What's in a name?

John Betjeman. Born 28 August 1906, London, England

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

John Betjeman 1937

flickr.com/photos/7232802@N06/485305230

Sultry heat we haven’t seen the like of for three years has already resulted in the retrieval of the fan from the back of the cupboard. The lawn’s beginning to throw up little puffs of dust and dry grass underfoot, with a hosepipe ban surely only days away. Play at Wimbledon has continued uninterrupted, with only one brief shower at Glastonbury so far. Strawberry stalls occupy every lay-by, the smell of burning charcoal drifts from surrounding gardens and legs of all shape, size, gender and age make an appearance beneath shorts of many colours. Young men heavy with alcohol tragically sink off midnight beaches, England cricketers prepare to ensure The Ashes return to Australia and the first ‘book now for Christmas’ reminders appear. Newspapers print pictures of packed shorelines under headlines that include ‘phew’, ‘scorcher’ and ‘hotter than Corfu’. The Great British Summer has arrived.

I once saw a TV programme featuring Michael Jackson that included a sequence of a shopping spree at Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas. A ‘king’ in a ‘palace’ surrounded by ‘antiques’. All fake.

The one real thing in Michael Jackson’s world was his music. Once the media has finally tired of raking through the events of his bizarre and troubled life, it’s that which should remain as his true legacy. And boy’s who never grew up, may fly.

Saw Ken Loach’s film ‘Looking for Eric’ last night. Thoroughly enjoyed it. The ‘Eric’ in the title refers to two characters in the story, a hapless Mancunian postman and his idol, Eric Cantona. The film is worth seeing for the clips of Monsieur Eric in all his footballing pomp and glory alone. The man was a genius.

Asked by postman Eric what his favourite Manchester United playing moment was, Eric C recalled not a goal, but a pass: a precise, expertly weighted chip over the Tottenham defence to Denis Irwin, who ran on to score. Perfection. Questioned about his long ban and what he did to pass the time, Eric said that he learned to play the trumpet, which he demonstrated with a wobbly but spirited rendition of La Marseillaise. But when it came to the beautiful game, there was none better at blowing his own. Ooh ah!

A day off from daubing today. Going to have a look at other people’s efforts. It’s the time of year that around and about my part of the world we have ‘open studios’. I say ‘we’ in the community sense rather than me personally as I’ve never done it myself. Not that I wouldn’t, it’s just that I’ve never had enough work to show, but maybe next year. So, having been through the book we’ve picked out some likely candidates for a visit.

Watched a programme featuring this year’s RA Summer Exhibition the other evening and it’s staggering just how many people there are out there producing artworks. All the more so as a lot of them are very good. Thankfully not all – too much competition otherwise - but then that’s where it gets interesting, because personal taste and preference is subjective. One person’s masterpiece is another’s piece of shite.

In another TV programme about the Pre-Raphaelites, now fully accepted into the art mainstream, it was amazing how much they were vilified by critical opinion at the time. The scorn and disgust that greeted their first paintings seemed to have no connection with the work shown on screen when viewing it today. But for influential critic John Ruskin who championed their manifesto, the ‘Brotherhood’ may have sunk without trace.

The Impressionists were a laughing stock. Even the name was coined as an insult. Now, who wouldn’t have an original Monet or Renoir on their wall given the opportunity. Not many I’ll wager. Van Gogh never sold a painting in his lifetime. His work must now arguably be the most recognised of any painter in art history. But the passage of time is not always a guarantee of universal acceptance in art. Picasso still generates controversy 36 years after his death, his vision still a step too far for many. I dare say the infamous ‘Tate bricks’ are still a pile of builder’s raw materials to the majority. And as for Tracy’s bed and Damien’s skull, I can only guess.

So, what treasures lay in store today? Will there be some undiscovered genius holed up in a garden shed just waiting for someone to pluck them from obscurity? If there is, it won’t be me doing the plucking. I mean, what do I know? One thing’s for sure. I know what I like.

I’ve come over all British today. Not in a Union Jack, UKIP, curry and chips, Austin Healey, bicycle clips, knotted handkerchief, pint of mild, how's yer farver, Hawker Hurricane, any old iron, Bobby Moore sort of way. But musically. Again, not in a George Formby, Anne Shelton, Jess Conrad, Helen Shapiro, Frankie Vaughn, Wee Willie Harris, Don Lang & His Frantic Five way either. Rather in a Frederick Delius, George Butterworth, Vaughan Williams kind of way. So that’s who I’ll be taking to the studio for a spot of accompaniment.

After a day working in the studio I’ve just spent a peaceful half hour watching the evening light take on that special glow, the shadows of trees, stirred by the breeze, moving slowly around the wall as the sun descends toward the west. A celebrated photographer – I forget who – said that around now is the second of the only two times in the day that it's worth taking photographs, the other being early morning. I agree, if you can arrange to be in front of your chosen subject around those times and the sun is shining. Not always possible of course. I would take a photograph now but the camera’s in the house, so instead, I’ll just look.

After taking a break from painting for a few days I’m back in the studio today. Before setting off on the two minute walk to work I dug out my Tom Waits CD’s looking for his version of ‘Way Down In The Hole’, the song used as the theme for ‘The Wire’. Bugger. I didn’t seem to have it. Could have sworn I did, but there you go. So having Googled it to find which album it’s on I came across a version by The Blind Boys Of Alabama on Amazon that I’ve now ordered. Sorry Tom.

Ah, just cracked it. The version I’ve got is by Steve Earle on his album ‘Washington Square Serenade’. I knew I wasn’t imagining that I had the song in my collection. Now I’ll have two. Steve appeared in the first series of ‘The Wire’ as a reformed heroin addict turned counsellor. A part he could play convincingly from bitter experience of the real thing.

Staying with telly matters, Sky have again performed their usual trick of waiting for a US produced series to become popular on one of the terrestrial channels, to then out-bid them for the new series and force fans to pay if they wish to stay with it. It happened with ‘24’, ‘Lost’ and now ‘House’.

Okay, before jumping channels Jack Bauer’s days were beginning to drag a little and ‘Lost’ was starting to lose me. But Hugh Laurie’s turn as House, despite there being a finite number of mystery symptoms on which to prognosticate, was still keeping me amused. I particularly liked it when Bertie Wooster or Prince Regent would reappear briefly in Laurie’s expression – that slacked jawed ‘silly-ass’ look he’s made his own. A small delight for the time being denied to me by Sky’s chequebook tactics. Ya boo sucks.

Last night I watched the final two episodes of ’The Wire', Series 2. I’ve been recording BBC2’s airing of the complete series, catching up with the programmes that, until recently, I’d only heard about second-hand. Now I’m hooked. Okay, not being an African American living in the ‘hi’ or ‘lo’ rise projects of Baltimore, some of the dialogue passes me by, but that adds to the mystique that keeps me watching. Can’t wait for T20 to finish and S3 to begin. Because whatever happens next, it most definitely won’t be cricket.

Taken with an etching by June Carey which I saw in Chichester on Friday, I visited her website to see more of her work. The site confirmed that I liked what I'd seen and I’ve since started the process to buy one of her etchings. It’s part of a series, many featuring figures and musical instruments that were inspired by a trip to Mexico. This set me thinking about my own fleeting experiences south of the border, down Mexico way. I’ve been three times to Mexico, or strictly speaking, four. Each time the visits have taken place during various trips to the southwestern United States and have only been for the day.

The apparent confusion as to the number of visits probably warrants some explanation. The first time we made the crossing we were staying in El Paso on the border. The sole reason for being there was due directly to Marty Robbins. As a kid I was mad on Westerns and was well acquainted with his gunfighter ballad, ‘El Paso’. Studying a map the very name was enough to revive romantic notions that lingered from childhood. So as we neared this West Texas town, I had visions of dust-blown streets, tumbleweed tumbling, stray dogs sleeping in the shade, cocking an ear as I drove slowly by. But no: El Paso is a large teeming urban metropolis rather like Manchester with sun. Substitute the ship canal for the Rio Grande and there you have it.

Arriving at our motel somewhat frazzled from surviving the frenzied freeway traffic at the height of rush hour, where there was a distinct Latino autonomo to the driving experience, we were never happier to shower off the day’s stresses. Dried, changed and relaxed, we settled down to thumb through the hotel guide for things to do over the next couple of days. Recommended was a walk over the bridge to Juarez on the southern bank of the river that separates the USA from Mexico. Another name to conjure adventure, Juarez featured in a song by Bob Dylan: ‘When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez and it’s Easter time too.’ Well, it wasn’t raining, nor was it Easter, but bright and early next morning we set off in the car headed for the border.

The terms and conditions of our car hire agreement included a standard clause forbidding the vehicle to leave the United States. So the plan was, as already recommended in the guidebooks, to leave the car parked at the border and proceed on foot. Great plan. But somehow we found ourselves at a crossing point dedicated to motor traffic only with no way to turn around due to barriers dividing the carriageways. I was left with no alternative other than to park the car and explain our predicament to the Mexican Immigration Officers manning the borderline. Busy with paperwork they waved me inside the adjacent office. There I was greeted by a happy, smiling uniformed official, complete with resplendent moustache as wide as his grin. It was immediately apparent that his grasp of English-American was equal to my Spanish-Mexican. The conversation, like me, was going nowhere fast. As much as I waved my arms and mimed the action of turning around and going back the way I’d come, he counter-mimed my grand entry into Mexico, adding triumphantly ‘Where you want go? Mexico City? Cancun? I eventually gave in and returned to the car with the news that we were driving across the border, whereupon, at the first opportunity, we would turn around and head back to the good ol’ USA.

The traffic going in to Mexico had been a mere trickle. The traffic coming out was a torrent: albeit a torrent brought to a stop by the barrier of the border. We had no alternative other than to join the line of cars and trucks filled with what appeared to be half the population of Juarez leaving for a day’s work in El Paso. Eventually pulling up to the unsmiling, razor creased and gun toting US immigration official I was pleasantly surprised to be waved through with a casual pre-9/11 nod in the direction of our British passports. Safely back in El Paso we found our way to the pedestrian border crossing, parked the car and once again, set off for Mexico.

Again, the foot traffic was noticeably one-way as we crossed the Rio Grande. Never was a watercourse so misnamed. ‘Rio’ it may be, but ‘Grande’ it most certainly is not. The Manchester Ship Canal would compare to the middle reaches of the Amazon up against this glorified storm drain of barely moving river. Maybe the US authorities were responsible in the past for some south of the border misinformation, hyping the size of the river in an effort to deter would-be illegal entrants to their country from turning up to swim it. A hop, skip and jump would probably get you across in the dry season.

Juarez though was a bustling city, full of fascinating contrasts to its northern neighbour. We spent the day resisting the entreaties of stallholders, shop owners and barmen to sample their wares. Well, most of them anyway. I recall downing a few ice-cold bottles of the local brew in a street side café, much to the relief of the waiters who seemed to be struggling to attract English-speaking tourists. That’s because, to our mild and passing surprise, there were hardly any to be found. Just happy to be there, sampling the sights, sounds and atmosphere, we thought no more about it and after a good day wandered back across the bridge to another world; the land of opportunity, wealth and privilege.

Back at the hotel I switched on the early evening news. The caption across the bottom of the screen read ‘Juarez, Mexico’. Attention grabbed, I concentrated on what the American reporter standing in the streets through which we had just strolled, carefree and footloose, was saying. ‘The authorities in Juarez again expressed great concern today at the lack of tourists crossing the border to spend their dollars in the city. The situation for traders is now critical as visitors from the US continue to stay away following the deaths of 30 people, gunned down on the streets in the past three weeks. Advice issued by the Governor’s Office and State Department is not to visit Mexican border towns while the situation remains one of open warfare waged between rival drugs gangs.’ Once my jaw ceased to assume the drop position I swallowed hard and called out in the direction of the running shower. ‘You know where we were today, well you’ll never guess…

The following two excursions into Mexico, this time to a much smaller town over the Arizona border, also passed without incident, but without the post visit scare story. The lampshade we bought there still hangs in the bedroom and the earrings are still regularly worn. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, soon I’ll have the etching too. And there’ll always be Marty – ‘Out in the West Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl. Night-time would find me in Rosa's cantina; Music would play and Felina would whirl…

Stop. Relax. Sit back. Feet up. The pressure’s off. The exhibition I’ve been planning for in September is now not happening ‘till March 2010. Good news? No. Not really. The momentum goes immediately, followed closely by mild disappointment and a certain erosion of confidence. Penalties for getting mixed up in creative process I’m sorry to say.

Took a ride down to Pallant House Gallery in Chichester today to catch an exhibition of Patrick Caulfield’s work before it finishes this weekend. I’ve always liked his work, due to the clean, precise, graphic quality of the paintings and prints and his choice of subject matter, which is drawn from small details of urban life rather than the pastoral or figurative. Reducing information to the minimum he still manages to evoke subject and atmosphere assisted greatly by his brilliant use of colour and sometimes, texture.

So, having enjoyed that, I happened upon the print room that featured the work of Scottish female printmakers. I was particularly taken with an etching by June Carey. Inspired by a trip to Mexico it featured a male figure holding a guitar. Etching is my favourite print medium and this was a masterly example of drawing in line. Having dabbled briefly with etching at college, I’ve always harboured a desire to get back to it one of these days. I suppose ‘these days’ have arrived, so if I’m going to do it, it’s now or it could be never. Ever. Ooo-er.

Visiting Amazon to order an item or two, I again hovered over the decision to buy the CD or opt for the (cheaper) MP3 download. As usual, the CD won the day. Maybe it’s an age thing, as although I fully embrace the benefits of MP3 playback technology – see previous post – I still prefer to have a thing, a complete item, that I can hold, read, play (other than on an iPod or laptop) and stick on a shelf.

Admittedly biased, having spent a good few years of my working life knocking out various album and CD covers, I still enjoy a well-crafted package with which to refer and ponder while listening. It continues to render the experience less disposable in this throwawayday world we all now inhabit.

Howling Wolf, The Bible, Eels, XTC, B-52’s, American Angels, MGMT, Fiona Apple, The Lightning Seeds, The Beatles, Jack Bruce, The Delays, Emmylou Harris, Martha Wainwright, Donnie Fritts, Mose Allison, Thea Gilmore, Miles Davis, The Killers, Paul Weller, Leonard Cohen, Antje Duvekot, Prefab Sprout, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Stereo MC’s, Lou Reed, Richard Hawley, Jim Moray, Stephen Stills, Bat For Lashes, Paul Simon, R.E.M., The Rolling Stones, Wire, Frank Sinatra, The Jeff Healey Band, Ben Kweller, John Fahey, Manic Street Preachers, The Byrds, Clayhill, The Long Blondes, Blur, Aimee Mann, Stephen Fretwell, Ry Cooder & Manuel Galban, Ivy, Weezer, Muddy Waters, Snow Patrol, Aztec Camera, Chuck Prophet, Donovan, Cocteau Twins, Nick Drake, The Strokes, Royksopp, Alabama 3, Tony Allen, Ray Charles, De La Soul, Feeder, John Hiatt, Tony Joe White, Bill Withers, Death Cab For Cutie, Shudder To Think, Julian Cope, Five For Fighting, Badly Drawn Boy, The Kinks, Goldfrapp…

The music just keeps on coming. The soundtrack to my working day in the studio. On shuffle.

I love cherries. Just eaten a whole bowl full. There may be trouble ahead.

Took two of my ‘Hero’ paintings to the framers yesterday: Dusty and Stan. Two reasons: one, I wanted to see how they look in a mount, behind glass, in a frame; two, I’ll be seeing the gallery owners next weekend and I wanted them to get a taste of what to expect. Hopefully they’ll like what they see.

Having finished six, I plan to do another four, at least, to complete the series. Now I’ve got to decide who on the list makes the final cut. There are at least twice as many candidates than I need, so there’s some serious making up of mind to be done. Trouble is, it changes daily, with new people popping into the running. But not only do they have to fulfil the role of ‘hero’, but need to make interesting subjects to paint. Decisions, decisions.

Yesterday seemed to be a day for those, as I also went to the polling station to vote. The County Council ballot paper was straightforward enough. Four candidates in all: Tory, Labour, Lib Dem, UKIP. But the European list was a toilet roll. Not a reflection on the calibre or politics of those standing – though some definitely stank – but the length of it. The lure of the European Parliament seems to bring all kinds out of the woodwork. Maybe it’s the generous allowances that appeal. Whatever, it took a while to find the person, or rather group of persons, who were to get my cross. Whoever wins, I guarantee that they’ll disappear into the abyss of Brussels bureaucracy never to be heard of again.

I hope the same can’t be said of whoever sits down in their County Council seat to represent me. If the condition of the road in my street gets much worse it will forfeit the right to be called a road. But with the demands on cash becoming ever greater, it would probably be cheaper for the county treasurer to write cheques for new sets of tyres for residents than to shell out on resurfacing.

Went to the dentist yesterday. Said goodbye to the second tooth to go in my adult life. That’s if you don’t count the impacted wisdom tooth. But as that never appeared, what you don’t see you don’t miss. The latest had already been root filled and fitted with a crown, but had become troublesome of late. Antibiotics didn’t do the trick, so, out it came. As usual, Terry, my Brisbane born dentist did an excellent job with no problems, the rogue molar putting up little resistance.

Strangely, the smell of ground coffee never fails to put me in mind of visiting the dentist as a kid in Southampton. On the walk from the bus stop we’d pass the open door of a coffee shop with its tumbling drum full of roasting beans. And on the way back we’d always call in to look at the exotic birds at the aviary that was just behind the Titanic Memorial - dedicated to the crew and engineers who lost their lives. A connection with the sea also extended to my dentist back then, Mr Sorrell, who happened to be the son of a former captain of the Queen Elizabeth.

The closest I get to the sea at Terry’s are two photographs of Australian beaches in his surgery and the house I pass en route named ‘Sea View’, even though it’s a good 40 miles from the coast.

On Sunday I heard a reading of Robert Frost’s ‘Mending Wall’ on the radio. It was a poem that featured in liberal studies when I was at college and the opening line ‘Something there is that doesn't love a wall’ has remained with me down the years. It helped start an interest in poetry that continues to this day.

The programme also included another Frost poem, concerning the death of a boy. Following the funeral of my friend and colleague Adrian on Friday, it contained a line that describes how mourners, once they have paid their respects and said their farewells, have no alternative other than to carry on with life.

‘And they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.’

So the expenses soap goes on and on and on with yet more outed MP’s and Government Ministers claiming oversight and accounting errors, although defended, when exposed, as being ‘within the rules’. This is by no means a unique observation, but if this hapless bunch are so incompetent with their own finances, what errors are they making in their official capacities, not least The Chancellor?

On Thursday the public backlash will hit the ballot box. Stand by for a country represented in Europe and on County Councils by, amongst others, the Alliance for Green Socialism, Alliance for Workers Liberty, Communist Party of Britain, Communist Party of Britain (Marxist-Leninist), Democratic Labour Party, Democratic Socialist Alliance, Independent Working Class Association, International Socialist Group, Left List, New Communist Party of Britain, Peace and Progress Party, People's Party, Red Party, Revolutionary Communist Group, Revolutionary Communist Party of Britain (Marxist-Leninist), Social Justice Party, Socialist Appeal, Socialist Equality Party, Socialist Labour Party, Socialist Party (England and Wales), Socialist Party of Great Britain, Socialist Workers Party, Spartacist League, Workers Power, Workers' Revolutionary Party, British National Party, British National Socialist Movement, British Peoples Party, British First Party, England First Party, English Independence Party, Freedom Party, Imperial Party, National Democrats, National Front, Nationalist Alliance, New Britain Party, New Nationalist Party, Populist Party, Fancy Dress Party, Official Monster Raving Loony Party, Rock 'n' Roll Loony Party, Christian Peoples Alliance, The Common Good, Islamic Party of Britain, Operation Christian Vote - now the Christian Party (aka Scottish Christian Party and Welsh Christian Party), Vivamus, Let Us Live, Alternative Party, Animals Count, Better Boston Group, British Public Party, British Right Alliance, The Consensus, Countryside Party, Democratic Party, Equal Parenting Alliance, Firefighters Against Cuts, Generalist Party, Humanist Party, Liberal Party, United Kingdom Libertarian Party, The New Party (UK), No Candidate Deserves My Vote Party, Prolife Alliance, Senior Citizens Party, Social Liberalist Party, Spectre, United Kingdom Popular Democrats, Veritas Party, Your Party.

Sadly, it is no longer possible to put a cross against the candidate for the Vectis National Party (Isle of Wight regionalist party) and the Build Duddon and Morecambe Bridges Party, which are both now defunct. And Spectre? The candidate being Dr No, no doubt.