Bloody French

I was chatting on the phone after the England-France game to dear old Colin Wilson, who has just published his autobiography, 'Dreaming to Some Purpose'. We struck up a firm friendship in the early 1960's, when we discovered that we shared a mutual interest in ladies undergarments, and have been in regular touch ever since, though he lives in Cornwall, while I alternate between Radnorshire and Soho. I well remember the thrill of reading 'The Outsider' all those years ago; so much better than bloody Camus, who was a goalkeeper. Shame he wasn't playing last night, though I doubt that Beckham could have scored that penalty even with a dead existentialist minding the net. I am boycotting The French House for a week, while I am away from London.

Orange Prize

I hear on the grapevine that Andrea Levy has scooped the Orange Prize this year. It often seems to go to outsiders and I honestly think that it is starting to look like a value bet. The book seems a little unbalanced in favour of the punter who is prepared to have a go on the 6/1, 7/1 shots. Circle it in next years racing calander, if you want my advice.
The Orange has a venerable and distinguished history. It was Virginia Woolf who was the first recipient, in 1936, and I remember seeing the trophy on the mantelpiece of Monk's House when I was taken to see her as a child. Leonard was a cousin of my mothers, by marriage I believe. My Father was a huge favourite of Virginia's, and she sent a charming letter of condolence to my mother when he was interred for the duration. I was no more than eight; Virginia couldn't have been kinder; she listened to one of my first ventures into verse with an indulgent ear, and after tea we played french cricket on the lawn. She had a good bowling arm, and could put a little bit of left hand spin on it if the conditions were right.

Oh dear

Oh dear. For some strange reason, my last posting was entitled 'My Yahoo', when of course, it should have been entitled, 'Memories of Graves'. I went on an old folks computer course in Ludlow, every Tuesday afternoon for ten weeks, and felt that I had mastered the Interweb. But it seems that, once again, my confidence has out-striped my ability. This is one of the reasons I did not make the laureateship, of course.

My Yahoo!

Reading the books pages of this mornings Observer, I see that some ghastly woman has published yet another book about poor old Ted and Sylvia. Why Ted was hounded pillar to post, just because two of his wives committed suicide, I will never know. I had a run-in with Sylvia; trust me, she was a lovely girl, but as mad as a tree.
I had to go and see 'Sylvia' the film, really just because the same company are making a film about my marriage to Noreen, known to every one in Soho as Mimsy. Our film is to be called 'Hilary and Mimsy', and is being shot largely in Torquay, God knows why. I wouldn't mind if they got one of these young actresses to play Mimsy, because then I could watch the nude scenes and crack a last one off, in the dear old girls memory.
Reading the review, I was reminded of Ted's devotion to 'The White Goddess', and this reminded me in turn of the time Mimsy and I visited the Graves menage in Majorca, some time back in the early 1970's. Robert was on top form, and took us to an bodega, where we ate paella and drank sangria from long-stemmed jugs, while a flamenco dancer stamped along to the most marvellous guitar music. Mimsy bought a straw wine bottle holder in the shape of a donkey, which she was very proud of. I haven't had occasion to revisit Majorca since, but I don't doubt that this authentic Spanish culture has been swept aside in the unholy name of tourism.

My Yahoo!

New Generation Poets

I see in this morning's edition of The Manchester Guardian that dear old Simon Armitage has published a list of 20 exciting new poets to watch, The New Generation. How gratifying to see some of one's young friends feature on the list - Paul Farley, for example is a good chap, whose capacity for Liffey Water equals that of some of the greats of the past; or Jane Draycott, a fine poet, with quite simply the best legs in the game. It was a pleasure to see a photograph of the toothsome Owen Shears; a quite beautiful boy, who I came across in The Green Room at Hay last weekend, looking rather as though he had caught the sun on the end of his nose. If ever that harsh mistress prosody lets the lad down with a bump (as who has she not?), he might consider photographic modelling as an alternative career.
50 years ago, of course, I featured on the very first such list, along with Ted, Kingsley, Larkin, et al. It was at the luncheon to introduce us all to the literary press, that I first met dear old Charlie Causley, who was, of course, numbered among us. Sad to think I missed his memorial service November last, but I woke up that morning feeling as though it might be my last, quite unable to make the arduous journey from Brewer Street to Paddington. Now Charlie has been gathered unto the arms of the Lord I am the last of that first golden generation still to be found leaning on the bar of life; increasingly aware that closing time is approaching. I wonder who of this New Generation will be attendant on Spume's obsequies?

Hay

It is always a huge privelege to be invited to speak at the Hay Festival of Literature, one which has been long denied me. This is an woeful oversight which I have taken somewhat to heart, since I now live close to the town, and am nothing if not the Laureate Concrete of The Marches.
Imagine my suprise and delight, then, if you will, when my old sparring partner Stephen Spender asked me to share the platform at this years festival, subject; 'Whither Socialist poetry?'
I agreed at once, as this is a subject to which I have given a great deal of thought. On the morning of the event, a car driven by an ex-ostrich farmer from South Africa came out to the house to pick me up, and I was whisked into 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. I was sick over Spender's brogues, and had to be helped from the Festival site.
Now Stephen isn't talking to me. I'm told that my chance of being asked back have lessened somewhat, to put it mildly. Moral; in future, (and both Ledbury and Cheltenham have put out feelers for next year), I shall avoid solids before my talk.