A Merry Christmas, Sir Reginald

It is bitterly cold on the West Cliff tonight. The gardens are deserted. The moon is obscured by thick rolling clouds. The street lamps cast only frail pools of light on the paths. Where is Sir Reginald? Surely it's time for him to be out and about on his evening constitutional raging against the Communists at the Council for the feebleness of the lighting? Or will tonight's fulmination be for the waste of tax payers money engendered by having street lighting at all?

Click whirr. Click whirr. Ah here he is now in his bath chair propelled with vigour by his one legged manservant Phillips. Sir Reginald is wrapped warmly in his tartan blanket against the chill whilst Phillips, his sleeves rolled up to display his tattooed arms has a film of sweat across his brow. 

    “Faster, Man. Faster. Can you not see that I am in imminent danger of dying from hypothermia here?”

A single flake of white flutters down through the street light's rays. “What! What was that?” demands Sir Reginald.

    “It was a snowflake, I believe Sir.” answers Phillips and, as if to prove his belief the first is followed by a second and a third.

    “Snow! We want none of that here. This is Bournemouth not Siberia.”

    “Snow is a thing of great beauty.”

    “Beauty! Pshaw! Your idea of beauty is very much at odds with mine, Sirrah. An idea of beauty that could only have come from the twisted hell hole of the 'tween decks mess of that pirate ship I rescued you from.”

The truth is that Phillips has never ventured further on the high seas than a Sunday cruise around Poole Harbour as a child but he lets it pass.

    “Under the lens, each snowflake is a thing of great wonder. While no two are exactly the same, they ll exhibit the astonishing uniformity of having six sides.”

Sir Reginald likes uniformity. He likes regularity and order in all things. “Six sides, you say?”

    “Yes Sir. Every one of them. All different but, at the same time, all the same.”

Sir Reginald is about to begin extolling the virtues of regularity and order when out of the whirling white comes a disturbing sight. It is the bath chair of his nemesis Dame Amelia Vole leading member of the Women’s International Socialist and Suffrage movement. She is, in turn propelled by her companion Miss Pymm a tall angular female of indeterminate years but who is surprisingly athletic beneath her shapeless grey smock.

    “Get out of my way you... you harridan.” rages Sir Reginald. But Dame Amelia fails to respond and as they draw level she smiles and says “And a Merry Christmas to you.”

    “What! What did you say?”

    “I wished you the season's greeting. I said 'A Merry Christmas to you.'”

    “You dare wish me a Merry Christmas?”

    “I do. A merry Christmas. There, I've done it again.”

    “Christmas Balderdash.” He would have liked to say ' Christmas humbug' but he has in the back of his mind that that has been used somewhere already.

   “I suppose you do not keep Christmas, then?”
   “I'll thank you to keep your impertinent suppositions to your self.”

   “Not even a plate of good plum duff? I wager you don't keep any of The good old British traditions.”

   “Of course we keep all the traditions. All the British ones.” Sir Reginald has only a perfunctory knowledge of what the traditions of Christmas are. He knows they can be dangerously subversive but this woman has just wagered him

   “We do. Every one of them. We keep every one of them .” Then he remembers with a lurch that one of the traditions is that of generals feeding dinner to their troops. He cringes at the terrifying prospect of having to wheel himself backwards and forwards through the unholy melee in the dining room whilst Phillips sits there gloating at him and devouring all the plum duff. He would be seen. There would be members of the Club present sniggering through their fingers. The thought is insufferable.“Not precisely every one.” Then he remembers with growing horror the tradition of exchanging of gifts and he shudders even more. “Times change.”

“I'll wager you don't even decorate with holly.”

He brightens. “Ah yes, holly.” He remembers that holly can be got from holly bushes and is free.   “We keep the holly tradition.” And his demeanour is so pathetic all of a sudden that Phillips steps forward with his clasp knife at the ready.

   “If I may venture to say,” interjects the one-legged manservant. “That is just what we were doing out here. Collecting holly.” And he swiftly removes a couple of low branches from an overhanging bush.

  ”And mistletoe?” persists the old woman.

  “Yes. Mistletoe, of course.” But despite the certainty in his master's voice, this time Phillips can contribute nothing.

  “Mistletoe, Miss Pymm.” barks the old woman and The angular companion produces a bunch which she holds out over the heads of the warring pair. Dame Amelia leans forward and kisses Sir Reginald on the cheek

  “What! What! Madam I will have you prosecuted for common assault.”

  “Forward, Miss Pymm,” chuckles the venerable dame and the angular companion trundles her charge off into the swirling maelstrom of the snowstorm.

  “And battery” mumbles Sir Reginald. “Assault and battery. You are my witness, Phillips”

As the subdued pair return to Grand Marine Court he churns with the damnable confusion that now besets him. Christmas. He hates Christmas. Vile old women that attempt lewd acts in public. Snowflakes, at once regular yet individual. A manservant, an ex-pirate with a dangerous looking clasp knife who would gladly slit his throat as cheerfully as he gathered evergreens and to whom tomorrow he will have to bring plates of plum duff.

  “Damn Christmas,” he ejaculates. “Damn and blast it to hell.”

There is a pause as the two men survey the scene before going in..

  “I may not be having dinner tomorrow. Lost me damn appetite.”

  “There will be plum duff in the dining room. You do so enjoy that, Sir.”

  “Yes yes I do.”

There is a long pause.

  “It will not be necessary for you to serve at table tomorrow, Sir.”

  “No. Of course not.” and with a small cough almost lost in the blizzard. “Thank you.”

  “You will manage a small serving of plum duff, I'm sure. If I bring it to you.”

Silently Sir Reginald watches the snow smoothing out the imperfections of the world and touches his cheek where it burns from the wind.

  “If I may venture to wish you A merry Christmas Sir,” says Phillips as though from a great distance.

  “Yes. Yes. You may. And the same to you. Now get me in out of this damn cold.”

Holly's Story

Last night I was invited to a Dads and Daughters event where we considered the inspiration we got from our parents.  It made me think of the inspiration that I had been given by my daughters.  We were quite a literary household and reading and writing was an important aspect of what we did.  We wrote stories and letters to each other.  We read aloud and shared each other's writing.  Reading and writing was fun.  Some of the lessons I learnt at that time were through story-telling.  I learnt the importance of repetition and having repeatable tropes throughout.  But I also learned how to listen  and to adapt  the narrative to the listener.  The greatest lesson was that of co-operative story telling.  You can soon exhaust all your own ideas and the best way forward is to use the imagination of the listener:  "What do you think is round that corner?"  "What's that noise you can hear?"  and so on.  The story grows between you. Here is a story that Holly and I collaborated on when she was about three.

Holly lived in a tree in the park.  All day long she would hide there and drop sharp, prickly leaves down the neck of anyone who stopped to rest on the bench under the tree.

“Horrid Holly” they would say.“Hurtful Holly” and they would look up very sharply cramming their hats on their heads.  But they could never quite catch a glimpse of her.

Holly hissed with laughter.  She hooted with laughter.  She whooped with laughter.  But noone quite caught sight of her.

Sometimes she would lie still till all the sparrows and starlings had come out to sunbathe on the branches then she would rustle the twigs, rattle the branches and rock the boughs until the birds were  hooched  out into the air their feathers  and pride all ruffled.

“Horrid Holly. Hateful Holly.” and Holly hollered with laughter.  She howled wih laughter.But Holly wasn’t really horrid or hateful or hurtful.  She was just high spirited and hearty and she was just waiting for everyone to go home.  Tonight was a time for hanky panky.

She knew where the roses stood stiffly in their beds.  She knew where all the crisp packets huddled under the bushes.  She knew where the hedgehogs lay hunched up under the dead leaves.  She knew all about the haughty spikes on the park railings.   And she knew would make some hocus pocus.

When the gates banged shut at eight o’clock and the sun had lumbered into bed under his red silk sheets Holly scrambled down the tree and scampered across the grass turning catherine wheels of delight.  It was her park now.  Now for a high old time.

The silvery moon shone a path across the grass.  Holly bounced into the rose beds and danced the roses harum scarum out into the mooonlight. “Humph” they said. Their fingers were stiff and rheumaticcy but Holly hauled them round and round till they remembered how to do the paul jones and the Tango.  Then she dived into the beds of dead leaves and hurled out the hedgehogs to dance the Valeta and the pasa doble.  She harrassed the broken bottles and the crisp packets into the bandstand with the railing spikes and a fine old harmony they made.

All night long went the dancing; the Westminster waltz and the mazurka and the park was filled with the whoops and hollers and huzzahs. What a hullabaloo until suddenly Holly said “Hush.  The moon’s going down.  It’s nearly dawn.”  And everything heaved a heartfelt sigh hopped back to its place.

And hot but happy Holly sat in the paddling pool and poured water over her head until her hair was plastered down flat.  She hopped back to her tree and fell asleep just as the park gates banged open again.  People sitting on the bench under her tree were surprised when no prickles fell down their necks.  They took off their hats to enjoy the heat of the sun.

And Holly hugged herself with happiness as she snored.

The Archers - Who Cares?

Why does it matter whether some dickhead at the BBC imports a kid from the telly to give The Archers a bit of a kicking?  After all the Archers is (are?) 64 years old and it’s about time they (it) was pensioned off.  It’s only a sort of soap opera about people who live in the country and therefore a bit of a joke.  And it’s only listened to by OAPs like me so why don’t I just shut up and F... off whinging?  Old people can’t hear the radio because they’re all deaf anyway.

I’m as old as the Archers.  It’s been there in the background throughout my life.  I don’t listen all the time and sometimes I don’t hear it for months at a stretch.  Things happen in Ambridge in the same way they used to do in my village - people die falling off roofs, people have affairs in tents, kids drown in slurry pits.  These things happen occasionally.  Sometimes they are quickly forgotten and sometimes they have long reaching after effects.  The point is that these events are not the focus of village life.  It is the people, the characters, how their lives are altered by events, in small ways or fundamentally and how they react to these changes that makes life fascinating.  In other words, stuff happens but life carries on.  

We’ll come to the bit about me later but let’s just consider what the Archers is or was until the ignoranti got at it.  For a start, it’s not a soap.  A soap is structured around events.  The difference between a soap and what is called in the trade “a continuing drama”is that soaps are event driven.  They were, after all, invented for the purpose of selling soap powder and their purpose was to pique the listeners interest and hold it for a few minutes until the next commercial break.  They had to be fast snappy and without any substance that required more than a moment’s thought.  The instruction given to writers was that there should be at least incidence of violence per episode.  Continuing Drama has a longer scope.  It is designed around a character or group of characters with the intention of keeping the listeners attention over weeks, months or years.  The Archers belonged to this genre. The Bill Matter for the programme was for many years “An everyday story of country folk”. It may have been melodramatic and creaky at times but at heart It was a continuing drama in which a number of characters are followed over a period of time with any events  observed through their reactions.  This character based sort of drama comes about because the characters are given long enough to develop and grow and change according to the unfolding events around them.  In this the Archers was unique.  It had 64 years of character development.  It was different from any other programme on the radio or television.  In its way it was a Stradivarius which writers, editors and actors had played with loving care.  Once a Strad is reduced to matchwood nothing can be played on it all.

Now the issue of it being set in a predominantly rural environment.  True.  And all the better for that.  In England 40% of the population lives outside cities and yet there is no programming which reflects their views or issues.The Archers used to have an agricultural story editor who used to make sure the current metropolitan misrepresentation of rural life was largely avoided.    The Archers was never particularly realistic but it did from time to time make hearts lurch when it touched upon real situations with characters we knew from childhood.  

Right, let’s get to this age thing and what makes me so cross.  The BBC management have this continuing hysteria about the need to attract young audiences particularly on the radio.  Something must be seen to be done or, they reason, their licence fee will be reduced.  However, I have followed The Archers since I was a baby and have grown old with it.  The age thing has never bothered me as it spoke to me at all ages and it did speak to me until a few months ago when it became unbearably silly. And now I am in another disadvantaged group - I am an old person and therefore should have as many programmes aimed at me as at the twelve year olds.

But let’s think of the target audience a little more closely.  Let’s say the BBC want to attract listeners from the thiry something group.  This is the age when people stop going out to clubs and spending their money getting pissed every night.  Now they are settling down with mortgages and could be captured by a radio programme.  But these people are not so stupid as the BBC management will allow them.  A young Mum at home with the kids needs something a bit more interesting than the mind numbing stuff on the telly.  Give her something to think about.  Something to aspire to.  Attract that thirty something audience and they will stay till they are my age now.  Thirty years of a guaranteed listenereship. But, wait a bit, I’m thinking of living another thirty years myself and providing you don’t f... about with the programme as you have been doing you have a bit more of a demographic spread and an assured listenership.  Follow current policy and you lose both.

One of the great things about programmes like the Archers is that they engender a loyal listenership.  They will stick with it through thick and thin.  Sometimes they are not able to listen for weeks or months at a time.  But in the end they will return and pick things up where they left them.  They will marvel at the odd things that have happened in their absence but will be glad that the characters are as they left them. It is this loyal listenership that has suffered most over the past six months.  They feel that they have some rights to a programme that they have supported throughout the years and they feel humiliated and insulted by the nonsense that is being served up to them.  The implicit metropolitan scathing ageism leaves a nasty taste. The current editor will leave in a short while.  He will have made his mark as the man gave those country bumpkins a bit of a shock and his career (Back in telly, of course) will be assured.  But for the listeners, the magic has gone.  Even if The Stradivarius can be glued back together it will never be played as sweetly as it once was.

The Great Referendum

I have kept quiet about the coming Scottish Referendum because  I have considered this is a matter for the Scots alone.  But as polling day looms it has suddenly hit me that what is proposed here is the breaking up of the United Kingdom, an entity to which I belong and have engaged in with taxes and benefits and voting over the past 64 years.  The United Kingdom is as much mine as anyone else’s yet I am to have no say in a proposal which will produce changes that will be profound in their consequences.  My life will be changed as much as anyone in The Highlands or Cities of the Kingdom of Scotland .  And for what it’s worth, I do not like change.  Even if the financial projections  are true (which is unlikely, they seldom are)England will be poorer  in so many other ways: intellectually (said without any sense of irony), creatively and psychologically.  Intellectually we lose one of the powerhouses of thought which produced and still underpins the whole of the British Enlightenment and later with leadership of Welsh and Irish thinkers and politicians the whole project of the Welfare State.  Creatively we lose a whole history of combined artistic endeavour; England would look different without the ideas of, for instance, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, No less in industry where the English and Welsh landscape and infrastructure as we know it owes a vast debt to the work of the great Scottish Engineers.  Psychologically the United Kingdom is an island.  We look outwards to the world with the sea in every direction.  We are, and always have ben a land with the open sea to gaze at.  We have come this far together; we have had great adventures on the way. Let us not now divorce in some rash, ill-considered parting of the ways.  How poor, how infinitely poor, if we both become hemmed in by a border and half the horizon cut away.