Total Football. Ridiculusmus at the Stephen Joseph Theatre, Scarborough.

“I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I didn’t have a frontal lobe…………”

Ridiculusmus have been around since 1992, twenty one years, a real achievement for a small theatre company. I saw them in their early days up at the Edinburgh festival and had managed to hear nothing about them since so I was a little surprised and very pleased when their name appeared in the SJT’s Spring/Summer programme. Their latest show, Total Football, is a wry, surreal look at what it means to be English and how we use sport as a means to find a tribe and an identity in a shifting, globalised world.  Identity, who you are and what labels you (or other people) attach to yourself, has become harder to define than it ever was.
The chief pleasure of the piece is in watching Jon Haynes and David Woods perform. They have worked together so often and know each other so well that they have a relaxed confidence in each other which informs everything that they do on stage. They can each motor along at full speed knowing that the other will always keep up and take risks certain that the other will always be exactly where they need them to be. It is great fun to watch and it allows you to trust them and let them carry you along with them- even when you are not sure where they are going. There is a sense of danger about what they do which stems directly from this. You never know quite what they will do next and when the unexpected happens (as it does) it is both surprising and something which you always knew they were capable of. Their contrasting physical presence and different personalities work well together on stage and there is some nice use of perfectly controlled physical theatre. All plays should be theatrical, but sadly not all of them are. If you could sit at home and watch it on DVD without losing anything much then it is still theatre, but something is missing. In order to really understand what a company like Ridiculusmus are all about you have to be there, and that’s just how the best theatre should be.
The play itself is funny and sharp. Sport and the passion it arouses is a bizarre phenomenon to those like me who only enjoy tennis, a line from the play which struck home with me. The main thread which holds the plot together looks at the way that the 2012 Olympics were used quite deliberately to foster national image and pride, and it is a welcome antidote to all the self congratulation that went on, however well deserved it may have been. Immigration and its relationship to identity is a very current issue and this is also explored quite touchingly within the script. Nobody is sure who they are, nobody is as secure in their own individual identity as they would like to think- never mind a national one. It’s a good time to look at the English and attempt to decide who we are. There was a time when the English knew exactly who they were, the Elizabethans and the Victorians certainly did, but I’m not sure that we do now.

Alter Ego.

I walk patiently by your side, unnoticed,
Keeping step with your every mood.
I watch and wait, biding my time,
Following the rhythm of your secret life.

I am your other self, the part which hides unknown.
I am the emptiness you feel when your heart is sad,
The joy which spills out when your heart is full,
The dark repository of all your hopes.

I will never forget you. I will never interrupt your dreams.
Even in the heaviness of a grey day I will be hiding your fears.
When the sun shines I will return to spread my warning,
Rejoice, but take note- things will not always be like this.

Know that with me at your side, understanding you completely,
Reflecting your real self, protecting your true essence,
You will always find a way to shine.
You will never be alone.

Dog Heaven.

My beach is dog heaven. Filey has always been a magnet for people who love dogs and any dog who lives here ( as lots of them do) can consider themselves very lucky indeed. They don’t of course. They take for granted the vast stretch of sand next to the North sea, big enough to land an aircraft on, which they can charge up and down every day. All that they know as they strain on the end of their leads, ready to feel the wind in their coat and the scent of seaweed and salt in their nose, is that soon they will be having the time of their lives all over again. There is a sense of freedom about a dog as it bounces in and out of the sea or sets off on a random charge to nowhere across the sand, allowing its natural instincts to let rip, a joy in the moment that any Buddhist would envy. There is no yesterday and no tomorrow for a dog who is setting themselves free into a landscape that fills their senses with joy. They can relax, set free from the constraints of fitting in with the life of an alien creature, a creature who may feed and care for them but who also makes strange demands. Sometimes a dog just needs to be free to be themselves, able to bark, leap, dig, fling themselves around, roll over or just hurtle off into the distance for no other reason than that they want to.

When my retriever Hal saw the beach for the first time, at about twelve weeks old, he was completely overwhelmed. He flatly refused to walk down the slipway. All that light and open space…….. I notice that reaction from some visitors dogs too. You can see them trying to get their heads round the idea that something as good as this could actually be happening to them. If it is their first visit their owner will often tell me so, proud of the fact that they are giving their dog such a rare treat. Sometimes a dog will just completely let go and give in to complete bewildered ecstasy. The word no doesn’t exist. Orders to come back are not ignored, they are completely and utterly unheard. Dogs who are normally sane, clean and quiet on the end of a lead have been shown another way of life and they have abandoned themselves to it without looking back. I have sometimes counted as many as forty dogs down there (without trying) on a busy summer day when the weather is good, all off their leads. I will never forget three Jack Russell’s who were down there on a day like that, powering along and visiting each other dog in turn to jump and bark in their face before careering off again. It was a delight to watch, a kind of celebratory “Yeah me!” to the world. A few weeks ago I watched a young greyhound find another gear in the early morning sun and race away from his owner to cover almost the entire length of our walk in seconds with the kind of easy, natural grace that seemed to take no effort at all. There are not many breeds I haven’t seen down there over the years. Papillons who are not the prim little princes and princesses you would think that they are, Dogues de Bordeaux who look like they would eat you for breakfast ambling along quietly, Newfoundlands who (more than any other breed you care to mention) really do think that the beach is dog heaven, thousands of dogs of all shapes and sizes. Sometimes the beach can even heal a broken dogs mind. A local rescue German Shepherd cross, Sam, arrived on it completely confused and out of control (I once saw him pull his owner over) and ready to fight anything that got in his way. Chihuahuas had been thrown in the air. He had spent a number of years in kennels and he had no idea how to cope with life outside prison. Slowly, with the help of a firm but kind dog walker who took him under his wing when his owners despaired, the beach did its work. Day after day he discovered all over again that nothing was going to hurt him and after a year or so he believed it. He became a quiet, slightly tubby lad who just got on with life and bothered nobody. I think I felt for him because, while I never threw chihuahuas, the beach did exactly the same job for me when I needed it.

My spaniels Fern and Freya have about eight hours a week down there, sometimes more. They know every inch of the cliff side, every fox and rabbit run, every patch of grass. Some of the paths along it have even been made by Fern during the last seven and a half years as she pushed her way through brambles and undergrowth day after day. Life is a constant search and she will never get tired of wondering what is there. The beach itself is a fresh playground for them every day, a constantly changing landscape freshly laid out by each receding tide. There is always something new and surprising to find, always something familiar to check out. They are lucky dogs- even if they don’t know it……… but they do say that happiness never has to lay its finger on its pulse.

Haiku: The Angel of Filey Bay.

A weathered white stone,

Twisted line and iron bar.

Behold a new thing!

London in 1927.

London in 1927.
So familiar, so far away.
Crowds of people
Dressed for pride,
Caught in the frozen moment
Of an ordinary day.
Long gone.

Buses glide through the streets
Elegantly curved and painted.
They are in no hurry.
A man sits straight backed on the top deck
Open to the winds across the river,
Wearing a bowler hat.
Going somewhere.

A mother in a dark coat shows her son
The new monument to the glorious dead.
He is still in short trousers
And he needs to know.
She holds his hand tightly.
This is what they did for you.
This is what your dad did.

Two bright young things,
Best friends in cloche hats
And daring short thin skirts,
Walk in step through Hyde park.
London’s lung.
A chance to breathe, to think,
And tell each other secrets.

A little girl with blonde curls,
Stands stiffly in her best dress.
She keeps quite still in front of Peter Pan,
Just as she was told,
Because she believes in fairies,
Until she gets fed up and walks away
Into the rest of her life.

A single woman in a market
Chock full of flat caps.
Straightens her own hat
When she sees the camera.
She isn’t cooking dinner,
She is looking for her future
And she thinks that it may be here.

A policeman walks out
On serious business.
He is proud of himself,
And proud of his status
As the single member of the force
Chosen to make his way alone
Across the centre of the shot.

So many ordinary people,
Living through an ordinary day.
A day which has now become extraordinary
As we look back at a different world.
A world full of people like us,
Doing things that we do,
Seizing their moment in the sun.

Just a breath away.

The BeRo Book.

Before Nigella, Gordon, Jamie, Keith- even before Delia, Fanny Craddock and Graham Kerr, there was the BeRo book. It was the only recipe book in our house, other than a copy of Mrs Beeton which nobody ever looked at. Recipes were handwritten and passed on from one generation to the next. Most meals were made so regularly that there was no chance of the method being forgotten. Usually it meant putting meat in the oven, boiling your vegetables and deciding how you were going to cook your potatoes, which was not a complicated decision. They would be new and boiled in summer, old and mashed in winter. Pasta came in tins of tomato sauce and it was always spaghetti, curry was something you only saw in the Vesta adverts on television, and anything else was likely to be labelled as “foreign muck” by my grandfather. Fish came from the fish shop in batter on Fridays. You bought a beef joint on Sunday and roasted it then ate it stewed, minced or sliced until there was none left. Simple. But when it came to baking you needed a book. It was a free gift used to promote BeRo flour (few people would have paid for a recipe book when they could just ask someone) just a slim half size paperback booklet. Once you had your book, if you wanted to make something other than the constant stream of fruit pies that went in and out of the larder, you had all the information you needed. Baking was important. People talked about getting to know their oven and baking was a science as well as a matter of pride. Nobody ever boasted about the lovely roast dinner they had made- it was the same as the one which they had eaten last week and the same as the one which they (and just about everybody else) would be eating next week. What was the point? Everybody cooked. But baking was different. Not everyone could bake well naturally and “bought cakes” were looked down on. God forbid that you would send a “bought cake” to one of the endless stream of cake stalls that set up at the bottom end of the village hall each year for one cause or another. That would be the height of shame. A mother would also be ashamed of herself if she didn’t manage to teach a daughter how to bake well. It was well known that you were either good at pastry or cakes but downright incompetence in either was not an option. It was common knowledge who made the best scones in a village- their handiwork would usually be recognised on sight- and it was not considered bad manners to ask who had made a cake if you weren’t sure before you agreed to buy it. There were no competitions- you didn’t need them as it was a constant process of peer review!

The book can tell you a surprising amount about the lives of the women that BeRo was selling to. They knew exactly how the women saw themselves. They were proud of their homes, even though they might have little and many of them were undervalued and lacking in fulfilment elsewhere. They needed to be made to feel important and this one little book does that. Looking after the home was a way of finding a purpose and a sense of importance but it was not always given the recognition that it deserved. Feeding a family well and healthily when money was tight was a real skill and it was a way to demonstrate love. Within living memory people had gone hungry and what cook books there were had been for the rich and fanciful. This book is aimed at women who have been sold an idea of themselves as a home maker but they are not necessarily sure that they have the skill or the money to achieve it. The world is changing fast and they need a helping hand. BeRo is working hard to flatter these women and persuade them that paying a little bit more for their flour will be worth their while. If they cook from this book they will also use plenty of it at a time when the first rumblings of the convenience food era were beginning to be heard. Cheap flour bought in large six pound bags was the standard fare. They were going to have to be persuaded that they and their daughters would find it easier to cook with BeRo flour and achieve better results. It obviously worked as BeRo flour is still made and it still sits there alongside much cheaper flour today. They were educating their readers too, alongside the flattery, it was even thought necessary to remind them that measuring out ingredients rather than just throwing them in until it looked like enough (the old way) was a good idea. The previous generation of ordinary home cooks would probably have condemned using scales as unnecessary messing about. Many of the recipes are simple. These were frugal times and buying fancy nuts or extra flavourings to be used once and then sit in the cupboard was potentially a waste- even if you could find them. Most of what is in the book can be made with fat, flour, sugar and eggs and there is a basic version of a cake or biscuit before you start adding the more expensive but easily found ingredients- cocoa, lemon, almonds, sultanas, dried peel or currants.

Even back then, when the book arrived spanking new on our doorstep to replace the old worn out one, there was already a nostalgic, hopeful quality to the writing and my goodness there certainly is now.

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A moment in a Victorian farmyard.

This photograph shows my grandfather, Robert Shipley, in 1898, aged two, sitting on a horse in the farmyard in his embroidered dress, hat and boots. It is faded because it was enlarged and framed immediately and it has spent its whole life hanging on the wall. Anyone who came to our house (sixty years or so later) for the first time would be shown it by my grandfather and the question was always the same. “Who do you reckon that is then?” It was a tease. He was hoping that they would think it was a girl and many of them did. At that time dresses were regarded as children’s wear rather than girl’s wear and it was only when a boy reached about five that he would be “breeched” and begin to wear trousers. This sometimes happened even later- especially if the family were poor and the little lad had a lot of older sisters with dresses to pass on or a doting mother who was reluctant to see her baby boy grow up. It was a rite of passage and young as they were it was already a signal that most of them would be working before too long. It is hard to imagine that the boys didn’t mind (and I daresay some did) but on the whole it was just an accepted part of life and their mother’s wishes would have been respected.

Even without the family connection I find this photograph quite charming. There is no doubt about who is the star. Robert was the youngest of a family of twelve- the last baby- and this is a celebration of him. He was a strong, clever boy and his family are proud of him. That is a very fancy frock, undoubtedly his best Sunday one. Notice the way that he is looking towards the camera, frowning slightly, and putting his hands on the reins exactly as he has been told. He worked with horses all his life, farming with shires on the Vale of York, and there is just a hint of the skilled horseman that he would grow up to be. The brother and sister who have been sent out to the farmyard with him are just bit part players. They are in their ordinary clothes, not spruced up at all, and they are there to hold the horse and make sure that the dog sits still. Not that the horse looks as if he is going anywhere. He is a plodder, a farm workhorse who is not as young as he was but who is still well loved and carefully clipped- even if nobody has groomed him for the photo. In a muddy winter farmyard like that you could spend your whole life worrying about the lower half of a horse’s legs getting dirty, so they didn’t. The moving chickens provide a nice sense of immediacy as they go about their business unaware of the occasion. The brother has his legs carefully protected against the mud and his watch chain is displayed proudly. Jacket, waistcoat and hat were standard winter wear, he is not dressed up. He has simply been asked to interrupt what he is doing for a moment, “Hod us t’oss a minute while our Rob has his picture takken”. The sister has just put on a clean apron and walked straight out of the kitchen. She doesn’t look comfortable, unlike her brother, and she probably wasn’t. Photography was already a craze at the turn of the nineteenth century but it was something you went to a studio for, something a bit posh. For an ordinary farming family, being photographed standing in their own farmyard was rather unusual, something that they would have talked about. It was an event. My grandfathers delight in that event never left him.