Phuckwhitt Phestival - Second night

A much more successful night than the first. Smoky, Pilot, and Sailor were all excellent. What's more important, they attracted dozens of festival goers from all over this part of the world; some had come from as far afield as Ledbury and Ross-On-Wye. Although we are still someway short of breaking even, my brother Sir Leslie Spume was somewhat placated, and I spotted him singing along to Pilot's hit, 'January'. Mrs Evans, loyal as ever, made tea for everyone, and dear old Martin Orbach, owner of Shepherds Sheep Milk Ice Cream told me that if the rain held off, and if the crowd for the Sunday night was a hundred times bigger than tonights, he might just make a small profit. I feel sure that young people will be unable to resist the allure of tonights line up. Ginsberg's catamite has flown in from the West Coast (Aberaeron), so he is considerably cheered, and I feel somewhat safer from his wandering hands.
Glancing through this morning's 'Observer' over a much-needed kipper, I see that The Booker longlist has been published.William Hills have David Mitchell's 'Cloud Atlas' at three to one favourite, whilst you can get eights about it at Ladbrokes; a value bet by anybody's standards. I was on the phone first thing, and have had a pony on Mitchell. If he wins, I'll put the winnings towards the roof restoration fund, which will cheer Leslie up even further.
One more piece of good news; Sid's housekeeper phoned me to say that he is out of intensive care; that he is sitting up, and has asked for a bottle of Mackesons. It takes more than a savage beating from a bunch of Hell's Angels to keep Sir Sid down!

Phuckphitt Phestival- First night

A somewhat disapointing turn out for the first night of the Phestival. Gusset, despite being offered a most generous rider, seemed unable to find their way to Phuckwhitt, and did not show. To be honest, in their communications with me, I gained the impression that they felt that Phuckwhitt and its Phestival were entirely fictional! The Impressionable Jennifers were excellent, and had a first rate special guest, viz., yours truly, but the audience was a wee bit on the thin side. In fact, it was Ginsberg, The Fugs, Leslie, Mrs. Evans, and old Sid Nolan, who was somewhat the worse for drink. He heckled during my performance, and was escorted from the site by the Ludlow Chapter of the Hells Angels, who Leslie had hired as security, at some considerable expense. Sir Sid is not one to take this kind of thing lightly, and was foolish enough to struggle, so they rendered him insensible with some chains from their motorcycles, and he is currently in intensive care at Hereford County Hospital. By the time Bark came to the stage for their excellent set of improvised noise, The Fugs had drifted away, and Ginsberg had fallen asleep; more fool they, as they missed a thrilling show. Ted Milton and Blurt, though perhaps somewhat lyrical for this company, turned on the style big time, but unfortunetly it started to rain whilst they were playing, and Mrs Evans made her excuses, and took herself off to bed, leaving only me and Leslie. Leslie is not terribly pleased at the turn out so far; in fact, he seems to want to blame me, and my policy of keeping the line up secret until the last possible moment. I can understand his pique; if it goes on like this, we do look like falling a wee bit short of the million pound target. Still, fingers crossed that tomorrows line up of second division seventies pop bands will draw in the crowds!

Phuckwhitt Phestival line up announced

It is with great pleasure, and with only two days to go, that I can announce the line up for The Phirst Phuckwhitt Phestival of the Alternative Arts, which starts on Friday.
First night, the headliners are Ted Milton's Blurt, with Bark, Gusset, and The Impressionable Jennifers.
On Saturday, we are lucky enough to be joined by Pilot, Smokey, and Sailor, whilst on Sunday I can gleefully announce that the line up is The United States of America, The Fugs, and, ending the whole thing with a life-affirming howl, my old sparring partner Allen Ginsburg. It was he, of course, who importuned me in a cottage off The Fulham Palace Road. If it wasn't for that Philipino lass in Telford, I might be tempted to take up his offer, these days, if I could still get it up.

Back in the Cottage

With a week to go till Phuckwhitt Phestival, I nipped back to London for the weekend, to see Fulham's return to Craven Cottage. I'm never happier than when watching the Cottagers, and the revamped stadium looks splendid, all thanks to that great and good man, Mohammed al Fayed. I sent him a poem after the death of his son and dear Princess Diana, and he was kind enough to send me a five pounds Harrods voucher in return.
As is well known, when Johhny B was gathered unto the arms of the Lord, it was between me, Larkin and Ted for the laureateship; and when Larkin turned it down, I thought I was in with a shout... though no one was more pleased than I when it went to Ted. But when old Ted went across, and they gave it to that prize shit Andrew Motion, I took it rather hard. Admittedly, my lifelong membership of the Communist Party of Great Britain may have counted against me. The thing that really hurt was Motion demanding remuneration for the post; a butt of malmsey was good enough for Dryden, Tennyson et al, but Motion demanded ten thousand pounds a year of tax payers money, and President-For-Life Blair handed it over without demur. Have you any idea just how much booze there is in a butt? A fair old drop; more than enough to keep me and Sir Sidney going for a good few months. Motion, I'm afraid, is a man without style or taste. Larkin despised him, of course.

Sid on the piss

It has been such a pleasure having dear Simon Armitage to stay; I shall miss him terribly when he heads back for the industrial north tomorrow. Tonight, Mrs Evans cooked dinner for Simon and Leslie and me, and Leslie cracked open a botle of the 62 afterwards, and he doesn't do that for everyone, so I know he has enjoyed having Simon about the old place.
A slightly sour was struck at about midnight. Leslie was preparing to take to his bed, and Simon and I were settling down for a chat in the library, (I had been looking forward to sharing my views on the latest crop of Next Generation poets), when fucking old Sid Nolan came hammering on the library windows. He'd been chucked out of the Farmers again, and knows that he can always get a nigtcap at Phuckwhitt Hall. I've been chucked out of the Farmers with Sir Sidney on many and many an occasion, and he often comes round to ours if he can't make it back to The Rodd of an evening, but I wasn't in the mood for Sid's abrasive Aussie humour tonight. He was pissed as a bishop, and he told the one about going on the rampage in Balarat with Les Murray, which I've heard a hundred times before, and which I could see was not to Simon's taste. Simon excused himself and went upstairs, leaving me to share a few with Sid, who threw up on the persian rug and passed out on the chaise longue. Really too bad of Sid, who can be a bore when he's pissed, Australia's greatest painter and Presteigne's most distinguished citizen or no. Now poor old Mrs Evans will have to clear up his mess in the morning.

Summer Memories

It has been pouring with rain for days, so much so that I had Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper, come and light the fire in the library today. As I write, Armitage is curled up in front of the fire, sucking a pencil and working on his radio dramatisation of 'The Odyssey', while I have been reclining on the chaise longue, worrying about the festival. The men arrived today to begin setting up the stage, and the park here at Phuckwhitt is being churned into a ploughed field. This is most upsetting, as my father loved the park, and had it re-landscaped by Miss Gertrude Jekyll to celebrate the Anchluss. He really was a most unpleasant man, but the park looks splendid at this time of year, and I hope the damage isn't irreparable. But, needs must where the devil drives, and hopefully the festival will be a huge success, and old Leslie can patch up the roof. It's worst for poor old Mrs. Evans, of course, who has her rooms in the attic. The damp plays havoc with her knees, which are in a terrible state with this wet summer.
Summers in my youth lasted for months; it never rained; the sun shone down from blue skies. In those days, before the war, my parents always took a house in Southwold, and it was there I met Eric Blair. He was visiting the area with the Independant Labour Party, who were holding their annual summer camp in Walberswick. Unfortunately, my Father had invited several prominent Blackshirts down for a fortnight, and there was a huge scrap on the beach. Blair was in the thick of it, of course, and although I could not have been more than three at the time, I toddled across the beach, and tugged at his Oxford bags, while pebbles hurled by my fathers people rained down on us.
'What is it, young man?' he asked, looking down at me. There was sardine caught in his moustache, I noticed.
'Smash Fascism', I said, and handed him a pebble. He smiled, and threw the pebble at my Father, who never really spoke to me again. He mentions this incident in 'Homage to Catalonia', of course.

Tomorrow's Today

Been sitting up chatting with Simon Armitage, and enjoying some of the fruits of Leslie's cellar. Armitage has to be up early tomorrow morning, because he's appearing on 'Today', to talk about his dramatisation of 'The Odyssey'. So he's gone to bed with 'Ulysses'. Now I see why he wanted to come and say for a few days; as is well known, my early collection 'Phtung' deals with my relationship with my wife Mimsy, and is loosely based on that greatest of myths. He's more than welcome to pick my brains!
I never met Joyce, but Pound was a good friend to my Father, and I visited him several times in Rome. Like my father, he remained an unrepentant fascist, which was always difficult to square with my own views, of course. In fact, on our last meeting, shortly before his death, he hit me with a stick. Talking of death, and punching, I see old Bernie Levin has gone across; Alzheimer's, like Iris. Such a loss. Who can forget the edition of TWTWTW when Mimsy got up and punched Bernie on the nose, just because he called her 'a fat old whore' in the Colony Club one night. She could be very sensitive about things like that, could Mimsy.

Terribly exciting

Terribly exciting news. Dear old Simon Armitage has just called, and asked if he can come and stay for the week. He arrives tomorrow. I look forward to hearing his views on the new football season. Simon is a Man U fan of course, as he comes from Huddersfield, whereas I'm a lifelong devotee of Fulham. Sir Leslie is a season ticket holder at Shrewsbury, and he takes me to home games sometimes. Perhaps we'll lure Armitage up there for a mid-week match!

Oily fish

Great excitement here, as preparations continue for the Summer Fete, which this year is to be an alternative arts festival. This is because Sir Leslie, my elder brother, needs to raise a million quid to do Phuckwhitt Hall up a bit. The roof is leaking like my bladder. One of the worst things about getting old is that you're up and down all night like a whore's knickers.
Frankly, Leslie's hoping to have a bit left over from the roof restoration fund so he can slope off for a couple of months in Tunis this winter with dear old Peter Mandelson and some young friends. Leslie and Peter were at Magdelene together, and their annual reading party is a tradition that they have kept going for almost fifty years. But Tunis costs, what with one thing and another, so Leslies opening the grounds the weekend after next to five thousand paying customers. Terribly exciting. I've been roped in to help, of course, because I'm the expert on the counter culture. My job is to book the acts, and I can tell you that we've got a pretty exciting line up. Just who we've got coming will have to remain a secret until nearer the time, so that... well, I'm not sure really. They do it at Glastonbury, and it seems to work for them, so I suggested that we do the same, and Sir Leslie concurred. A clue; I was once importuned by our headliner in a cottage off the Fulham Palace Road.
Old Leslie's a brick. He's paid the rent on the Brewer Street flat for years. He always had a soft spot for Mimsy, and they used occasionally to holiday together while I struggled with my Muse in her Earl's Court bed-sitting room. After his wife Imogen died a few years back, he grew lonely rattling round the old ancestral home, and pretty much insisted that I spend as much time here as I like. He took me out today for lunch at The Stagg in Titley, which is the only pub in Britain with a Michelin star, and I had turbot, which was very good. Fish cookery has taken a turn for the better in this country since President-For-Life Blair came to power, I'll give him that.
I remember sitting with Larkin, years ago, in a little fish and chip shop in Goole where we had gone for a day's excursion out from Hull. I had the haddock, while Larkin nibbled at a piece of rock salmon, as it was known then. Huss, they call it now, but it's dogfish, really. In the war we had much worse, and Larkin told the story of how he hid a piece of snoek inside his knickerbockers. I never had it, as Bedales was vegetarian, but I rather liked dried egg.
Excuse me if you will.... I am called to the telephone....

Feeling perfectly bloody

Many thanks for the solicitous requests after my health, following a reasonably prolonged absence from this blog. Fact of the matter is, I've been feeling perfectly bloody, and have taken to my bed, where you find me now, counterpane pulled up to my chins, tapping away at a new laptop computer which was bought for me by subscription of some very kind friends. Dear Mark Haddon was behind it, if you ask me. He is such a lovely man, and has been staying with me this week to bring a little succour to the invalides. I told him about a curious incident with a dog that happened once to me, though it was not in the nightime, but rather in broad daylight on Wandsworth Common. My mother, too, was prone to curious incidents.She looked very like dear old Queen Alexandra, as mothers did in those days. I got that from her, of course.
But, pleased to say, I'm beginning to feel a little perkier. The laptop has been a Godsend, quite frankly. It has bought the sights and sounds of the interweb straight into my lap. Then again, my bookmaker has been found dead in his mistresses flat in Leominster. My brother Sir Leslie Spume has decided to hold a 'rock' festival in the grounds here at Phuckwhitt Hall, later this month, and I am to help. I have found a little Philipino piece in Telford who does outcalls. I have been able to keep some liquids down, and today even managed to nibble a little Stilton. So, all in all, I feel able to face the day once more. To celebrate Leslie is taking me to lunch at The Stagg in Titley this Sunday.