Spume

National Poetry Day Diary

2007-12-13T16:27:00.000Z

Hilary Alaric MacFaddean Spume’s National Poetry Day Diary.

Hilary Alaric MacFaddean Spume.

5am. I’ve been up and down all night like a bride’s nightie, and it’s not just the effects of a National Poetry Day Eve party in Ledbury. Mother has been bad again, and was calling out in her sleep for Sir Stafford Cripps, with whom she had a brief walkout in her far distant youth. My Father didn’t like her to speak of it when he was alive, as he felt Cripps to be a fellow traveller.

5.45am. Awake. Always awake at this time now, watching the dawn bruise my curtains. Awake; and thinking of Larkin, and our long ago bus ride to Goole. Especially on this, our special day. He always made a great thing of it, though Monica dreaded it because of all the cooking.

8.30am Great excitement as the postman delivers a bundle of National Poetry Day cards. There’s one from old Les Murray in Balarat, with sheep on, and the dearest verse inside. My old friend E G Pugh did not forget me, and has sent a privately produced volume of his erotic verse. And dear Ritchie Edwards from the Manic Street Preachers went to the trouble of dropping me a note. A nice boy; I well remember the night in the library here at Botolph Hall when he lay in front of the fire, sucking a pencil, and asking for my help with an early draft of ‘Motorcycle Emptiness’

One rather unpleasant note; Alvarez seems to have snubbed me again. Perhaps his card will come in the next post.

12.30pm As is well known, I’m poet in residence with the Potato Marketing Board, and today is the honorary lunch thrown by the Board on behalf of the resident muse. These things always take place in Potato House, just off The Strand, where they tend to do quite well by yours truly. I think its to make up for the paucity of my stipend, which is not impressive. Still, I’m always grateful for lunch in the West End, and was more than happy to deliver the annual poem, which I have the consent of the Board to reproduce in full here.

‘What kind of jacket does my jacket potato come with?’

I asked the girl.

‘Is it

Leather jackets

Wax jackets

Flax jackets

Flak jackets

Jack flackets

Jax flackets

Jax wackets

Jeather lackets?’

‘No. It’s,’

the girl replied,

‘the kind of jacket that all jacket potatoes come with.’

This was received with a deep, profound silence. I settled back with my cognac and cigar, content in the knowledge that there is still a serious audience for formal sound poetry in this country.

(Incidentally, please do not see the reproduction of this poem as a come hither for aspiring versifiers; poems submitted unsolicited will go unread. I am a professional poet, so that’s different. How would you like it if you were a dentist, say, and I set up on your lawn and said I fancied a go at drilling peoples teeth? Poetry is a dangerous business, my friend! Stay away!)

4pm Tea with the Laureate and a few select contemporaries, though I can’t touch the stuff myself. I always insist on a drop of the malmsey, of which there is a butt, hidden in the depths of the Laureate’s modest home. Cecil Day Lewis drank a great deal of tea, of course, as did dear old Sir John. But Ted liked coffee thick like mud, which put him in mind of the waters of the River Calder.

I suppose it’s fairly well known that I was in line for the Laureateship after Ted Hughes, and that the Prime Minister couldn’t decide between me and Pam Ayres, so he went for the present incumbent, who is, nonetheless, a splendid fellow and a superb ambassador for poetry. That said, it cannot be denied that a certain froideur exists between us, and I think we were both relieved when over excited poetry boy band Aisle 16 let off the fire extinguishers.

7.30pm A private dinner for a few friends, marred somewhat by my Mother insisting that she be present. A great beauty in her day, National Poetry Day has always been one of her favourite times of the year. As a child, my mother played petanque with Lady Ottoline Morrel and Bertrand Russell (with whom she had a brief run in, or so my Father always insisted). Lady Ottoline always gave the Garsington downstairs staff the day off, so that poetry could be more naturally expressed. My Father was a Naturist of course, as I remember with a great deal of distaste.

10.30pm Supper, then dancing till dawn at the Poetry Café. A truly memorable evening, and one which live long in memory. So long as evenings are remembered, this is one which will be. Remembered that is. I met this bloke at the bar who told me this joke about something or other. Ha ha! No wait, I’ll get it. It’s very funny. I told it to John Cooper Clarke, then he told it to Ursula Fanthorpe, and she laughed so much she had to sit down. Not so Spume. I like to strut my funky stuff. I find that my work with young people has kept me very much in touch with the streets, and it wasn’t long before I found myself in the moshpit next to Salman Rushdie, our greatest rock writer. Laudi, the first Scandinavian Death Metal band to win the Eurovision Song Contest gave us a set based, not entirely successfully in my view, on Ezra Pound’s Cantos. God, he was an awful man. My father visited him in Rome on occasion. Rushdie and I leapt about with great abandon, until, most unfortunately, I was unwell over the great man’s shoes; a rerun of the occasion when I was similarly so indisposed over Steven Spender in the Green Room at Hay. Then it was a pie; this time it was probably the Laureate’s malmsey.

3-ish. Back in Botolph Hall. Feel dreadful. Mother is restless once more, and is calling for Cripps. Must try and grab a few hours of sleep before the dawn bruises again my curtains; ( and how many more dawns can there be for Spume?)

And again I think of Larkin, and the day we went to Goole together on the bus.

Hilary Spume By Firelight

2007-06-27T01:03:00.000+01:00

What is more wonderful at this time of year, than sitting by a crackling fire in the library of ones ancestral Cotswolds home, licking crumpetty butter from ones fingers, and casting ones eye over a few recent volumes? Well, a run up to Town for one thing, but Mrs Cutler our fearsome housekeeper has confiscated my wallet after an admittedly ill-judged Skittles night at The Turks Head in the village last Thursday week. Until my brother Sir Leslie gets back from his annual reading party in Tunis, I am terribly low on funds, and yours truly is forced once more to turn in a few book reviews in order to earn an honest crust.

The lovely thing about reviewing is that you get paid twice, once when your piece appears, and then again when you flog your review copies. We’re still lucky enough to have a proper second-hand bookshop here in Botolph St Otto, run by a parsimonious old skinflint called Arnold Hamble, but even he might cough up decent money for my copy of Phillip Larkin; On The Buses, edited by Fred Dibnah. It really is hard to think of a more comprehensive account of Larkin’s travels by bus and I doubt that Dibnah’s book will be superseded for many years.

Using a collection of tickets saved at Larkin’s death by his ‘loaf-haired secretary’ Betty, Dibnah shows that the omnibus was second only in importance to the sit-up-and-beg bicycle in Larkin’s life. There are bus tickets which chart Larkin’s rides to school in Coventry, tickets from the Oxford Corporation which reflect his growing intimacy with dear old Kingsley, and tickets from the years when Larkin was working on his novels and commuting by bus into Wellington. Sadly, Dibnah has been unable to find many of the Belfast tickets, so the bulk of the book is based on tickets which record Larkin’s bus journeys in and around Hull.

I was touched to see two eight penny returns from Hull to Goole, dated from 1965, a poignant reminder of a delightful day out which Larkin and I shared. After our bus ride, we walked around Goole, (not a terribly attractive town, if memory serves aright), before sharing a fish tea; 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

I’ll tell you who I never much liked, and that was old Crispin Tolby, whose Bulgarian Water Colourists of The 19th Century has just been reissued by the University of Sofia Press. He was my brother Sir Leslie Spume’s fag at Gordonstoun, and Leslie always insisted that the little puss stole a postal order of five shillings value from his pocket book. This was the inciting incident behind Rattigan’s ‘Winslow Boy’, or so Sir Leslie claims. Rattigan had a ‘thing’ about Tolby, but so did the whole Secret Service quite frankly, including my late wife Mimsy, who had a bit of a run in with him when she was working on the switchboard at Cambridge Circus between shifts at The Windmill. There were a few raised eyebrows when Tolby was revealed as Twelfth Man; not from me, I can tell you. I always knew he was a wrong ‘un.

Still, you have to admit that this present volume is the final word on the subject of Bulgarian Water Colourists, and must be good for a bob or two at the second-hand bookshop. It comes in a slip case, and retails for two hundred quid, for God’s sake! It must be worth more than a tenner! Look at the quality of the reproductions! Come on Arnold! A couple of pints, at least!

One more volume of note before I hasten to the Public Bar of The Turk’s Head, is EG Pugh’s History of the Bedfordshire Brickfields. It sounds a bit dull, I know, and it is, quite frankly, but old EG’s been working on it for donkeys years, and he’s a pal of mine from Coach and Horses days. And what, after all, are book reviews if not a chance to put in a good word for ones cronies?

Good reading!

Hmmm?

2006-07-12T00:43:00.000+01:00

Wazzat? Wake up? Why? What's happening? Why have my legs gone numb? Sid? Is that you? Sid! Dear God my head hurts. As though I've been asleep for years. Jesus. What have I been drinking?

Spring in Botolph St Otto

2005-03-02T01:17:00.000Z

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.

2004-11-17T23:51:00.000Z

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

2004-09-23T23:36:00.000+01:00

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.

2004-09-07T13:08:00.000+01:00

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

2004-09-03T20:09:00.000+01:00

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

2004-09-02T13:07:00.000+01:00

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

2004-09-01T14:19:00.000+01:00

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.

Phuckwhitt Phestival - Second night

2004-08-29T12:32:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-28T21:57:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-26T01:18:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-22T00:26:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-14T00:29:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-12T19:02:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-11T01:46:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-09T00:11:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-09T00:00:00.000+01:00

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

2004-08-05T23:23:00.000+01:00

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.

Bloody French

2004-06-14T17:44:00.000+01:00

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

2004-06-09T21:10:00.000+01:00

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

2004-06-06T17:46:00.000+01:00

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!

2004-06-06T17:39:00.000+01:00

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!

2004-06-06T17:19:00.000+01:00