Neighbours from Hell

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“Good fences make good neighbours.” But there are some nuisances – and neighbours – that fences cannot contain. 
 
My musician friend “X” moved to a handsome 19th-century cottage on the outskirts of a big city a couple of years ago, and almost immediately things started to go wrong. The neighbours to one side live in a big, swanky house with huge grounds and to begin with relations were amicable. Until construction work began on a small lodge within the palatial residence’s grounds. One morning, X opened his garage door to find his passage blocked by an enormous truck belonging to the construction workers. He asked them to move it, and they said “10 minutes”. He waited an hour for action, by which time he had missed his appointment in town. From this moment on, things degenerated. The workers became increasingly supercilious, deliberately obstructing the street – not only for X, but for everyone else living there – and the only prospect of relief was the neighbour’s assurance that the work would be over in “three months”. However, a year later, it was still under way, the principal nuisance being the constant noise. When X remonstrated with the neighbour’s husband, he replied “Well, here ‘three months’ means ‘a year’” and agreed to an ex gratia payment to avoid legal action over the nuisance caused by the regularly obstructed thoroughfare.
 
Other “castle and cottage” incidents followed. Repeatedly, a woman who visited the neighbour’s parked her car on X’s property, and one day he confronted her. “Why don’t you park in your friend’s driveway? It’s huge. There’s plenty of room.” The visitor replied, “Well I have to be honest – I have an oil leak, you see. I don’t want to soil their gravel.” 
 
When at last construction of the lodge was completed, peace and quiet were set to return to this semi-rural backwater of the big city. But it was not to be. Spring had come, and the neighbours’ garden – all three hectares of it – needed attention. They promptly employed a live-in gardener, with wife and child in tow, to trim the boxwood hedges, mow the lawn, and man the strimmer, apparently aiming for an effect comparable to the gardens of the Chateau de Versailles. The gardener was employed to work eight hours a day, five days a week and from the outset it was clear that no mere garden shears were good enough for him. He liked machines, the bigger and noisier the better. Furthermore, his passion for his work extended into the weekend, because he had nothing better to do than add another eight hours to his workload on Saturdays. At this point, negotiations with the wealthy neighbour faltered, sighed and collapsed: “He has to work!” growled the neighbour, “But I have to play piano,” pleaded X.  The police shrugged: people can do what they like in their own gardens. Without a doubt, the time for personal initiative had come.
 
As a classical musician, it was clear from the word ‘go’ that music would be his ally in what was likely to become a long-drawn-out war of attrition. He borrowed a pair of powerful loudspeakers from a friend and searched through his extensive collection of recordings for the one opus that would do the trick. Mere techno or rap was pointless, the constant beat giving it a hypnotic quasi-acceptability. What was required was sheer cacophony, a jarring, strident, raucous, grating, rasping triumph of unignorable pandemonium. And at last he found it, the Holy Grail of acoustic retaliation.
 
Amériques, by Edgard Varèse, was composed between 1918 and 1921, a huge orchestral representation of New York, complete with clanging construction work and wailing sirens, requiring a total of 155 musicians. It is some 25 minutes of sheer urban ferocity, an explosion of praise for the new machine age, out-Stravinskying Stravinsky. Now, whenever the hedge-trimmers and mowers and chain saws cough into action, Varèse’s Amériques ripostes – again and again, onward and ever upward, until the blood beats in the brow and the hand reaches tremulously for the ear-plugs. The neighbour screams over the hedge, “You’ll see! I know the Prime Minister!” to which X shouts back, “And I know the Second Minister, and the Third Minister, and the Fourth Minister!” or even “I know the Queen!” When X leaves his house, the music still blaring in the garden, the gardener poses like a statue in front of the next-door palace and points a basilisk stare at him, and every day the prospect of that chainsaw being imaginatively repurposed becomes a real possibility. 
 
Thus music may have charms to soothe the savage breast, but it can also be pressed into action to quite the opposite effect. Though the outcome of this war of nerves remains to be decided, Edgard Varèse may be congratulated on the unintended usefulness of his oeuvre, with possible secondary inspiration from Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange. Having spent the best part of a weekend listening to Amériques again and again and again, I can testify to its maddening potency. If any enterprising record producer decides to create a “Neighbours from Hell” revenge album, it should be right up there at the top of the playlist.
 
Pass the Xanax, dear…

Vide Greniers in Touraine

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The vide grenier (“attic clearance sale”) season is with us again in Touraine, as it is throughout rural France, and will continue through to the end of October or even early November. Every weekend, two or three little villages will be holding one – generally a mix of jumble sale locals and semi-professional bric-à-brac dealers, with “buvette” beer tent, a cheap lunch of merguez with chips and piped music or a roving compere. Some are themed (“garlic festival”, “snail festival”, “roast suckling pig festival”) while others finish up with accordions and an evening bal musette. For the record, the “snail festival” is in Loché sur Indrois, and is named after an enormous metal sculpture of a snail in the public common where it is held – not a single real snail, with or without garlic butter, is in evidence, and striped T-shirts and basque berets are also conspicuous by their absence.
 
More often than not, a vide grenier is the annual village fête by another name. You can find out what’s on either from a tourist office leaflet that lists all the pre-planned ones, or from more up-to-date lists on the Internet.
 
If it’s clutter you’re after, you can either go in a serendipitous mood, or with a mental list of things you need for the home, excluding furniture, which is rarely of quality. In fact “vide grange” (“barn clearance sale”) would be a better description in this part of the world, and there are always lots of 19th-century agricultural or domestic implements, terracotta storage pots, old wooden wheelbarrows or cast iron fire equipment that nobody seems to want. In the past, I’ve bought up lots of heavy Victorian irons which make perfect doorstops, or old photographs – windows into departed worlds. Above all, the vide greniers are splendid places to meet people and stop for a chat. I remember long conversations with a veteran Foreign Legion parachutist selling off all his militaria and an old man, a widower, who asked me if I knew of any unattached elderly women in the locality that I could introduce him to.
 
Today it was Bournan, a dreamy little bourg not far from La Chapelle Blanche Saint Martin in unspoilt rolling countryside.  We first met a young woman who had returned from five months travelling around South East Asia and now lived and slept in her van. She had caught the travel bug and was selling everything off to drum up enough cash to drive to Romania. We contributed to her expenses by buying BD albums (Tintin and Les Bidochon) and an antique wire-net “cloche” to protect fruit or cheese from flies. Next came an amateur radio enthusiast – wearing a baseball cap with a built-in electric fan – who was selling off half a dozen old valve radios, most in working condition, and he knew their stories off by heart – like the one his father listened to throughout the Second World War. Later we chatted with a gifted couturier and upholsterer who had worked in Germany and Paris and settled with his brother here in the village, with his little workshop, L’O Air Atelier, making eccentric decorative, upholstery and clothing items like 1950s Betty-Boop-style “perfect housewife” kitchen aprons, all frills and plunging neckline.
 
The fetchingly retro village café/bar/shop has that which interior designers the world would murder for in their failed attempts to achieve – simple functional authenticity, accrued like a patina over the years. At today’s vide grenier, they served us a perfect, unpretentious lunch – mixed crudités, entrecôte of beef with chips, a selection of cheeses, fruit salad, coffee and a bottle of rosé – all for 12 euros a head – while the village oompah band played outside.
 
The Touraine vide greniers are like something out of Jacques Tati’s Jour de Fête. All of human life is here – including, on this occasion, a bearded Muslim striding through the village in long grey djellaba, staring straight ahead and apparently oblivious to the festive atmosphere in this month of Ramadan. At the previous vide grenier we went to – in a tiny village of about 200 inhabitants – the locals glanced incredulously at three gendarmes, armed to the hilt, including one with an assault rifle and grenades, doing the rounds, from the kiddy trampoline to the wicker chair repairer. For verily, we live in parlous times…
 
Part of the poignancy of these village fêtes is that they are a sunny throwback to another time, but more and more they also feel like the last breath of a near-perfect way of life, fluttering on the brink of extinction.
 
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Compare and Contrast…

Today’s homework is to compare and contrast this RATP Paris Metro announcement and Magritte’s famous painting, Ceci n’est pas une pipe. The text of the Metro announcement reads, in English: “The information on this screen is temporarily unavailable. Our agents are working to restore it as soon as possible.”

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Happy Birthday, Fluide Glacial!

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Fluide Glacial, the French monthly humour magazine (BD), is 40 years old this year. When I first came to Touraine in 1976, an impoverished young unemployed couple living in an old barn invited me to see their collection of cartoon books, and the first hilarious issues of Fluide Glacial had pride of place. I immediately became a regular subscriber, and learned most of my street French from this wonderful source, with its strip cartoons about the oafish Bidochon family, the grouchy Carmen Cru (a wizened old hag living in provincial France), or the gross Catholic nun, Soeur Marie-Thérèse de Batignolles with her inflatable Christ-on-the-Cross, and great artists like Edika.

The magazine began as an offshoot of Pilote, and was allegedly inspired by the American Mad magazine (which had great graphics, but was never outrageously funny, to Europeans at least), and stands alongside l’Echo des Savanes and the defunct Hara Kiri as part of that great 1970s’ wave of irreverence through a medium in which the French have always excelled. Today it’s just as droll, ribald, hare-brained and cheeky as ever, with a great stable of artists and writers.

 When my sister Clare came to Paris many years ago, I took her to a street market and she stared at the huge variety of fruit, vegetables, cheese and seafood and said “Why don’t we have this at home?!” I always felt the same about Fluide Glacial. When Viz popped up, it was a close runner, but too puerile and relentlessly scatological. There is simply no British equivalent of Fluide Glacial. It’s surreal, quirky, silly, witty – a hoot. The more people tease me for liking it, the more I think I will… So there.

 Happy birthday, Fluide Glacial!

The Imposter (2011)

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From Zelig to Tom Ripley or Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the chameleon-like ability of con-men and imposters to pass themselves off for someone other than who they are has a lasting fascination in film and fiction, not least because it throws into relief the specious basis on which our social and human judgements are made.

Real life has generously provided us with a motley crew of career imposters, perhaps the most intriguing recent example of which is the Frenchman Christophe Rocancourt (born 1967) who, in France and the USA, has masqueraded as a movie producer, a former boxing champion, a venture capitalist, the son of Sophia Loren, fooling along the way Mickey Rourke and French filmmaker Catherine Breillat. 

 One of the most stupefying tales of imposture is told in the documentary The Imposter (2011), narrated largely by the imposter himself, another Frenchman – Frédéric Bourdin. In a nutshell, Bourdin had a long history of impersonating lost youngsters – real or imaginary – when, from Spain, he phoned a lost children centre in the USA to find an American identity he could adopt. That identity was Nicholas Barclay, an American boy of 13 who had disappeared three years previously. To his own astonishment, his more or less random choice worked, he passed all the lie-detection hurdles and he was taken back by the family.

 This was all the more amazing since he was tall and Nicholas was short, he had dark hair and Nicholas was blond, he had brown eyes and Nicholas had blue eyes, he was and looked half French and half Algerian and Nicholas was an all-American boy, he spoke with a marked French accent and knew nothing of America, and – in short – looked and behaved nothing like the child he was impersonating. Moreover, he was 23 and Nicholas Barclay would have been 16. 

 There is no doubt from his own commentary that he knew all the tricks and wiles of the imposter, but nothing could explain the scale of this deception and the odds against it. To all appearances, the Barclay family was desperate to find their long lost darling and were so eager to believe that he had reappeared – allegedly after years of sexual abuse at the hands of high-ranking military – that no evidence to the contrary would deter them.

 What was in it for Bourdin? In short, a life in America, and a warm family environment that he had never known. In this stunning documentary he recounts each stage of his deception, and his growing amazement at what he was getting away with. Until, that is, a sharp-eyed private investigator, Charlie Parker – a character who seems to have stepped right out of a film noir – spotted the obvious, and it had to do with his ears. 

 But the incredible twist in this story is when Bourdin himself begins to suspect that his adoptive family has been telling a much bigger lie than any he himself has told.

 Patricia Highsmith could have written this, but she didn’t. It’s all true. This documentary will knock your socks off!

The Mysterious Schneider

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 The Mysterious Schneider of the Club Artistic Israëlite advertises his mysteriousness on a tin plaque with a rear prop that features, to the left, an oval portrait of “Miss Sonia” and, to the right, an oval portrait of “Sim’s”. In the middle is a three-legged cauldron with a serrated edge, like a decapitated soft-boiled egg, from which fire and a question mark emanate.

Miss Sonia is in a black dress with a lace collar and has dark hair, an odd kiss curl on her forehead and strong eyebrows. Sim’s is in evening dress and black bow tie, with short hair and prominent ears, a rather long white handkerchief hanging from his breast pocket suggesting the art of prestidigitation. Why “Sim’s” has an apostrophe is part of the mystery, since the possessive form is followed by no object of possession, unless it be the French foible for putting apostrophes in the wrong places for an air of Englishness, which the surname Sim’s might connote – and here I recall that when I was no more than nine or ten, in a cinema, a boy called Roger Sims struck a match and set fire to my scarf in the dark. “Sim’s” is also an anagram of “Miss”, and “Miss Sonia” and “Sim’s” combined are an anagram of “Amiss Missions”. Indeed, the letters “M” and “S” proliferate in the three names. And why the use of English in what is apparently a French club?

There is no indication that either Miss Sonia or Sim’s are The Mysterious Schneider who may, indeed, be a third person or entity entirely, cryptically alluded to by the question mark in the fiery cauldron. The mystery deepens when, on closer inspection, a marked similarity between the facial features of Miss Sonia and Sim’s becomes clear. Is it because they are both Jewish? Could they be brother and sister? Could they in fact be one and the same person, perhaps the female and male manifestations of a split-gender Schneider? The name “Schneider” means “someone who cuts”.

The little metal plaque – picked up at a flea market – is old, from before the Second World War, and one can only imagine the fate of the sibilant SSS – Sonia, Sim’s and Schneider – perhaps at the hands of the slightly less sibilant SS. An Internet search reveals that others have alighted on this same image, in the form of postcards, but no elucidation is forthcoming. The Mysterious Schneider has locked up his mystery in a burning question mark and time has smiled, sealed its lips and tossed away the key.

Stanley Kubrick’s Boxes (2008)

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In 1998, film director Jon Ronson was asked to provide a copy of a documentary he had made about the holocaust. He later discovered that the request had come from Stanley Kubrick who was planning a holocaust movie, until Spielberg pipped him to the post with Schindler’s List. Ronson planned to interview the director, but Kubrick died after editing Eyes Wide Shut.
 
Ronson was surprised to be invited to Kubrick’s house near St Albans in England at a later date  by Kubrick’s widow and was shown about a thousand large boxes that contained huge quantities of memorabilia related to Kubrick’s filmmaking – collated and classified by Kubrick himself and supplied by an army of faithful researchers and photographers who worked for him, including dozens of readers (most of whom did not know who they were working for) who would write reports on new novels, as part of  the increasingly impossible task of finding a true coup de coeur story for the next Kubrick masterpiece.
 
One somewhat bemused regular collaborator was asked to photograph the whole of the Commercial Road in London from a twelve-foot stepladder at twelve-foot intervals – it is a very long street – to avoid the leaning effect on buildings of photographing from street level and tape the photographs together into a huge chain for Kubrick’s perusal. Another assistant was charged with implementing a stream of highly detailed memos, which go from stipulating how many melons should be in the house at any one time to requests for information concerning barometric pressure readings in London at a precise hour on a precise day.
 
There are boxes of demo films sent by people who wanted to work with him, which Kubrick watched with interest, and thousands of fan letters categorised as F-P (positive), F-N (negative) or Crank, and filed according to the home town of the writer so that the person could be used as a “field agent” in that locality at a later date. They also include meticulous research for all of his films, from the kind of stately home gateway that should appear in Eyes Wide Shut to the hats Alex and his droogs should wear in Clockwork Orange.
 
It is common knowledge that Kubrick paid a fanatical attention to detail, and Ronson’s four-year rummage through these methodically organised boxes produces ample concrete and anecdotal evidence of this. The attention to detail also includes the boxes themselves, which were custom-made to his precise specifications. Touchingly, Kubrick had a passion for stationery and was a regular visitor to Ryman’s in St Albans, ever on the look-out for new notebooks or files.
 
One of the pleasures of this film is hearing what his closest associates, his wife and daughter thought of him – the intensity of their admiration and their amusement at his quirks and caprices. 
 
A book-end companion piece for Stanley Kubrick’s Boxes is the documentary Room 237 (2012) which looks at Kubrick’s meticulous detailing from the movie-goer’s perspective, with multiple interpretations of the movie The Shining that range from the ingenious to the downright insane. 
 
It is also interesting to compare it with the 1997 documentary Pretty As a Picture – The Art of David Lynch in that both documentaries grapple with what goes into making outstanding movies.  In other words, passion, vision, rigour, artistic vision, obsessiveness and sheer hard graft. Though very different directors, Kubrick and Lynch are both remarkable for their visual sense.
 
When will Nicolas Roeg, the consummate visual artist of British cinema, get the documentary he deserves? In the meantime, he’s about to get a remake of Don’t Look Now (a film of such total artistic integrity that it simply cannot be improved on) by none other than the makers of Scary Movie 3 – Yea verily, fools rush in where angels fear to tread…
 
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Franz Kafka – The Blue Octavo Notebooks

 

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“Among other things in Kafka’s posthumous papers there were eight little blue octavo notebooks of the kind we used to call ‘vocabulary notebooks’ at school … made up almost entirely of literary ideas, fragments and aphorisms.” Max Brod

The Blue Octavo Notebooks date from 1917 to 1919. The diversity and singularity of the entries lead us through the inner corridors and antechambers of this prodigious man’s mind. Here is a personal selection.

A little boy had a cat that was all he had inherited from his father and through it became Lord Mayor of London. What shall I become through my animal, my inheritance? Where does the huge city lie?
 
I digress.
The true way is along a rope that is not spanned high in the air, but only just above the ground. It seems intended more to cause stumbling than to be walked along.
 
How pathetically scanty my self-knowledge is compared with, say. my knowledge of my room. (Evening.) Why? There is no such thing as observation of the inner world, as there is of the outer world…. The inner world can only be experienced, not described. 
 
Don Quixote’s misfortune is not his imagination, but Sancho Panza.
 
Beyond a certain point there is no return. This point has to be reached. 
 
From outside one will always triumphantly impress theories upon the world and then fall straight into the ditch one has dug, but only from inside will one keep oneself and the world quiet and true.
 
Differences in the view one can have of things, for instance of an apple: the view of a little boy who has to crane his neck in order even to glimpse the apple on the table, and the view of the master of the house, who takes the apple and freely hands it to the person sitting at table with him.
 
This is a place where I never was before: here breathing is different, and more dazzling than the sun is the radiance of a star beside it.
 
Evil is whatever distracts.
 
The crows maintain that a single crow could destroy the heavens. There is no doubt of that, but it proves nothing against the heavens, for heaven simply means the impossibility of crows.
 
Vanity makes ugly, ought therefore really to kill, instead however it merely injures itself, becoming “injured vanity”.
 
Idleness is the beginning of all vice, the crown of all virtues.
 
Man cannot live without a permanent trust in something indestructible in himself, though both the indestructible element and the trust may remain permanently hidden from him. One of the ways in which the hiddenness can express itself is through faith in a personal god.
 
Of his own volition, like a fist he turned and shunned the world.
 
The fact that our task is exactly commensurate with out life gives it the appearance of being infinite.
 
Art flies around truth, but with the definite intention of not getting burnt. Its capacity lies in finding in the dark void a place where the beam of light can be intensely caught, without this having been perceptible before.
 
The suicide is the prisoner who sees a gallows being erected in the prison yard, mistakenly thinks it is the one intended for him, breaks out of his cell in the night, and goes down and hangs himself.
 
Many people assume that besides the great primal deception there is also in every individual case a little special deception provided for their benefit, in other words that when a drama of love is performed on the stage, the actress has, apart from the hypocritical smile for her lover, also an especially insidious smile for the quite particular spectator in the top balcony. This is going too far.
 
Living means being in the midst of life, seeing life with the gaze in which I have created it.
 
The moonlight dazzled us. Birds shrieked from tree to tree. There was a buzzing and whizzing in the fields. We crawled through the dust, a pair of snakes.
 
After a person’s death, for a short span of time, even on earth, a special beneficial silence sets in with regard to the dead person; a terrestrial fever has ceased, a dying is no longer seen to be continuing, an errors seems to have been remedied; even for the living there is an opportunity to breathe freely, for which reason, too, the windows are opened in the room where the death took place – until then everything turns out to have been, after all, only a semblance, and the sorrow and the lamentations begin.
 
You raven, I said, you old bird of ill omen, what are you always doing on my path? Wherever I go, you perch there, ruffling your scanty plumage. Nuisance! Yes, it said, and paced up and down before me with its head lowered, like a schoolmaster talking to the class, that is true; it is becoming almost distressing, even to me.
 
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Last Orders

IMG_0662Photo: the once much-loved Railway Tavern in Mortlake, now a ghost, transformed into a private residence.

WIKIPEDIA ENTRY, SOMETIME IN THE NEAR FUTURE. A pub /pʌb/, formally public house (a house “open to the public”, as opposed to a private house), was a drinking establishment, principally in the culture of Britain and Ireland.  In many places, especially in villages, a pub used to be the focal point of the community.  The history of pubs can be traced back to Roman taverns, through the Anglo-Saxon alehouse to the development of the tied house system in the 19th century. The last pub closed its doors this year.

I was brought up in South West London, in Sheen and Mortlake. The following pubs, that I knew as a teenager, no longer exist: The Queens Arms, The Derby Arms, The Bull, The Railway Tavern, The Jolly Milkman, The Charlie Butler, The Lord Napier, The Spur, The Market Gardener. They have not been replaced. I remember with particular affection The Queens Arms, a real street pub with a unique local atmosphere, The Bull, a big, spacious pub where great music could be heard in the 1970s, and The Railway Tavern (see photo above, as it is today, now a private residence), a pleasant local beside Mortlake Green.

Of the remaining pubs,  the legendary Hare and Hounds – haunted by the spectres of yesteryear – is now scarred by the curse of poncey interior decor and gentrified and gastro-pubbed beyond recognition, its wonderful billiard room a thing of the past. I recently dropped into the Jolly Gardeners near the Thames, the last pub in Mortlake to have retained its fogeyish and unashamedly lugubrious character over the decades – in my family, we call it The Jolly Funeral Directors. I reminisced with the landlady about the old days when fishmongers would swing by with wicker baskets round their necks selling cockles, mussels, shrimp and jellied eels to eat with your beer. Most of the clientele are now in their 80s and 90s and the place is comparable to nothing so much as the Tardis. It also has the particularity of being a Youngs tied house (which possibly accounts for the longevity of its customers, Youngs beer being the closest London gets to an elixir of eternal youth) with the former Watneys brewery literally built around it but failing to convert it – a brewery that now seems to be devoted entirely to producing Budweiser, that lacklustre American pastiche of Budvar, the great Czech beer.

It’s not just the pubs. For anyone returning to England after a period of expatriate absence, it simply doesn’t feel – well, English… Samuel Pepys described the pub as the heart of England, and this is dying fast – with 31 pubs closing every week nationwide. But other vital organs are expiring too. Even the charity shops, one of the last bastions of English dottiness – though flourishing in number – are now manned by Poles, Russians and Latvians. And the bar staff in the pubs are French, Portuguese, or one of a dozen other nationalities. “English Broken Here….”

London has famously been described as France’s sixth city, with over a quarter of a million French people living in the capital – a total reversal of the flow of immigration not so long ago. Whatever you think of that, the English face in the English crowd is now a rarity, and the Google Maps app a boon, since asking directions in the street is almost invariably a total waste of time. There was once a Private Eye cartoon of two rats lost in a laboratory maze. One says to the other, “Sorry, I’m a stranger here myself.”

But back to pubs…

What explains this situation? The Tory Peer Lord Hodgson says that it is because traditional working class areas have become homes to Muslim immigrants – true enough in many urban areas, but this is not the whole story. Pubs are victims of taxation, over-regulation, the decline in beer consumption, the availability of low-cost alcohol in supermarkets, large pub conglomerates selling off unprofitable venues, rising rent and falling trade. These days, a couple of pints will set you back in the region of £10, for which price you can buy 8 large cans of beer to drink at home. In short, they are pricing themselves out of existence.

CAMRA has launched a campaign to safeguard hundreds of pubs listed as community assets, Tory Baroness Cumberledge has pleaded for pubs to be kept open because “Single men who are lonely and depressed are very often welcomed into pubs.” And The Lost Pubs Projects on the Internet is the online pub cemetery, archiving the decline of the English pub.

When I look at the situation in rural France where I live most of the time, it is not very different. Virtually every village has a defunct little bar with its fading sign – Le Cheval Blanc in my village – the expired heart of the spirit of community.  National identity and a sense of belonging are fragile things, and those iconic hubs on which they once depended are being extinguished before our eyes.

Only occasionally, a positive item makes the news, like the Maida Vale Carlton Tavern – a 1920s building, replacing a far more ancient hostelry, that was the only edifice standing in its street after Nazi bombing. It was recently demolished by developers without planning permission and to the dismay of its customers. For once, the culprits got their comeuppance: they were ordered to rebuild the pub brick by brick…

But far too often the knell is heard. In the words of T. S. Eliot in “The Waste Land”:

HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
 
Good night, England, good night sweet England, good night, good night…
 
The Queens Head, East Sheen, once a thriving street pub, dating back to 1757, now someone's living room

The Queens Head, East Sheen, once a thriving street pub, dating back to 1757, now someone’s living room

Moore Close, Less Close…

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Ordering a taxi with the London Taxicard Scheme from their Scottish call centre,  a verbatim exchange:

Operator: Where would you like a taxi to, sir?
Customer: Moore Close – that’s M-O-O-R-E – South West 14.
Operator: Very good. More Close, West 14.
Customer: No – Moore Close, SOUTH West 14. I had this same problem yesterday. I did the same trip and your operator gave the taxi the address in West 14. By the time I noticed we were going in completely the wrong direction, the ride ended up costing me three times more than it should have.
Operator: I’m afraid there is no More Close in South West 14, sir.
Customer: As I said before, it’s MOORE – M-O-O-R-E, not M-O-R-E. Two “Os”.
Operator: In that case, sir, it’s pronounced Mooo-er
Customer: You are Scottish, I think, and this is a call centre in Scotland?
Operator: Yes.
Customer: Perhaps in Scotland Moore is pronounced Mooo-er but in England it is pronounced the same as More, M-O-R-E. Thomas More, Brian Moore – same pronunciation.
Operator: No, it isn’t.
Customer: Yes, it is. 
Operator: Anyway, there is no Moore Close in South West London. The address doesn’t exist.
Customer: It certainly does exist. I was there this morning. A relative of mine has lived there for the past 15 years. It is a real address in a real city. Admittedly in England rather than Scotland. In London, in fact.
Operator: It doesn’t come up on my computer screen.
Customer: Well it does come up in my life on a daily basis. The next line of the address is Little Saint Leonards and the postal code is SW14 7LU.
Operator: OK, I’ve got it. You should have given “Little Saint Leonards” as the address.
Customer: No, Moore Close comes BEFORE Little Saint Leonards. It is the first part of the address, as it appears on post delivered to that address and as it appears on the street sign.
Operator: No, you should have said it the other way round.
Customer: Nevertheless, do we now agree that there are TWO Mo(o)re Close addresses in London, one written M-O-O-R-E?
Operator: (reluctantly). Yes. When do you want the taxi?
Customer: Now.
Operator: Any special requirements?
Customer: None whatsoever, thank you. Just a taxi. How long will it take?
Operator: I don’t know.
Customer: Thank you and goodbye.
© 2019 Adrian Mathews