LibraDoodle

‘Literature and Peace’

2012-02-07T17:29:00.007Z

Forgive the parlous lack of posting of late, but while I gather my thoughts for somethig worth saying, here's an interview I did for the wonderful Eclectica:

‘Literature and Peace’

“I do believe poetry can be part of a peace process, that all literature can. I believe it passionately.” Paul Blezard

“An author and broadcaster, Paul Blezard was the founder of the Chelsea Poets Society and his work has been published in the UK and abroad. Currently writing a new novel and chairing events at literary festivals around the world, he was the former Literary Editor of The Lady magazine, for ten years was the popular voice of Oneword Radio and writes for various publications. He is also the author of the blog LibraDoodle.

Elizabeth Glixman Welcome. You have quite a resume when it comes to involvement in the world of literature as a novelist, poet, publisher and broadcaster (Oneword Radio).

Have I missed any of your “hats?”

Paul Blezard You’re very kind, but no, I think you’ve caught all my book related work. It’s been more of a winding goat track of a career than something clearly linear. There is also the Firebird Poetry Prize, of which I’m honoured to be the Literary Director http://www.firebirdpoetry.com/. It’s a new venture that seems to be catching on, and will in time, we hope, become the world’s richest prize for a single poem. Free to enter, open to all, from anywhere in the world, for poems in English. We hope to open Arabic, Cantonese and Spanish versions in the future.

EG When did your interest in literature begin?

PB Like many people I was taught to read and write by my mother, herself a keen reader, and I think that if you’re caught that early on it’s for life. Mind you there were fewer distractions when I was a child (I was born in the 1960s). We didn’t even have a television until I was in my mid teens and so books were not only the preferred leisure activity, but were a window on the world, on history, on modes of life other than that which I was living.

Let me also say that I really was much older than I should have been before I realized fully that these wonderful stories, whether by Dickens or Jack London, the Brontes or Twain, were actually written by real people, that books and their stories didn’t just materialise out of the ether and that one could actually be an author. It was something of a revelation to me. Life altering. That’s when I began to take more notice of the style of an author, the structure and flair of a piece, to really start to appreciate that there was more to a good story than the page turning aspect.

EG I never heard anyone express the idea of a book materializing without an author. Very unique perception.

You’ve participated in numerous literature forums, the most recent The Dubai Forum in London, where the question was asked, “can literature contribute to the creation of a more peaceful world?”

I don’t think most people consider literature as tool or avenue in helping to create peace in the world. From what I have observed on the news (the Occupy Movements in Europe and the US and the Arab Spring) protestors are focused on economic equality and freedom. I have not seen one sign that says we need more poetry or fiction (wish I had). These desires seem to imply diplomatic or political solutions. Do you believe poetry can help the peace process?

PB Well first let me say that yes, I do believe poetry can be part of a peace process, that all literature can. I believe it passionately.

For me the argument runs like this: that all good literature is a window into the lives we can never live. I will no more be a prisoner in a mid 20th C Soviet gulag than I will be a child soldier in a war torn Sierra Leone. But through reading Solzhenitsyn or Ishmael Beah, I can gain insights into what those lives were, how they felt, and in doing so understand the dynamics and emotions of those who lived them. Through such empathy, what might be frightening becomes understandable. As we tend to fear that which we don’t understand, absence of fear through knowledge creates the space in which dialogue and peace can grow. It’s reductionist I know, but those are the bones of the argument for me.

In a way I feel even more strongly that literature of any hue, prose or poetry, can not only help a peace process but be an integral, important part of that process. The dialogue between writer and reader being an aspect of what Churchill succinctly said in his “Jaw, jaw not war, war” speech at the White House in 1954.

Of course, if we talk to each other we tend to be less inclined to want to harm or kill each other. It always sounded horribly cheesy to me but there used to be a phrase that ran something along the lines “a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet.” In some of my non-literary life I’ve found myself amongst strangers, in Rwanda, Bosnia, in less awful times, and I’ve been struck by how quickly it has been possible for strangers to become friends merely through the telling of a story, the reciting of a poem, the shared experience of an exchange of culture. You wouldn’t believe how even the most dire of situations can be lightened by a rendition of a simple nursery rhyme!

And while I understand your point about the Occupy Movements not demanding more poetry as you put it, you have also to understand the role of writers in such movements. It not just a simple equation of more poetry equals less conflict, I’ll give you an example.

I recently chaired an event at the SouthBank Centre here in London, one of the largest arts and culture centres in the world. The panel comprised three fine Egyptian authors Khaled al Khamissi, Ahmed Mourad and Ahmed Khaled Towfik, all highly regarded best-selling writers of prose and poetry. As we talked and explored their roles, Ahmed Khaled Towfik said something that stunned the audience. Because of his asthma and the State’s use of tear gas he was unable to be a part of the Tahrir Square demonstration that led to the downfall of Hosni Mubarak, and instead watched it from his Cairo home. But because of his prodigious writing over the years, because he had captured the imagination of a generation through his stories, the same generation that was demonstrating, they called him for his advice when things started to turn nasty, when the state tried to quell them. In fact, he said that he believed he had received calls and messages from a majority of the demonstrators and that the responsibility he felt for them was enormous. That is the power and the duty of the written word, in whatever form: to inspire, to inform and when necessary to incite into action against inequality. It is also why W.H. Auden was so wrong when in his work ‘In memory of W.B. Yeats’ he wrote, “poetry makes nothing happen.”

EG I’ve been hearing John Lennon’s words ‘Give peace a chance’ in my mind lately? Do you think people really want peace? In the scheme of things isn’t survival more important than peace? Is the idea of a stable peace contrary to what life is about?

PB Well, where to start? I assume you don’t really mean that question as you’ve framed it?

EG It seems like an odd question. Sad to say I think since reading about the corruption in governments worldwide and the many revealed scandals in major corporations there is a bit of cynicism behind the question.

PB Of course people want peace. In some of the war zones I’ve been in, peace has been the main aim.

Of course the conflict starts over more base human instincts: greed usually, whether for land, water, mineral rights, political power, whatever. But you don’t have to see too much of the awfulness of conflict to realize that peaceful resolution to disputes is far, far better than the armed conflict or physical oppression that leads to cycles of retribution.

If we had a democratic global vote among all 7 billion inhabitants of the planet for peace or war, surely the majority support for peace would be enormous. I certainly hope so. It is the inequality of lives that leads to conflict rather than an absence of will for peace. And as for survival, it could and has been argued that peace is survival, that in any conflict someone pays a price, someone doesn’t survive.

Of course, it’s not as simple as I’m painting it, I know, but I do feel that there exists in all of us the fundamental recognition of another’s right to live and to live in peace. The absence of that recognition I have seen with my own eyes, what some might call ‘evil’, but which I saw as an absence of any humanity. It is terrifyingly devoid of anything that can be debated with, communicated with, at that time, in that moment. But after it has passed, when even the person who was driven by the rawest of animal impulses, who has enacted the most appalling atrocities, has returned to a semblance of normality, it doesn’t take long before they start to voice their own will just to live quietly, and their understanding of others right to do so too. It is dialogue that prevents that fall into the abyss, or so I believe.

And let’s remember that while Lennon’s sentiment is of course to be lauded, he is also the man who wrote, “Imagine no possessions” on a white baby grand piano... in his lovely mansion.

EG Ha! Good point.

Please tell us about The Dubai Forum, its origins and what was the goal of the forum and about the history of Arabic poetry.

PB The Abdulaziz Saud Al-Babtain forum was new to me until I received an invitation to appear at this year’s forum in Dubai. The focus of the three day event was “Poetry towards Peaceful co-existence,” a concept that chimed so readily with my own philosophy that it was an easy invitation to accept.

I understand that for 20 years the Foundation, set up by an influential Kuwaiti industrialist, has been evangelizing the Arabic tradition of verse as a literary form, awarding prizes for creativity and using the forum and its annually alternating conference as a meeting place for heads of states, industrialists, thinkers, politicians and poets, a sort of Arabic “Davos World Economic Forum” event but for poets. The fact that the foundation is able to attract such a diverse range of nationalities, disciplines, opinion formers and interests through the medium of poetry is as much testament to their endeavors as it is to poetry’s enduring power.

The history of Arabic literature is largely one of poetry from the 6^thC to the present day. The history is far too rich and there are just too many poets of note for any exploration here to be of value but a new reader should certainly be aware of the court poetry of ibn Uqbar, the Sufi poetry of Mansur al-Hallaj, the satire of al-Jahiz and of course Rumi and ibn Sina, better known in the west as Avicenna.

What is interesting is that poetry is still far and away more popular in Arabic speaking nations than in the west, not only as a literary endeavor but also as a medium of expression for news, comment, political analysis and dissent. Its various forms and modes are used to great effect, poets often being able to say in public things that would see journalists, writers and other commentators sanctioned.

One of the great pleasures, about the Al-Babtain forum was that this was the first time that non-Arabic poets had been invited to participate, to perform. And not just poets but critics, analysts, academics and publishers, all were there forging links, creating friendships, discussing the works and engaging in cross-cultural ways that were so very true to the aims of the conference and a delight to be a part of.

EG Are there any other forums or projects you have worked on or are working on you’d liked to mention that you feel are relevant to the topic of literature and peace?

PB Well of course the whole ethos of the Firebird Poetry Prize, www.firebirdpoetry.com which was founded by UK poet Michael Warburton, is that of international communication through verse, that the expression of deep personal truths and emotions when distilled in poetic form, speak of the much wider human condition and show that we are all driven by the same emotions and desires, irrespective of our nationality, beliefs or mode of life.

It is poetry as a strand of the connecting web of human endeavor if you will. The more we connect, the more we feel connected and the less willing we are to destroy.

EG Who are several contemporary poets whose work in your opinion successfully encourages peace? I know you quoted from Maya Angelou’s poem “Human Family” on The Dubai Forum video) “We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.”

The Maya piece came from writing a poem, especially for the forum, about the time I met Maya Angelou at the Basil Street Hotel in London when I was presenting my daily author interview show “Between the Lines” on Oneword Radio. It was, to say the least, a memorable and extraordinary 35 minutes in the presence of such a humane, deeply evolved and connected artist. She gave me her bookmark on which is printed the quote of hers: “I note the obvious differences between each sort and type, but we are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.” I treasure it as I treasure the memory.

But aside from Maya Angelou, there are so many poets who do exactly as you say, ‘encourage peace.’ From friends like Ben Okri, Ruth Padel and Gwyneth Lewis to new discoveries such as the amazing young Kuwaiti poet Dalal Albaroud and the extraordinary Sudanese poet Rawda Alhaj.

Then there are the superb poets such as Jang Lian, Kirpal Singh, Luljeta Lleshanaku, Jeet Thayil and America’s own Brian Turner who all write so eloquently of peace and with whom it was such a pleasure to meet through the forum.

EG Who are several fiction writers whose stories encourage people to create a peaceful world?

PB Are you kidding, you want me to name them all?

EG A few would be fine.

PB I’ll give you one. Michael Morpurgo, who is considered a writer of children’s fiction but who is to my mind the world’s leading exponent of peace based literature for readers of all ages. A prodigiously gifted and prolific storyteller, his works ‘Private Peaceful’ ‘Warhorse’ and ‘Alone on a Wide Wide Sea’ do more than anyone I can think of to explain the value of peaceful kindness and human empathy to the sum of human endeavor. I would recommend them and him to readers of all ages, abilities and nations.

EG Do you have any favourite “ peace” writer whose name and excerpts of work you can share with us?

PB I don’t think in terms of favourites I’m afraid but while considering your question it was this quote from Ben Okri that sprang to mind:

“The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering.”

EG What is in the future for the literature/ peace movement?

Time will surely tell. But as long as there are more people who will a peaceful co-existence, more people that care about the security, safety and needs of others than there are those who look out only for their own desires, then a form of peace will exist.

We must remember that we are the product of millions of years of evolution, and try to act like it. There will always be disharmony until we evolve yet more, but through the highest forms of human sentiment, empathy and communication we may be able to ameliorate the worst of human activity.

I can’t think of a poem that was written to incite violence, to advance war. It has always struck me that everything we consider to be and therefore name ‘war poetry’ is in fact anti-war poetry, and while poetry may not be the answer in and of itself, it may be – and I believe is – part of the process of communication that prevents there being less peace. Whether that constitutes a movement is for your readers to decide.

Links to related sites

The Dubai Forum

The Abdulaziz Saud Al-Babtain Foundation for Poetic creativity brought together Arab and foreign academics and poets from five continents to take part in a three day symposium in Dubai, entitled “Poetry Towards Peaceful Co-Existence,” to discuss the impact of Arabic and world poetry on human communication throughout the ages. There was a subsequent forum held in London, at the Mosaic Rooms, with a panel comprising award winning translator, Sarah Ardizzone, The Independent writer and columnist Christina Patterson, Sharmila Beezmohun, the deputy editor Wasafiri magazine, Rhona Wells, assistant editor, The Middle East magazine, Paul Blezard journalist and Literary director of The Firebird Poetry Prizes, and journalist and broadcaster Rosie Goldsmith who chaired the event.

The London panellists discussed issues, reflecting the themes raised at the Dubai symposium, of translation and interpretation, poetry and performance, as well as debating the role poetry can play in today’s world, and its impact on different cultures globally. Paul Blezard took part in both the Dubai and London sessions, and summed up both events saying: “To find myself discussing nursery rhymes as early poetic influences with poets from Albania to Saudi Arabia, and to talk about Dante with Kuwaiti, Sudanese and Egyptian poets makes me think that, while poetry may not cure the world’s ills, it certainly opens up communication, discourse and friendships that will endure across the boundaries of distance, politics and language.”

Also, here is the link to a You Tube video which contains images from both forums – www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XsWlsmF8ZQ.

Abdulaziz Saud Al-Babtain Foundation

http://www.albabtainprize.org/Default.aspx?pageId=58&

Michael Morpurgo

http://www.michaelmorpurgo.com/

Ahmed Khaled Towfik

http://www.enotes.com/topic/Ahmed_Khaled_Towfik

Ben Okri

http://kirjasto.sci.fi/okri.htm

Poetry International Jeet Thayil

http://www.poetryinternational.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=11882

Snapshots of Voewood Festival 2011

2011-08-31T13:18:00.018+01:00

Breaking my journey through Norfolk to stand outside the house that my beautiful clever Hannah lived in in Norwich and finding myself crying uncontrollably at the still raw irreplaceable loss her death has left, remembering the moments, conversations, life and love we shared within those walls.

Singing ‘da diddly qua quas’ stage side with Glen Matlock as Adam Ant gave a beautiful stripped down rendition of Stand and Deliver.

Watching Glen Matlock rock out performing ‘Anarchy in the UK’ to a delighted Voewood literary audience and then turning to see John Hurt, gently dancing to it.

Standing in for Misha Glenny and interviewing former M.I.6 Chief Sir John Scarlett, who gave generous, exact answers and revealed his keen sense of custodianship of his department.

Hearing Beth Orton perform a superb set and realising that Hannah sang with the same fractured cadence and wondering if Hannah had been a fan of Beth’s, a question I’ll never now be able to ask.

Hearing Beth’s partner, the hugely talented Sam Amidor, harmonise vocals and guitar to the open mouthed admiration of those who were watching as he sang us through some superb American folk.

Listening to Glen Duncan perform some of his excellent novel ‘The Last Werewolf’ to music by Steven Coates and Geraldine McEwan and realising I was witnessing the birth of the Were-opera.

Watching D.B.C. Pierre deliver the most cogent, lucid and generous masterclass on how to structure a novel to 50 plus people, all of whom were furiously scribbling his pearls into their Moleskine notebooks.

Discovering the best pork pies in the world at the Samphireshop food tent. No really, they are simply, sublimely out of this world, especially the onion marmalade versions

Arriving at Voewood to be warmly greeted by owner Simon Finch who, understanding that the last time I had been at his home had been the time that Hannah and I first met, took me by the hand to the bedroom we had been in, where the story of she and I had started. Bless you for that Simon.

Helping Clare Conville pick up cigarette butts in the garden with the wonderful Kirsty Lang, a true star who was collecting horrible dog ends with all the tenacity of a journalist on the trail of a hot story.

Feeling sorry for David Gilmour as he told me that he had just put 15 litres of petrol…. in his diesel car.

Meeting on Saturday an extraordinary, beautiful couple, Roz and Tom and spending so much of the weekend, when able, in their company, feeling some sort of natural resonance, an instant connection, only to find on the last night, after the last event, that Tom and I had met before... he being a friend of Hannah and one of the few that she had told our plans to. Karma? Maybe. An extraordinary moment in a life? Certainly. Unforgettable.

Doing some serious bunting with Gavin Turk and his wife Deborah Curtis, son Caesar and the inimitable, wonderful Jane Simpson. Pimp my ride? Nah. Bunt my tent.

Watching Clare Conville manage to pull off gracious hostessing duties while at the same time dealing with three crises, two guests wanting stuff and all the while casting her eye around making sure that the authors, musician and guests gathered on the terrace had full wine glasses.

Meeting Emily and Kate Austen (great-grandaughters of, since you ask) who ran the kitchen and catering with quiet grace and efficiency and enjoying being mercilessly teased by Emily all weekend for being controlling and bossy.

Listening in rapt concentration to Damon Murray of Fuel as he described the story behind "Russian Criminal Tattoos Encyclopeadia - Vol 1," a brilliant tome with such an extraordinary, heartrending and fascinating story behind it... get yourselves a copy while they're still available.

Not finding Rowan Pelling’s grey cardigan evidently picked up by someone in error. It’s fitted, charcoal grey and she wants it back should you find it in your bag by mistake – she has yours in the meantime!

Diana Athill. I need say no more, surely.

Observing talented, admirable and admired authors, poets, musicians and artists mucking in with plate clearing, bin emptying and all the domestic chores that one might think they would have people to do for them. Life affirming reality and authenticity.

Watching lean purposeful Richard Long walking around the grounds of Voewood and bending to smell the occasional flower.

The Peter Pan of Brit Art and all round delight, Colin Self, picking me a sprig of lemon verbena for my buttonhole.

Seeing Salena "Sex Goddess" Godden performing her poem “I’m Gonna Move to Hastings” and wanting to laugh - and weep - at the bleak humour of it.

Getting to know Damien Barr and David Whitehouse as they lay in a bed together discussing David's brilliant new book “Bed”, Damian sporting excellent striped p-js, David looking suitable authorial.

Loving Kirsty Lang's quiet pride in husband Misha Glenny's 'Dark Market" being the best-selling book of the festival.

Discovering the rare talent that is David McAlmont and hearing his beautiful song "Ode to Gene."

And more, so much more.

Truly a lit/mus fest that passes the litmus test with flying colours

Wham! Bam! Thank Ewhurst Am-Dram

2011-05-23T09:21:00.010+01:00

It’s not often that LibraDoodle veers off into Terra Theatricalis, over-proximity to the flatulence of strangers, the prohibition on smoking and a remarkably short attention span being just three reasons. Another is that anything I might think or write about what I’ve seen has generally been better thought and more beautifully written by others before I’ve even got out of the stalls. It’s hard to follow such pithycisms as Walter Kerr’s ‘Me no Leica’ review of the 1951 Broadway production of “I am a Camera” and unless I’m much mistaken, the Swiss psychiatrist’s view on theatrical light comedy, “Live farce? Die! – Jung” is just too tough to match let alone beat and I do have some pride.

So when on Saturday two friends spoke the dread words “We’ve got you a ticket to join us at the local players production of Ayckbourn after supper,” my mind silently replied with “Oh what fresh hell is this?’” before playing a speed psycho Powerpoint demo featuring images of a fetid village hall scented by decades of Cub Scouts and bingo, creaking scenery and creakier performances and topped it off with a reminder that politesse would prevent early escape. And we’d been having such a lovely time, I thought.

I should not have worried. As it happens the Ewhurst Players (Ewhurst – pretty little village near Cranleigh in Surrey’s Rockbroken heartland) are a highly proficient band of performers. The production was Alan Ayckbourn’s “Improbable Fiction” in which a writers group convenes at the grand house of its chairman to discuss their authorial progress. A Sapphic smallholder confesses that she hasn’t written a word for fear of ruining the perfection of the novel in her head, an artistic children’s writer owns up to having spent six years only doing the drawings, a busybody who claims to be prolific has failed to bring anything with her while the geek who pens multi-layered sci-fi that proves to be overcomplicated, narcissistic escapism has and we wish he hadn’t. Then there is the ageing roué librettist with a weak bladder, no musical partner and only one finished verse leaving only the chairman host, a rather endearing “Tim, nice but dim” type whose artistic endeavours extend only as far as translating instruction manuals for household appliances. Add into this mix Ilsa, the exotic “girl from the village who does,” and we’re set for a nice meander through artistic aspirations that remind us of the old joke: Two writers meet in the pub. One says to the other, “I’m writing a new novel.” The other replies, “Neither am I."

Everything rumbles along nice and sedately until just before the interval when WHAM! - a huge peel of thunder blasts cast and audience alike and BAM! - the lights go out and we’re all thrown into pitch darkness… until the lights fade back up to reveal…

I shan’t spoil it in case you’ve not seen it either but what happens next shows that it really is a play of two halves and that all the carefully crafted intros not only have a purpose but are neatly and are hilariously referred to.

There proved to be some real talent on stage. Jason Butler’s wonderfully portrayed host and fulcrum for the whole production, Arnold Hassock rather than Tim, revealed an Alan Cummings-like style fused with David Tennant authenticity, Roland Butcher’s brilliantly OTT librettist, Brevis Winterton, was deliciously grumpy old mannish, Jane Biggins’ lesbian pseudo-Bronte, Jess Bales, was trouser-wettingly funny while Peter Barnett’s, whiny science fantasist Clem Pepp, was deftly drawn and played a point. Tricia Coopers’ blousy Grace Sims had some lovely Mrs Slocombe undertones, Wendy Davies cunningly underplayed the mouse-like Vivvi Dickens and Gaynor Arnold’s effortlessly sexy Ilsa deployed a fascinating range of accents which veered from Somerset to Scandinavia, often via Solihull and usually in the same sentence but with the red hot pants she was wearing I doubt anyone cared… or even noticed.

It was, I must confess, a bloody good laugh. Good people putting their hearts into their last night and pulling off a play that could easily have bested a less proficient and hard working group. What they in fact managed was to pay the dramatist the biggest compliment; show a proper understanding his text or as I’d put it “Am Dram Thanks Alan” (See para 1)

Yours ever,

LibraDoodle

(Nb: some quotes and words may be freshly coined in this post and are available for rent or hire. Please contact for rates.)

All’s unfair in Stow-on-the-Wold Annual Gypsy Horse Fair

2011-05-14T12:15:00.004+01:00

Stow-on-the-Wold, straddling the Roman Fosse Way in the heart of the Cotswolds, is considered by many to be a jewel of Gloucestershire charm; all honeyed stone, prissy cafes and quaint antique shops nestled next to vendors of high-priced posh tat: faux amusant cushions, £200 rubber boots and gnarly rural kit that looks as if it has purpose but bearing price tags that will forever consign it to ostentatious display in a second homers weekend cottage. Mind you, not everyone is suckered by Stow’s outward charm, A.A Gill, the deliciously acerbic restaurant reviewer and penner of bon mots described it as "catastrophically ghastly" and "the worst place in the world,” in his excellent book The Angry Island (2005) and in doing so incurred the tepid ire of the town’s mayor.

Architecturally it is undeniably beautiful with many of the buildings dating (and often predating) the Civil War in which Stow was a Royalist stronghold and the locale for many battles. There are mullion windows aplenty, little alleyways that tempt you to explore ever onwards and the sharp eyed visitor will notice names and dates carved into lintels and stonework, defacement so old and of such quality of ‘penmanship’ that there ought to be an entirely separate name for such antique graffitos.

Being stuck on top of an 800-foot hill, the eponymous ‘wold’, affords it glorious views of the surrounding arable land and woods and doubtless made it a highly defensible position when the Cromwellian Roundheads came a-calling. But these days, although the enemy comes in a different form, the town behaves as history has taught it, locking and shuttering doors and windows, literally shutting up shop and repelling all-comers. And never more than when the annual horse fair comes to town.

Stow has a history of fairs. In 1330, Edward III set up an annual market in August. Edward IV replaced this in 1476 with two 5-day fairs and yet another in October on the feast of St Edward the Confessor (the saint associated with the town). The aim of these was to establish Stow as a place of commerce and to level out the unpredictability of passing trade.

As the fairs grew, the town became more prosperous. While traders who had dealt solely in livestock started to deal in other goods it was the wool trade that underpinned the town’s income,20,000 sheep changing hands at one 19th century fair. The aforementioned alleyways, known as "tures," that run between the buildings of Stow into the market square, used to herd sheep from surrounding holding pens and fields into the square to be sold.

As the wool trade declined, people began to trade in horses, a practice which continues today and which reveals the lurking fear and ugliness that seeps through the place.

Twice a year in field just 5 minutes walk from the main square a gathering of clans occurs. Travellers, Roma - I am loathe to write ‘Gypsies’ having been taught by a true Roma that that word is the equivalent of the N-word in such circles – gather for two main reasons, to trade bloodstock and to present their marriageable children to each other in the hope that good matches may be made. The huge field becomes alive with a multi-generational conclave of folk from all parts of the UK. Some have traditional caravans, beautifully painted wooden-wheeled, horse drawn affairs with immaculate interiors revealing wood-burning, pot-bellied stoves and intricately painted ceilings like mobile Michelangelo’s. Some have state-of-the-art trucks and cars that haul chromed and honed modern mobile homes with interiors that would shame many a suburban drawing room. The comfortingly atavistic smell of wood smoke wafts across the place. Fires everywhere are straddled by great iron tripods from which blackened stew pots and kettles are suspended on chains, steaming away with a meal or a brew. Small children skittle around, the girls like little meringues in layers of white or cream netting with twists of ribbon at their throats or laced through their hair, the boys smartly elegant in mini tweed jackets and trews, shined boots and with errant hair lines cow-licked into place. The teens favour more defiant dress, young women this year in a uniform of tight jeans, lycra micro skirts and day-glo, fluorescent pink or lime green crop tops; tanned midriffs, arms and shoulders bared to maximum effect and with the most spectacular two-tone suede boots, gravity testing stilleto-ed shoes blinged to the max with sparkling rhinestones or, when the new shoes hurt, bare feet. Teen lads move around in packs, effortlessly James Dean cool in tight t-shirts (often even with a cigarette packet tucked in the sleeve), tighter jeans and yet tighter muscles testifying to a life spent working with horses, bareknuckle fighting and just, well, just being cool.

Parents and grandparents have the look of those who have lived lives on the outside, in all senses. Weathered and well fed, the men have hands that look as if manually wrenching a living from a recalcitrant life has been their lot while the women veer from exuding a wiry energy to extruding from clothing two sizes shy of flattering. They all are cautious and guarded, perhaps used to insults and rejection, but friendly. A cheery “good morning’ is reciprocated here, a question is politely answered there. A request to take a photo is met with a smiling “Go on help yourself’ or ‘Of course you can fella.” There is no sense of threat, no background radiation of suppressed or impending violence, none of the angst that the good burghers of Stow had warned me about. Just hard-working, hard-living people gathered for trade and exchange, graciously putting up with the hordes of rubbernecking tourists, here to take pictures, buy souvenirs and absorb a little of a lifestyle largely gone and increasing vilified.

Mind you this isn’t all bucolic rural charm. The caged cocks with the huge, vicious-looking spurs weren’t there for food. The dogs tied up around the perimeter, guarding the caravans and possessions, weren’t called Muffy and certainly weren’t over-fed, over-pampered pooches. Doubtless after the sun goes down and the drinking starts, things warm up. My guide told me tales of knife fights and mortal stabbings. The police presence in the town was as overt as in a Trafalgar Square university fee demo. To be fair, the stabbing had been some years ago and the constabulary was charm personified but you take the point.

And therein lies the rub. Given that Stow-on-the-Wold’s fame and fortune is historically based on such fairs, you might imagine that the residents would welcome those who attract coach loads of incomers into their curio shops and cafes, hostels and hostelries; that Stow would know which side its bread is buttered on. Sadly not. The general air when the fair’s in town is that ‘people from off’ are coming and it’s time to shut up shop. One of the big hotels in the square literally barricades its doors. Many small businesses clear the stock from view and close for the duration. An unattractive haughtiness descends upon some of the permanent residents. There is sneering at some of the dress sense on display, a general unfriendliness, an overt snobbery directed at the descendents of the very folk who helped make Stow what it is today by those who are living on the fat that previous generations of those ‘people from off’ helped to create.

I was told a story that a former Lord of the Manor was so against the whole affair he prevented it from happening at all in Stow’s domain during his tenure. I heard also that while the very field in which the fair takes place is owned outright by the travelers, bought by them to protect their right to convene in the face of fierce local opposition, they are oddly – and unfairly – prevented from actually setting up there, on their own land, until immediately beforehand, thereby forcing them to make do in the verges of local lanes until the appointed hour when they can gain access.

Of course there is bound to be partisanship in such situations, but it strikes this correspondent that when so much legislation is created to ensure parity, fairness and equality in a nation that historically prides itself on diversity and offering a warm welcome to the oppressed, dispossessed and downtrodden, there is a small corner of our national psyche that is blind to that which is before eyes, a band of folk who choose an alternative lifestyle that brings colour, heritage and a tang of smokey authenticity and that stems our relentless fall into a homogenised blandness.

There is an unattributed couplet “Stow on the Wold where the wind blows cold and the cooks can’t roast their dinners.” It could easily describe the welcome the town offers and may come from a rhyme about Brill in Buckinghamshire that runs:

At Brill on the hill 

The wind blows shrill 

The cooks no meat can dress 

At Stow-in-the-Wold

 The wind blows cold

 I know no more than this.

I know that that Stow’s cutesy charm hides a darker, unattractive streak and that - as my Grandmother used to say in another context - it is “all fur coat and no knickers.’ Not much good when the wind’s even colder than the welcome then.

Once I was a trillionaire

2010-10-08T10:35:00.010+01:00

It is today exactly 6 months since the awful events that have rendered me wordless for so long and which I tried to explain in LibraDoodle passim.

I shall not dwell but will tell this. There is no loneliness like the eviscerating loneliness of turning and walking away after the funeral of the one person you loved completely and who loved you back equally. There are no words for it. The empty pain does not subside. It sits there daily, a cold, hard rock in my heart. There are times each day when I just wish it, my own heart, would stop and I could join her, the one I miss so much, so hard, so sweetly. My beautiful, clever Hannah.

But it hasn’t stopped, I am here and life must be lived so lived it will be, if sometimes grudgingly.

One of the events that took me out of the gloom was this week when on Tuesday evening I chaired the Southbank Centre Book Club. The work under inspection was Peter Godwin’s excellent memoir When a Crocodile Eats the Sun and to add a little spice to the event - and also to reward the hardy stalwarts who not only book their tickets, but also turn up – I invited a rather special guest.

You may be aware of this book which explores the appalling events that occur as Zimbabwe sinks into despair, as the so-called ‘war-vets’ requisition farms and as state-sanctioned violence and depravity wash like a dark tide over the beautiful bread basket of Southern Africa. Godwin traces all this through the prism of his parents, his fears for them, his attempts to protect them, and in doing so we learn about his family and the nation they call home, of the revelations that can often arise through periods of high emotion.

Peter is appearing in an event at Southbank next week and on the night we were discussing his work he was launching his latest work the optimistically titled The Fear – The Last Days of Robert Mugabe at a bookshop in West London. But my special guest was his sister, Georgina, who had been a highly regarded broadcaster in Zimbabwe, a Sarah Cox of the nation as she has been described. She features greatly throughout the book and I thought she might give the readers an interesting insight into the family dynamic of a sibling writing a frank memoir. I could not have predicted how generous she was with her time and her answers as she gave well thought out analyses of the situation in Zim now and then, of the emotions surrounding her family’s situation, of her own situation and of the difficulties involved.

It was during an exploration of the economic situation that prevailed in Zimbabwe before it adopted the American dollar, when we were discussing how one actually survives in a country that is suffering from super-hyper inflation, that Georgina removed her wallet from her handbag and produced a banknote.

She handed it to me and for a brief few moments I couldn’t actually believe what I was holding. Like many I had seen the news reports of hundred thousand dollar notes, million dollar and billion dollar notes even. But this? I read the words. I counted the numbers and still it didn’t seem quite real. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. So I’ll show you.

Yes, your eyes do not deceive you. One hundred trillion dollars. Fourteen zeros. Four commas. A lot of money or so you’d think, as it seems to have only been enough to buy a loaf of bread… until the next day of course when the staggering power of inflation rendered it near worthless.

I passed the note to one of the readers and it got passed hand-to-hand around the group to ‘coos’ and looks of utter disbelief. One of them, Eva Arnold, photographed it and I’m grateful to her for letting me use the photo.

So yes, once I was rich. Once I was worth one hundred trillion dollars. Once I loved and was loved so very richly. In both cases all too fleetingly.

Yours ever,

LibraDoodle

The Kelly Gang

2010-07-15T13:48:00.002+01:00

http://litandspoken.southbankcentre.co.uk/2010/07/15/the-kelly-gang/

Cozy Valentine R.I.P.

2010-04-11T10:01:00.035+01:00

It is with a heart so unbearably heavy and with tears that refuse to stop that I write of the untimely passing of my precious Cozy Valentine.

She had been unwell since an operationlate last year and had borne the last few months of constant pain with extraordinary stoicism, great fortitude and, when she was able, her trademark humour.

Cozy was as bright as Venus on a frosty morning and as quick as a drop of runaway mercury. Her beautiful green eyes were as unique as the love she had for her family and her friends.

She read the post below before anyone else, as I wrote it, and it made her cry. Happy tears. She loved the fact that so many of you read it and followed the link to her music.

That she had only recently celebrated her thirtieth birthday makes her death such an unaccountable tragedy.

That she leaves behind her two beautiful daughters, Eluna Red and Grace, who she loved so completely, who she was so proud and so protective of, makes it a hundred times more so.

She delighted in her adored and adorable maidens, in life, in her music and in all that was good, true, authentic and heartfelt.

Please find time in your thoughts for her Mother, her sister and brother, for Ela and Grace and for Rodd and Taz.

Her name was Hannah. I called her ‘my darling’ and ‘my sweetheart’ for she was both. She called me ‘her dearest darling boy.’ I was.

We had been making such lovely plans for a gentle future of warmth, stability and 'niceness' together as she put it, as adored wife and proud husband, and I can’t believe that I’m having to write these words about the woman, the girl, that I loved with all of my broken heart and who I was so very fortunate to be loved by.

Rest in gentle peace my darling girl, my precious, adorable and adored, beautiful Hannah and know that you were so deeply loved by your dearest boy who wanted the world for you and who loved your true love for him as the dearest thing in his life.

Cozy Valentine

2010-02-25T13:32:00.004Z

Now then, I know that the whole point of coining the name LibraDoodle for this blog was to obliquely highlight the emphasis on various musings literary that exercised me, but I hope you will permit me a diversion into matters musical.

There is a slight justification for this as many years ago I made the foolish error of thinking that it might be easier – and so I also thought, more immediately profitable – to tell stories through the medium of song writing rather than through writing a novel. As much an act of idiocy and misdirection as it was of laziness, I of course eventually learned my lesson, but not before I’d performed before bemused audiences across Eastern Europe, unwittingly wasting the time and effort of some people that I seriously admired and respected in the process. Still, I tried and in the trying learned to respect those who can hold our attention and grip our emotions through song; those who can crystallise universal human truths within the parameters of verses, choruses, bridges and instrumental breaks.

More recently many of the authors I am honoured and proud to know have confessed to being rock stars, musicians or singers manqué. Many make reference to music in their novels; some having gone as far as producing CDs of the music that their fictional protagonists listen to. There is a correlation between musical and literary originality, the number of novels that have either a tacit or overt soundtrack being nigh on equal to the number of songs that make reference to literary inspirations. What we admire in great literature, the originality of emotional expression, is akin to that we admire in great song writing or musicality and while it is easier to recognise such originality retrospectively it is harder to do so before the passage of time has allowed bandwagons to coalesce and filter the wheat from the chaff on our behalf.

I have some precedents for this line of thought. Many years ago I used to perform, trialling my own new songs and new poems at a venue called the Troubadour in West London, which was famed for being the site of Bob Dylan’s first UK performance, or so the mythology claimed. I also occasionally played guitar for a young singer-songwriter called Alex Zapak who I thought (oh how I want to write ‘knew’ there) was a completely original voice and for whom I thought success was just a matter of time. Sadly it wasn’t to be for her, but I still stand by now, nearly twenty years on, what I then thought. At that time one of the many people who used the ‘come one, come all’ open-mike evenings to test new material was a superb young guy who had such an extraordinary voice, such a magnificent turn of phrase and who wrote songs of such emotional honesty, clarity and musicality that success - by the yardstick that then prevailed at least - was to my mind assured. As it happened I was wrong again and he disappeared for quite some time only to resurface years later with a string of huge hits. He was called David Gray, he still is, and he was as authentic an artist as is possible to be; no urge to be a celebrity, no shallow aspirations, just a hunger to be heard, to be given a chance.

In the intervening years I have privately bewailed the absence of such true talents, such originality, such artistry from the public arena. I admit that I have become cynical about the over-packaged, pre-digested, over-produced pap that fills the charts. My fault entirely as I’ve been focussed on other areas and have not been going to the music venues, the clubs and the evenings where real talent is nurtured. Until recently that is.

In the past few months my unhappy and uncomfortable musical cynicism has been blown away, evaporated like cold fog in warm sunlight, and the reason is this. In much the same way that I am aware of some extraordinarily talented writers and poets whose inability to find a publisher I fail to understand, there are a number of musicians, singers and songwriters who have hitherto failed to trouble the music industry but who have been quietly adding to the colour, range and vibrancy of the nations artistic spectrum.

I have in previous postings extolled the virtues of such artists as Aruba Red and Woe and I would now add to them the extraordinarily original and deeply affecting talent of a singer, songwriter and musician who travels under the stage name of Cozy Valentine.

A solo artist, she sings songs of love like T.C Boyle writes novels of life, without fear, without dilution. She tells of the harsh, heartfelt and fragile facts of romance’s reality with the same frank honesty that Chuck Palahniuk and Bret Easton Ellis employ to write the uncomfortable truths of machismo and insecurity. Her poetry of the heart defines the grit that forms the pearl. I have heard her sing live and have wept, wept uncontrollably and unashamedly at the truth of her sadness and for the sad truths of which she sings. Imagine pure love sung in the minor key of Jack Daniels, imagine tunes of the tarnished sadness of emotional reality strummed on a guitar strung with broken heartstrings, imagine tears of disappointment made diamonds of despair.

But also imagine hope, imagine a dogged, optimistic refusal to give up on the dream of the love that we all sense is possible. Indeed imagine a pure, fairytale princess who is trapped in the shallow, venal world that allows X factor to exist and who despite this knowingly, bravely bears the weight of that frustration and knowledge. If ever there was a Cinderella of our time, it is Cozy Valentine. If Edith Piaf had a 21st century sister, it would be Cozy Valentine. As cozy as Boudicca on a rampage and as close to the fluffy pink Hallmark card version of St. Valentine as Eros is to an AK 47 firing a dum-dum bullet to the heart, her music draws you in, strokes your hair, holds you tight, kisses you softly, warmly and passionately and then bites you hard on the lip so you never, never forget her.

We live in a sad and confused world where such words as ‘fame’ and ‘celebrity’ are imbued with a value, bestowed with a currency they do not deserve having no longer been earned by the honing of a raw talent to the point of mastery, to a level of excellence. For my money then contemporary fame and celebrity are a sham. The words that describe the true essence of value to me are artistry, talent, dedication, authenticity and honesty and in these Cozy Valentine has wealth beyond compare and deserves great praise for creating pure, beautiful, dark pearls of perfection in song.

Yours ever,

LibraDoodle.

(Cozy Valentine can be found at http://www.reverbnation.com/cozyvalentine)

A Seductive Business.

2010-02-09T06:57:00.009Z

Writing is such a seductive business. Or perhaps more accurately, writing is the business of seduction.

Such an exercise in blind faith. Although you don’t write for anyone in particular, with the possible exception of yourself, as you embark on the long journey of optimism that is a novel what you are really hoping for, truly longing for, is to be chosen. Chosen by an agent. Chosen by a publisher. Chosen from the thousands of other books that are published that month, that year, all lined up, shimmering on the shelves like nervous boys at a school dance.

The best that you can hope for is that one girl, one reader, will like your jacket from across the room, across the shop, will come over, pick you up and see what you have to say for yourself, like it enough to spend some more time with you, open you up and let you take her on a journey into the world that you have created for yourself, for her. All you need, artistically, is just that one reader, that one lover, that one girlfriend, one wife.

Of course the business part means that commercially you need to whore yourself out to as many hundreds or thousands as you can manage. Perhaps writing is the seduction of prostitution. For the brief time that you spend together you make someone feel special, make them laugh, make them cry, make them feel less alone in the world and then when the last page has been turned, you fold quietly away, leaving them to sleep, to return to their normal life. It’s perhaps no accident that authors, like prostitutes, are paid in advance for their wares.

But while you are together and she gets to know you, to explore you between the sheets of paper on which your heart is laid bare, your very soul exposed, that one reader is your entire world and if you’re lucky, you are theirs.

Yours,

LibraDoodle

The Brief Life of Oneword

2010-01-15T14:37:00.006Z

The following is a piece I wrote last year for the Society of Authors which they have kindly published in the Winter edition of their magazine The Author. I post it here for the record:

It was a grand plan; an idea so evolved, so ambitious and pioneering in its conception that what occurred over the next 9 years could hardly have been planned for, let alone expected. That one of the prime movers behind it had been the man who ‘invented’ Radio 1, that it had support from an industry that had never seen the like and that it embraced a new and exciting technology should all have played into its favour. But it was not to be.

The idea? In the words of said prime mover, Tim Blackmore MBE, the man that wrote the original application for the programme contract:

‘We wanted to create a commercial radio station that was more than just a jukebox. Commercial radio had not yet provided an intelligent speech station… I believe that would have been our achievement.”

That plan became the Digital Audio Broadcasting (DAB) station Oneword, which from May 2000 broadcast a range of content from serialisation of audio books to weekly publishing industry news, from film reviews to a unique thirty minute, daily author interview programme ‘Between the Lines’ that for some eight years was more than just my job, it became my life and my passion.

The team that had been formed to put the plan into action included professionals that were as inventive and keen as they were committed to the ideals of the new station. Not least Managing Director Ben Budworth, formerly the head of radio traffic report company Metro and Paul Kent, formerly Head of Readings for BBC Radio 4. Good people, solid people with impressive track records. People who knew and understood both the dynamics of arts programming and of radio’s commercial sensibilities and could apply their knowledge to the new station and the new technology.

In the year 2000 digital radio was a nascent form of broadcasting. At Oneword’s outset there were barely any DAB radios for sale. Few people had heard of DAB and understood what it was let alone owned a DAB set. Manufacturers were in a race to overcome various technical issues such as short battery life caused by the early DAB chip’s hunger for power. Digital One, the company responsible for erecting transmitters and to whom the stations paid hefty fees to use ‘their’ airwaves, were working furiously to extend the reach of the early service beyond the main motorway corridors. It was an exciting time, full of hope and optimism. It felt like a modern version of loading up a wagon and heading west across the plains and over the mountains. Pioneering stuff. At times one could imagine that the spirit of Marconi moved among us.

It was all part of Oneword’s plan though, that as the DAB industry grew, we would grow with it. The early days would give us time to try out new programming ideas, test the water and to slowly find our feet and our audience. In the beginning it worked well. We started to make some good programmes. A company called Pure started to make some good radios, not least the little pine box called the Evoke that soon became a highly desirable kitchen radio. Oneword won the first of its two Gold Sony Awards, the Oscars of British radio. It all looked as if the experiment might just work.

But soon after, the first of a string of problems hit. As Tim Blackmore, by then Oneword’s Chairman put it:

‘The take-up of DAB by its potential users was slower than had been anticipated, our most enthusiastic launch partner, Chivers Books, was bought by BBC Worldwide and with that sale we lost a major shareholder and a valued director… following our initiative, the BBC then planned Channel X which eventually emerged as BBC7 which with its guaranteed income was able to invest so much more than our resources would allow. The Chivers shareholding went to a Hong Kong based venture capital company who were bewildered by what they’d acquired and soon opted out.’

It was a hard time to be in the office. Suddenly all the joy and optimism had evaporated. All thoughts of our becoming the ‘biggest shop window for the publishing industry and it’s output” as Budworth put it at the time, were put on ice as we fought for survival against fleeing shareholders and stiff competition from the BBC. It is worthy of note that the BBC were later much criticised in a report for the Department of Culture, Media and Sport, by Tim Gardam. But the damage was done.

The trick in commercial radio is the commercial aspect. Oneword had set its stall out for listeners and slowly we were building a keen and loyal audience. Advertisers were another matter however. Media buyers, those gatekeepers of advertising revenue, were understandably slow to recommend that their clients spend their money on a new, little understood medium that had such small audiences compared to the more developed mainstream options. Even the publishing industry was unwilling to support what seemed to us to be a hugely effective medium for appealing their core market, and this was long before credit crunch hit. All this made Oneword highly dependent on the capital expenditure of its shareholders for it’s income and radio is expensive.

Oneword sustained its activities with a budget that barely made it into the “two commas’ category and the bulk of that was swallowed up with licence fee, transmission costs and such technical considerations. The little remaining went on office overheads and (very) modest salaries. With Chivers gone it couldn’t last and one fateful Friday afternoon Tim Blackmore and Simon Cole (MD of UBC, the majority shareholder) came to 19 Charing Cross Road to impart the bad news that redundancies would have to be made. It was painful. It was the end of the first chapter and the beginning of the second and, as it turned out, final phase.

Following a move to UBC’s offices in Marylebone and to a much smaller studio to save money, there was now a skeleton crew. Ben Budworth had gone as MD and been replaced by Simon Blackmore, Tim’s radio industry professional son and the inheritor of Oneword’s somewhat poisoned chalice. Paul Kent became a freelance programme director working part time. A much smaller team, with a much smaller budget, those that remained worked so hard to try and keep the spirit of Oneword alive in the hope that a rescue could be effected. UBC were covering costs on their own, a situation that couldn’t last for long. Soon enough a new partner was found in Channel 4 who made assurances that they wanted to expand into radio and that taking a 51% stake in Oneword would enable them not just to invest but to cross promote the station on screen. It all sounded hopeful. It began to seem that a hiccup had been cured and that Oneword could get back on track. But the assurances failed to become commitments. Channel 4 then pitched for and won the second, national commercial UK multiplex, a rival to Digital One’s multiplex on which Oneword remained, but without a sound economic future.

The harsh truth was now staring the station in the face. Simon Blackmore summarises it well:

“Through almost constant challenge and without enormous resource, the various teams at Oneword produced [prize-winning] output which both stimulated and enhanced the digital radio offering. It was a worthy competitor to anything offered by the BBC, and on a fraction of the resource. It was a station that attracted loyalty, press attention and revenues out of all proportion to its size. The fact that those things did not in the end add up to a business… is a matter of regret, but an inescapable truth.”

It would be easy to write of what could have been. A radio station that did for the publishing industry what most others do for the music industry; a true radio window for Britain’s enormous writing and publishing output. ‘Between the Lines,’ my own show, was listened to by so many who then told me of their joy in buying and reading the books that I’d discussed with their authors.

It all could have worked, if DAB had taken off faster, if the BBC hadn’t been allowed to start their own version, if UBC, that most loyal of shareholders, had had deeper pockets, if Channel 4 had stuck to their commitments, if profitability had been more of a short term possibility than a long term hope. If, if, if.

In Tim Blackmore’s email to me, summarising the history, he starts:

‘Looking back at the creation of Oneword I can’t help but feel a deep sadness…’

I know of authors, former listeners and literary festival attendees who come up to me and express the same sentiment. I know how they, Simon, Ben, Paul Kent and Tim feel. As the only staff member who was there constantly from the beginning to the end I feel it myself. Deeply. Still.

The Allure of Chanel

2009-12-11T10:33:00.018Z

When Jack Black sang “It’s a long way to the top, if you wanna rock and roll” in the 2003 film School of Rock, he knew of what he sang. That line, a perfect ohrwurm if ever there was one, wormed through my own ears yesterday evening as I headed to North London. It got slightly altered along the way to “It’s a long way up to Hampstead if you have to walk,” and indeed it is. Especially from Mortlake. On a cold December night.

Penury had forced me to take Shanks’s Pony to Keats’s House in this charming part of London as I had accepted an invitation to chair an event for Pushkin Press and Daunt Books. It was however to prove worth the shoe leather as something extraordinary happened.

The occasion was the launch of a new Pushkin title, The Allure of Chanel, originally written by Paul Morand and published in 1979 in French. Now available in an exquisite translation by Euan Cameron, it contains quite superb illustrations by none other than Karl Lagerfeld and photographs by Henri Cartier-Bresson and Jean Moral, to name but two. It tells the story of ‘Mademoiselle’ in her own words, as recounted to Morand over a number of days and weeks in 1946 when the writer and designer met in a hotel, the Badrutt’s Palace in St Moritz, Switzerland, awaiting post war calm to allow her return to France. Chanel was at this time unemployed, exiled and ‘waiting to become wealthy again.’ It was a difficult time for her, the sulphurous whiff of collaboration hanging about her, perhaps fittingly for the self styled “only volcano from the Auvergne that is not extinct.” It may be that feeling oppressed and unhappy, she chose this time to tell her story and to self-mythologise parts of it, especially her childhood years. Some believe this to be the case. I, however, am no expert on her and her life and cannot comment. What I can say is that it is a fascinating read and a wonderful insight into the mind and character of a force of nature, a pioneer of both couture and arguably feminism. And all this despite the fact that I'm probably not in the target demographic for the book, but a good story well told has universal appeal.

The evening was an enchanting one. Sitting next to an illuminated Christmas tree, in a beautiful room, in the former home of such an illustrious poet was inspirational. The 50 or so members of the audience were engaged with the conversation between Mr Cameron and myself and engaging with their questions and comments. There was a warmth to the proceedings, a literary conviviality as Cameron’s beautifully prepared piece on Morand and Chanel met with interest and approval. The publisher had flown in from New York and two of the doyens of Pushkin arrived by Eurostar. Richard Strange, the actor, musician and man of letters, one of the finest fellows I know (he once trashed an art gallery with Jack Nicholson) and who is possessed of charm, talent and extraordinary generosity was there, fresh from the film set of the latest Harry Potter film and with his brilliant wife and lovely daughter. The questions came and when neither Euan nor I had answers, other members of the audience offered their insights.

One of the joys of a smaller event is that it can be run less as a performance and more an open talking shop. One audience member, sitting in the front row, who gave her name as Emma, shared insights that belied her youth. As we delved deeper into Chanel’s life, she seemed to be possessed of yet more answers, more rejoinders, all delivered in a voice, an accent, as sweet and soft as crème Chantilly. I laughingly asked her “You’re too young to have known Coco Chanel, but I don’t suppose you’re in some way related… are you…?” She paused and looked at me. I thought she was insulted, that I had in some way ruined the evening for her and was half way through stumbling out a hurried, defusing, apology when she said “Not to Coco no, but my Great Aunt and her husband were two of Mademoiselle’s closest friends,”

Oh boy. Not only could you have heard a pin drop but you could almost feel and hear the goose bumps rising throughout the room. Emma’s great aunt and her husband are mentioned throughout the book and have a chapter devoted to each of them. One of Karl Lagerfeld’s illustrations is of Emma’s forebear wearing none other than an early ‘little black dress.’ It was an extraordinary moment of the sort that happens so occasionally at such events and is gloriously unforgettable when it does.

When at the beginning of this piece I said that something extraordinary happened, I may have slightly dissembled, for as if that wasn’t enough something else occurred. Sitting across the aisle from Emma, also in the front row, was a beguiling, elegant angel. Graceful, alluring and shining with calm intelligence, she was tall enough that when I stretched my legs out at one point, our toe-caps nearly touched and I swear a Michelangelo, Sistine chapel ‘spark of creation’ moment occurred. Whether she felt the same thing is as yet unknown. I therefore can’t write “but that’s another story.” Not yet at least.

So while it may not have been an evening of rock and roll, rock and roll was indeed present. Even when it is a 'long way up to Hampstead when you have to walk' and twice as far if you have to walk back, the return was on feet so much lighter than those that took me there. Chanel’s allure was indisputable. The allure of “The Allure of Chanel’ evening only goes to show that there is still romantic inspiration to be found at Keats’ House.

Yours,

LibraDoodle.

Kerala

2009-12-06T15:11:00.003Z

Imagine Kent, the garden of England as it used to be known, with its endless orchards, fields of hops and fecund woodland. Now turn the thermostat up to the mid thirty-degree mark, crank the humidity machine up to full and paint in a range of dramatic mountains. Add in the smell of woodsmoke, spices and aromatic cooking, then turn the volume up so that you can hear the gentle susurration of the cooling breeze through the tea plantations of the highlands or the rhythmic chug of marine engines as houseboats sluice their way across the coastal lakes and slowly a picture of Kerala begins to emerge. Kerala the fertile, Kerala the fragrant, Kerala the beautiful. Like Kent, but with the colour, contrast and volume turned to maximum.

This southwestern state of India is rapidly becoming the destination of choice for travellers of all tastes and budgets. They are not wrong. The variety of landscapes and cultures it has to offer are second to none, but so too is the range of accommodation. Homestays are becoming the newest ‘new big thing’ since eco-tourism - the two concepts are not unrelated – and they are playing a key role in the growth of tourism in the region.

On a recent three-centre tour I started in the highlands of Munnar, just west of the border that separates Kerala from Tamil Nadu and the centre of the tea growing industry, started in the 19^th century by Scottish planters. The air here, 6000 feet above sea level, is cool and clear. The roads wind and climb the hillsides giving glimpses of spectacular waterfalls one minute and the verdant green, hobbity, topiary of tea fields the next. The highest tea plantation in the world, the Kolukkumalai Tea Estate is here, just fifteen miles from the colourful, pungently aromatic, bustling centre of the little town of Munnar. Not a huge distance, but three hours by bouncing, lurching jeep up an impossibly vertiginous turnpiking track on the private estate. Worth every bruise and scrape of knee for the views from over 2km above sea level and for the purest, freshest tea it’s possible to drink.

Agriculture is the mainstay of the region and not just tea. Cedar Woods, the homestay that was my billet for two nights, is set in 75 acres of cardamom, vanilla, coffee and cocoa plantation. Nutmeg grows wild here, its pear shaped fruit falling and exploding on the ground to reveal the nutmeg within, wrapped in a red sheath that looks for all the world like a waxy, alien, lacework version of something that normally covers a Dutch cheese and which when dried is better known as mace. Cardamom curing houses dot the hillsides, the sweetly fragrant smoke hanging in the air like cathedral incense. Not for nothing is the adjacent homestay, an award-winning pepper plantation, named Spice Garden.

This is not a wealthy area. As the younger generation flock to Dubai and Abu Dhabi to find work in the hotels and restaurants, the pool of agricultural labour has diminished. A worker in the spice trade who five years ago would receive 60 rupees for a days work can now command 250 rupees. But the value of the spices they pick and process has not risen and so the owners of smallholdings are opening their homes to visitors to supplement their incomes. Warmly welcoming and eager to ensure that guests are spoiled with truly excellent home-cooked food, the hosts of these clean and comfortable family homes manage to be superbly hospitable, attentive and informative without becoming intrusive. They have taken the adage “Invite a guest, send back a friend” to their hearts.

Six hours westwards along pitted roads where monkeys wait for handouts on the verge is Pala. Larger than Munnar and straddling the river Meenachil, it is a lively little town set in the rolling hills of Kerala’s mid country. Here the landscape is more tropical. Palm trees abound. The humidity is turned up another notch or two. The Indian street orchestra of constant car horns and puttering auto-rickshaws (three wheeled Vespa scooters with bench seats and flat bed rears for loading with wood, families, furniture or fare-paying passengers) is louder here, more cacophonous but somehow pleasantly and curiously calmingly so. Outside the town are stands of rubber trees, private groves that support entire extended families one of which were to be my hosts.

The Meenachil Enclave is the heart of a small industry and a good example of the diversity that one family relies upon for its sustenance. It is also properly luxurious, opulent even. The house looks like a Thai temple. Beautifully ornate wood panelling, doors and carvings rise up from the pristine lawns on which are dotted bird cages alive with budgerigars, love birds and in one three very impressive eagles. The marbled interior, with its central atrium open to the sky so that rain feeds the water feature, would not look out of place in a five star hotel anywhere in the world. The bedrooms, crammed with dark wood furniture, designer bathrooms and skin-caressing linens, belie the fact that this is not just a family home but an ancestral home.

Rubber is the mainstay. The result of the mornings tapping brought to the rear of the house for processing, rolling and finally smoking in the lofts above. The cured sheets of latex, thick bathmats of browned rubber are then stored, hung over wooden dowels until the market price meets with the owner’s approval. The rear of the house is where the chickens, rabbits and guinea pigs (oh yes) are kept in hutches or roam the pasture. No pets these though, but good organic ingredients for superb Keralan cuisine. The byre hold cows for milk. There is a pool. There is family warmth. There is impeccable hospitality and gracious attention to one’s comfort. There is even gold cutlery.

Finally to the coast, not that of the Indian Ocean however, but of Lake Vembanad and the town of Alleppey, the Venice of the East.

Here there is a delightful breeze and life takes on the slower pace that proximity to large bodies of water instils. Here there are endless paddy fields of rice. Here there is Vembanad House, a family home surrounded on three sides by water, a spiritual retreat and a balm to the world weary. Here there is lobster fishing from wooden canoes that leave from steps at the bottom of the garden, where clams can be raked from the lake bottom and cooked for you over open fires under waving palms. This is where time can be spent gently, swinging in a hammock, visiting the Church of St Mary in Champakullam, a site of Christian worship since St Thomas founded a church here in AD 52. Here the beautiful husband and wife owners and their wonderful small son will play cricket with you, cook you exquisite Ayurvedic inspired meals to be eaten at night under the star-studded velvety skies by the lakeshore and then treat you to a captivating Kathakali performance by masters of this oldest of theatre forms. Here there is India, glorious India. A little like Kent and at the same time nothing like Kent at all.

Paul Blezard stayed at the following Mahindra Homestays locations:

Cedar Woods, Munnar, Kerala with Jean and Anita Jayan

Meenachil Enclave, Kottayam, Kerala with Jose and Mariamma Kuruvinakunnel.

Vembanad House, Alleppey, Kerala with ‘Bala’, Sandhya and Dhanush Balakrishnan.

Sits Vacant - a physical description as much as a column heading.

2009-11-18T14:37:00.006Z

I must firstly apologise for the hiatus since my last post. Normally tradition would dictate that I explain it away by citing pressure of work, but the eagle-eyed among you will know that I cannot claim such.

For those who haven’t read or heard, I was recently made redundant from my post as literary editor of The Lady magazine. Sadly it was a shorter-lived position than I’d imagined and I’m really very sad not to be still in harness there, as the book pages that I had instigated seemed to find great favour with readers. Still, such are the vicissitudes of commerce, not to mention office politics and personal taste.

My reasons for not having posted anything for a while are thus to do with the troublesome issue of finding work and it is this ticklish matter that is exercising me as I write this.

I’ve just returned from an author tour with Anthony Horowitz, helping him launch the eighth Alex Rider novel to excited fans up and down the country. It was a fun tour, wonderfully organised by Walker Books and both the Walker team and Anthony himself were surprised to find that I’m, now what’s the term? Ah yes, that’s it, redundant. Ugly word. Ugly situation. They are not alone.

Many kind people who know what I do and how I do it, have been kind enough to say generous things about my ability to chair events, host a radio show, empathise with authors and enthuse readers. It’s lovely to hear such compliments of course and I’m grateful for them but the problem is that they don’t pay the bills. Such is the parlous state I find myself in that I’ve even taken the extraordinary step of posting a notice in the Eye Need column of Private Eye in the hope that some kind benefactor will take pity. It feels a bit like pan-handling in the street only slightly warmer and more anonymous. (until I wrote that line, that is)

When Oneword Radio died there were those who assumed that I’d be snapped up. I’d interviewed over 1600 authors, many of whom so enjoyed the experience they were more than happy to return. The audience loved the show and it played no small role in the station winning the Gold Sony Award for its category no fewer than two years running. It had led to my being asked to chair innumerable events at innumerable literary festivals here and abroad. They're hard work and great fun to do, but no replacement for a proper job. But no offers came. It seemed that the world of book broadcasting is a small one and a yet smaller number of names have it all sewn up.

The Literary Editor job was the result of many months of lobbying and despite having no magazine experience, let alone in a weekly publication, was one that I relished. Recommending good books to readers and supporting and encouraging authors and publishers I admire has after all been my mission for the last ten plus years. However as I’ve explained, it was not to last, despite my having been described by some as ‘taking to it like lamb to mint sauce.” Sacrificial lamb in this case.

So then I post this by way of an SOS. If anyone has any ideas how I might exercise what little talent I am possessed of do let me know. If you own a TV station, radio station or magazine so much the better! Failing that if anyone needs quality content for a website or radio station then I’ve an archive of 1600 interviews with the great and the good that I’ll happily trade for root crops!

Yours (in need of a canoe, let alone a paddle)

LibraDoodle.

Creative Writing

2009-10-27T16:23:00.008Z

I was recently asked by a friend of mine if I could recommend some creative writing courses and since being made redundant a couple of weeks ago I’ve finally found time to do it. I post them here as they may be of some use to those of you quivering to pen the Great British Novel:

Despite Hanif Kureishi's possibly highly accurate contention that creative writing courses are the 'new mental hospitals', I've compiled the following list of those that I rate. Right, here goes:

1. The Faber Academy

For those who want to really take their writing seriously, this is the place to go. Where else can you be tutored by John Sutherland in the subtle art of memoir writing, coached by Marcel Theroux and Erica Wagner on the strategy of writing or be instructed by Tracey Chevalier on the ticklish issues that come with writing historical fiction? All in all Faber offers perhaps the highest level of targeted course-based CW education. Not cheap, of course, but feel that quality.

http://www.faberacademy.co.uk/?gclid=CJjmq_fC3Z0CFVtm4wodIHGrOA

2. The Arvon Foundation

Arvon, as it is popularly known, offers residential creative writing courses in locations from Yorkshire to Devon, Shropshire to Inverness-shire. Like Faber they cover all aspects of creative writing from poetry to screen-plays, novels to short stories and attract a fine and established cadre of published, successful writers to tutor. Indeed if success can be measured by the number of students who have gone on to be published then Arvon is impressive indeed.

http://www.arvonfoundation.org/p3.html

3. West Dean College

Set in beautiful surroundings in Chichester, West Sussex, WDC runs a number of CW short courses which are tutored by two successful writers, wife and husband team Kate and Greg Mosse. Greg is something of a peripatetic CW tutor and also runs courses through the SouthBank Centre. Kate has written two bestsellers as well as being one of the founding mothers of the Orange prize. Needless to say they both know what they're talking about. They are currently running a competition giving the winner the opportunity to write undisturbed in the rather luxurious surroundings. I’m entering, why don’t you? Good luck!

https://www.westdean.org.uk/CollegeChannel/ShortCourses/Courses/CreativeWriting.aspx

4. Ty Newydd

Ty Newydd is the national writers’ centre of Wales and is set in an inspiring wooded location with views over Cardigan Bay. They attract tutors of the calibre of Patrick Gale and Tiffany Murray both of whom are fine writers and damn fine teachers. That they can also attract Kevin Crossley-Holland tutoring on myth, Horatio Clare on life writing and Carol Anne Duffy on poetry gives you an idea of just how good they are. They also have a lovely pay-by-instalment plan for the more impecunious author-to-be.

http://www.tynewydd.org/english/home.html

5. The London School of Journalism

Although unsurprisingly focussed on mainstream journalism courses there is a very good short CW course tutored by Andrew Taylor which covers the basic building blocks of writing creatively. The next of these three-day courses is due to run in March 2010.

http://www.short-courses.co.uk/creative.php

6. The Open College of the Arts

An educational charity devoted to the arts, the OCA runs a number of rather good correspondence courses that encompass basic beginner themes to more advanced material for those who wish to hone already practiced skills. Each of the courses is 12 months long and requires some 8 hours per week of study.

http://www.oca-uk.com/distance-learning/writing-3-advanced

7. University of East Anglia

The Ur-course of creative writing and still the most highly regarded. For those who want to do it properly then nowhere can be better than here. Since it's founding in 1970-71 by Angus Wilson and Malcolm Bradbury this MA course has seen a hugely impressive list of former alumni go on to be the bestselling, award-winning writers of at least two generations; Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro, Anne Enright, Tash Aw, Richard Beard, Andrew Cowan, Joe Dunthorne, Andrew Miller, Owen Sheers, Tracy Chevalier, Trezza Azzopardi, Panos Karnezis, Suzannah Dunn and Susan Elderkin to name but... well, you get the point.

http://www.uea.ac.uk/creativewriting

8. The Writers' Workshop

Run by writers for writers the WW offers a fairly wide range of courses in London, Manchester, Glasgow and Oxford and covering the intro courses for complete beginners to seriously advanced stylistic stuff for the seasoned pro. They have one of the best teams of editors who between them have been responsible for winning damn near every award going.

http://www.writersworkshop.co.uk/staff.shtml

Happy writing.

Yours,

LibraDoodle.

Good Story Tellers vs Good Writers – will they ever be reconciled?

2009-10-12T15:27:00.006+01:00

A little musing I wrote a few weeks ago but couldn't find a home for:

The six-year wait is over. The fanfare has faded. The circus has left town and bookshelves across the nation heave with the latest offering from Mr Dan Brown.

The Lost Symbol is his first book since The Da Vinci Code. Within hours of its publication 300,000 copies were sold in the UK alone, more than any other hardback novel for adults since Gutenberg invented the moveable type printing press. Of the six and a half million copies printed, a million have been bought worldwide already. The e-book sales have broken yet more records and the pirates were hard at work offering hooky copies just a day after it was launched. So surely all those people handing over their hard earned credit crunch cash can’t be wrong, it must be brilliant mustn’t it?

Well actually no. It’s rubbish. It’s poorly written, cast-iron clunky and with more italicised words to stress the really important bits in case you miss them than I’ve ever seen used in a single book. In short it’s has all the verve, grace and charm of a tractor, making it to literature what Massey Ferguson is to Ossetra caviar, utterly unrelated. If great writing could be likened to a gazelle, this is an ass and Brown’s fans will absolutely love it because he gives them all they’ve ever wanted from him. And that is a corking story.

I must confess that despite my innate snobbery and the offence to any critical sensibilities I may possess part of me enjoys what Brown and his ilk write. Jeffery Archer’s Kane and Abel is for me an example of masterful story telling. In fact I’d go so far as to say that Archer was one of the great storytellers of the late 20^th century and I offer up as proof his collection of short stories A Quiver Full of Arrows. It’s just a shame that it’s so badly written. Another is Stieg Larsson who was a storytelling genius. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is magnificent – we shall perhaps gloss over the original title, which translates as Men Who Hate Women - the characters he created, the journeys he takes us on are unforgettable. But to tell the story he uses words as pile drivers, smashing the reader over the head to better drive it home. These authors are the Thors rather than the Freyas, Vulcan not Venus; the writers for whom the story is all and on whom the artistry of language is lost or at least temporarily misplaced.

And herein lies the rub. It’s the old Manichaean divide. Those authors that win the prizes yearn for the sales and those that achieve the sales wonder why they never get the prizes. It would be that never the twain shall meet but there is, on the micrometer thin dividing line between the two camps, that rare breed of authors that can do both; tell a great story and use language as art to do so rather than merely using words like the pieces of an IKEA flat pack, to be loosely bolted together to form something that looks like literature. Those few, win the awards and sell the copies but, boy are they few.

The corollary is that there are some writers whose prose is so beautiful, so a pointe; they are such gifted surgeons of the lexicon that you would entrust them with your last vowel. But they can’t tell a story for toffee. Or to be more precise they once told a good story so well that they set the bar too high for themselves and could never quite reach that dizzying height again. The one-book-wonders. Like bands whose first albums harness all the vivid teenage, experiencing-life-for-the-first-time energy, angst, love and hate, and sell many millions but then disappear when the second album turns out to be a squib, the energy having all been used up. One feels sympathy for such authors and often loyalty. We buy the books and read them, but more in hope than expectation, for we know the worst of it. They will write lovely prose for the rest of their lives but they will forever be trapped as the authors without a story.

So while it is possible to be a master storyteller and a good writer it’s also rare. Perhaps we expect too much. After all we wouldn’t expect a street fiddler to be able to play Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E minor so beautifully that it bring tears to our eyes but we’ll happily throw some coins in his violin case and thoroughly enjoy his rendition of something by the Gypsy Kings.

Perhaps that is ultimately Mr Brown’s fate, that of an author-busker. For having read his latest volume I’ve worked out why he’s so popular, it’s that he makes stupid people feel intelligent, at that he’s a bleedin’ genius. Indeed ‘volume’ is a good word for his work as it signifies the space his writing takes up with no reference to mass; no artistic heft there, no depth to his work you see, no gravitas. But he does have a very large violin case for all the coin he’s collected so that’s alright then.

Yours,

LibraDoodle.

Cross Training

2009-10-10T10:08:00.002+01:00

Quite literally as I write this, I am on board a train heading west to chair an event at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. It’s a murky day beyond the window, all autumnal browns and muted greens under zinc-grey skies and drizzle. Not much to look at then and so, having finished the book I was reading, my attention has focussed on my fellow travellers.

Across the aisle from me is a long haired fellow in his mid forties who seems to be living under the misguided impression that it is possible to be a Goth while having grey straggly hair, appalling dress sense – largely a collection of five hoodies of various sizes and colours, all worn one atop the other – and a fascination with the inner geography of his nasal passages. While somewhat unpleasant, it’s his life and none of my affair, but what does get my goat and has for most of the hour and a half since we left Paddington is the appalling and regular sound of him clearing his sinuses. It’s been happening every 5 minutes now. I can almost set my watch by it. He seems completely oblivious to the fact that the honking, grating, echoey noise he makes while doing it has led to raised eyebrows, sighs of indignation and I’ll swear that one woman looked at the little knife she’s using to peel an orange with more than necessary longing the last time Goth-man honked. Frankly he’d almost deserve to have a lung punctured if it would stop him from making that horrible noise and us from feeling cross. I’m minded to ask him to stop but something’s holding me back. It would be easier if I could pass him a pack of tissues as a subtle hint but I don’t have any.

Some years ago now I found myself in a similar quandary. I had boarded the train, heading back to London from chairing another literary event, and had found myself the sole occupant of a table. A rare and special moment this as it allows one to spread out papers while writing and generally treat the place as one’s own. It was not to be however as just as the train pulled out of the station, a chap walked past all the vacant seats in the near empty carriage and plonked himself down directly opposite me. I nodded a quizzical but partially welcoming hello as I attempted to take up less space on the table and went about my work.

He had the air of an avid walker or rambler but without any of the equipment I normally associate with such fine folk. No rucksack, no binoculars, no woolly hat or stick. Indeed he wasn’t carrying anything at all. Not even a map. He was wearing an army surplus camouflage jacket with jeans beneath and what looked to be size 16 trainers on his feet and it was the footwear that was to prove the problem. Or rather the footwear’s contents. For he took his trainers off and released a stench would have felled lesser men. The cheesy, vinegary, sulphurous cloud that rose up from beneath the table would surely have contravened all the United Nation’s carefully drafted resolutions on the use of chemical and biological warfare. I have – and I’m not proud of it, but it’s true – smelled corpses that were less revolting. Truly this made me almost retch up my kidneys on the spot, even the perfume of rampant gangrene would have been preferable. I didn’t quite know what to do. Should I ask him to replace his footwear? Should I just move and forsake my table? I didn’t want to of course but in the event, and fearing him to be mad, packed up my things and moved on, feeling cowardly and confused.

Perhaps on reflection, regular flamboyant sinus clearing isn’t as bad as the alternative.

Yours,

LibraDoodle

The Importance of Being Nice

2009-10-08T14:42:00.002+01:00

Here’s a piece of mine that the delightful and highly recommendable Mien Magazine have just accepted for inclusion.

The Importance of Being Nice

One of the great brands of Britain, up there with Marmite, Foyles and Bristol Motors, has as its logo a depiction of a dead lion with a cloud of bees rising above it and a legend beneath stating that ‘out of the strong came forth sweetness.’ You will recognise the quote as being from chapter 14 of the Book of Judges and the brand as Tate and Lyle’s Golden Syrup. But what’s the relevance of this to the subject of being nice?

Nice seems to have become unfashionable of late. While the very word encompasses politeness, kindness, thoughtfulness and decency, it also hints at a gentle affability, an amiable pleasantness and there’s little enough of that around. We live in a world where grasping insecurity and aspirational greed has all but won the day, where self is the overriding concern and where rights take precedence over responsibilities. All this works as acid corrosion on the unwritten contract of reciprocal humaneness that is the essence of nice.

Nice has had to put up with some fierce criticism over the years. There’s a Dutch proverb which states that ‘too nice is neighbour’s fool’, even Dag Hammarskjöld, the second Secretary General of the United Nations once commented that ‘It’s easy to be nice, even to an enemy – from lack of character.’ And here’s where the golden syrup comes into it because I believe that the Dutch and Dag were wrong, that niceness is actually grossly misunderstood and as result completely undervalued.

Niceness takes strength, moral fibre and confidence in one’s self to exhibit and enact. It is not an act of cowering weakness to be nice but the action of the evolved and compassionate. Bullies are nasty because they are weak, threatened and insecure. Rudeness is generally the default stance of the arrogant and thoughtless who care not one jot about their fellow man. Even the famed and over used Jimmy Durante quote “Be nice to people on your way up because you’ll meet them on the way down” completely misses the spirit of nice which is as close to altruism as is possible, doing the right thing because it is the right thing to do, not for any reward or recognition. Certainly not as any hedge against future descent. You see you can’t really fake nice. Nice is as nice does and much like honesty, although we are disposed to be tolerant to its simulacra when we see or hear them, we certainly recognise its true presence on some basic, hardwired emotional level when it manifests itself.

Nice is often not easy. It has a morality of its own which is supererogatory. It’s the quiet, persistent bell in your head that when heard demands that you act, often not only because it is the right thing to do – we’ve all walked away from such situations in our lives – but because to not act would play on our consciences. Nice is therefore demanding, a self imposed personal challenge that when met and met well can enhance our feeling of self-worth, that warm glow of having made the world a better place in some small way. It’s not the reason for being nice, of course, that wouldn’t be nice, but it is a secondary benefit, a modest, welcome reward.

And that gets to the heart of the importance of nice. No one should be above morality and certainly not the morality of nice. Bullies should feel weak and insecure until they learn to be nice. The arrogant should have their rudeness reflected back at them until they understand the enduring power of nice. Nice is the domain of the highly evolved; perhaps the highest expression of the art of community living and of course with niceness comes an understanding and tolerance of the weakness of others, because to be otherwise wouldn’t be nice.

And in case none of the above convinces you, perhaps this will; it surely can’t be an accident that the regional capital of Provence isa city in the south of France so good they named it Nice and that my mother brought me up to understand that while it’s nice to be important, it’s more important to be nice.

Queueing - an obituary.

2009-09-17T14:30:00.001+01:00

Britain is a small island, one in which the population has exploded by some 50% in as many years. Politeness is not only the code word for the repression of rage, violence and selfish impulses of all hues, it is also one of the key national traits. The old joke that runs ‘how do you tell an Englishman in a crowd? When you step on his foot he apologises to you,’ once spoke volumes about a nation that was brought up to mind its p’s and q’s of which it is the queues that have given me cause for misery of late.

In 1941(the year that is, not a hitherto unknown precursor novel to 1984) George Orwell wrote that ‘the English are not gifted artistically’ and that they are ‘… not intellectual. They have no gift for abstract thought.’ I believe him to have been wrong on both counts. But he might have added that we do have a practical facility for happily rubbing along on this crowded island and on this issue I would have agreed with him. For nowhere is this facility more visible, nowhere can there be a more startlingly simple application of this concept than in the British ability to form an orderly queue. At bus stops, for trains and in the post office this idiot-proof form of social respect, of British sense of fair play and decorum acted out. I realise that I write this as a keen but amateur observer of the human condition as it pertains to a London, metropolitan perspective. But what happens in the capital, unlike Las Vegas, tends not to stay in the capital but leaks out to the nation as a whole.

Daily I see a half-hearted attempt at what might be considered to be a form of queuing, as if some vestigial national memory of correct behaviour exists to pull on our conscience. Someone will stand by a bus stop for example and in time people will join from behind in the traditional manner. But not in any ordered sense as I used to understand it. Smokers will stand to one side as if nodding to other queue members’ right to not breathe their exhaust gases. Someone’s mobile phone will ring and in the course of the conversation they will wander off and then, too embarrassed to rejoin their place directly, will hover somewhere around the region of the queue that they once claimed as their own. It doesn’t quite adhere to the ‘form an orderly queue’ ethos, but it’s pretty close.

Until the bus arrives that is and then everything breaks down. Mothers with children will assume that they have priority, as will the more elderly or those less able. They will fight and struggle between themselves, vying for comparative concession and in the chaos those younger and more able will seize the opportunity for themselves and leap on board. In the melee rudeness occurs, resentments are created, something gets lost and a little piece of Britain dies.

The Englishman in the joke is now as likely to reach for a vulgarity as he is for a phone with which to call his lawyer. It is thus my onerous duty to mark the passing of the queue.

So farewell then, dear queue, your life was long and noble. But it has passed and with the passing a part of all of us who claim Britishness has gone with it. You will be missed greatly and remembered fondly.

If you have been, thanks for reading.

Yours,

LibraDoodle

The Good, The Bad and The Da Vinci Code

2009-09-03T22:34:00.001+01:00

In conversation recently I was asked why I only recommend books that I like. It slightly stumped me at the time as I thought that was the whole point of recommendation, to impart to someone else one’s own love or enthusiasm for something in the hope that it will also bring them joy or pleasure. Rarely if ever do holiday guides say “oooh don’t come here, it’s horrible” or restaurant guides say “this restaurant serves the most appalling filth I’ve ever eaten.” There are of course exceptions. Shock columnists out to make a name for themselves or occasions when something is so truly appalling that it becomes comment worthy. But the general aim, as I understand it, is to empower, to inform and to enthuse.

Some time later I then wondered how such recommendations speak of what we consider to be good. How do we decide “good” from “bad?” All the books that I recommend to you I do so because I have read them and enjoyed them. I have thought about why they were “good” and tried to convey that in the reviews you see opposite. But it is personal taste. It is subjective. You, of course, may disagree with me vehemently and consider that I’ve made you waste your time reading a book you loathed. It happens. Someone once recommended The Da Vinci Code to me saying that it was the “most amazing book I’ve ever read.” I couldn’t even finish the first chapter without wanting to throw the appallingly written, clumsily plotted pile of ordure to the wall before taking it outside, setting fire to it, scattering the ashes to the four winds and then washing my hands in sulphuric acid to remove the soiling effect it had had on my skin. In short I loathed something that a friend loved. It was to my mind a “bad” book. Of course my argument was somewhat shaken when said book became a huge international bestseller read by countless millions and spawning rather a decent film. But it doesn’t change what I thought and indeed still think of that book. It simply means that the millions of people that read it and “loved” it are just plain wrong!

There are of course lots of books I haven’t enjoyed. Some just don’t grab me but I know are highly regarded by others. Some I didn’t understand. Some are just badly written or ill thought out and I don’t see why I should recommend that you invest your time and effort in something that the author couldn’t be bothered to fully invest their time and effort in.

I feel that there’s little point in telling someone that they won’t enjoy something, because they just might. Better surely to explain what you have enjoyed in the hope that they enjoy it too. But then I was brought up to believe that ‘if you have nothing good to say, say nothing.’ Except where The Da Vinci Code is concerned. Of course.

If you have been, thanks for reading.

Yours,

LibraDoodle

London Literature Festival blogs... with added zombies... and a recipe!

2009-07-17T16:24:00.009+01:00

For those who couldn't attend the London Literature Festival in person and who didn't realise that there was a whole web-presence for it, I here post the entirety of my submissions. They're in reverse order, (most recent at the top) so you may wish to start at the bottom.

If you'd like to catch up and see what else was going on then follow this link http://litandspoken.southbankcentre.co.uk/posts/

Have fun.

Yours,

LibraDoodle.

London Litfest Blogs

17^th July

A literature festival? In London?

Derived from the Middle English, festive, via Old French and Medieval Latin festivalis, from Latin festivus, in turn from festus and with its roots in the Indo-European dhēs, the word festival conjures many images, of lavish banquets certainly; of a community and communities coming together in celebration; of times of jointly enjoyed joyousness and rejoicing. It is a word that brings to mind mutual merriment, eating and drinking, fun and storytelling.

A literature festival should thus be a banquet of books and of those who write them, read them, publish them, sell them, buy them and love them; a coming together of the various tribes of the word; a jamboree of and for the tellers of tales. And it is the tales and the storytelling that are the key factors here.

Books themselves are of course wonderful; from quotidian containers of necessary information to treasured objets that are adored, collected and venerated as art forms in their own right. But while the book as an article is to be admired it is merely the plate on which the food is served. When we speak of cuisine it is the work of the chef we have in mind, however much we appreciate and admire the art of the china-ware. A literature festival should celebrate those chefs-des-mots, those whose artistry and ability in story-telling is served on the plate of the page.

London has played host to many inchoate literature, literary and book festivals over the years. But none of them have actually quite stuck. There is of course much competition for attention in London. Every night in this cultural and cultured capital there is a menu of artistic endeavour that almost defies selection. It is also a big place and if a festival is to work it has to have a heartland, somewhere that the community that makes the festival can call home. Multi-centred festivals almost never work; they defy the very nature, the very essence of ‘coming together’ that defines festive sentiment.

So a literature festival in London? Fraught with difficulties, as many before now have found.

But hold on. The last two weeks have seen something rather curious happen.

It seems that a heartland has been found and founded in the Southbank Centre. For a fortnight there has been real sense of community among the authors, organisers and audiences who have contributed to and attended a fascinatingly diverse sixty plus events. Across generation gaps, across cultures and across tables, over food, over drink and over time I have seen new friendships being made and old friendships being renewed. I have watched audiences laugh and cry, get angry and been made happy, be inspired and be questioned by philosophers and scientists, poets and authors, singers and players, adults and children. In short I have seen a diverse group of communities come together, form a whole new community and feast on a veritable banquet of stories in all their forms.

The people who made all this happen have been mentioned in previous posts and I’ll spare their blushes here, but I will tell you this: London now has a Literature Festival worthy of the title, a proper literature festival with a beating heart, a good literature festival with a great sense of community. It has in Southbank a true centre, a cathedral for the celebration of stories. In only its third year something remarkable has happened and the fire - so often found at the heart of any gathering of warmth and integrity– has truly caught and it can only be a matter of time before the smoke signals are seen and that it becomes ‘word-famous’ and world famous.

Yes you read that right, but I’ll write it again; at last London has a Literature Festival, it is the London Literature Festival and it is indeed a capital thing.

As ever, if you have been, thanks for reading.

14^th July

GLOBAL POETRY SYSTEM – COMING SOON

POSTED ON JULY 14, 2009 BY AMITGPS

Global Poetry System is almost with us. The team and I are now closing down on the final stages of the website development, and it’ll soon launch live to the public.

In case you hadn’t heard, GPS is an online map, which users will be able to mark and flag with uploads of photographs, written words, video, and sound recordings, that convey the poetry of a place.

You can find poetry everywhere. It’s not just in books. There is always something poetical about the different places we find ourselves in and the experiences we have there. Soon you’ll be able to capture it and then tell the world where you were, by flagging it on the GPS map.

Paul Blezard has captured the poetry that’s recently been pulsating through the place we call Southbank Centre in his poem ‘A Word Album of the London Literature Festival 2009’. This will be one of the first entries on the GPS map, proudly flagged at SE1 8XX. Here it is!

Festival feasting, literary leanings

Conrad, Coleridge, Colethorpe

Kureishi and the ‘Caine’. 

Prizes for writing, classroom creativity 

Miller, Mosse, Mieville, 

Arundhati Roy.

Word worriers, word warriors 

Moon walkers, smooth talkers

 Aldrin is a buzz

and Dwan is Beckett’s new ‘Not I’.

We say, Sissay, 

we all scream for Sissay 

Artist in residence

Poetical in temperament 

Pushing back the membrane 

Come and feast your mind.

11^th July

Event Chairing continued

Some posts ago, as part of the intermittent series on chairing events at literary festivals, you were promised an insight into what happens when one of the authors can’t attend their own event. Please forgive the delay, but here it now is.

Having been asked to stand in for Rachel Holmes, the Head of Literature and Spoken Word at Southbank Centre, and chair the Mama Africa event with Brian Chikwava and Petina Gappah, it became apparent the night before that there was a problem.

Petina had discovered that despite her best efforts, she was not going to receive a visa in time. It seemed that urgency and priority were losing out to bureaucracy and checks despite the fact that as well as being an author, Petina is a high profile, highly regarded, Zimbabwean lawyer who has a permanent job in one of the wealthiest nations of the world (Switzerland) and who is highly unlikely to trouble the resources of the UK taxpayer. The reasons for the delay, far from being sinister, were rather more prosaic. The UK consulate, it seems, now outsources such applications to a private company who have their own pace and procedure, one that cannot be affected by human reason or, come to that, humane reasons.

So, the double bill in the programme now sadly reduced to a single bill with chairer, (sic. See earlier post) some quick footwork was required to be able to put on a show that would at least attempt to justify the price of a ticket. The starting point was that it would be introduced by Rachel H, who would explain the situation, apologise for it (despite it being beyond her control) and offer any audience member who so wished, a refund. Very decent behaviour on the part of Southbank, I thought and somewhat at odds from the music-world equivalent where certain lead singers seem to just shout ‘you’re not getting your f***ing money back’ when the sound packs up!

So, the show went on and as any decent chair would, I took it as a challenge to try to ensure that no one took up the refund offer.

Now the key to this revised programme was Brian Chikwava, who not only is a star author, but was also a star human on the day. He’s not the biggest fan of reading aloud from his work, but when the situation was explained to him, he instantly understood that it would make for a better event if he were to read, rather than he and I talking for 45 minutes and then opening up to questions from the floor.

So we had a plan. He and I would discuss the themes of Harare North, the inspiration behind it, the origin of the extraordinary and compelling voice that he wrote it in and suchlike. He would then read an extract. We would riff for a few more minutes and then, some 40 minutes in, we would take questions from the floor. And so it was or thereabouts; a quick fix to a problem. Heavily reliant on the graciousness of the author I grant you, but the show went on, Brian was funny, generous and thoughtful, the questions came thick and fast from the audience and were brilliant in range and depth and to my knowledge, no-one asked for their money back. Or maybe Rachel just is too kind to tell me.

If you have been, thanks for reading.

11^th July

The Austen Industry.

There had been chatter earlier this week that this event might be too “Austen fluffy”; that despite my pride in being asked to chair a panel comprised of Claire Harman, Deborah Moggach and Gurinder Chadha there might be prejudice against the author of the set-texts on so many school curricula around the world.

So employing some sense while being aware of the sensibility of the occasion, I thought I would introduce an edgy theme and set about the task with electrified relish.

Oh fool that I am. But in my defence, how could I know that the author of Jane’s Fame – How Jane Austen Conquered the World would herself introduce themes that included the role of Austen’s work in the defence of fetishist pornography? I could tell you of this man’s felled spark.

The big secret that I mentioned in an earlier post, is that in the remarkably short time available I’d not only managed to contact the publisher of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (the classic Regency Romance — now with ultraviolent zombie mayhem), the latest, smash hit Austen outing, but through the incredibly helpful Melissa Monachello there, had been able to field a few brief questions to Jason Rekulak – the Editorial Director of publisher Quirk Books – and to Seth Grahame-Smith – the author. That they were so comprehensive and speedy in their replies is due entirely to Melissa M’s powers of persuasion.

So without further ado, without leaving you on a cliff-hanger badly, so to speak, the following is the entire Q & A email that dropped into my inbox. My thanks to Melissa M, Jason R and Seth G-S to whom I am extremely grateful. Needless to say, ‘emma’ fan. (right, is that all six novels mentioned? I think so, so that’s quite enough of that – Ed)

1. Paul Blezard – How did the concept of Jane Austen and zombies as a ‘fusion fiction’ first come about?

From Jason Rekulak, editorial director:

I’d always wanted to do a mash-up of a famous literary novel – I thought it would be funny to do a “new and improved” version of a classic that kids are forced to read in high school. So I made a list of classic novels that were published before 1923 (these are all safely in public domain). Then I made a second list of elements which could enhance these novels –pirates, ninjas, robots, monkeys, and so forth. Then I started to connect entries on the two columns with lines. When I drew a line between “Pride and Prejudice” and “Zombies,” I knew I had my title, and it was really easy to envision how the book could work. I was forced to read P&P in high school, and I’d seen “Dawn of the Dead” a dozen times, so it was easy to imagine how a funny writer could merge elements of both. So then I called the funniest writer I knew—Seth Grahame-Smith—and we were off and running.

2. Paul Blezard – What (if any) responsibility was there felt to be in approaching the works of such a global literary ‘brand’ with such an idea.

From Jason Rekulak, editorial director:

Our responsibility to Austen was to stay true to her original plotline. The book is about 85% of Austen’s original text and 15% zombies. To be honest, Quirk wasn’t sure how the public would react to adding zombies to one of Austen’s most beloved works. There have definitely been criticisms to what we have done, but it seems most people truly do enjoy the zombie mayhem—and on a global scale. The book has been translated into 17 languages. At the same time, we feel we have introduced others to her work. Over and over, we’ve heard people say, “I would never read Austen. But ‘Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?’ I could get into reading this version!”

3. Paul Blezard – What does it speak of Austen’s value that Pride and Prejudice was the work selected for zombie-addition?

From Jason Rekulak, editorial director:

Austen is probably one of the most popular deceased author of the past two decades. Her books have been made into various movies and miniseries. Even Austen herself has become the subject of movies and books. So yes, we knew that” Pride and Prejudice” had a built-in audience. However, as I had said we weren’t sure if we were going to completely alienate the Austen fans. Some Austen fans were appalled by what we did, and others had a sense of humor about it.

4. Paul Blezard – Why/how was Seth chosen as the writer?

From Jason Rekulak, editorial director:

Seth is the funniest writer that I know. He had written a few books for Quirk before, most notable How to Survive a Horror Movie. Seth was already in tune with the horror crowd and had a wealth of knowledge when it came to zombies. He seemed like a natural fit.

5. Paul Blezard – What were his thoughts on i) being approached to write it and ii) tackling the challenge.

From Seth Grahame-Smith:

Jason Rekulak was the only editor I’d ever worked with. Over the course of four books, we’d exchanged hundreds of calls and thousands of emails. We’d established something of an electronic shorthand. So when I heard him say, “Hey Seth, it’s Jason,” I knew something was up at once. There was a restlessness in his voice. This was no “I need another 500 words to fill some space” call. This was the voice of a man possessed, a man struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration.

“OK. . . . I just need you to listen,” he began. “Just listen, and tell me if I’m crazy. All I have is a title. It’s just a title—but I can’t stop thinking about it. Just promise me you’ll wait a minute before you say anything, OK?”

I promised. The next words out of his mouth were Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

I broke my promise. I didn’t wait a minute. I didn’t need to. He’d barely finished the word zombies before my head was flooded with images of aristocrats being eaten alive; of the Bennet girls flying around Crouching Tiger style; of Mr. Darcy riding into battle atop his mighty steed, his glorious chestnut mane awash in musket smoke. My loins began to quiver as I imagined the joy of writing ridiculous, gratuitous scenes of violence and gore in the imitated style of Jane Austen. And the blood . . . oh, the blood. I told him it was the most brilliant idea I’d ever heard. I meant it. I was hooked.

We talked for an hour or so, excitedly trading ideas about tone, style, and body count. That afternoon, as I began rereading the original (it’d been years since I struggled through it in high school), Jason began the prodigious task of convincing his publishing executives to say yes. For a while, it seemed like he and I were the only two people on the planet who thought this was a brilliant idea.

After rereading the original, I re-reread it, making notes in the margins, jotting down ideas, and working out the logistics of weaving a zombie uprising into one of the most celebrated novels in the English language. If I changed something in Chapter 6, what were the consequences in Chapter 56? What were these new zombie sequences going to be, and how could I evenly distribute them throughout the book? What kind of zombies were these? Where did they come from? What were Elizabeth’s abilities? Where was she trained? Would any of this work, or were we just kidding ourselves?

Once I had most of these logistics worked out, I opened the original manuscript on my computer (thank you, Internets), and set about changing words, adding lines, and inserting all-new scenes—one bloody page at a time. In order to keep track of my changes, I made the new text red (seemed appropriate). Sometimes there’d be two- or three-page blocks of all-new, all-red action. Sometimes there’d be a red paragraph or a few red lines on a mostly black page. Sometimes, there was only a red word or two. As I wrote, I constantly zoomed out to view the manuscript as a whole, judging my success by how much red I’d left behind. My self-imposed rule was to change something on every page, no matter what.

I worked seven days a week, usually until two or three o’clock in the morning—almost always with Nine Inch Nails’s Ghosts I–IV or a Jerry Goldsmith score blaring in my earbuds for inspiration. When I turned in the manuscript on July 31, 2008, I curled up on the floor and wept. OK, not really. But suffice it to say, it was the most fun I’ve ever had writing in my life, and I was sorry to see it end.

From Melissa Monachello, publicity manager:

I would like to add one last thing if you see it fit. Quirk is announcing the follow up to “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies” on July 15^th at www.quirkclassics.com. It will be another work of classic literature paired with a monster. That’s all I can tell you. Thanks!

PB.

Once again, if you have been, thank for reading!

10^th July

Comment is not only free but positively encouraged

If you have been reading these posts by all the bloggers-in-residence and have your own perspectives on events you’ve seen or opinions on the posts you’ve read, please do comment. We’re only really here to catalyse the debate and to flag up what we like the look of, but there are many more of you than there are of us and, frankly, you’ll have points of views that we haven’t considered. It’s not a private party but an open door. Come and join us in virtualitland. You’d be very welcome!

10^th July.

Where to?

Billed as an eclectic line-up of poets, artists and musicians, I’d been looking forward to this show since first meeting two of its young curators Alex and Jayga at a pre-festival meeting.

The precept for it was a response to the concept of escape and its destinations and it drew inspiration from Benjamin ‘the bard’ Zephaniah, whose own show Where to? preceded.

What I did not expect was the superb fusion of spoken word, music, art, graphics and the extraordinary buzz that hit me as I walked into the Front Room at Queen Elizabeth Hall. I know it’s a real pain to be told how good something was after the event, when you’ve already missed it, so I’m sorry, but this show was everything that it could have been. Slick, sassy, soulful and with more heart and guts than Fergus Henderson’s notoriously offal-centric restaurant, St. John.

It would be easy for a middle-aged, grey haired gipper like me to wail on about how talented the younger generation are and I won’t disrespect the perfomers by even dreaming of doing so, because actually age didn’t come into this exquisite, diverse gem of a show. Because this was all about performance and integrity and art and the artistry of all these elements.

So I’ll make a bet with you. If super-singer-songwriter Aruba Red doesn’t have the stellar career in music that she royally deserves; if Woe don’t get signed, become bigger than, oh I don’t know, Oasis… Blur… whoever’s pestering the music journalists at the moment, and win a Grammy; if artist Adele Morse doesn’t win a Turner prize; and if none of this happens within five years… then I’ll take you for lunch. All of you!

10^th July

Naughty Blezard.

I have a secret. And no, I’m not going to share it with you, not yet at least.

You’ll just have to come to ‘The Austen Industry’ event at 1pm on Saturday the 11^th to find out what it is.

It’s a good ‘un, you’ll like it. Really…

See you at the Purcell Room tomorrow!

9^th July

“Mouth on Fire”

There is a history of terror on the part of those who have played Samuel Beckett’s Not I.

Since it was written in 1972 it is generally agreed there have been a mere handful of notable stage performances (for the purposes of this post and on the grounds of taste, we’ll not get started on the filmic renditions.) Jessica Tandy in 1972, Billie Whitelaw in ’73 and ’74, Madeline Renaud in ’75 and ’78 being the highlights.

All confess to having approached the playing of ‘Mouth’ with trepidation. (The image was ‘suggested,’ Beckett wrote, ‘by Caravaggio’s “beheading of St. John”’ The painting which hangs in the co-cathedral of Valetta, Malta) Tandy was terrified and had to rely on a “teleprompter” for fear of losing the lines. Whitelaw described the physical and mental ordeal in such a way that ‘torture’ is the only word that springs to mind. When she say’s ‘I found so much of myself in NOT I. Somewhere in there were my entrails under a microscope.” One gets the sense of just how much guts, real guts it takes even to perform the piece. Lisa Dwan is possessed of such fortitude, the very same fortitude that ‘Mouth’s’ stream of thought outpouring in part addresses.

In a filmed piece after the performance, Billie Whitelaw, who has become a friend of Dwan’s since Dwan’s first performance of NOT I at the Battersea Arts Centre (BAC), publicly handed the Beckett baton to Lisa. It was a goose-bump moment. It was proof positive that a worthy new addition may be added to the list of performers first mentioned, of whom, interestingly, none went to drama school.

So Not I is very alive and very well, a sentiment confirmed by Beckett’s biographer whose praise of Dwan after the Tuesday performance was heartfelt, true and brought a prickle to the eye. While the fact that Lisa Dwan performed it in what is possibly a record 9’ 57” is of great interest and highly admirable, that she did so with utter dedication, with impeccable delivery and with a soul displayed for all to see is what makes her the new and deserved “Mouth on Fire.”

7^th July

And now for something slightly silly…

It’s not often that a man of my advancing years gets the opportunity to go all quivery of knee but last night was onesuch, You see, I got to meet a real-life star of the airwaves, Bidisha.

Her BBC World Service programme The Word has a global listenership of 95 million people. Yes you did read that correctly. 95 million. And as if that wasn’t enough she also presents BBC Radio 3’s Nightwaves that will be featuring co-blogger Suzi Feay in the very near future. In addition to her broadcasting career she has also written the novels Seahorses and Too Fast To Live and was one of this years judges for the Orange Prize for Fiction.

But those are only her day jobs, for Bidisha has a secret talent that was only revealed last night in the green room of the London Literature Festival.

When Antonio, our superb green room waiter, came around with dainty little meringues on a tray with a bowl of cream and fruit puree and then spooned the mixture onto the crisp little peaks as we took them, someone - possibly Rachel Holmes or Rosie Goldsmith or Suzi Feay - said “Oooh look, it’s like Eton Mess… but without the mess.” Quick as a flash someone else - possibly me, possibly not - then said “So Eton Tidy then.”

A mild titter wafted around the table and just as all was about to become silent it was Bidisha who, with a calm, considered tone, looked up and said “Eton Neat, I think you’ll find.”

Now that’s talent. That’s what gets you 95 million listeners. In fact that what gets you 95 million listeners and a grey haired, literary chair as a fan. Damn she’s good.

Eton Mess Recipe

Ingredients: STRAWBERRIES, CREAM AND MERINGUES 

(Serves 4 to 6)   

Preparation time: 10 mins   

800g fresh ripe strawberries  

Kirsch, berry liqueur or Cointreau to taste  

1 tbsp icing sugar, sifted  

200g fresh cream for whipping  

200g thick Greek-style yoghurt

6 plain meringues or meringue shells  

METHOD   

Wash and dry the strawberries and then hull them, cut in half or into thick slices. Place all but 200g of strawberries in a bowl and sprinkle with 2tbsp of liqueur. Dust with icing sugar and chill for an hour or two. Whizz the remaining 200g of berries into a purée, adding a dash of liqueur to taste, and chill.   Whip the cream lightly, fold in the yoghurt, and chill. Crush the meringues into bite-sized pieces and when you are ready to serve, gently toss the cream, meringue and strawberries and pile the lot into a glass bowl. Drizzle with the strawberry purée. Toss once and then serve.  

6^th July

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…

… gang aft agley” as Rabbie Burns, Scotland’s Shakespeare (or is Shakespeare England’s Burns? Hmmm.) once said.

To continue the “dark art of chairing” strand, having prepared for the two events I was to chair on Saturday, the flexibility mentioned in an earlier post was brought home to me. The preparation all done for the Clare Mulley and Alexander Masters discussion on biography, the event turned out not to be quite as I’d expected or planned for.

Clare is a brilliant writer and researcher and I was told that she had a prepared piece with visuals from her computer. Indeed she did and for just over forty minutes the lecture she gave was a fascinating précis of her book, a wonderful tour around her subject Eglantyne Jebb – the charismatic and adventurous woman who founded Save the Children - and a superb stand-alone piece that would have worked extremely well as an entire event of itself. Alexander Masters rose to the occasion magnificently, not least when asked by Clare to click the images forward from her computer on her command, a very generous contribution from a co-programmed, equal-billed author.

The problem was that to then ask Clare some questions before turning to Alexander would mean cutting into his already shaved time allotment, it being a matter of courtesy and the unwritten literature festival norm for the time available to be equally shared between the number of authors on the stage. Solution? To distil the questions that I wanted to ask Clare down to three before attempting (rarely has one word done so much work in a sentence) a seamless segue into the very different nature of Alexander’s biography of Stuart Shorter, a young, alcohol and drug dependant homeless man with an extraordinary ability to cut to the heart of his dreadful situation.

Alexander spoke emotionally and eloquently about his subject and one could feel the crowd warm to this gentle, funny and humane writer. Not least during the revelation that when Stuart had read Alexander’s manuscript (the product of three years of literary endeavour) and was asked his opinion, Stuart replied “It’s b*ll*cks boring.”

We rather raced through Alexander’s tale, but covered the main themes in some detail before I encouraged the two authors to compare and contrast their differing dynamics – Clare’s dealing with a subject no longer living but about whom much has been written, Alexander’s being with the complete opposite. They riffed magnificently for ten minutes or so before I realised that were in rapid danger of running over time (a literature festival faux pas of sackable magnitude) and invited questions from the audience.

How can you tell if an event has gone well? Two simple ways really. Are there any questions from the audience and if so are they equally divided between the authors? And do people then buy the book. I’m very happy to report that by both yardsticks the event was deemed to be a success. There is of course another test: were the authors happy? Well only they could tell you but my eyes remain unblacked and I’ve received a charming email from Clare. You will be the judge.

So when the “scheme” has ”gang agley,” remember the watchword, flexibility, flexibility, flexibility.

Next in this slightly odd series, “What to do when one of the billed authors can’t make it.”

If you have been, thank you for reading!

More soon.

4^th July

Day the thrice.

Day three at LLF and the anniversary of the birth of a nation to boot. How fitting that this evening the festival hosts one of the supreme all-American heroes, Buzz Aldrin.

After a Friday that saw the day job as Literary Editor of The Lady magazine segue into a sweltering train journey to Oxford to host the launch of Oxfams’s Oxfest - and the publication of Ox-Tales, a four volume collection of stories by 38 great writers that feature here on the 14^th July – I finally returned to the South Bank mid-evening to catch the end of Jake Arnott’s superb event discussing his latest novel “The Devil’s Paintbrush.” A hugely talented man is Mr Arnott, not only as a writer and storyteller but also in giving voice to his own work. I managed to catch a few minutes with him after the event and will transcribe and post the conversation we had later this morning.

But to the work of chairing. I was saying in a previous post about the importance of ‘open’ questions. It’s more of a guideline than a rule as any good conversation has to be flexible and make room for the digressions and culs-de-sac that make such interactions so fascinating. Having read the books and done the research, the trick, for me at least, is to slightly forget it all.

There’s a temptation to script a list of questions that you’d like to ask, to have a safety net that will take you through your allotted time. There is of course nothing wrong with this, but it can lead to an overly formulaic, stilted event where the ‘life’ part of the live performance aspect is sacrificed and squashed in order to get to the last question you’d originally thought of. If there’s an element of investigative journalism inherent in the event then of course that must take precedence but if there isn’t it can be interesting to author and audience alike to go with the conversation and see where it leads. It often leads to the author making new observations about their work or indeed life in general.

How does that work? Simple, you ask your first question and in the answer to it will be the seed of the next question. It can feel a little like a high wire act without a harness, but when it works it’s really worth the risk. Now I just have to apply all this to the event with Alexander Masters and Clare Mulley at 1 o’clock. I hope to see you there.

Happy birthday America, have a lovely day and enjoy today’s fantastic events.

3^rd July

“The game’s afoot” as the Bard once wrote and certainly the game opened last night with much fanfare.

At the launch party, South Bank’s “empressaria” Jude Kelly gave the opening speech, explaining that the South Bank’s remit is to “push back the membrane” to the point that there is “no-one on the outside.” Now that’s a properly inclusive approach to creativity, artistry and expression, a rousing, modern version of ‘Cry “God for Harry, England and Saint George”’ as the Bard went on to say.

Receiving the microphone Rachel Holmes gave thanks to those people who make such a festival happen, not least in this case, the quiet guru of the London Literature Festival, Martin Colthorpe, who Holmes described as ‘forensic’. If any of you are/were fans of the TV show NCIS then Colthorpe is the Jethro Gibbs character. He’s that good at what he does, but without the head slapping so favoured by his TV avatar.

Fred D’Aguiar, could be found mingling as briefly could Arundhati Roy before being whisked off for her sound check. You’ll have read about her event in Jayga’s excellent post below.

All in all a great start. I’ve got to dash… or as William S put it, and so much better, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”

More later…

2^nd July 2009

Having read up for the event on Saturday with Alexander Masters’ “Stuart – A life backwards” and Clare Mulley’s ‘The Woman who saved the Children” I now have a pretty clear picture of the path the event might take. There are the obvious themes of identity, biography and the approach that each took to their subjects (why obvious? Because that’s what it says in the London Literature Festival programme about the event!). Then there are the matters peculiar to each of these fascinating books; the research issues, the keeping track of the story issues and in Alexander’s case the “what to say when your subject thinks the manuscript is “b*ll*cks boring” issues. A slightly rarer one that. It has all the hallmarks of being a really fascinating glimpse into four lives, those of the subjects and those of the writers, so I hope you can make it at 1pm on Saturday.

In a slight departure from the programme, Rachel Holmes - the Head of Literature and Spoken Word at the South Bank - has asked me to step into her shoes (no, not literally!) and chair the Brian Chikwava and Petina Gappah event at 4pm on Saturday, which bears all the hallmarks of being a fascinating hour that I was hoping to attend as an audience member. Zimbabwe is in all our minds at the moment and Brian and Petina have such superb perspectives on it. Thankfully I’ve read “Harare North” and have been a fan of Brian’s since before he won the Caine Prize for African writing. I interviewed him back in 2004 for the radio show that I then presented and remember well his short story “Seventh Street Alchemy” but Petina’s collection of stories is new to me and boy am I impressed at the power of her writing. If you love great writing, let alone great writing on Africa, then this will be well worth the ticket.

Now, what’s happening at Wimbledon? “Come on Tim… oops…sorry…come on ANDY!”

1^st July 2009

Notwithstanding the light-hearted blog yesterday on event chairing (or should that now be Chairering?) there is a serious side to what might look like an easy way to get a good seat at an event. Over the next few days I’ll try to lift the veil on various aspects of what looks so simple when it goes right but which can be a horrific form of torture when it goes wrong.. And it does sometimes go wrong.

There’s always thrill in being invited to interview or be “in conversation” with an author whose work you admire, a philosopher that has changed the way you think or a person of otherwise notable achievement. It’s a bit like being invited to a meal where the host says, “oh by the way you know that person that you call your hero? Well they’re coming too and you’re sitting next to them.”

The thrill can soon give way to utter fear as the realisation dawns that you actually have to have something to say to them. With festivals it’s worse when as you soon realise that what you have to say to them not only has to be interesting to your subject but also to the audience of thousands that have bought tickets to see them. That’s when the works starts, the research and reading begins and a chairs mind turns to planning the shape and nature of the event. The thing to remember is that audiences have come to see the person you are speaking to and not you, so the simple watchword is “questions.” The trick is to ask them in a way that will elicit a fascinating answer so “open” questions then, those that Kipling described best in the “Just So” stories

I keep six honest serving-men

(They taught me all I knew);

Their names are What and Why and When

And How and Where and Who.

The worst opening word for a question is “Did” or “Do” or “Does.” Why? Because with such “closed” questions your interviewee can respond with ‘yes’ or ‘no” and there’s not much room for entertainment or theatre there.

Right, I’m off to read Alexander Masters’ and Clare Mulley’s books for Saturday’s event. More soon.

30^th June 2009

As the excitement builds and the weeks of fevered, expectant anticipation come to an end with the start of the festival on Thursday, the final meeting for bloggers took place at the South Bank this lunch time and a whole new word was coined.

Susie Feay, that doyenne of literature, the former Literary Editor of the Independent on Sunday no less, was responsible. We were each asked to introduce ourselves to the assembled group and having outlined her career SF went on to say that she is also a “Chairer” at the festival. “A Chairer?” various voices queried. I thought about it and realised that I rather liked it, so chipped in a quick defence along the lines of “Work… Worker. Chair… Chairer.”

So you’ve heard (or indeed read) it here first. The correct term for a person that chairs events at a literary festival is a Chairer and Susie Feay invented it.

London Literature Festival.

2009-07-12T09:29:00.005+01:00

Here are the London Literature Festival Blogs so far. Do have a read, they tell quite a story in themselves.

Yours,

LibraDoodle

Naughty Blezard.

2009-07-10T15:49:00.002+01:00

I have a secret. And no, I’m not going to share it with you, not yet at least.

You’ll just have to come to ‘The Austen Industry’ event at 1pm on Saturday the 11^th to find out what it is.

It’s a good ‘un, you’ll like it. Really…

See you at the Purcell Room tomorrow!

London Literature Festival and Oxfam Oxfest.

2009-07-01T18:13:00.007+01:00

Forgive me if it all goes a little quiet here for the next week or two. In addition to some rather onerous duties at The Lady, it's the start of both London Literature Festival at the South Bank for which I'm not only chairing some events but am also a blogger-in-residence and also the Ox Fest programme of events which will see me variously in Oxford, Devizes, Norwich and Marylebone. There’s almost certain to be one near you so have a look at their website and come along. And if you can’t do that come to the South Bank, there’s Arundhati Roy, astronaut Buzz Aldrin and an array of authors to amaze and amuse everyone.

In the meantime, enjoy the sunshine and “Come on Tim… sorry… Andy!”

Yours,

LibraDoodle

Buds, books and authorial banter.

2009-06-19T11:44:00.004+01:00

Just as my few fragile buds of hope seem about to be crushed by a juggernaut over-laden with a cargo of heavy reasons for bleak despair, an odd thing happens.

The juggernaut in question was a wander around a branch of a national chain, its book shelves heavy with celebrity guff, ‘ten for the price of a cup of tea’ offers on paperbacks and a particularly viperous member of staff who wouldn’t believe my conviction that the author whose work I was seeking might actually be on a bookshelf and not in the “world music’ section of the CD racks (Me, “No really, he’s an author, he writes books.” Viper, “Nah mate trust me, I’m sure he’s a drummer or sumink, have you looked under Ghana?” I kid you not) It’s my fault, I know. I should have gone to Daunts. He should have gone to school.

Dark dismay filled my heart. A gloom further dimmed later by my shame and frustration in not saying anything to the bus passenger seated in front of me for whom eating liberally vinegared fish and chips in an enclosed public space was not adequate rebellion and who felt he had to throw those pieces that didn’t meet his expectations onto the floor of the aisle and then spit semi-chewed saveloy onto the seat next to him. Would that I could put my seething silence down to tiredness or fear. Sadly I only realise now that I just couldn’t be arsed to engage him. As a friend of mine recently told me, “never argue with idiots, they’ll bring you down to their level and then beat you with experience.”

Thus it was, with a heart like a black hole, that I proceeded with the day, wondering what the point of it all was. Until I opened my diary and realised that the day could yet have a pleasing outcome. The first light of joy was a fine lunch at a Pall Mall club with a rather impressive fellow whose youth belies his wisdom and who through his PR company is doing some interesting work in applying his fascinatingly inventive theory of “why most PR companies are useless.” I’ll spare his blushes, but will say that the conversation was as interesting as the lunch was delicious.

Then on to the Cavalry and Guards Club in Piccadilly where the annual Society of Authors “Authors’ Awards” were held. Margaret Drabble introduced proceedings by racing through the closest thing to a PowerPoint display that I imagine the Society of Authors will ever produce, a video display of the prizes, the shortlisted entries and then the winners. In seamless harmony Sebastian Faulks presented the awards cheques, totalling £60, 500 to each of twenty-one writers whose work was being recognised. Never did a man look more happy to giving away someone else’s money to worthy and deserving recipients. Never did I feel happier to be at an awards event and thankful that there were no TV cameras, no "slebs" and only those who have a genuine talent, or provable interest in fine writing, fine publishing and fine thinking. I can't tell you what balm it was.

Faulks’ end of-ceremony-speech was funny and masterful, making reference to the esteemed panels of judges by name and saying that a more illustrious collection of judge-writers would be hard to imagine. At which point Lady Antonia Fraser turned to A.N. Wilson (both judges of the Elizabeth Longford Prize for Historical Fiction) and muttered soto voce “I agree!”

Sebastian went on to say that we have been living through a true “golden age” of British writing, the proof being the number of people who confess that for the first time in years there just isn’t time to read all the good books, both fiction and non-fiction, that one wishes to. I heartily agree. Despite all the gloom and doom that is among us, we are indeed in the midst of a glorious era of very fine writing and for that we should be grateful. I am, as it allows my little buds of hope to survive a while longer.

Yours,

LibraDoodle

Ticks, tacky troubling ticks.

2009-06-17T21:09:00.004+01:00

I am forcing myself to make a small but rather embarrassing confession in this post. Small because in the general scheme of things it is so insignificant as to be unworthy of mention; embarrassing because every time it happens I find myself wondering why it has happened, what has caused it and whether or not I should be bothered by it. But mostly because I am aware of it happening after the event and thus far never before. I am also embarrassed by having ceded control to a renegade part of my brain. And what is it?

It is a small verbal tick that I seem to have picked up from goodness knows where. I am aware of verbal ticks in others, the constant “you knows’ that irritate the speech patterns of some unfortunates like grit in a machine and whose overly frequent and inappropriate repetition make me want to scream “STOP IT NOW”; the “innits’, those verbal warts that attach themselves to everyday speech, that make the traditionalist part of me squirm and fight with the modernist “language is a fluid and constantly evolving means of communication’ part of me. (The traditionalist, if you’re wondering, wins. Every time.)

It’s the same impulse in me that makes my knuckles white when I hear an antipodean upward inflection at the end of a sentence that isn’t a question. It’s a personal thing, I know. I’m not proud of it, the onboard, inbuilt, instant negative judgement, language snob in me. It just is. I accept it. But this new development in my own speech troubles me. I am usually hyper aware of my speech. It served me well in my career interviewing the great and good for Oneword Radio. It serves me well when chairing live events at literary festivals. I hope it will continue to serve me well in a couple of weeks time at the London Literature Festival, but a doubt in my confidence in that ability has crept in like a bad smell.

My employer, Ben Budworth, the CEO and publisher of The Lady magazine, first pointed it out. We had been chatting in his office and as the conversation closed I headed for the door and said “OK fella, see you later.” An innocuous statement that would have gone unnoticed but for the sharp antennae that Mr Budworth has for new developments that jar. “Hold on,” he said. ‘Come back here” I returned to stand, confused, beside his desk. “Fella?” “FELLA?” “Surely “my good fellow,” if you must, but “Fella”, oh no, never. Not here. Now go and wash your mouth out.”

I left, chastened by the boss's rather proficient ‘David Brent of traditional magazine publishing' impersonation. I asked myself a number of questions. “Was this the first time I’d said it?” “Where on earth did I pick it up?” “Why had I not noticed it before?” I felt troubled that somehow I’d been found wanting by my boss, who although a long-standing friend, is still my boss in a new job. Someone that I want to impress with my accuracy of language, dexterity of speech and text. I am the literary editor after all. Standards have to set and maintained, even if they're only mine.

Since that first time there have been others. Always with Mr Budworth, some commented on, others not. No-one else has picked up on it. I am not aware of having said it to anyone but him. But there, lurking in the back of my mind is new and uncomfortable seed of insecurity in what was until recently a reliable skill.

As I said, small and embarrassing. But there nonetheless.

Yours,

LibraDoodle

Sign up now to keep the libel laws out of science!

2009-06-04T20:36:00.003+01:00

Forgive the parlous lack of posting in the past few weeks, a combination of the Guardian Hay festival, the new job and general effort in getting the wheels spinning again have hampered me. I apologise.

May of you will be aware of the situation that Simon Singh finds himself in and I’m sure will be as concerned as I am about him and the wider ramifications. I therefore devote this post to his cause and have copied the page from the excellent senseaboutscience website. I hope they won’t mind. I encourage you to click through and sign the petition in support of Simon.

Sign up now to keep the libel laws out of science!

The use of the English libel laws to silence critical discussion of medical practice and scientific evidence discourages debate, denies the public access to the full picture and encourages use of the courts to silence critics. The British Chiropractic Association has sued Simon Singh for libel. The scientific community would have preferred that it had defended its position about chiropractic through an open discussion in the medical literature or mainstream media.

Today Simon Singh announces that he is applying to appeal the judge's recent pre-trial ruling in this case, in conjunction with the launch of this support campaign to defend the right of the pubic to read the views of scientists and writers.

Join the campaign! In a statement published today, over 100 people from the worlds of science, journalism, publishing, comedy, literature and law have joined together to express support for Simon and call for an urgent review of English law of libel. Please help us with this campaign, sign the statement and tell everyone you know to sign it. With every additional 1000 names we will be sending the statement again to Government until there is a commitment and a timetable from the parties for the necessary legislation.

"It has been a stressful and frustrating twelve months since I published my article on chiropractors and their attempts to treat children with conditions such as asthma. The British Chiropractic Association's decision to sue me for libel has been an enormous drain on my time and energy. However, the support that I have received from family, friends, readers, bloggers, scientists, journalists and those who care about free speech has been incredible, and it has played a crucial role in my decision to continue defending my article and fighting the libel action.

More importantly, everyone agrees that there is something fundamentally wrong with the English libel laws, which have a chilling effect on journalists, whether they write about science or anything else, whether they live in Britain or anywhere else. Hence, I am delighted that so many individuals and organisations have come together to launch a campaign with Sense About Science to highlight how the English libel laws clash with the right to discuss science in a frank and fair way. The Keep Libel Laws out of Science Campaign will also raise issues related to my particular libel case, and it will encourage a debate on the reform of the English libel system.

The campaign launch revolves around the statement shown below, and I would urge anyone who cares about science or free speech to show support by signing up.

And I would also encourage you to make your friends and colleagues aware of the issues at stake and ask them to sign up. It is possible that the time is right for major libel reform in England, which will then allow scientists and journalists to write with less fear of being intimidated."

Simon Singh

Click here to read Simon's full account of the story

Click here to read and sign the statement.

For more information contact Sile Lane on freedebate@senseaboutscience.org or call 020 7478 4380.

***UPDATE*** as of 18:00BST more than 2000 people have signed. However, even campaigners (and their tired little fingers) need a rest. We will continue updating the names in the morning.

News already! This statement has already received a response, with support from cross party MPs.

With huge thanks to Andy Lewis, Emma Welsh, Hamish Symington, Frank Swain and Elisa Parish.

Press Coverage

The Independent Silenced, the writer who dared to say chiropractice is bogus

The Times Review of libel law called for by comedians

The Guardian online Science writer Simon Singh to appeal against chiropractic libel judgement

Nature news Science writer will appeal libel case ruling

Times Higher Education Singh plans to appeal ruling in libel case

Wall Street Journal Britain Chills Free Speech

The Daily Telegraph online Stephen Fry and Ricky Gervais defend science writer sued for libel

The Daily Mail online Celebrities back writer sued by chiropractors for saying unproven treatment is 'bogus'

Pirates, Oxford and peril

2009-04-11T14:46:00.007+01:00

A little news to impart and a few snippets to report but lest I have given you the impression that my entire reading time is spent in the imagined worlds of fine fiction or in the worthy immersion of brain improving non-fiction, I thought I’d open with a departure from the norm.

I’ve been captivated of late by the rise in piracy off the coast of the horn of Africa. Was I alone in being amazed by the news images some months ago of a ransom payment, where a briefcase full of cash was placed in a waterproof container and dropped by parachute onto the deck of a hijacked vessel? Was this week’s story, still unravelling daily, of the first American vessel to be hijacked in 200 years as it took food aid to Africa’s East coast from Djibouti, of the crew taking control back from the pirate crew but the Captain himself being taken off the vessel as security, as American destroyers steam to the scene, not the most compelling news story of recent months? I thought so and wanting to dig a little further found my way onto the International Chamber of Commerce’s website. Not only is there a map of recent piratical events on it but also a rather fascinating document entitled “Best Management Practices to Deter Piracy in the Gulf of Aden and off the Coast of Somalia”. It makes for extraordinary reading, giving vessel masters a “how to” guide to maximise prevention of attack and a step-by-step manual on what to do in the event of being boarded. Its calm professional language belies the sense of fear and panic that must attend such an event and serves as a reminder to land-lubbers of the self-reliance and grit that modern sailors bring to their work, on which we are reliant for so many of the foodstuffs and goods that fill our shelves.

On other, less dangerous, fronts, I spent last week at the Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival, waking each morning to the glorious honeyed architecture of Christ Church College. It is a beautiful place to spend time, its old thick walls as calming and inspirational to a creative mind as they are resistant to a wi-fi signal.

There were more high spots than a few words here can cover but which include breakfasting each morning with Joanne Harris in the Great Hall – formally the seat of Parliament, now immortalised in the Harry Potter films, interviewing John Calder who published William Burroughs, Hubert Selby Jnr and Henry Miller and in defending the right to do so was the first to hire a young John Mortimer whose successful defence made him the darling of those who fought for freedoms of speech and publishing and led to him later defending the famous Oz trial. John M was meant to be interviewing John C himself but his death last Christmas Eve created a vacancy I was honoured to fill. Indeed I believe I was one of – if not the – last people to interview John Mortimer, which gave me a sense of pride and the event a certain circularity. Calder published so much of Samuel Beckett’s work and another connection was made when Joanne Harris told me one morning of a walk in Montparnasse cemetery when she and her husband chanced upon a funeral in progress. They waited until the few mourners had moved away before approaching the grave only to find that it was the interment of Beckett that they had just witnessed.

Interviewing Dame Ann Leslie, doyen of the Daily Mail for over forty years, was all that one might expect from one who has witnessed first hand the great world events of the latter part of the twentieth century. Meeting Willie Harcourt Cooze, he of the chocolate factory TV programme and the brother of a beautiful girl I was entranced by twenty years ago, was an unexpected pleasure as was interviewing Rory McGrath, a more gentle and evolved man than his television persona might lead you to believe.

Much fun and many good conversations were had at the various lunches and dinners with Andrew Holgate, literary editor of the Sunday Times and perhaps the hardest working sponsor of any literary festival I’m aware of and Sally Dunsmore, the festival director who is possessed of a preternatural calm and grace that belies her sleeplessness and work rate. It is an excellent festival that if you haven’t yet attended should be added to next year’s diary.

During the course of the week The Lady magazine published its relaunch issue and in doing so shed its Miss Havisham image to reveal a rather fetching Estella. It also announced a new literary editor who over the course of the next few weeks and months will add to the improved editorial with book recommendations, a book club and various other literary events and opinions. Watch this space.

One final joy from Oxford was sharing a stage with two rather extraordinary men, David and James Livingston, who in April 2003 both competed in the Oxford-Cambridge University Boat Race. Not the first time that siblings had done so of course, but the first time in more than a century that they had done so on opposing teams. It was, like the John Calder event, not a full house, but the intimacy of a smaller crowd made for an extraordinary event, both the brothers giving frank and often painful accounts of the bittersweet rivalry of the race and the cost to their relationship. Their father, sitting proudly in the audience, responded generously to questions from me and gave the hour a piquancy that is rarely achieved at a live event.

Whilst not the open ocean, the Thames has been the location for much bravery, heartache and human drama and so I’ll close with thoughts for those in peril on the sea.

Yours truly,

LibraDoodle.

Hail, The Lady and Private Eye.

2009-03-26T10:23:00.005Z

A week of literary socialising has left me shivery of limb and sniffing of nose and taught me that March weather in London is not to be trusted. It hailed on me yesterday afternoon in Covent Garden, hailstones that were large enough to hurt on impact, sent people scattering into doorways for shelter and shattered onto the roads and pavements like little, glassy grenades.

Tuesday marked the putting to bed of the beautiful new re-launch of The Lady magazine as the longest continuously published magazine for women has for the past few months been undergoing a quiet facelift. No longer the rather dated, monochrome-dominated source of adverts for household staff, its renaissance sees a glorious, full colour magazine with some rather good editorial hit the newsstands on Monday the 31^st. It will still be the source of choice for quality nannies, drivers, cooks, cleaners, holiday cottages and the like, a sort of Fortnum and Mason for domestic and catering staff, but now boasts a more modern, sleeker image, some great, interesting new writing (I must here confess that I will be the author of some of its content) and an overall look that brings it right up to date.

A family owned business, the Great Grandfather of the current publisher established the title in 1885 as a weekly periodical for gentlewomen, having already founded Vanity Fair for gentlemen in 1868. It still holds the same values of tradition, quality, manners, politeness and grace that have always been its watchwords but now does so in a manner more fitting for the twenty first century.

If you haven’t picked a copy up in the past few years then do have a look. You’ll be pleasantly surprised at the changes and the content.

On Wednesday I had the rare honour of being lunched by Private Eye. Ian Hislop, the editor, who very kindly graced the microphones at Oneword Radio on a number of occasions, was in Dubai at the Emirate Airline International Festival of Literature with his wife Victoria, author of The Island, and as we sat chatting by the pool was so horrified to hear that since the demise of the radio station I have been unemployed that he invited me to lunch to discuss possibilities. On returning to the UK three weeks ago an invitation was extended, although sadly not to me but to another of the same name, a motorcycle journalist, who on arrival announced himself to the gathered throng only to be told by Ian and Francis Wheen “no you’re not!” The confusion having been explained he duly tucked into the Eye’s generous hospitality, as of course he should. So it was, two weeks later than planned, that I pitched up at the Soho landmark venue and enjoyed a rather good fish and chip lunch with a fine selection of bright and erudite representatives of the worlds of letters, law, broadcasting and thinking. There was much talk of the parlous state of the British press, how print journalism is being hammered by the free content available on the net, how good investigative journalism is suffering and suchlike. There was talk of the state of Dubai, of freedom of speech and of the law. It was all that one might wish of a lunch with luminaries.

An unexpected pleasure was meeting an old friend, a rather good BBC journalist and writer, who I was at school with and as I sat at the table I wondered what our rural childhood selves would have made of it if told that a quarter of a century later we would be having lunch with movers, shakers and household names.

Ian was on fine form as our host and as he, the well-known daughter of a major literary family and damn fine author in her own right and I were nattering away, an image kept popping into my mind which I hope he won’t mind me telling you. Whilst we were all in Dubai, he heard about a water park that boasted a magnificent flume, or water slide, and came over all excited. Sadly I was working too damn hard and couldn’t indulge but I heard tell that he, Anthony Horowitz –author of the Alex Rider series and good man - and Louis de Bernieres all packed their Speedos and went off on a boys outing to flume with impunity. I wish I’d been there, I’d like to have seen those three men of letters giggling their way down a huge water flume, hell I wish I’d been able make up the four.

I leave you with that rather glorious image and as the rain continues to batter the poor daffodils in the garden into submission I say “Hail" to The Lady, “Hail" to Private Eye and “Hail” to Mr Hislop for a fine lunch and for a very kind and well received offer of hope.

Yours,

LibraDoodle.

The American Scholar ~ Of Love and Letters.

2009-03-21T15:15:00.008Z

I seem to have fallen in love.

As Spring blooms forth with dazzling displays of daffodils and crocuses and as even the cynanothis tree at the end of the garden becomes more blue-tinged by the day, the sap rises and a single man’s heart turns to matters of amorous adoration.

In my case this affair d’amour is not with a human or indeed any other life form, but with a publication, a rather special periodical that I’m ashamed to confess I’ve only recently discovered.

I owe this burgeoning love to Peter Stothard, editor of the Times Literary Supplement, who in a piece he wrote in January under the title “A pencil box of bees” drew my attention to a delightfully wistful memoir by Professor Steven Isenberg in which he recalled four lunches of his early adulthood, each with a great man of letters: Larkin, Auden, Empson and Forster. Isenberg’s wonderful piece was entitled “Lunching on Olympus” and as I read it I was transported to his front row seat in the theatre of luminaries. It is a beautiful piece of writing, as one might expect from Professor Isenberg, a vividly remembered recollection of a young man’s sense of being not quite up to the task of reciprocating the generosity of insight and intellect that his lunch partners offered. In his case the sense is of course unfounded, but it reminded me of the years I spent in a radio studio interviewing my own literary heroes and fearing that however diligently I had read their work, however hard I had thought about their meaning, I would never quite be able to do justice to the time that I was able to spend with them. It is a sense I still have every time I mount the steps up to a stage in order to interview or be ‘in conversation with’ an author at those literary festivals that will have me.

So exercised was I by this thought that I wrote a brief letter to the editor of The American Scholar, more as an exercise than with the intention of sending it, but merely to nail the emotion, the sense of not being good enough. Foolishly I then emailed the publication to congratulate them on publishing ‘Lunching on Olympus’ and more in haste than consideration included some of the lines from the letter as part of the email.

Remarkably the associate editor replied and wondered whether they might publish part of the text in the letters page and in the ensuing e-conversation kindly agreed to send me some back copies of TAS.

The anticipation of waiting for them was more acute than any I have know for some time, like waiting for a phone-call from a lover or for a reply to a billet doux. When they slid through the letter box, wrapped in that curious shade of yellow/orange envelope that is peculiar to North America, I resisted the urge to tear at the package, instead finding a letter opener and somewhat formally teased the flap open, slowly revealing the contents before sliding them gently out to lie in all their beauty on my desk. I have treated lovers with less regard. Dresses have been cursorily cast to the floor in more frenziedly impatient haste to reveal their contents. But this was different. This was textual, not sexual.

And so began the love affair that I am currently enjoying, that has consumed me as all good affairs should. I have read articles on torture and dictators, on the best westerns, on the story of John Wilkes Booth. I have read about Cy Twombly in Paris and a superb piece on why black Americans need a new story, a piece that was published long before Obama was elected President. And in the course of this reading I have fallen in love with the size and shape of The American Scholar. I love its typeface and its quietly worn intelligence. I love the fact that Einstein, Bellow, Didion and Sagan all wrote pieces for it, that in 2006 they published fiction by Alice Munro, Louis Begley and Anne Beattie. I love the fact that its title is drawn from the Ralph Waldo Emerson speech to the Phi Delta Kappa society at Harvard in 1837 and that it has stayed true to its ideals of self-knowledge, independent thinking and a commitment to science, arts, books, history and world affairs. I can’t help but feel that Socrates would have loved it too. He’d probably have edited it given the chance and a sizeable tear in the lacework of time. But even he wouldn’t have been able to improve it, because it is perfect as it is.

I am therefore slightly ashamed that my letter was published. I feel that I have somehow sneaked in under the wire, in the same way that I‘ve assumed past girlfriends have lowered their normal standards and I have just been very lucky. The feeling that I’m not quite up to the task whispering to me all over again, a little demon on my shoulder saying “look what you’ve done, you’ve spoiled it now.” But I’m also honoured to have had a little contribution immortalised in such august company.

In a reply to Peter Stothard’s piece a correspondent reprised Larkin’s line that “depression is to me what daffodils were to Wordsworth” and as I look at their nodding heads at the end of the garden I can but agree with the old song; that love is indeed a many splendoured thing. An American Scholarly thing too.

Yours,

LibraDoodle.

The Orange Prize for Fiction 2009

2009-03-18T12:45:00.008Z

Another year and another Orange Prize for Fiction longlist, but my what a diverse and fascinating one which mirrors the great panel of judges for this year’s shop window on the very best of writing by women.

Chaired by Fi Glover, the four judges Bidisha, Sarah Churchwell, Kira Cochrane and Martha Lane-Fox have done the prize proud with 20 works by authors that include a Nobel Laureate, a 63-year-old newcomer and the ever-fascinating, eminently readable Kamila Shamsie. In Dubai recently I was chatting with the prize’s co-founder Kate Mosse (LibraDoodle passim) who told me that a nicer panel of literary judges it would be harder to find and that her hopes for a great list were high.

You can read the full list and details of each of the books here but my first impression is that the range of styles, ages and modes of writing contained within this year’s list really cuts to the heart of what the Orange prize, now in its second decade, was set up for. It seems odd now to think that there was a time when the considerable talent and achievement of women’s critical views and writing was overlooked by other prizes and the Orange has been at the forefront of changing this. So much so that they seem to have dropped the "for Women's Fiction" part of the prize's title which I'm sure was there in the early days. Progress indeed. If you want to really know what women are thinking about, writing about and what is exercising them then you could do far worse than read the entirety of the longlist. I will and I sincerely hope you will too, as this year it includes works from Australia, the USA, Ireland, Malaysia, Pakistan and Canada as well as the UK possibly making it the most international longlist that the Orange has yet fielded.

Fi Glover has said that “all the books on the long list are there because each one, in its own way, is terrific in its ambition, quality and simple ability to entertain.” Hurrah to that, for many of the authors on the list are some of the best storytellers of our time, irrespective of gender.

I don’t envy the panel the next phase; how the hell they pick one winner from such a brilliant field is beyond me, but I congratulate them on a superbly rich showing so far and wish them luck for the next stage. I hope that the niceness that Kate Mosse mentioned endures!

Yours,

LibraDoodle