Thursday 7 March 2013

The Reich of Spring

Having got through most of the winter without succumbing to too many germs, last week saw illness reign at Kibber Towers, necessitating the last-minute sacking off of the long-awaited Damo Suzuki gig last Friday in favour of creeping sweatily off to bed (and not in a good way.) at 8pm. By Sunday a touch of cabin fever had set in, so we embarked on a little gentle countryside exploration around West Sussex, which is generally posher and more agricultural than its Easterly twin. It's always good fun to have a nosey around the mid-war Private Estates that dot the coastline, with their prim grids of bungalows and pervading air of unknowable eccentricity. I  love to imagine what goes on here, prompted by yet another sighting of a tended clump of pampas grass (the traditional method of signifying an interest in 'swinging') waving enticingly outside a pristine 'Little Orchard', or the incongruence of a battered 1971 Pontiac 455 with a bumper sticker saying 'South's Gonna Rise Again' (Confederate flag so presumably not meaning the Home Counties of England) parked on the driveway of a house called 'Bateman's' (which I assume to be a nod to Rudyard Kipling's old pile across the Weald in Burwash.). But not everyone in these parts is a wannabe poet - take a meander around genteel little Felpham, and you'll find yourself pootling past William Blake's house (William Blake! Sorry, but that excites me.).

It's worth detouring into Chichester just for the cathedral (though Pallant House gallery is always worth an afternoon if you have time), which has a memorial to Holst at which you can, if of an immature bent, do your own version the 'Gracelands' scene from Spinal Tap by sticking your finger in your ear and humming an out-of-tune version of 'Mars, The Bringer of War' (I got glared at by a verger.). Don't leave, though, without casting your eyes over the tomb of Richard Fitzallen and his second wife Eleanor, which inspired Philip Larkin to write his poem 'An Arundel Tomb'. It's an unusually tender carving for what were fairly brutal times in which marriage was usually no more than a business transaction, her body turned towards  him and his bare hand - the gauntlet removed for eternal skin-on-skin (or stone-on-stone, if you must) contact, clasping hers. Even the ferociously cynical Larkin was moved to curious exploration of the emotions implied here, while continuing as ever to declare himself consigned to the role of outsider-observer in such matters.

We headed home via Bognor Regis, the embodiment of the deflated and defeated Georgian seaside resort, the one which despite its best efforts never really attracted the glamourous patronage of the society miscreants who took their expensive naughtiness up the coast to Brighton. A reputation for genteel dullness has long since been superseded by a reputation for drug-related crime, poverty and relative squalor, and on a cold afternoon at the end of winter even the appearance of the low yellow sun couldn't enliven it much. Plus, there were posters around advertising a Clown Festival which was due to end that day, so I was especially keen to get out of town as quickly as possible fearing that we might get caught up in some terrible, feverish Clown Carnival as the participants threw off any remaining inhibitions and blocked the main drag with a full-scale, Bacchanalian Clown Orgy (I'm not joking about this. I was genuinely fearful about the possible onset of Clowns.).

We got home safely, feeling better, and happily didn't have to sack off our second hotly-anticpated gig of the week, the premiere of Steve Reich's Radiohead-inspired 'Radio Rewrite' at the Festival Hall on Tuesday night.

About which I shall say more later.

11 comments:

  1. Ha.

    We have allies everywhere...not just up North in the traditional areas of the textile industry.

    There's a swanky a neighborhood in our area that is rumored to be a playground for swingers. The sign there is a decorative pine apple on the front porch. Love it.

    Whether they actually swing or not...they do spend a lot of time riding around the neighborhood in golf carts drinking bourbon.

    Get better. Martha's dealing with an ache in both lugs and a sinus infection. No fun in a pest-house.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The 'decorative pineapple' emblem seems horribly apposite, EF. Wonderful.

      And I thought you'd appreciate that bumper sticker. It would be something like seeing a 'Countryside Alliance' sticker in YOUR neck of the woods.

      Delete
  2. Blimey! You had to miss Damo Suzuki but still got to a Steve Reich premiere. Things sound pretty cool down your way. I'm envious but hope you're feeling better all round. Had a holiday in West Sussex three or four years ago and I have to agree the countryside is lovely. Chichester Cathedral was certainly one highlight but I missed the chance to visit Blake's old hangout. I believe he didn't stay there for very long but just to see something of what he saw would be enough. I'm a WB nut too.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I think he was at Felpham for about three years, SB, so not very long but enough for a bit of the magic to remain. I'm glad you've had good times of your own down there - I wonder if you got out to West Wittering, which is SO beautiful...that'll be my next excursion.

      Details of Reich will follow along with today's visit to the South Bank. I can't be stopped!

      Delete
  3. Forgot to mention how relieved I am having dug up a whole lot of pampas grass from our garden recently. I never knew!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Well you can sleep soundly in the knowledge that all those midnight calls from sweaty moustachioed men in driving gloves, wanting to know if "the party" is still on, will stop now...

      Delete
  4. Glad to hear you're feeling better, Kolley, sounds horrible.
    I did a course at West Dean one time (very inspiring place!) and loved the surrounding countryside/villages, likewise Chichester. Never knew that about Bognor, though, nor about the pampas grass, I must have led a sheltered life...

    I can think of very few things worse than a Clown Carnival - reckon you had a lucky escape. Bognor has now turned into some kind of Southern Royston Vasey in my head, with Papa Lazarou types running the streets (waving fronds of Pampas Grass) as they gather up unsuspecting female bystanders for some terrible West Sussex ritual that the rest of the world knows nothing about...

    ReplyDelete
  5. I've a feeling I missed the Clown Orgy by mere moments, C. What they do with custard pies is nobody's business, apparently...

    ReplyDelete
  6. I agree with C, I was thinking League of Gentlemen too. I've never been to Bognor. Perhaps I never will.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Go through it, on your way to Somewhere Else. At a moderate speed. No eye contact.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Hurry up with your Reich review Kibber. I was there too so am looking forward to hearing your take on it!

    ReplyDelete