Apples on Tour – South Manchester
“What?” I hear you ask. “Manchester? For a holiday? Isn’t that where it always rains?” Point 1, it’s England, and that pretty much applies everywhere. Point 2, so what? Not for me the holiday lying on a beach getting a tan, no. There are more things under the sun than, er, the sun, and if I want to find them in Manchester, that’s what I’m gonna do. Deal with it.
So yeah, the real purpose of the visit was to see the latest show by the Didsbury Players, formerly the Celesta Players – a community theatre group based in the leafy Manchester suburb of Didsbury. But since it’s pointless going all that way just for a night, Nige and I decided to make a weekend of it, and cram whatever other entertainment in that we could. In this endeavour, one must say we’ve succeeded.
Friday morning saw us jump in the Yaris and head down the A1. Yep, I’d have preferred an environmentally-friendly train, but thanks to our “greenest government ever”, that would have cost us about four times as much, illogically. But there are plus points to this approach, and one was that we could have a quick stop-off at Wetherby for some lunch, before tackling the Pennines. The views in the cross-country drive are pretty good too, it’s just a shame that driving means you have to appreciate the view of HGVs more than the countryside.
But we got to the hotel in good time. We were more or less inbetween two suburbs of grand foliage – Didsbury and Chorlton-cum-Hardy, one of those great weird place names that’s up there with Leighton Buzzard, Ashby-de-la-Zouche and Piddle-in-the-Hole. By coincidence, it was the weekend of the Chorlton Arts Festival, so we headed along there in the hope of securing tickets for a play, stopping at the Woodstock Arms on the way – lovely pint of Pendle Witches’ Brew. The play tickets had sold out, so instead we chose to go to a poetry event – Allison McVety, a poet who I’d not heard of, was giving a reading at a meeting of the Manky Poets, a local poetry recital group. Her poems were great to listen to, covering all manner of topics, light and dark. Equally interesting were her explanations of how she was inspired to create the poems – some food for thought for my own poetry there.
On Saturday we headed into central Manchester, as nothing was going to stop me from seeing the Pre-Raphaelite collection at the City Gallery, not even death. Thankfully such an occurrence did not need overcoming. We got there via a pub called The Bank, where the wild boar burger was brilliant. Then off to the gallery, and I wasn’t disappointed. The Pre-Raphaelite collection was represented by the full Brotherhood – Millais, Hunt and Rosetti, as well as Burne-Jones, Waterhouse, and both Leightons, among others. Also there was Alma-Tadema (what a beautiful painting Silver Favourites is), Canaletto, Sargent, Sandys and plenty more. An excellent venue if you like British art.
A visit to the Museum of Science and Industry was next – all machinery great and small, old and new, comprised the exhibits – mostly with a Lancashire flavour, as you might expect. Looms, planes, trains, bloody huge computers, all sorts of things to excite the discerning science nerd.
But after that, the reason for the visit – off to Didsbury Cricket Club for the show. Yup, these guys play out of a cricket club – the function room, to be precise. One of the fascinating things about this group is how little they have to work with, and how much they make of it. Their show last year took up about half of the room. This year, a quarter – basically the room’s dancefloor. There are only two ways to enter or exit the stage, and the room has nowhere to hang lights, so the group is limited in those respects. But we were nonetheless treated to two funny, entertaining plays – Stars in their Eyes, a short one about a group of astronomers waiting for (and managing to miss) the transit of Venus, and a longer one, Forte!, a story of a small musical instrument shop that manages to give their big corporate competitor the comeuppance they deserve. The latter play required multiple sets, a lot of props and entrances and exits – which must surely be difficult to arrange on such a small stage. But they managed this very well, which is testament to the group’s resourcefulness. After the show, it was off to the Didsbury arms to sample the Hobgoblin on draft. Niiiiiice.
Sunday morning took us to Stockport, that lovely tropical paradise. The Crown pub was the first port of call, and on entering, i could see why I’d heard of its name in legends. Thirteen ale taps I counted, and I had a go of the Atlantic Jade, which proved a wise choice. We were joined by Jennie and James from the Didsbury Players, and went off to visit the Hat Museum – Stockport having once been a capital of millinery. The lowest floor was full of all sorts of crazy hat-making machinery, and the middle floor just full of hats – more than enough to satifsy a former member of the National Hat Society.
After a cup of tea at Jennie and James’s, it was time to return home, where this humble travelog is now being written. I’m knackered, but pleased that I’ve had around 48 hours in one of the most cultured cities I know, and have been able to fit so much culture-vultury in. Huzzah.
Eau Naturel
Yeah, punning in French now. Anyway, in honour of the recent North-East Skinny Dip, an Anacreontic ode (good for upbeat celebration of something so free-spirited) on the fun we had…
Eau Naturel
Twenty-second of September!
What a morning to remember!
Scores of people in the nip,
For the North-East Skinny Dip!
There we stood at Druridge Bay,
At the very break of day.
Waiting on the icy sand,
Dipping hour close at hand.
Finally we got the call:
“Okay, dippers – bear it all!”
Off it came, right then and there,
Everybody’s underwear.
Liberated from our clothes,
Off we ran, with frozen toes
Straight into the foaming brine,
As the sun began to shine.
Hordes of people filled the sea,
In the name of charity.
Men and women, young and old,
Body sizes manifold.
Dodging waves, we swam about,
Free and easy, wearing nowt.
All around were laughs and hoots,
From the folk in birthday suits.
Proud to show their naked forms,
Challenging the social norms.
Not a body part seemed rude,
With so many in the nude.
Once we all had swum enough,
Out we stumbled, in the buff.
Clothed and warm, we got some scran
From the handy burger van.
This much needed body heat
Put some feeling in my feet.
Back home, I was pleased to find
Loads of money raised for Mind;
TV, radio and papers
Covering our naked capers.
Best of all, I think I’ve grown,
Challenging my comfort zone –
For I’d had the guts to strip
For the North-East Skinny Dip!
© John Appleton 2012
Usquebaugh
In the spirit (pun intended) of my last blog, I expect you to memorise it. Detention for those who don’t.
Usquebaugh
The room is dark, the record player goes.
My sofa welcomes me with open arms.
I lift the glass, and hold it to my nose,
And breathe its heavy, dark and peaty charms.
I drop it to my mouth and take a sip –
It stings my lips and slowly warms my throat.
My mind’s transported on a whisky trip,
Upon a glassy, icy sailing boat.
And with each drink, I’m further out to sea,
The Captain of a malty pleasure cruise.
No mates, no crew, a voyage just for me,
To sail the seven seas of Scottish booze.
‘Til all at once, the final drop is gone –
I think I’ll have to get another one!
© John Appleton 2011
Poetry in School
Dagnab it, I have to agree with a Tory politician on something. In this case, it’s Education Secretary Michael Gove’s proposal that children in schools should be learning poetry by heart. I think it’s a good idea.
It won’t by any means solve all that is wrong with our education system – you’d need many, many more good ideas for that, and a government who actually cares about it (as well as educators, rather than politicians, defining the curriculum). And it’s not the most important aspect of education. Basic English certainly needs addressing. Maths are important. Languages, sciences and humanities are all vital. Poetry, many would argue, is not as important as these.
And I would agree with that. In many ways, poetry is a trivial thing. Like any art form, it’s often something that we use purely to entertain us, rather than to educate us. This doesn’t mean, however, that it cannot have a good effect on us. The benefits that occur to me are as follows.
Firstly, memorising stuff is good exercise for the mind. I’m an actor and often have to memorise lines and speeches, as well as cues and actions. As a crossword solver, I have to remember the numerous constructs that setters use. As a computer programmer, I have to remember functional and technical procedures, as well as commands. The brain might be an organ, but it’s like a muscle in the sense that the more it gets exercised, the fitter it will be. It doesn’t have to be poetry – it could be lists of stuff – but if we are to exercise children’s mind with memory feats, why not use a medium that’ll entertain?
That brings me to my next point. School is boring. Quadratic equations, French verbs, angles of incidence and refraction – school is full of stuff that doesn’t immediately pique the interest of children. So what’s wrong with introducing something that help to relieve the boredom, and entertains whilst doing the child some good? Of course, the poetry itself would have to be relevant and entertaining. I positively despised having to deconstruct Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress at the age of 14/15 – couldn’t understand what the Hell he was on about.
There are probably numerous other benefits that I haven’t bothered to think of. But I doubt it’d have any adverse effect. It certainly hasn’t done me any harm – memorising poetry was often part of my homework when I was 10, in school in Botswana (“I’ll race / To the place / Where Grace / Sells lace / And warm my face / By the fireplace” – that was the first one I learnt, about 24 years ago). And now, as I’ve pointed out above, my memory serves me well in numerous endeavours. I’m no brain scientist, of course, so I can’t say if those poems learnt as a kid have significantly contributed to that. There’s always the chance, though.
Voices
Been a while since I posted. Time for a poem, I think.
Voices
I have some voices in my head
That tell me what to do.
Their names are Jub, and Flib, and Xed,
There’s Grimp and Weeble, too.
One day the voices said to me,
“Hey Johnny, listen close,
You have to make a cup of tea,
And then some buttered toast”.
So off I went to make my drink,
Obedient and dumb,
I never even stopped to think
What harm to me might come.
But ‘cos the tea had been so nice,
The voices gained my trust.
Each day I’d hear from them twice,
Did what they said I must.
But then one fateful day, they said,
“Hey Johnny, listen here:
You must shoot someone in the head,
And we’ll give you some beer.”
I found a gun with perfect ease.
And then a victim, too.
I gave the trigger such a squeeze
It turned my fingers blue.
The fellow’s brains went everywhere,
The room was red as hell.
The took me into special care –
A private padded cell.
Now you might ask me if I rue
The mess that got me here.
And I would say, “Of course I do –
I never got the beer!”
© John Appleton 2010
Edinburgh Fringe 2009
Finally, after ten years of saying, “We have to do Edinburgh Fringe this year,” Nigel and I have finally managed to get there for more than 24 hours. We’ve taken in eight comedy shows, a concert, a poetry reading and a ghost tour. Among the artists we’ve seen have been the Tiger Lillies, Reginald D. Hunter, Rich Hall, Al Murray, Paul Merton and Frank Skinner.
As for the Fringe as a whole, I’ve been very impressed with it. There is so much there to see in all spheres of performance art. Comedy is the main thing, but there is also much in the way of drama (which I might have liked to see more of, had I had the time), music, dance and a little poetry, as aforementioned.
For an event that prides itself on being the world’s biggest arts festival, it would be easy to think that it might be terribly commercialised, with organisers charging top dollar (or pound) for everything. And it is, certainly very commercialised, but affordable nonetheless. The “affordable” tag in this case is used in its most literal sense. After all, anyone can afford free shows (presuming costs of travel and accommodation in Edinburgh can be met). It’s just a shame that the free shows (and possibly the shows dubbed “The £5 Fringe”) are not covered in the main festival events guide. I just hope this isn’t some snobbery on the part of the Fringe organisers.
I would like to take a show up there one day, but such a thing’s a long way away at the moment.
The Zombie King
I’m quite liking the sestina verse form – the same six words (or syllables) are used, in a specific pattern, to end the lines of each stanza, and also have a specific placing in the envoi. It’s like poetic sudoku. Here’s a vague attempt…
The Zombie King
It was a dark and stormy night,
And shuffling in his earthy grave,
The figure of the Zombie King
Was baying for a feast of blood.
The Grand High Priest of all the dead
Would soon arise to seek his prey.
‘Twas weeks since last he’d taken prey;
At last, a storm had come that night.
The wet ground stirred the Evil Dead,
and made them restless in the grave.
And one was hungry for some blood:
It was, of course, the Zombie King.
And on the prowl, the Zombie King
At last had spotted tasty prey.
A pure soul, whose virgin blood
Would be a feast to make his night.
The girl stood by her father’s grave,
And cried, and wished he wasn’t dead.
But now the Lord of all Undead,
The evil, mindless Zombie King,
Crept silently toward the grave,
With eyes set firmly on his prey.
It was to be her final night;
He licked his lips: at last, some blood!
He pounced on her, it chilled her blood.
Her screams amused the living dead,
Whose laughter echoed through the night.
And while she lay there, panicking,
She had one choice: to hope and pray
She wouldn’t die on Daddy’s grave.
He pinned his victim to the grave,
With yellow fangs he drew her blood.
A tasty meal, his virgin prey,
And soon the hapless girl was dead.
A triumph for the Zombie King,
Upon that dark and stormy night.
Back in the grave, the Evil Dead
Were drunk on blood, and hailed their King,
And prayed for more another night.
© John Appleton 2009
Small Black Flowers That Grow in the Sky 