Spring in Botolph St Otto

Few things lift the Spume spirit more than the return of Spring to these exalting hills. Winter is not my favourite time of year. It’s alright for my brother Sir Leslie Spume and his companion Eric. The minute the Botolph St Otto Plough Monday Mummers play is out of the way, old Eric shuts up his antique shop and they join a reading party in Tangiers, so Leslie can work on his translation of ‘The Loom of Youth’ into Arabic, or so he claims. They stay away until Easter, when the visitors come back to the village, and Eric needs to open up and sell a few bibelots. I would like to have gone away myself for a few weeks, but funds, alas, are as low as ever. When is the arts establishment in this country going to wake up to the plight of the gentlemen poet? Before her mysterious disappearance five years ago, my wife Mimsy and I used always to enjoy spending a few weeks after Christmas with dear old Robert Graves and his ménage in Majorca. We were great friends. I’ll always remember Robert’s habitual greeting as the donkey train delivered us to his bodega, ‘Quick, hide, it’s the bloody Spumes again!’; his characteristic foul temper masking a deep affection. One thing people forget about Graves is that he was an excellent performer on the blues harmonica. He loved to play ‘Una Paloma Blanca’ and other traditional Majorcan airs for Mimsy to dance along with. Now, alas, Graves has bade adieu to all this, Mimsy is Lord only knows where, and I can’t help wondering how long can old Spume be for the world? George in The Turks Head said I have Seasonally Affected Disorder, and I need to get under an electric sunbed like that Kilroy-Silk man. I said I’d rather feel a bit under the weather than look like the desiccated stool of some nightmarish denizen of Hades. Our father was a Mosleyite, of course, so we know all about that.
But Sir Leslie and Eric’s return from Tangiers presages the return of life to Botolph St. Otto, and as the primroses peep shyly from the tangled banks, I feel the old sap rising, and am to be found wandering the lanes around the village most afternoons, my only companion a hazel switch plucked from the hedgerow. Hares gambol in the fields. Songbirds rise in the newly washed sky, melodies of love tumbling from their throats. On one such perambulation, Mrs Caroline Peach, headmistress of the Botolph St Otto Church of England Primary School swished past me on her sit up and beg bicycle. And, O Joy of Joys, between the top of her Wellington boots and the edge of her skirt, I caught a glimpse of bare knee! And was that the promise of a dimpled thigh? I hugged my cape around me, transported. Could this spring hold the ecstasies of passion for Hilary Alaric MacFaddean Spume and Mrs. Caroline Peach? Dare I hope? In the library after dinner, I started a sestina, entitled ‘How bare your legs against the sky’. I shall send it to Mrs Peach when it is finished. Anonymously I think might be best, in view of the sharpish letter I received from her solicitor last time I sent her a poem.
One of the joys of country living as spring arrives is that ones pals feel the call of nature, and can be lured from the city for a weekend away. I was greatly cheered recently by a visit from one of my young friends, Ritchie Edwards of the pop group Manic Street Preachers. It is a little known fact that several ‘pop’ lyricists have found their way to Spume’s door over the years. Although my input to their work has been but rarely acknowledged, many of today’s tunesmiths will admit in private to a helping tweak here and there from my experienced hands. Both ‘Motor Cycle Emptiness’ and ‘Motown Junk’ were worked up one wet afternoon in front of the fire at Botolph Hall, more years ago now than I care to recall. Ritchie being very much in funds, I suggested that we enter the quiz at the Turks Head. Leslie had given our redoubtable housekeeper Mrs Cutler the night off, and she joined our team; not for nothing am I described as ‘A Man of the People.’ Old George at the pub keeps a bottle of Wincarnis behind the bar for her, but you have to try and keep her to just the two glasses, or she can get flashbacks. I do like to have her on the team, however, as she is an expert on the television. I do not watch it myself, of course, except for the news, documentaries, nature programmes, films, soaps, reality shows and quizzes.
To my horror, the second round of the quiz was on cricket, but young Ritchie surprised me by revealing that he is a Member of Glamorgan Cricket Club; you never can tell what pop musicians get up to after they have faked their deaths. Ritchie told me that Kurt Cobain keeps rare breeds of poultry, and that Sid Vicious has just published a monograph on Norwegian lichens. With Ritchie’s knowledge of county cricket, Mrs Cutler handling questions on politics, history and science as well as the dreaded gogglebox, and yours truly covering the literary arts, we held our end up most respectably, and came third. We won a fiver; since young Ritchie is alright for a few bob, and Mrs Cutler has no need for cash, they were kind enough to insist that the fiver should find its way into Spume’s somewhat depleted coffers. I shall invest it wisely; a chap in the pub has given me a sure thing in the 3.15 at Lingfield next Tuesday.
The end of May will find me packing my trunks once more for the annual Festival of Literature in Hay-On-Wye. Last year I somewhat disgraced myself. Invited to talk on the subject of socialist poetry with dear old Harry Pinter, I arrived a little early for the talk, and found myself in the saloon bar of The Blue Boar, where I spent a most pleasant late morning, afternoon and evening in the company of some roofers from Chepstow, who had just been paid on completion of a job of work, and whose free-spending habits reconfirmed my commitment to the working class.
Unfortunately, a pork pie I took for my lunch must have disagreed with me, because by the time of the talk, at 8 'o' clock, I was most unwell. In fact, I was sick over Pinter's brogues, and had to be helped from the Festival site.
This year I shall avoid taking solids before my appearance. I look forward to reporting in full from Hay in the next issue of ‘The Cotswold Review.’

Rather an odd thing has happened.

Rather an odd thing has happened. All the circumstances of my existence have shifted. It as though Presteigne were a figment of my imagination. Of course, I now realise, all this time I've really lived in the Cotswold village of Botolph St Otto. Our house is not called Phuckwhitt. I made that up.
Its time I stopped living in a dream world. No more lies. Here is a statement of the facts of my life.
You could think of it as a relaunch.
Which it is.
My name is Hilary Alaric MacFaddean Spume, FRSL. I am, as I’m sure you are quite aware, a poet. I am 72 years young. Modesty prevents me from listing my many and various achievements and publications. It was between me, Larkin and Ted Hughes for the laureateship a few years back, but I must say I was relieved when it went to old Ted. Still, every dog will have his day, and it is reward enough for me that I have been described as ‘Britain’s Best Loved Poet’, though the butt of malmsey would not have gone amiss. My most well known poem is still, I suppose, ‘On The Opening Of The Scunthorpe Power Station’, which I’m sure many of you remember from school, as it has been heavily anthologised.
I have been asked to say a few words about my life here in Botolph St. Otto. I live in Botolph Hall with my brother, Sir Leslie Spume, his companion Eric, and our housekeeper, Mrs Cutler. I was born in the Hall, which has been in the possesion of the Spume family since 1543, but for many years I lived in Soho with my dear wife Mimsy. Following her tragic death in a bizarre water-skiing accident off Gozo five years ago, Leslie suggested that I come home to Botolph Hall, a suggestion with which I was pleased to go along. Those of my former companions at ‘The Coach and Horses’ who felt that this return to the country marked some form of retirement have been proved sadly mistaken, as life in the village is an endless whirl of social, familial and cultural excitement. And, of course, I still have my work. I have been a consultant on the film of my life, ‘Hilary and Mimsy’, somewhat in the vein of ‘Iris’ and ‘Sylvia’, which is currently being filmed on location in Torquay. My forthcoming collection of nature poems, ‘Mumbles’ is much anticipated. Botolph St. Otto, far from being a backwater, has revivified me.
Perhaps I should say something about the village, though God only knows from the amount of motor cars and charabancs that clog up the High Street from May till October, it is well known enough already. It nestles in a little valley between Moreton-in-Marsh and Chipping Campden. We have a wonderful 14th century church, St. Otto’s, highly thought of by Pevsner. Of particular note are the magnificent reredos, a fine hagioscope, an unusual piscina, and, of course, the tombs of the Spume family. We have a village hall, built by my grandfather after the First War. We have a 17th century coaching inn (The Spume Arms), and a disreputable ale house, The Turk’s Head. We have two tea rooms, Bumbles and The Old Dairy. We have three antique shops (the best of which, Old Forge Antiques, is run by my brother’s companion, Eric). There is a post office, where I collect the small pension granted me by a grateful nation every Monday, which I use to pay off my slate at The Turk’s Head. The village school, St. Otto’s Church of England Primary, is a hive of activity, presided over by the excellent Mrs. Peach, with whom I am a little in love. On the outskirts of the village, you will find a small supermarket, run by the redoubtable Mr Singh and his family, and also Hancock’s Garage, long established. Most of the houses are built in the characteristic Cotswold honey coloured stone, though there is an unfortunate rash of social housing beyond Hancock’s, on the Moreton road.
Our own modest pile, Botolph Hall, was also much admired by Pevsner. Largely rebuilt in the eighteenth century, it stands in 25 acres of parkland, and is a convenient ten minute walk from the centre of the village. Old Leslie opens it to the hoi-polloi on alternative Wednesdays during the summer. On these days, I usually catch the train from Moreton up to London for the day, to revisit old haunts in Soho. We also host an annual Garden Fete, which I cannot say I enjoy overmuch. Mrs Cutler, our housekeeper, poor old thing, agrees with me, but old Leslie enjoys it, as it gives him and Eric a chance to dress up.
What with jumble sales, beetle drives, safari suppers and quiz night at The Turk’s Head, we stay terribly busy in the village, and I look forward to sharing some of our doings with you over the coming months. I may also, if the mood strikes, take this oppurtunity to publish a few selections from ‘Mumbles’, which I feel confident that you will enjoy!

Still Alive

I'm very much still alive, but for the past fortnight, I have been unable to post, as the power and all lines of communication to the house were cut by the worlds press, in an attempt to smoke Leslie out, so that he would say something about his friendship with Peter. We remained steadfast, (we have a generator in the outhouse, and enough grub to last a year) and yesterday evening the last of the paparazzi left. This morning the gentleman from the telephone company came and re-connected the lines, and bingo! here I am back 'on-line'.
Three weeks worth of newspapers got delivered this morning, and hardly a dickie bird about Peter, Leslie or Michael Jackson, so it looks as though it might have blown over. But I see the Booker shortlist has been published. Leslie was delighted to see Alan Hollingshurst on the list of course, but followers of this blog will be feeling terribly chuffed at seeing David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas make the cut. Some weeks ago, I said that you could get eights about him at Hills; now he's come into evens. I had a pop at that price; even if he doesn't win (which I suspect he will), then at least I (and those of you who took my tip) will have managed to get a bit of value. He's not worth backing at even money, of course, but Sarah Hall is at ten to one for The Electric Michaelangelo, and for my money is the most fancied of this outsiders. I'll have a little hedging bet on her at that price. Most fancied in every sense; she was at Phuckwhitt in the summer, and is a little corker; thinking mans crumpet, if ever there was.

Richard and Judy fiasco.

Well, Richard and Judy have been and gone, and their little film on Phuckwhitt Hall was shown last night. I still think it was a good idea to have them here, despite everything. If only I had drunk a little less at dinner, perhaps I would have managed to resist sliding my hand up Judy's thigh under the table. Perhaps even more pertinently, in view of the current situation re the Leslie/Peter Mandelson/Michael Jackson photographs, it would have helped if Leslie could have resisted sliding his hand up Richards shapely leg. Neither of our overtures were at all welcome, and the couple stormed out, taking the film crew with them. Mrs Evans was most upset, as she had cooked a splendid meal, and had been promised a line of charlie by the cameraman by way of a thank you. Their piece, 'Pervert Hall' did not cast us at all in the light we had hoped for. Far from it. In fact, we are now besieged by the world's press, who are camped around the perimeter. We can't get out to the town for supplies without being asked about Peter. A few of our friends are rallying round, and trying to get fags etc into us. Protest singer Tom Robinson is one such; the darling man turned up this morning with milk bread and gaspers, and says that he's going to stay with us as long as the siege lasts. He is a dear and good man.

Max pulls a master stoke

Old Max Clifford is worth every fucking penny. He's fixed it so that the 'Richard and Judy' show comes and films here at Phuckwhitt tomorrow and Sunday. They will do a little 'Weekend in the Country' piece, which will be broadcast this coming Monday, 6th September, during the Richard and Judy show, which starts at 5pm. This will show the world that Leslie is just a perfectly normal widowered baronet in his mid-seventies, who is never happier than when pottering about in his library, working on his life's project, a translation of Hegel's 'Phenomenology of the Spirit' into Welsh. What could be more normal, for such a figure, than to take an annual reading pary to Tunis? This keeps the press off our backs for a few days; more importantly, it takes the focus away from Peter somewhat. If the faeces does get sucked into the air-conditioning, then people would have seen that Leslie and his household could not be more conventional, and things like that have been known to sway juries. Max has gone back to London, the phone has fallen silent, and Leslie and I have just enjoyed a dinner of cream of asparagus soup, cod baked in a cheese sauce, and cold apple tart, cooked for us by Mrs Evans. Now we're working our way down a bottle of the '73.
It's the calm before the storm.

Extraordinary times

After a long journey down from Wales and a somewhat bruising evening in the Coach and Horses, I felt that an early night was called for, and I was out of the Colony Club and in bed by three. Feeling reasonably glad to be alive on this sunny day, I popped into The French House for breakfast, where I found Jeannette Winterson and Marie Osmond sniggering over this morning's 'Mail'.
'Ah! Spume!' boomed Winterson. 'I see your brother's in the soup!'
All Marie Osmond could do was giggle, of course. I like Winterson, but I can't understand what she sees in the Mormon chanteuse. She's still getting over Shania Twain, of course; Osmond is transitional, or so I hope for Winterson's sake. Dolly Parton has always had a soft spot for Jeanette, and they would make a lovely couple. But she can't sem to see it. I digress...
To my horror, The Mail had got hold of some forty year old photos of Leslie and dear old Peter Mandelson sporting on the beach in Tunis with that little shit Michael Jackson. After a quick couple of stiffeners, I hurried from the pub (to the sound of Winterson and Marie Osmond's somewhat derisive laughter), and got on the phone to Leslie. It looks very much as though the balloon has gone up; inconvenient for Leslie, but it could be the end for Peter. Old Leslie was terribly upset, but I told him that I would get straightaway on the blower to Max Clifford, and that we would get to Phuckwhitt by dinner. Until we arrived, he was to take the phone off the hook, and instruct Mrs Evans to tell callers that he was NOT at home. This calmed him down; I spoke with dear Max... who is sitting beside me as I write, on the first train out of Paddington for Leominster. Tally Ho!

Phuckwhitt Phestival - last day

I'm back in London, hot foot from Presteigne. I thought it best under the circumstances. The crowd on the last day was well into the hundreds, and although the million pounds for the roof restoration (not to mention Leslie's reading party in Tunis with Peter Mendelson), seemed a long way off, at least it meant that we were going to break even. But Mrs Evans, trying to make a few bob on the side (as who can blame her, since Leslie can't afford to pay her for her duties at Phuckwhitt) was selling 'brown acid brownies', which sent the crowd into a frenzy. They threw cans and bottles at The United States of America, and booed all throough The Fugs. Both parties were most upset, and stormed off after two numbers apiece. It seems that this country is not yet ready for the sixties art-rock revival. Ginsberg saved the day somewhat, and gave a most spirited rendition of 'Howl', but Leslie was not at all pleased, and is blaming me, which seems most unfair, since it wasn't me who spiked the crowd with bad acid, but Mrs Evans. If you ask me, Leslie is scared of her; she knows too much about what Leslie and Peter get up to.
Still, it was good to see Ginsberg again. He managed to keep his hands to himself, and was kind enough to make the following contribution to the little festschrift which a few friends are preparing in honour of my forthcoming seventy first birthday;

Half-diamond Poem (concrete) for dear old Hilary:

O
An
Old
Tart
Stung
Unsung
Spumers.
Tragic.
Sixty
Quid.
Doh!
Eh?
O

Isn't he the sweetest man?
I'm off down the Coach and Horses; my sojourn at Phuckwhitt may be over for now, but it's nice to be back in Soho, just as it's coming back to life after the summer.