Two Drunks

This week I am 'on holiday' - which means I'm busier than ever, but mostly in the pursuit of pleasure, relaxation and recreation, which is the best kind of busyness. Yesterday afternoon I found myself at the Tabard in Bedford Park. The interior of this fine pub, dimly lit, lined with gorgeous blue-and-green tiles (double peacock pattern) and plainly carpentered in Arts and Crafts style, is one of the most beautifully designed I have ever seen. There were few customers inside, but perched at the bar was a drunk who was singing, approximately, As Time Goes By and philosophising, equally approximately, about Love and Time to anyone who would listen.
Outside was another amiable drunk, who had taken upon himself meeting and greeting duties, moving from table to table with practised ease. A spry, wiry figure, with a large, lantern-jawed head and a permanent mischievous grin, he looked like a survivor from an end-of-the-pier show. In fact, as he informed me, he had served 29 years in the military, and had been drunk ever since. He appeared to be enjoying life. Pumping my hand repeatedly, he seemed convinced he'd seen me on television. He had not. He assured me I was a remarkably good-looking fellow and that, if I died my hair black, I would be the image of Dean Martin. I would not.
Later, outside Turnham Green Underground station, I spotted the other drunk - the singing one - now back in the guise of a commuter, briefcase in hand, weaving recklessly out into the traffic and heading, presumably, homeward across the common. I hope he made it.
And now I am off on a journey that will take me ultimately to Whitby, by way of Oxfordshire and Derbyshire (and, I hope, the Wirksworth Bookshop) - which means, I fear, no blogging for a few days. Talk quietly among yourselves.

A Find - or Two

It's a red letter day when you find a new bookshop opening, rather than an old one closing down (I mean of course second-hand bookshops- I'm afraid I don't have much to do with the other kind these days). It happened to me this morning. I was walking past what used to be a thoroughly uninviting house clearance business and noticed there were a few bookstalls outside - but that was just the beginning; the inside was full of books - very full, and only partly organised. The pleasant young man in charge (who had been talking rather intensely with a woman, and pressed a book on her as she left) told me he'd just opened and was still getting things properly shelved, classified and alphabetised - but from what was already on show it was clear that this was a shop well worth browsing in, with a rich mixed stock which I shall certainly be examining in more depth soon. In the meanwhile, I pounced on an edition (a wartime reprint on thin paper) of Logan Pearsall Smith's All Trivia, his collected short aphoristic prose pieces. Who could resist a volume prefaced thus? -
'THE AUTHOR
These pieces of moral prose have been written, dear Reader, by a large Carnivorous Mammal, belonging to that sub-order of the Animal Kingdom which includes also the Orang-outang, the tusked Gorilla, the Baboon with his bright blue and scarlet bottom, and the gentle Chimpanzee.'

Bravo, Sarko!

The news of Monsieur le President's intensive culture drive is causing amusement of course (note Yann Moix's witheringly patronising remarks at the end of this piece), but isn't it also rather gladdening? It certainly wouldn't happen here, where our leaders court low culture and shun the high, in public at least - witness Groovemaster Gordo's absurd espousal of the Arctic Monkeys. If any British political leader now reads the literary or philosophical classics or takes a serious interest in classical music, you may be sure they're keeping quiet about it. The last PM to admit to reading anything literary was, I suppose, Harold Macmillan with his famous gag about going to bed with a Trollope (though I think Johnny Major also admitted to the same taste). Of course running the country was a much less time-consuming affair in Macmillan's innocent times - but even so, our present-day politicos would learn more about the world as it is if they made time for reading some 'proper' books instead of endless briefing documents, newspapers, etc (and heaven knows they'd probably be more innocently employed than in attempting to run the country). Sarko must be speed reading, if he's got through half the books he's said to have read ('I took a speed reading course and read War and Peace in 20 minutes. It involves Russia' - Woody Allen), and watching 15 movies end to end would surely take more than 24 hours, which seems a tad improbable. But hats off to Sarkozy for making the effort - for thinking it's worth making the effort - and for somehow fitting it all in around the demands of France and the Eurozone and La Bruni... And isn't it great that in France Hitchcock (who isn't even French!) counts as High Culture.

A Break in the Clouds

The atrocious recent weather in the Southeast has been seriously bad news for our butterflies, who have been rained off and frozen out just when they should be gallivanting around, courting and nectaring and basking and generally enjoying their short heyday. The sight of a Green-Veined White fluttering weakly past me in Kensington yesterday, in a rare moment of pale sunlight, was an event in itself. But this morning the sun was shining, the sky was blue and, as I walked down Launceston Place, a fine Red Admiral came swooping down and, skimming my head, settled on a sunny leaf of a hedge, right under my nose, and spent several minutes luxuriantly opening and closing his wings in the unaccustomed sunshine. A bravura display, for which I was duly grateful.

Humble Pie

The Worshipful Company of Headline Writers did well in that Westminster committee room yesterday, getting their man in place ready to fling the pie after Rupert Murdoch had professed himself 'humble'. The pie thrower, I can reveal, was not working alone. Also in the room were a trained parrot handler, poised to set his bird free to perch on Rupert's head should he profess himself 'sick' at what had gone on - and an expert marksman ready, on the trigger word 'shaken', to fling an apple core at the hapless press magnate. Another, simpler plan to set off a stink bomb was abandoned on the grounds that nobody nowadays has heard of Stinker Murdoch.

Norbiton Calling

I've just been browsing on this extraordinary website, a thing of strange beauty and wonder, inspired by the South London nowhere known as Norbiton (which, oddly, shares its non-existent quality with the similarly named South London nowhere, Norbury). It seems to me a quite amazing piece of work, which surely deserves to be more widely known.

Olympics News

I shouldn't be talking about this of course, but it seems the high-level, deep-cover, fully deniable conspiracy to prevent the London Olympics from happening is gaining momentum. The hacking scandal was rather a roundabout way of getting there, but objective number one - the decapitation of the Met - has now been achieved. What comes next I cannot divulge at this point in time, but I feel confident that the glorious goal of an Olympics-free London will be achieved. And fear not - the stadium will be put to good use. In keeping with the retro spirit of the times and the climate of economic austerity, I've drafted a proposal for a truly alternative Olympics, one that will ensure a fun day out for all:

Egg and Spoon Race
Sack Race
Three-legged Race
Tug-of-War
Wheelbarrow Race
Standing Jump
Backward Sprint.

Bring own eggs, spoons, ropes etc. If wet, in Millennium Dome.