents at heart.
For far too long Stratford has had to put up with politicians who were ‘parachuted’ into this so-called safe seat. Politicians who it turned out only cared about themselves and saw Stratford upon Avon as a jumping off point to enhance their own power and wealth.
We have had too many years of the posh and rarely seen Tory sitting at the top table doing nothing unless it helped his cronies and enhanced his own lifestyle.
At last, we have a Member of Parliament who can do a proper job.
Manuella Perteghella (Liberal Democrat) is someone who I know we can have confidence in. Perhaps more than that, someone we can trust.
A true representative of the people no matter if you voted for her or not. In these times of world-wide political uncertainty, a diamond in the rough. A person with no hidden agenda who will I’m sure, make regular payments to the Inland Revenue.
The Stratfordian wishes her well. Power to her elbow and long may it last.
Manuella Perteghella