Fringe Benefits - symbolists, rent boys, polyester and Miriam Margolyes

Ah Edinburgh! Wonderfully hilly capital of Scotland and seat of the Scottish parliament, and host to the annual cultural madness that is the Edinburgh Fringe. After a two year absence from this place of diversity and kilts*, a visit was much needed, if only to see how far they have got with the tram network.

You know you're not in Cardiff anymore, Toto, when you're wandering down Rose Street and you get serenaded by two girls singing the Flower Duet from Lakmé... perfectly. 

Not having attended for said two years, the festival seemed just that bit bigger and madder than usual. Trying to get down The Royal Mile without being accosted by some weirdly attired youngsters thrusting glossy leaflets into your hands about their latest production - "two for one offer!!" - is a exercise in futility... however, worth it though as you get to see some great street theatre and musical acts. Holy Moly and the Crackers and the wonderfully energetic The Perch Creek Family Jugband were two such acts... and the guitar player from the Jugband was tap-dancing... fabulous!!

And the highlights from this woefully short sojourn included: being entertained by the camp prince of polyester Bob Downe at the Gilded Balloon, having an intimate encounter with the wonderful Lucy Porter at the Stand Comedy Club, perusing the symbolist landscapes 'From Van Gogh to Kandinsky' at the National Museum of Scotland, being wowed by the electrifyingly heartbreaking dance piece 'A Beautiful Hell' by Edge FWD, luvvied up by the splendidly bonkers Miriam Margolyes with her delve into the world of Dickens' Women and the latest from the excellent Out Cast Theatre group, 'Mr Braithwaite Has A New Boy' with its tale of adoption, rent boys and narcoleptic neighbours. Oh and not forgetting the perennial favourite 'Shakespeare For Breakfast', 10 o'clock at C Venue with a croissant - this year subtitled 'The Only Way Is Little Venice'. Good job I ate the croissant first otherwise I would have choked on it, I was laughing that much.

Bracketing this much needed visit over the border was a stay in the wonderful Hedges guest house just off Leith Walk. It was the perfect accommodation - clean, great facilities, an impressive range of breakfasts and within walking distance of Princes Street... and hosted by the most fabulous Heather - a woman so warm she is sad to see you go and gives you huge hugs before you leave. I didn't want to.

The tram network still isn't finished by the way. 

Here's the pics.

*I came back with one. Kilt that is.

The Facebook Folly or How I Posted my Passing and Lived To Regret It

Three simple words. That's all it took. Not the best chosen in retrospect and posted in circumstances that were neither rather rational nor sober. Typed in, logged out, power off, sleep.

Farewell cruel world.

That's what I typed into the 'what's on your mind' box of my Facebook page and hit enter. I wasn't prepared for the consternation this rather melodramatic but (to me anyway) benign way of signing off for the evening would cause, however. The next day, while I was struggling to overcome the inevitable hangover at work, I was met by all manner of messages on Facebook asking if I was ok and if I was still alive. Seriously?? While touched by the messages I thought it odd that people had taken the post to be a potential suicide note. If it had read 'I can't take this anymore' or 'I can't go on' then that I could understand. But 'Farewell cruel world'? A provocative statement, yes. But a little too dramatic to indicate anything more than to elicit a response... oh ok I admit it - I was subconsciously trolling!

Trying to look at it from my friends' perspective, I can understand their concern. It also made me think about how, in this age of increasingly electronic and abbreviated communication, words can be misunderstood, misconstrued, taken out of context and the like. A throwaway comment from one person could be taken to meaning something else totally by the receiver, especially if it was meant to be delivered with an ironic slant. Without the intonation of voice to get the context of the message across, the words are just open to all manner of interpretation, depending on the person or even just the mood they are in.

I'm terrible for that - a post could come through and even if there is a hint of ambiguity about it, the question "what do they mean by that??" will be rattling round my head, seeking a resolution. And being the insecure person I am, I seem to automatically assign a negative aspect to it. It's a hard habit to break, but I'm getting there... I like to think.

I just hope that electronic communication doesn't replace verbal communication - while it is a convenient and expeditious way of keeping in touch, it comes with some serious drawbacks if misused... I'm envisioning World War III scenarios here.

As for me, I think I need to keep away from social networking sites when I've had a skinful. It's gotten me into so much trouble in the past and I've had to issue so many grovelly apologies to all and sundry the following day. Either that or get someone to gaffer tape oven gloves to my hands when I have that glazed look in my eyes.

Whatever works.

ps. Farewell cruel world!!

Playtime/In Memorium

Two recently completed artworks. Both use materials salvaged from the clearance of my parents home earlier in the year.

'Playtime' (acrylic, counters and dice on canvas) used some counters I found wrapped in cellophane with the dice - I have no idea what game they were for but rather than chuck them I felt I could use them otherwise;


'In Memorium' (acrylic and buttons on canvas) - I took my mother's old tin of buttons that she had been accumulated throughout the years. Being of the post-war austerity era, she knew never to throw anything away as it may be of use later; it's a view that has passed down to me. There were literally hundreds of buttons there, but I selected the ones that would be best shown on a red canvas, for more impact.

Both are rather formally arranged - a penchant I have for rhythm, but also probably exposes my subconscious anally-retentiveness!

Playtime

In Memorium

An easy life?

I was talking to Dad around this time last year and he remarked upon what an easy life he had had; in terms of finding a good job for life, marrying and settling down and raising a family (albeit a rather large one) in a house provided for by the AERE. And the fact that, after mum died in 2009, how he continued to have a good life, what with the frequent family visits, some wonderful neighbours who couldn't have been more attentive to him and even getting some quality holidays in with the help of Marcia and myself (and his debit card!). In retrospect it feels like he knew the end was near and was taking stock, a bit like mum did before she died (see my previous blog entry). And even in death he had it easy - losing consciousness through a catastrophic stroke, he never felt a thing.

The reason I was dwelling on this was that I was thinking about my own life, what had been and where it was going (all good mid-life crisis stuff! Sigh). Although Dad had the struggle of bringing up six wilfully disparate children on a budget, he at least did have the good old heterosexual model template laid out for him. For me, while I came to terms with my sexuality early in life - and to be honest it was never an issue for me - there were still the external problems that I would have to tackle. I knew that at some point I would have to leave the safe confines of my bedroom (reluctantly!) and venture out into the real world if I was to live any kind of proper life. That meant coming out to my parents (scary), going out to gay places (scarier) - all obstacles that I knew I had to face but was incredibly daunting to my introverted self.

(I should note here that I was listening to Bronski Beat's Smalltown Boy when I was 16 and it was the lines "the answers you seek will never be found at home/the love that you need will never be found at home" that struck a depressingly terrifying chord with me. It took me another five years before I actually did anything about it.)

Even though it took me a while, confronting these challenges were ultimately worth it. Coming out to mother was difficult as her views on homosexuality at the time were influenced by the twin evils of The Sun and The Daily Mail. But through me being out she came to realise these views were wrong and became the most supportive and pro-gay mother going, even helping me through my first break-up trauma. (Eternally grateful to you for that, Mum). Venturing out into the gay scene (with the collective help of the Oxford Young Friend organisation) was a revelation and I felt like I had stepped through the looking glass into a new world.

From there my life exploded into new territory; out of control, exhilarating, heartbreaking... it was sheer madness for about a year and I felt like I was losing control of my identity, changing into some wild, wilful creature. My parents despaired - their little boy for so long was suddenly out on drunken binges, staying out all night without calling and indulging in god-knows-what. It was like cramming all the typical teenage stuff into one bonkers year.

But I tired of the scene very quickly and that was when Barry came along and I settled into my first long term relationship. Mum and Dad breathed a sigh of relief.

To return to the point of this entry however, I guess that Dad's phrase 'an easy life' is relative; while I had to face challenges that he never even had to entertain, I feel lucky that being gay has never been an issue for me. (Heck, I have more problems with the other things in life, like my general lack of direction and chronic disorganisation of my time!). Sure, I've had my share of homophobic abuse hurled at me by maladjusted trogs and probably will again, but it has never stopped me from declaring my true colours and through that I find that I am almost universally accepted for who I am.

Through being honest to myself, I have not adhered to the life model that Dad could easily slip into; but that itself has opened up wide scope for experiences and opportunities for living a different kind of life - challenging, exciting, scary stuff but there to be embraced.

All part of life's rich tupperware, as Julian Clary once said.

The Girl Who Liked

Just completed this poem. Enjoy.

THE GIRL WHO LIKED

Polly’s Pater perspired profusely,

And Mother her hands did wring,

Oh! Her parents despaired as their daughter declared

Her love for all natural things.

“Not for me, rampant industry!”

Polly trilled as she gazed distant hills.

“Not chimneys high, spilling forth to the sky

Foul outcome from the pounding of mills”.

“Those grunting heads, shining metallic spit

Shafts and cams in lifeless repetition,

Grinding motions relentless, boring into the bit”,

She expressed, striding into her mission.

“Putrid spills and stains! Ah, they do repel

When aggressively spewed from containers

By superior arrogant dominating vessels!”

Sang the wild, impassioned young campaigner.

“But”, she sighed “to run wild in meadows,

And lavish in lush valleys moist

With dew and trickling streams anew

With furtile life!” She voiced.

“So many cracks, crevices to explore

Slippy slopes, buried caverns and caves.

Such excitement aroused by prescient promise!

It is these expeditions I crave”.

“Wild-topped hillocks, where grasses flow pink and wild,

Naked nature, hot-flushed with sensation!

Sacrificing myself to her florid desire!”

Words sparked cold parental consternation.

So, with chains and bars, tight clamps and current

They sought to curtail her abandon

And drive her nature into recesses dark

To conform their young child to convention.

But...

It was far too late

Path led to the gate

Where her form atomised 

Into bright butterflies

And guardians fears

Melted into tears

As offspring will be

Never as one can see.

© 2012  Lance Eggleton

Nine Go Mad at the V&A

Last Monday, eight colleagues from the IPO Designs registry and myself were unshackled from our desks and let out to roam - free and unchaperoned! - in the splendour of the V&A. This was on the proviso that we spend our time at the exhibition entitled 'British Design 1948 - 2012; Innovation in the Modern Age'. (Relevant to our job, see?). So at 8 o'clock we all bundled into the minibus, giggling and fighting over who gets to go on the back seat. Unfortunately, there were no rear windows so we couldn't wave our arses or make obscene gestures to the cars behind. No fun!

I'd been to the exhibition a few weeks back when I was staying over at Marcia and Paul's; they needed the car to go to Download in Donington and I used the opportunity to do all manner of cultural stuff in the capital. I was impressed with the exhibition and, because I wouldn't stop raving about it on return to the office, it was agreed on a works visit to check it out.

Given the limited space for such a huge topic, the exhibition could only really show the most iconic examples of design innovation since the Austerity Olympics in 1948. They ranged from the outlandish (fashion designs by Alexander McQueen) to the practical (the Worboys Committee on traffic road signs) and all that was in-between; architecture, furniture design, interior decorating, vehicles (they had an original mini there!!), album covers, film, fashion, photography, computers and computer games, pop videos, aviation... the breadth of exhibits was impressive. I can't really say there was one area that I was more impressed with over another - it was all good.

And yet the exhibition could only really provide an broadly superficial view of the topic, which left some of our group dissatisfied with it. But then it's eclecticism had to appeal to the public at large, which I guess is the whole point; to engage interest and, for those so inclined, to seek further information. For me, it struck a chord of how important design is to society for a whole slew of reasons - to boost the economy, to establish a national identity, etc - and how it is criminally neglected by the IPO in favour of such other forms of IP as patents and trade marks. All important too, of course (well, I'm not so sure about trade marks...) but design is equally if not more essential - after all, pretty much everything around us, from buildings to furniture to road layouts to the patterns on wallpaper, have been designed.

Still, that's for me to gripe on. Designs have always been a poor relative at the IPO and I don't think that is going to change anytime soon. If I had my way though...

Overall the day out of the office was very rewarding. After the exhibition we took lunch at the somewhat overcrowded (and overpriced!) cafe at the V&A and then spent the rest of the afternoon at the adjacent Natural History Museum where my enthusiastic colleague Rhys whisked me from department to department, not wanting to miss this opportunity to see everything the museum had! Ah, youth.

And then back to Newport. Bev and I took the opportunity to discuss all matters literary on the journey home, which has given me the impetus to start writing again. Bless you, fine lady.

Trying to see if I can swing a week going round art galleries next...

In The City, The Country

I have to shamefully admit that, having previously lived in Oxford for 20-odd years, I never once ventured into any of the 38 or so colleges there. Not that they'd let me in of course (not without wads of cash anyway) but certain ones are open to the public so they, you know, can see how the privileged half study.

You see Oxford, for me, was just the big place up the A34 from Abingdon; the place where the massive Woolworths with the big clock was and with the dodgy Westgate mall with drunks hanging round it all the time. The Woolworth store is now a distant memory (on the site where the Clarendon Centre now resides) and the Westgate has been tidied up considerably since. I don't know where they relocated the drunks to. Abingdon, presumably.

So, my sister Marcia and I decided on a trip to the homeland last weekend, partners in tow. We first nipped to Radley to visit our brother Kevin (and Sue, dad's old lurcher cross - still in good health). Then it was to Oxford, to wander round one of the oldest and best known colleges in the city; Magdalen. 

(In case you're wondering, the pronunciation is 'Maudlin', not the phonetic 'Mag-dal-en' as I was calling it for years. So now you know.)

The college was founded in 1458 by William Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor of England, and currently has about six hundred students under its collective roofs. We didn't get to see many academics - this being a saturday, they were probably all hungover. But we did get to marvel at the beautiful architecture, courtyards, lawns and a glorious chapel with stunning stained glass windows.

And as we were larking about by the New Building (where Betjeman and CS Lewis had rooms, don'tcha know) we saw a sudden dayglo mass heading towards us. Tourists! Eeek! Run away!! Fast!!! So we made a swift escape, past the Deer Park, to the tranquility of Addison's Walk alongside the water meadow. And as the din of accents and camera clicks subsided, we found ourselves out in the countryside. Or at least it felt like it; the boundaries of the college are so large that it is impossible to imagine you are still actually in a city.

The walk took us along the banks of the River Cherwell, where we stopped on a bridge to play pooh sticks. This took a while; the strange, irregular currents of the water took the sticks everywhere but under the bridge. I think mine eventually made it - Stu's on the other hand got caught in an eddy and pirouetted off in another direction entirely.

From there it was back to the main buildings for a peruse of the beautiful chapel and then a wander back down the High Street to The Vaults & Garden Cafe at University Church of St Marys. We'd been to this wonderful little place before, tucked away under the church with white, high-vaulted ceilings, mismatched furniture and a wonderfully eclectic menu. Paul, Stu and I had a rather lovely chickpea and vegetable tagine, Marcia the chicken risotto; all delicious. And we sat, supped tea and chatted like academics (although not on academic subjects, mind!) until it was time to go in our opposite directions - Stu and I to Cardiff, Marcia and Paul London-bound.

So, while I wouldn't want to move back to Oxford (and couldn't afford to anyway, as the property is so bastard expensive there) I can see myself heading back there more frequently to discover more of what was on my doorstep for all those years. Oh no... I've become a tourist!!

Here be pics.