1920-2012
Margaret Atwood has interesting things to say about Bradburian immortality:
“Ray Bradbury: the tale-teller who tapped into the gothic core of America”
The Guardian, 08/06/2012
Ray Bradbury
1920-2012 Margaret Atwood has interesting things to say about Bradburian immortality: “Ray Bradbury: the tale-teller who tapped into the gothic core of America” The Guardian, 08/06/2012 Images to accompany my recent exhibition review of Maidstone Museum & Bentlif Art Gallery in the county of Kent (Museums Journal, Issue 112 (05), pp. 54-57).
The museum is rightly grateful to that most capacious of collectors, Julius Brenchley (1816-73). This hoarder has been mentioned in an earlier blog posting, which also alluded to the bedroom antics of Maidstone Museum’s former curator, William Lightfoot. See “Brenchley's bedroom benefaction”. The weather in Stockholm today is terrible. This is precisely the sort of thing that kills me. What happens whenever I feel like going for a nice walk where it’s quiet and dry? The rain pours down and flattens my hair, that’s what. I wonder what it’s like back in dear old Blighty? On second thoughts, I don’t really care: I’ve said farewell to that particular land’s cheerless marshes. I swear it’s the last time I sit on a delayed, overcrowded train stuck among the railway arches somewhere between London, Liverpool, Leeds or Birmingham. There’s nothing worse than being hemmed in like a boar. Even so, I’d still like to go back now and then to chat about precious things. But, really, the things you read in the British newspapers! All those jeremy hunts spouting inane rubbish about love, law and poverty. Perhaps it’s just me, but don’t the way things are going make you wonder if the world has changed? I don’t trust anyone these days, not with all the lies they make up. True, people don’t have long hair any more. And all the pubs have shut down together with the churches. But the liars are still at large: everyone’s out to snatch your money or wreck your body. God, my limbs ache. And it feels so lonely, despite being hemmed in by so many bores. And the media doesn’t help either. I read about a gang of kids peddling drugs. Honest to God, I never even knew what drugs were at their age. I was too tied to my mother’s apron strings to worry about incarceration, castration or coronations. Actually, that reminds me of one bright spot to brighten up Blighty’s cheerless marshes. Did you see that picture on the front of the other day’s Daily Mail? I know she only suffered mild concussion, but it was a really wonderful thing to see her royal lowness all bandaged up and with her head in a sling. I wonder what Charles thought when he saw it? He’d probably liked to have been the monarch on the front cover, veiled in some regalia nicked from his mum. Why is it that he of all people should be next in line for regality? I bet if the libraries or archives were still open any one of us could find some historical facts to prove that they are a pale descendent of some old queen from eighteen generations back. No-one cares of course. Especially not those flag-waving patriots hemmed in like boars along their rain-soaked street parties that stretch from London to Liverpool, Leeds to Birmingham. Honestly, the only way to get them to listen would be to break into Buckingham Palace armed with just a rusty spanner hidden inside a sponge. Sneaking past Charles wouldn’t be difficult: he’d be too busy struggling into his mater’s bridal veil and practicing his coronation steps to notice me flit past. And I bet his mother would confuse me for someone else: “Eh, I know you”, she’d rasp, “and you cannot sing”. “That’s nothing”, I’d reply whilst prising my corroded tool from its soft wrapping: “you should hear me play piano”. This won’t happen, of course. It’s raining too hard for me to venture out. So I may as well stay here where it’s quiet and dry. Perhaps I’ll take a surreptitious peek at the Daily Mail online. Oh, look! It says here that the queen has just taken a nasty tumble... Morrissey/Marr (with Mills, Godfrey & Scott)
“The Queen Is Dead (Take Me Back to Dear Old Blighty)” The Queen is Dead, Rough Trade / Sire, 1986, 6:24 (After) Brett Murray's "The Spear"
See "Jacob Zuma painting vandalised in South Africa gallery" BBC News, 22/05/2012, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-18159204 I am a republican with little interest in the pharmaceutical industry. This summer will therefore be a testing time for me, what with London hosting the Olympic Games and the British monarch celebrating her diamond jubilee. Fortunately these two events are only temporary. They will, however, leave lasting legacies. One such is the 175,000 m2 Westfield Stratford City shopping centre. Britain’s gold medal haul would really rocket if the "Retail Relay" were to become an Olympic event. Heaven on earth is now a reality for the shoppers of London. Meanwhile, another legacy project has yet to be accomplished. And, in an effort to help ensure that it remains that way, I have rushed to my keyboard with the same zeal as a drug-fuelled athlete reacting to the boom of the starting pistol. For it grieves me to report that a group of cretinous politicians are proposing to turn the Houses of Parliament's "Big Ben" into the "Elizabeth Tower" in honour of our dear old queen.(1) Now, a number of arguments can be deployed to support this obsequious suggestion. Firstly, the name change wouldn't really matter. The vast majority of locals and visitors would continue to mistakenly refer to it as "Big Ben". Its proper – and far more mundane title – is simply "the Clock Tower". Big Ben alludes to its great bell, which in turn is probably a reference to the politician and engineer, Sir Benjamin Hall (1802-67). Secondly, the re-christening would bring this iconic symbol in line with the Victoria Tower on the other side of the building. This erection takes its name from Queen Victoria, Britain's erstwhile longest-serving monarch. Ditching Ben in favour of Liz would add yet another royal epithet to the Houses of Parliament – or, to give it its formal designation: the New Palace at Westminster. This title reflects the fact that Sir Charles Barry's architectural fantasy arose from the ashes of the old palace. Only Westminster Hall survived the inferno that engulfed this ancient edifice in 1834. The centuries-old Westminster Hall is skilfully integrated into Barry's neo-gothic design. Earlier this month the queen paid it a visit in order to witness the unveiling of a stained-glass window to mark her jubilee.(2) As she looked up at this glittering tribute, I wonder if she spared a thought for Charles I? For it was in that very same building way back in January 1649 that this soon-to-be-beheaded monarch was put on trial – and sentenced to death. Charles's nemesis was Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell was still causing a right royal rumpus two centuries later. This was in relation to the decorative scheme planned for the New Palace at Westminster. If you look carefully you'll see that parliament's façade is festooned with statues of the various kings and queens that have ruled England and Britain through the ages. This carved history posed a dilemma to its designers: what should be done about Cromwell? For the sake of historical accuracy and completeness he ought to have been slotted in between Charles I (executed in 1649) and his son, Charles II (restored to the throne in 1660). But placing a regicide in a royalist pantheon proved to be a commemorative step too far.(3) Cromwell was sculpturally excised from British history. Not until the very end of the 19th century was the Lord Protector rewarded with a statue. He stands there to this day: at one remove, deep in thought and with his back turned to parliament.(4) So, whether you like it or not, Cromwell is part of Britain's political and monarchical history. If "Big Ben" must have new nomenclature, then it should from this year on be known as "Cromwell Tower". What better way to mark Queen Elizabeth's jubilee? A silent admonition not only to this monarch but to all her heirs: they occupy positions of privilege and power not by right but by accidents of birth. Other, far less anachronistic and slightly more democratic systems are possible. The Cromwell Tower will remind the House of Windsor and all their subjects that we should not take the status quo for granted. God Save the Queen! ____ Notes (1) James Chapman, "Bong! Will Big Ben tower be renamed after the Queen? MPs call for the London landmark to be renamed for the Diamond Jubilee", Daily Mail, 23/03/2012, accessed 25/03/2012 at, www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2118999/Big-Ben-renamed-Elizabeth-Tower-Queen.html. (2) Jon Craig, "Westminster To Honour Queen's Diamond Jubilee", Sky News, 20/03/2012, accessed 25/03/2012 at, http://news.sky.com/home/politics/article/16192187. (3) The phrase "A regicide in a royalist pantheon" appears in the fifth chapter of my PhD, which concerned the commemorative history and symbolism of parliament and the adjacent square. See Stuart Burch, On Stage at the Theatre of State: The Monuments and Memorials in Parliament Square, London (Nottingham Trent University, 2003). (4) The stupendous statue of Cromwell - with bible in one hand and sword in the other - was made by Sir William Hamo Thornycroft RA (1850-1925) and completed (without an unveiling ceremony) in 1899. Ever since 1950 he has stood face-to-face with a lead bust of Charles I inserted into a niche on the façade of St. Margaret's Church opposite... ... as can be seen below: "Every day is a new day. Tomorrow isn't that important, yesterday wasn't that important. I really am thinking about today." Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1975, p.6 Yesterday I received the sad news that John White had died. This fine man lived a couple of doors away from my parents' home. He was part of the universe of people that orbited around me during my formative years. On hearing of John's death I recalled a speech he held a few years ago to mark his 80th birthday. The section that stuck most in my mind concerned John's views about technology and the future. The spectacular advances made during his lifetime prompted him to muse on all those unimaginably exciting inventions still to come. I was inspired and invigorated by John's unbridled optimism. It was so refreshing to hear someone look forward to the future with hope and excitement instead of the usual fear and foreboding. Yet this wide-eyed enthusiasm was tinged with sadness: John confessed how frustrating it was to know that he would not live long enough to witness the 21st century at first hand. So, thanks, John. The speech you gave upon reaching your 80th birthday remains with me still. Your words are a continual reminder that we should disregard those among us who habitually dismiss "old people" as timid technophobes who don't understand the present, fear the future and long for the good-old-days. Our best hope for the 21st century is to live it with the same sort of eager curiosity as that expressed by John White as he was about to begin his ninth decade on the planet.
Sculptor: Sir William Wilson (1641-1710), c.1680
William Cavendish, the First Duke of Newcastle-upon-Tyne is notable in Nottingham not Newcastle on the site of a slighted castle that has been unfortified upon the façade of a fired house that is no longer a home above a door that is now a window that looks into a room without a floor of a pioneering public art gallery which has now been privatized behind a paywall. assaulted, belittled, castigated, decapitated, emasculated, flayed, goaded, hobbled, incapacitated, jinxed, kiboshed, lacerated, maimed, nobbled, ostracized, pelted, queered, rubbished, slated, traduced, usurped, vilified, whacked, xoanoned, yoked, zapped Sculptor: Joseph Durham ARA, FSA (1814-77) _ JULIUS LUCIUS BRENCHLEY, BENEFACTOR, BORN at KINGSLEY HOUSE, MAIDSTONE, 30th NOVEMBER, 1816, DIED at FOLKESTONE, 24th FEBRUARY, 1873. After many years of travel, returning to England, he bought, laid out, and transferred to the Maidstone Local Board the adjacent Public Garden, and at his death bequeathed his collections of Natural History, Books, and Works of Art to Trustees, with an Endowment for their preservation and exhibition in this Museum. Alternative plaque:
Order of service _Two weeks ago I was sat at my mother's bedside. She was dying and she knew it. At one point during her long ordeal she suddenly let out a cry of "Oh no!" Worried, I asked her what was wrong. "It's Hayley Tucker's birthday and I haven't sent her a card. Can you do it?" Later, as her health deteriorated, she changed her mind and asked me to telephone her instead. "You don't mind doing it, do you?", she asked anxiously. That was so typical of Barbara Ann Burch. Even as her life was coming to an end she was thinking about other people. People like Hayley Tucker, one of her sister's many former girlfriends. Or her neighbours: she asked me to tell them that they were "the best friends I could ask for". She had so much love for them. We can therefore only begin to appreciate how much love she had for her family. It's not easy to convey just how important we all were to her. That's why I brought this along.(1) We are all bound up in this bible. It was a Christmas present to Barbara from her mum and dad when she was 12 years old – the same age as her second granddaughter Eloise is today. It's crammed full of ephemera such as letters, children's drawings, pictures of her siblings and even a copy of her grandparents' marriage certificate. There's also a photograph of Barbara Prince aged 3. She's sat on a swing looking at a dog called Spot. Next to it I found another scrap of paper with the words: "I like the dog. You like the dog. You and I like the dog". It was written by my brother Nick when he must have been about the same age as his daughter, Grace. Thanks to this copy of the bible I know that my other brother Chris weighed 6 lbs, 7 ozs when he was born on 7th May 1969 – and that he had more than doubled in weight by 17th July. He's still growing. Then there's a dashing photograph of my dad aged 18 and looking frankly gorgeous. On the inside cover of the bible my mum had written what were for her the four key events in her life: marriage to Martyn and the birth of me and my two brothers. I've spent quite a lot of time looking at that photograph of Barbara and Spot. What dreams and aspirations were going through that little girl's mind as she sat on that swing looking at her dog? She was then aged just a bit older than her youngest grandchild, Charlie. He together with his sister, Grace and their cousins Ellie and Sian were my mum's absolute pride and joy. The health problems and chronic pain that afflicted her for so many years would miraculously fade away at the chance to be with them and feed them endless meals. I get the distinct impression that this has always been the case. The home of my newly married parents must have entertained frequent visitors. Moving to Kent inevitably meant less contact with her family but she thought about you always. There was a special place in her heart for her brother Christopher who died so long ago. Her sister Gill, I think, had a second mum in Barbara Burch. So although she had no daughters by birth, she acquired them through life. I know how much my wife Cecilia, Chris's wife Natasha and Nick's partner Nikola meant to my mum. It's fitting that the last person that Barbara spoke to was her husband, Martyn. With nearly her last breath she declared: "Mart, I'm dying". It didn't sound like fear. It was more a statement of fact. When I heard those three words I was reminded of a quote from Peter Pan to which my mum often referred: "To die will be an awfully big adventure." But be in no doubt: Barbara Burch was in no rush to embark on that journey. She fought and fought when so many others would have given up. Her list of ailments was epic.(2) She'd had a bit of her brain removed as well as a part of a leg; one toe; an appendix; a hip and a few teeth. Her spine was crumbling, her arteries were blocked, and her joints were riddled with arthritis. But no one would have guessed this from looking at her. Going to the hospital with my mum always left me feeling a bit awkward. If you had to choose which one of us was in search of specialist medical treatment, who would you pick? This vibrant, cheerful, stylish and perfectly presented woman? Or her skinny, pale, tired, miserable-looking son? Even as a corpse she looked beautiful. This, however, belied the sheer bloody brutality of her death. In the many hours spent at her bedside I found myself encouraging her to – in the words of Dylan Thomas – "lie still, sleep becalmed".(3) In the end I was roaring her on, urging her to keep fighting. It was so characteristic of Barbie that, when all seemed lost, she suddenly opened her sightless eyes and exclaimed: "I'm alive!" My mum gave me the gift of life. In her final hours she gave me the gift of death. It was a privilege to be with her when she died. I accompanied my mother in the ambulance that transferred her to London. I'll never forget the look on her face as she stared up at the imposing façade of St Thomas' hospital. She knew, I think, that this was to be one fortress that she couldn't scale. It was fitting that she should finally be defeated in a little patch of St Thomas' hospital that will be forever Wales. The Coronary care unit of St Thomas' is dedicated to the Welsh-speaking cardiologist, Evan Jones who died in 1969.(4) Barbie's love for Wales was encapsulated in the poetry of Dylan Thomas. He has been an immense comfort to me in the days since my mother's death. Thomas' poem "Do not go gentle into that good night" was dedicated to his father. But his words are universal.(5) The notion that "Old age should burn and rave at close of day" was carried out in full by my mother. In that poem Thomas refers to those whose "words had forked no lightning". That was true of my mum. Beyond those lucky enough to be related to her or live next door, few people got to know her. She didn't attract attention like lightning does – she was far too modest for that. We live in a society obsessed with celebrity. This makes us overlook the heroes and heroines closer to home. Those unspoken people who are locally famous. There are lots of stupid educated people out there. Barbara Burch was an enormously intelligent person. But she was deprived of formal education. Her chronic illnesses prevented her from exploring the world or developing a career. She was an immensely interesting individual, but lacked self confidence and, alas, self worth. Her giving nature made it easy for us to take her for granted. It was these facets of her personality that prompted me to ask that Psalm 138 be read during this service of remembrance. Barbara Burch's modesty fitted the love of a god who "regards the lowly" but looks askance at the arrogant and stuck-up. My mother's loving nature was rooted in the "steadfast love and... faithfulness" that she learnt at Sunday School. Did you know that, as a little girl, Barbara Prince secretly dreamed of being a missionary? Illness in later life meant that she, to quote Psalm 138, "walk[ed] in the midst of trouble". That same psalm calls on God to "preserve [us] against the wrath of [our] enemies". The idea of Barbara Burch having enemies seems wrong. But she did have internal foes – self-doubt, a lack of confidence – plus that ultimate opponent: Death. Death is an enemy that we must all face. But my mum taught me that even this seemingly invincible adversary can be defeated – by love. The English language only has one word for love. The Greek language has four. They are storge (meaning familial love and affection); philia (friendship); agape (charity), and eros or romantic love. Barbie was full to the brim with them all – no more so than when she was lying dying thinking of others. Alas, a day will surely come when there is no one left alive who remembers Barbara Burch. But the qualities she espoused will live on in all those who came into contact with her. My personality and that of many of you here have been positively influenced in an infinite variety of ways by that truly remarkable woman. And for that we should be eternally grateful. Knowing that we'll never again spend time in the company of Barbara Burch is terribly, terribly painful. "It's hard to smile" when "there's nothing left" and "[a]ll is gone and run away". Those words come from the song that my mum wanted you to associate with her now that she has left us: it's Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel's "Come up and see me, make me smile".(6) Barbara Burch is now "in [her] country heaven".(7) So please do go up and see her, make her smile. ____ Notes (1) The Authorised King James Bible (London & New York: Collins, 1956). (2) Barbara Burch's medical history included Cushing's syndrome which led to brain surgery and the removal of her pituitary gland at John Radcliffe Hospital, Oxford in November 1984. As a result of this she was obliged to take replacement hormones for the rest of her life. An appendectomy took place at the (now closed) Kent and Sussex Hospital on 9 December 1989. It was there that she suffered a myocardial infarction – i.e. a heart attack – on 23 June 1999. This led to a triple bypass operation at St Bartholomew's Hospital on 20 September 1999. Other ailments included diabetes insipidus, fibromyalgia, osteoarthrosis, rheumatoid arthritis and osteoporosis (the last named caused her spine to curve and the necessity for a hip replacement). Towards the end of her life she had to have a toe amputated and, in May 2009, she fainted due to low blood pressure. In the resulting fall Barbara sustained fractures to her right fibula and an open fracture of the tibia, which became infected with MRSA. Expert plastic surgery was required to avoid amputation of the leg. Around the same time she was diagnosed with hyperlipidaemia, oesophageal erosions, hiatus hernia and a severe vitamin D deficiency. Barbara Burch eventually died due to an acute type A aortic dissection (a tear to the inner wall of the aorta). (3) "Lie still, sleep becalmed", poem 155 in Daniel Jones (ed.) Dylan Thomas: The Poems (London: Dent, 1990). (4) Evan Jones (1907-69), "Obituary", British Heart Journal, vol. 32, 1970, pp. 559-560. (5) "Do not go gentle into that good night", poem 162 in Jones, 1990. (6) "Make Me Smile (Come Up and See Me)", written by Steve Harley (& Cockney Rebel) (1975, 4:01, EMI). (7) "In country heaven", poem (a) in Jones, 1990, pp. 215-216. Supplemental 08/07/2012 Barbara Burch's funeral was conducted by the Reverend Richard Birch at St Mary’s Church (Teynham) on Friday 10th February 2012 at 1 o'clock. The order of service is available here, as is the eulogy I gave. At 2 o'clock her body was lowered into plot 166 of Deerton Natural Burial Ground (www.kentnaturalburials.co.uk). Barbara Burch __ 11:55 am, Monday 30th January 2012 Evan Jones (1907-69) Coronary care unit (CCU), St Thomas' Hospital, London Barbara Burch in memoriam __Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise women at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good women, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild women who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave women, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my mother, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. by Dylan Thomas (with slight modifications) _ Today is the day of Václav Havel's funeral. To mark this occasion I have been reading his remarkable "Letter to Dr Gustáv Husák, General Secretary of the Czechoslovak Communist Party". This is dated 8th April 1975, shortly before Husák assumed the presidency of Czechoslovakia. He held this post until 1989. His successor was Václav Havel. This is a remarkable turn of events given that the Husák regime imprisoned Havel for his political beliefs. In his letter of 1975, Havel makes a number of fascinating comments about history.(1) For Havel, "true" or "real" history is chaotic. It comprises a whole series of unique, unrepeatable events. It follows, therefore, that only a truly vibrant society – "a society that is really alive" – is capable of appreciating and generating true / real history. The antithesis of this authentic history is what Havel calls "pseudo-history", the author of which is "not the life of society, but an official planner." These apparatchiks substitute "the disquieting dimension of history" with a remorseless succession of "non-events": stilted, stifling and repetitive anniversaries, celebrations, parades, congresses. These are used by governments to maintain the pretence that "history is moving". The result is that, thanks to this substitution for history, we are able to review everything that is happening in society, past and future, by simply glancing at the calendar. And the notoriously familiar character of the recurrent rituals makes such information quite as adequate as if we had been present at the events themselves. This raises a slightly tricky dilemma, however. Václav Havel is likely to be commemorated by a phalanx of "recurrent rituals", including anniversaries, celebrations and perhaps even the occasional congress or two. Maybe his birthday – 5 October – will become "Václav Havel Day". But wouldn't it be awful if this became just another "non-event" in the commemorative calendar? Surely the worst possible way of remembering Havel would be to enlist him to the cause of pseudo-history; to trap him in all the "trappings of state"?(2) With this in mind, any incipient "Václav Havel Day" must be a madcap mix of "the continuous and the changing, the regular and the random, the foreseen and the unexpected". It should be a moment of radical reflection – as much about the present and future as about the past. A true "Václav Havel Day" would be an occasion to bring our societies to account in all sorts of innovative and satirical ways. Put simply: to create true history. This would safeguard us from falling into a nostalgic yearning for a pseudo-past and succumbing to the dead hand of pseudo-history. Václav Havel is sadly no longer alive. It is up to us to ensure that he goes on living in the realm of true history. ____ Notes (1) The following quotations are derived from Václav Havel's "Letter to Dr Gustáv Husák, General Secretary of the Czechoslovak Communist Party", pp. 3-35 in Living in Truth (Jan Vladislav, ed.) (London: Faber & Faber, 1989). (2) Stuart Hughes, "Vaclav Havel funeral: World leaders pay respects", BBC News, 23/12/2011, accessed, 23/12/2011 at, http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-16304858. _It's a long way from Nottingham to Atlantic City in New Jersey. Carl Froch must therefore have felt particularly far from home yesterday after spending twelve gruelling rounds in the ring with the American boxer, Andre Ward. A unanimous points decision gave Ward the victory and with it Froch's WBC belt.(1) This is the 34-year-old's second defeat of his illustrious boxing career and, to quote BBC Radio Nottingham's Robin Chipperfield, "[it] is unclear where Froch goes from here."(2) Well, one place Carl Froch might go is Nottingham Trent University. He'd make a great guest speaker for my History students. At least, that is, if Wikipedia is to be believed. His encyclopedia entry contains the following memorable sentence: "Froch is an avid fan of Johnny Cash and is also a keen historian with regards to combat."(3) The Nottingham-born boxer would be able to provide an interesting confirmation of why History matters. Surely all good boxers would benefit from a degree in the subject? And, speaking more generally, "every shot fired [has] an echo".(4) This means that, in order to reach a proper understanding of any present-day conflict, we need to know our military history. So, now that his career as a fighter is drawing to an end, perhaps Carl Froch could reinvent himself as an academic historian with a sideline in the history of popular music? A good starting point for a Froch lecture would be Johnny Cash's "The Big Battle" (1962): I see sir the battle's not over; the battle has only begun [...] The battle will rage in the bosom of mother and sweetheart and wife Brother and sister and daughter will grieve for the rest of their lives [...] For though there's no sound of the cannon and though there's no smoke in the sky I'm dropping the gun and the sabre and ready for battle am I. (5) In addition, Froch's professional achievements to date would surely make him a potential candidate for an honorary degree from Nottingham Trent University? After all, he's a local lad who has made a global impact in his chosen field. One day there will be plaques indicating where he lived and sparred. Perhaps he'll even be honoured with a statue adjacent to Brian Clough in Nottingham city centre? As time passes, of course, the sportsman's name will start to become a distant memory. Which is why we need future combat historians to tell us all about Carl "The Cobra" Froch and the place he occupies in boxing history. ____ Notes (1) Anon, "Carl Froch 'bitterly disappointed' by defeat to Andre Ward", Telegraph, 18/12/2011, accessed 18/12/2011 at, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/othersports/boxing/8964028/Carl-Froch-bitterly-disappointed-by-defeat-to-Andre-Ward.html. (2) Robin Chipperfield, "BBC man on Carl Froch-watch", BBC News, 18/12/2011, accessed 18/12/2011 at, http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/boxing/16236412.stm. (3) "Carl Froch", accessed 18/12/2011 at, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Froch. (4) Johnny Cash, "The Big Battle", Ring of Fire: The Best of Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1963). (5) Cf. John McCrae's famous poem In Flanders Fields (1915): Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. __"Revolt... steps out of living within the lie... [and] is an attempt to live within the truth...
"When I speak of living within the truth, I naturally do not have in mind only products of conceptual thought, such as a protest or a letter written by a group of intellectuals. It can be any means by which a person or a group revolts against manipulation". Václav Havel (1936-2011), The Power of the Powerless, 1985 _ enthusiast, n. [http://oed.com/view/Entry/62880] 3.a. One who is full of "enthusiasm" (see enthusiasm n. 3) for a cause or principle, or who enters with enthusiasm into a pursuit. Llangollen (22/07/2006) _ enthusiasm, n. [http://oed.com/view/Entry/62879] 3.a. Rapturous intensity of feeling in favour of a person, principle, cause, etc.; passionate eagerness in any pursuit, proceeding from an intense conviction of the worthiness of the object. 18 April 1926 - 3 December 2011 _ I am a child of Thatcher’s Britain. As such, one of my earliest political memories was a television interview between Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and Diana Gould, a teacher from Gloucestershire. The exchange concerned the highly controversial sinking of the ship, General Belgrano. This occurred during the war between Great Britain and Argentina regarding the sovereignty of the Falkland Islands (Islas Malvinas). Transcripts of the interview are available online, as is the actual television footage.(1) Gould was motivated by a belief that the Belgrano had been in international waters and on a bearing that took it away from the Falklands at the time it was torpedoed by the British submarine, Conqueror with the loss of 323 lives. She felt, moreover, that this action occurred at a time when a peaceful resolution of the conflict was still possible. Gould presented these arguments in a lucid, forceful manner which clearly rattled Thatcher.(2) Diana Gould died a few days ago at the age of 85. Whatever one’s politics, she deserves to be remembered for the courage she demonstrated in standing up to the Iron Lady. I find this as inspirational today as I did as a ten year old schoolboy. We need more Diana Goulds: everyday heroes and heroines who refuse to be cowed into silence by overbearing politicians and gutter-snipe journalists. And remembering Diana Gould obliges us to recall the jingoism of the Falklands campaign. This was encapsulated in a single word: "Gotcha!"(3) That was the infamous headline used by The Sun newspaper on 4th May 1982 to announce the sinking of the Belgrano. Dennis Potter's characterisation of Rupert Murdoch as a cancer in British society finds irrefutable proof in those six letters.(4) Let us hope that future generations opt to celebrate the humble heroism of Diana Gould (1926-2011) rather than choosing to wallow in the belligerence of Margaret Thatcher and the malevolence of Rupert Murdoch. ____ Notes (1) See, for example, "Diana Gould", accessed 09/12/2011 at, http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Diana_Gould. (2) "Diana Gould" (obituary), The Telegraph, 09/12/2011, accessed 09/12/2011 at, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/8944544/Diana-Gould.html. (3) Roy Greenslade, "A new Britain, a new kind of newspaper", The Guardian, 25/02/2002, accessed 09/12/2011 at, http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2002/feb/25/pressandpublishing.falklands. (4) See my first ever blog posting, "Dennis Potter and Rupert", 19/07/2011 available at, http://www.stuartburch.com/1/post/2011/07/dennis-potter-and-rupert.html. _ Miami Art Museum is about to be rechristened. This name change has been prompted by a property developer who has promised to gift the institution art and money totalling $35 million over the next ten years. In return for this generosity the museum will be renamed the Jorge M. Pérez Art Museum of Miami-Dade County. This controversial decision has prompted the resignation of three board members.(1) The feelings of these ex-members of Miami Art Museum’s board are probably as intense as those football fans of Newcastle United who are outraged by the fact that their sporting home is now no longer known as "St James' Park". It is instead "the Sports Direct Arena". This catchy moniker matches the name of the business owned by the club's chairman, Mike Ashley. There are many such examples, from Amex Stadium to KitKat Crescent.(2) But should our museums be co-opted by the egos of rich individuals and the machinations of global brands? Where might all this lead? Tate Starbucks? Courtauld Coca-Cola Institute of Art? Horniman "Happy Meal" Museum? Wallace-Wikipedia Collection? Um, on second thoughts perhaps the Jorge M. Pérez Art Museum of Miami-Dade County isn't quite as radical as it at first seems. Just ask the likes of Sir Henry Tate (1819-99), Samuel Courtauld (1876-1947), Frederick John Horniman (1835-1906) and Sir Richard Wallace (1818-90). All are museumified to such an extent that their names sound dignified and, well, museal. Who knows, the next time you visit the Duveen galleries of Tate Britain or the British Museum they might have been reborn as the Apple Ambulatory and the Google Gallery. No one remembers Sir Joseph Duveen (1869-1939) anyway... ____ Notes (1) Hannah Sampson, "Developer gives $35 million naming donation to Miami Art Museum", Miami Herald, 12/02/2011, accessed 05/12/2011 at, http://www.miamiherald.com/2011/12/02/2528192/developer-gives-35-million-naming.html. (2) David Conn, "Newcastle stadium name-change lacks class and is unworthy of history", The Guardian, 10/11/2011, accessed 05/12/2011 at, http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2011/nov/10/newcastle-united-st-james-renaming. |
Para, jämsides med.
En annan sort. Dénis Lindbohm, Bevingaren, 1980: 90 Even a parasite like me should be permitted to feed at the banquet of knowledge
I once posted comments as Bevingaren at guardian.co.uk
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Note All parasitoids are parasites, but not all parasites are parasitoids Parasitoid "A parasite that always ultimately destroys its host" (Oxford English Dictionary) I live off you
And you live off me And the whole world Lives off everybody See we gotta be exploited By somebody, by somebody, by somebody X-Ray Spex <I live off you> Germ Free Adolescents 1978 From symbiosis
to parasitism is a short step. The word is now a virus. William Burroughs
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