Born to Run

I can’t claim to be Bruce Springsteen’s biggest fan. From his extensive back catalogue, I own just three albums: Born to Run, Darkness on the Edge of Town and Born in the USA. The only performance I’ve seen is footage from his half-time American Super Bowl show. But I’m fascinated enough to read his autobiography. Fascinated, because he’s managed to sustain a career where so many of his contemporaries have failed. Indeed not only has Springsteen survived; he’s prospered: Devil’s Dust and Wrecking Ball, two recent offerings, succeeded commercially and critically. I'm interested because I remember reading articles documenting support for Obama, transgender rights and unionised workers. I know the image of Springsteen: blue jeans, clenched fist, America’s child – but I don’t know the man. I want to learn where this blue-collar millionaire came from; I want to discover how the Bard of the Highways survived Fame’s inevitable car crash; I want to find out about a person whom lives on The Hills but looks up to the downtrodden.

Springsteen begins his autobiography by revealing that a rock concert is a ‘magic trick.’ Before the show there is nothing but potential. There is a stage for the magician to take his place, but as yet nothing magical has occurred. Then, when the conjurer walks in, anticipation fills the air. If the sorcerer has put the time in, they have within their power the chance to astound and amaze. So it is with the rock band. If music is your vocation, showmanship your calling, then no one in the audience will see your sleight of hand: the grab for the microphone, the chord change, the hoopla game with the strap – no, they’ll just feel it. Every magic trick begins with ‘a set up.’ The spiel, blarney and talk. Springsteen starts by telling us about his family, stoking the anticipation for what we’ve really come to find out: how the hell do you write a song like ‘Born to Run’?

Rockin' the Super Bowl.

Bruce was born into an Irish-Italian family in Freehold, New Jersey. Brought up near St Rose church, Springsteen was literally raised in the bosom of Catholicism. Living in his grandparents’ house, the generations clashed. Given her own daughter died young, his grandmother doted on him. This maternal devotion did not sit well with Bruce’s mother, who struggled for power against this matriarch. Feeling usurped, she instead chose to mother her husband. A man who took to the bottle, Douglas Springsteen was a man that needed looking after. Often he would return home drunk, taking out his frustrations on his wife and children. Instead of offering her children support, she brought her husband to breast, placating him over her offspring. When Springsteen’s grandparents died, he felt orphaned. He would later go on to enjoy a healthy relationship with his mother, but he found one with his father a lot harder to come by.

This patter is the backdrop for the trick Springsteen would come to learn. Whilst watching the Ed Sullivan Show in 1956, he along with 70 million other Americans were introduced to the gyrating hips of Elvis Presley. The shake, rattle and roll of the man’s body bewitched and dismayed the country in equal measure. In the young Springsteen it set him off on a course: How can I pull a stunt like that? How can I pull a song from my hat? How can the eyes of the world be on me?

Earning money by mowing his aunt’s lawn, Springsteen bought a guitar. It wouldn’t be long before he joined his first band The Castiles, named after a brand of shampoo. Unfortunately, a drugs bust meant Springsteen lost two members of his band: a problem that wouldn’t come out in the wash; consequently, the band folded.

From there, Springsteen would go on to form Steel Mill, a seed that would eventually germinate into the world-renowned E Street Band. Until then, the magician toiled. He felt that he had mastered the tricks, yet he didn’t have the audience to perform them to. Up and down, across east and west of America, Springsteen went seeking discovery. The road that he would go on to mythologise as signifying freedom, nearly broke him: his band gained kudos but no contract. His dream of being a rock star left him destitute and, by today’s definition, homeless. That house of cards he’d built in his head- money, adulation, girls, fame, glory, freedom, art and joy – was in danger of falling in.

When you’re good enough though you can’t be ignored. It doesn’t matter about the trends, patterns, the prevailing wind; talent will always out. Springsteen wrote the songs that would become Greetings from Asbury Park; the magic dust ensured a contract, yet it didn’t realise his ambitions. The album recorded with his E Street Band sold copy, yet never really captured the consciousness of America. Was the parochial album title the sign of a parochial man: a local artist that could appeal to his people, but never appeal to The People?

The first album.

Then, came 'Born to Run.' The song took six months to come together. Steeped in the history of rock n’ roll - women, cars and the road – Springsteen set about re-casting this old story for a modern world. Like a rabbit at a dog track, it comes haring out of the traps. Its pace is supercharged and relentless, an autobahn put to music. Just when you feel this giant pinball of a song is over, the piano flips the ball back into play and it's bouncing yet again. The song is pure exhilaration, an endorphin head-rush that takes your brain from your body, allowing you to experience the full visceral sensation of music. The album that included the aforementioned was a huge hit, ensuring Springsteen went stratospheric – his life would never be the same again.

The autobiography, therefore, is named after Springsteen’s hit song and album. It’s also some damning wordplay on the man he once was. In 1985 he married Julianne Phillips, an actress and a model. The pebble that he threw in his 1980 album, The River, finally created a ripple. That record spoke of his preoccupation with stability and contentment – was it possible? His sister’s marriage hadn’t worked out. His mother and father were hardly adverts for marital bliss. Despite this, Bruce wanted a partner. Throwing your life to the road seems free and liberating, but there comes a time when it can feel empty, meaningless and selfish. His marriage to Phillips was meant to tether his restless spirit, instead the opposite happened. The love that Phillips gave him wasn’t reciprocated. By his own admission, he behaved appallingly, beginning a relationship with Patti Scialfa whilst wed. His enduring marriage to Scialfa does not vindicate his treatment of his first wife and he's honest about that.

Causing a storm.

Throughout Springsteen’s autobiography, he confesses to running when he sometimes needed to stay still. In the later part of his story, he speaks about his battle with mental health, and how it took him far too long to seek professional help, relying instead on the road for ballast. At the height of his fame, he reveals that it was his band and the shows they played that stopped him ‘launching into the ozone layer.’ This darkening mood is seen in records like Nebraska and Tunnel of Love, proving that The Boss can do close-up introspection as well as jump-cut car scenes. As fame and love hit harder, Springsteen became a different artist, maybe a less commercial one, but a better one, able to excavate his soul for public display.

These quiet, somber records were often done in isolation without the big, vibrant sound of The E Street Band. This band of brothers had to accept an extended period of gardening leave whilst their boss pursued his own interests. The fact that the group would reform after ten years apart and enjoy universal acclaim for their subsequent tours shows the power of their union. One of the fascinating parts of the book is seeing how Springsteen squares being a Democrat in politics and a dictator in music. Corralling a group of big personalities into a unified whole requires an excellent herder. If you pull the rope too taut, the horse will baulk. This balancing act between being boss and friend was something Springsteen undertook in his early twenties: his ability to see it through demonstrates the strength of his vision and charisma.

Bruce's managerial responsibilities didn't extend to the band's wardrobe.

Another fascinating part of his story is seeing how his songs have been misunderstood. Springsteen is one of the great lyricists: he uses his characters to explore thematic and social concerns – that’s not something you can say about many songwriters. He writes with nuance, exploring different perspectives in different verses; the inattentive ear might misinterpret what he’s doing. So it’s has proved with 'Born in The USA': a swipe at the administration’s poor treatment of returning Vietnam vets; some have instead seen this as paean to America. Ronald Reagan even had it as his walk on music – until someone told him that a song was more than a chorus. Another tune, 'American Skin', written in response to the police shooting of a black male was roundly booed by some of his fans, believing Springsteen had turned his back on emergency workers he allegedly supported. Look at the lyrics though and you’ll see a journalist's rigour: both police and victim are represented. Again, the chorus of ’41 shots cut through the night’ is the one people hear, and not the police officer ‘kneeling over his body in the vestibule praying for his life.’ Again, his song is more than the chorus.

I really loved Springsteen’s autobiography. In the penultimate chapter, he concedes that he may not have given the whole story – people’s feelings need to be protected after all. To me, it doesn’t matter. A little bit of mystery is a good thing. We don’t want the whole trick explained. Just seeing it, appreciating it, is enough.

Born to Run is available from all good bookshops.

The Ferryman

I couldn’t have been more excited about seeing The Ferryman at The Gielgud this week.

Earlier this year the play became the fastest selling production in Royal Court history. The causes of this clamour were three-fold: firstly, it’s written by Jez Butterworth. No modern playwright has enjoyed a comparable level of box-office and critical success in recent years. His calling card, Jerusalem, was a huge success on both sides of the pond, confirming the writer's place in the canon. Secondly, it’s directed by Sam Mendes. Mendes, of course, is now known for his work on the James Bond franchise, but those directorial skills were very much honed in the West End. Aged just 24 he directed Judi Dench in Chekov’s The Cherry Orchard, illustrating his preternatural talent. Thirdly, it features Paddy Considine. For me, Considine is one of Britain’s finest actors. Brought up on a council estate, Considine studied performing arts at Burton College. Young and distracted, he never completed the course. Here though, he met Shane Meadows, a kindred spirit, that knew the best form of learning comes from doing. Meadows cast Considine in A Room For Romeo Brass; they then co-wrote Dead Man Shoes, where Considine does a De Niro, delivering a bravura performance of scintillating, emotional intensity. From here, he would go on to star in comedies Hot Fuzz, Submarine and World’s End. There are few actors capable of creepiness and capers: Considine is one of them. The opportunity to see what this triptych could fashion then was salivating: I had missed the performance at The Court, I couldn’t miss its transference to The Gielgud. I asked The Girl if she could get me a ticket for my birthday, and the good lady duly obliged. I couldn’t wait.

Sam Mendes

The play opens in Derry, 1981. A priest has been called to meet some scowl-and-threats down a back alley. It turns out a body has risen to the surface on the border betwixt north and south. The cadaver belongs to one Seamus Carney, formerly of the Father’s parish. They want information. What secrets did he hold? Who is he related to? Where do they live? In this time of Trouble, the dog collar is a chokehold: a Father can hear confessions he’d rather not hear. The two men pulling on the priest are members of the IRA; they’re concerned that the victim’s rise to the surface may lead to questions about their past operations. (Butterworth’s former partner Laura Donnelly gave him the inspiration for this story. She discovered a few years ago that her uncle was one of ‘the disappeared.’ A small collection of unfortunates that the IRA sank without a trace. When they went missing their families were told that there had been sightings to throw them off the scent; all along, they were at the bottom of a bog: their price for being disloyal– or seemingly disloyal.) The Father knows that he’s God’s vessel, his duty is to protect his parish, serve his children. To do otherwise is to do the Devil’s work. But what happens if an IRA man holds a picture up of your sister, giving you the “I know where she lives” eyes. Well, you put family before work, prioritise your own body and blood over the flock who take it. They’re coming. The IRA are coming to the Carney home.

Laura Donnelley, inspiration and star of The Ferryman. 

After blackout, the curtains reveal a county Armagh kitchen. A man trades drunk talk with a woman; they play blindfold Connect 4; they dance to a record. There is intimacy. There is affection in this relationship. A boy comes down and startles them. It is the woman’s son. He informs them that it’s morning. The man and woman reset their leisure for work. Harvest is here. An occasion that demands celebration, but one that necessitates preparation. The family is called. Young children come bounding down the stairs. Bleary-eyed teenagers enter rubbing sleep from their eyes. Time-worn relatives are wheeled out. This is a big family. Only one woman remains asleep upstairs, unwell she is, nursing a virus.  

In the rural world, the harvest is a blessed portent, a sign that lips won’t go dry, that bellies won’t starve. Consequently, the kitchen is singing with merriment. There are squabbles between the children, but they’re the cause of earthy humour – the my big brother showed me his hole kind of thing. The graveyard-dodgers have a spring in their step too, bantering over how boring the other is. In the middle is Quinn Cairney, the previous paragraph’s dancing man, ebulliently bathing the whole household in joy, in light. He’s setting the scene for a Cratcht-style Christmas. They have a goose to bring in. The plumpest, most succulent goose a family can wish for. The competition to ring its neck is fierce amongst the children. For the unselected, the competition to be in attendance is as fierce. This family is unfazed by death, but death of an animal mind- not the human kind.

Considine (centre-right)

Joining the frolics, an Englishman walks in. Tom Kettle is his name. An Englishman living in Catholic quarters doesn’t seem sensible, but the Carney and the Kettle don’t just co-exist - they reside in affection too. Kettle is a Lennie character, pulling rabbits from his pocket and talking in slow sentences. The children love him for his kindness. The adults for the labour he provides. Only fire and brimstone Aunt Pat questions why this Irish family would accept a Cromwell on their land. Other than Pat railing against Thatcher’s treatment of the hunger strikers, all is well in the Carney house. The Troubles are over there; here, in this kitchen, is contentment.

This 1^st Act of The Ferryman had me grinning from ear to ear. Layering poetic prose on mellifluous Irish accents creates a sound that’s utterly beguiling. Butterworth’s first movement is Vaughan Williams’ Lark Ascending, an idyll to nature, a hymn to the land.

Jez Butterworth.

Valkyries are descending though, and when Act Two and Three shifts to something altogether darker and oppressive, the spell remains strong. Just as a body came to the surface, secrets do too. The woman Quinn was dancing with at the beginning might not be whom you thought. The lady who sits senile shouldn’t be discounted. The firebrand in the corner may have just cause to spit the name Oliver Cromwell. Just as Considine’s friend Shane Meadows deals in light and shade, Butterworth does too.

Under Sam Mendes’ direction, The Ferryman is a masterpiece. The Ferryman’s title comes from Charon, the carrier of souls, who in the Greek myth eased the passage of the deceased into the afterlife. Butterworth’s story of modern history is allied with ancient Gods then; it’s also a psychodrama and ghost story; a family comedy and damning satire; a fiction rooted in fact. In Mendes he’s found a man that’s pieced together these elements to form a profound mosaic on Ireland’s past. 

Concluding, I urge you to go to the gallery and feast your eyes on what these labouring men have produced - it's harvest after all.

The Ferryman is on until January.

DIY school

I'm never gonna be the handyman around the house my father was
So don't be asking me to hang a curtain rail for you, because
Screwdriver business just gets me confused
It takes me half an hour to change a fuse
And when I flicked the switch the lights all blew

I'm not your handyman

Don't be expecting me to put up shelves or build a garden shed
But I can write a song that tells the world how much I love you instead
I'm not any good at pottery so let's lose the 't' and just shift back the 'e'
And I'll find a way to make my poetry build a roof over our heads

I know it looks like I'm just reading the paper
But these ideas I'll turn to gold dust later
Cause I'm a writer not a decorator

I'm not your handyman.

  

(Billy Bragg, Handyman Blues)

I’ve always been a cack-hand when it's come to DIY. When it came to my options for GCSE I had a choice between resistant materials and food technology. This was the late 90’s when TV personality Jamie Oliver had yet to be invented. Hate on Oliver all you want, but he’s done a lot to make young men interested in cooking, defeminising what should be a chore/passion enjoyed by all. Even though cooking wasn’t cool for boys, I chose home economics. There was a risk in doing so I would be branded unmanly and gay – what, after all, says queer more than dicing an onion? However, I didn’t care. I’d risk the ridicule and taunts if it meant avoiding the hammer and the anvil. Surely, it better to work with co-operative materials like egg and sugar than resistant materials that were predisposed to make life harder.

Yes, he was behind Jamie's Dream School, but he got boys cooking.

I had experienced woodwork and metalwork in my early years. There was the free-standing letter rack that wouldn't stand. The initialised key ring that didn’t have the necessary curvature for the ‘r,’ meaning my name stood for ‘Lyan.’ Further, there was the whole debacle over my bird-box: the RSPB's argument that no bird should be allowed to nest in such conditions was upheld by my father who reluctantly pulled the thing down. I’ve just never had the nous, the knack for practical projects. I don’t have the dexterity to hold two things at once, nor can I visualise how things are supposed to turn out. All of this means I’m ill-suited to DIY.

Having recently moved into our own home, DIY can’t be avoided. If there’s a problem, I can’t throw up a distress flare to the estate agents and wait for help to arrive. As Spiderman’s uncle once said, ‘With a great mortgage comes great responsibility.’ Simply, you have to do it yourself, risk an arm and a leg; or call out someone and have it cost you one. Alternatively, you can do what I do: make the teas whilst your dad, girlfriend and her dad get on with the job. It's a method I’ve been trialling for the past year, and I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, it has been an unqualified success. It should be rolled out to ineffectual men across the country. The wallpapering’s been done, the curtain poles gone up, the garden’s been remodelled, the study has gone from resembling a burial ground to a lending library – and all this has been done with little or no input on my side.

But it can’t continue this way.

I can’t continue to pay off the dads in beers and thank you's. I can’t continue to offer a ‘sex voucher’ to The Girl in way of thanks – she neither values it nor wants it. I have to do better. Acutely aware of this, I scoured the Internet in search of a DIY course that would teach me the fundamentals, the basics, which would allow me to save face in front of the fathers and The Girl too. One that I found was the DIY Centre in Waddon, Surrey; a training school that offers intensive plastering, carpentry and tiling courses; more importantly though, one that provides a home maintenance course, designed with beginners in mind.

The centre is right next to the station, which means reaching it is practical.

So here I am outside Waddon early on a Saturday morning during the late nights and lay-ins of a summer holiday wondering, “how did I get here?” Dressed in old jeans, worn t-shirt and steel capped boots, I looked every inch the labouring man; however, my soft hands and spindly fingers tell the true story: I'm in costume, unfancy dress, playing a part that I'm unaccustomed to. The centre have their work cut out: they’d been in operation for ten years, but in that time they had never come toe to toe with such gross incompetence.

Welcoming us to the day was Martin, a genial man, tall and tattooed, with a face that said cue ball meets glasses. He introduced the day by asking us, “What’s the difference between a softwood and a hardwood?” Just as I was going to affect the voice of mean girl sarcasm, Martin told us it was nothing to do with strength but density. I had learnt something straightaway; although as introductions go it was a little unusual. Wasn’t he meant to say his name, put the learning objective on the board and give us the course outline? Ten years of writing four-part lesson plans has made me uptight when it comes to structure; I was concerned that my weekend would be spent working with something of a loose cannon, who’d tell me things I didn’t need to know at the expense of things I really needed to know.

In case you wanted to know.

Fortunately, Martin ended the pop quiz and got us onto measuring and drilling. Measuring I can do. I can convert inches to centimetres and millimetres into centimentres with no problem at all. Maths isn’t an issue. Putting the point where the hole must go is a walk in the park. What I hadn’t been entrusted with before is the drill. I learnt how the drill bit goes in and the drill bit went out. I was ready to Hokey Cokey. Applying pressure to the drill, I sunk it into the wood, and what do you know? A perfect circle. Now do the same on the other side? “Don’t mind if I do, Martin.” And wham! I’d struck gold yet again. Another perfect circle. In the world of drilling, I was putting the slick into oil. Then, we were told to apply our block to the wall. Now, this was a job that called for both hands: one to hold and the other to apply pressure. Years of eating with a knife and fork should have meant I was equipped for this, however this was not to be the case. When applying the drill to the screw, I went in at the wrong angle, causing the light-weight device to sound positively pneumatic, as if I was laying cable in Clapham as opposed to attaching wood in Waddon. Martin came over, telling me kindly that he never wanted to hear that noise again. I went in straighter, cleaner and more smoothly. He nodded, and I was reassured.

We then put up some plasterboard and were given a tutorial in painting. I haven’t painted since secondary school, where my teacher would often praise me on my ‘interesting’ use of colour. Resisting the desire for avant-garde experimentalism, I eschewed my predilection for Jackson Pollack innovation, in favour of conservative brushstrokes. On seeing my technique, Martin said I was laying it on a bit thick; I said, “When are you going to start doing that with me.” Ignoring the idiom, he told me to put less paint on the brush and generate a longer, more flowing action. By the end, the paint-job didn’t look too bad. Not up to a professional’s standard, yet passable. At the very least, I was learning.

Measured, drilled and painted.

Leaving the workshop, we headed next door for a spot of plumbing. Martin asked us, “Who here has ever had a leaking tap?” I swallowed the impulse to tell him about my bladder complaint and listened to what he had to say. "The most common problem with the leaking tap is the washer." Quickly, he then took the top off the tap, and then releasing the washer with a spanner demonstrated how a small disc can cause a significant problem. On changing the washer, Martin signed off with ‘Just Like That.’ This Tommy Cooper catchphrase would be said more than once over the weekend (67 times). Changing a washer was the easiest thing of the weekend. So easy I could do it. Martin said, “It will cost you 10p to fix that; you’d pay a £65 call-out, along with labour, if you got someone out.” Before plumbers even put their feet on your welcome mat it’s cost a pretty penny, so maybe I’ll save a few with this knowledge.

After this, we looked at how to fix a broken pipe flange, a task that involved me first asking what a flange was and then what it did. Having addressed the semantics, I got on with the practical, proving myself to be inept at fixing plumber’s tape around it. When it came to testing whether our contraptions would hold water, mine leaked like an incontinent. I told Martin it was important I demonstrate to the rest of the class what can happen if you don’t do it correctly. His look said, “Your toilet leaks water, but your mouth spews bullshit.”

Pipe flange.

The next morning Martin had us working on tiles. Having mounted a tile board, he instructed us to remove the adhesive with a blade and the grout with a something-or-other. It was tiring work, going up and down, across and side-to side, so laborious and repetitious that I might consider it as a detention task for next year. On completing this penal servitude, we were then told to file down the top tile, ready for disassemble. With hammer and chisel, Martin demonstrated how to remove a tile. Armed with the mighty mallet and ably assisted by its sidekick, I shot through and took out the thing in one fell swoop. Resistant materials, pah! Resistance was futile. Like David vs Goliath, the tile had looked at me with condescension: who is this spindly fingered weakling to think he can take me? Well, tile, I showed you. I wiped that smugness of your brow. Showed you that you shouldn’t underestimate the fee-fi-fo-fum of the Anglo-Asian. Unseamed you from the knave to the chops. Left you broken and desolate. (Sometimes it’s good to trash-talk the inanimate. The animate only answer back.)

Later in the day, we moved onto electrics. My dad is an engineer and has been working with electrical equipment for forty-five years. I’ve inherited my father’s impish smile, softness and determination, but what’s skipped generations is my way with wires and cables. I will one day inherit his kingdom, however I will never possess his talents. When it came to wiring a plug, it’s safe to say I was an omnishambles. I could put it down to the fact I have big hands -ladies- however, the truth is I’m just too clumsy and ham-fisted for such a task. An apt image to describe my plug wiring would be that of an amateur sex enthusiast: all hands, no direction, the plug left feeling unsatisfied, desperate for an expert's touch.

The gang with tall Martin in the middle.

The day ended with a certificate ceremony that authenticated the fact I had completed the course. Important wording that: ‘completed,’ not ‘passed.’ Certainly, I have come away with knowing more about DIY, understanding what different equipment does and practising my use of it. However, I still think I’ll always be a man that’ll be better at building narrative than flatpack; more adept at constructing sentences than sheds; more at ease with arranging words than flowerbeds. 

To my darling girl, don't fear though: if I can't hang you great scenes and pictures, I'll type and write them in imagery for you instead. I’ll try to be a better man, but when all's said and done I’m no handyman.

Heading South

The summer term was over. Whilst the rest of the staff enjoyed a BBQ on the playing field, I headed home, requiring some much needed solitude. It had been a busy school year, in the end a happy one; but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been crossing off the days until the holiday. Now, the shutters had been lifted, I was free to taste the sweet, sweet air of liberation. I embraced my girlfriend. I texted my mates. I called my family, “I’m free! I’m free!” It doesn’t matter that I’ve only been granted temporary reprieve, that in a few weeks I’ll be summoned to return again. As I write, I’m on teacher parole, and the feeling couldn’t be greater.

There was no time to relax though as we were required for a festival of celebration. Headlining the Saturday was The Girl’s friend, Clare, a musical actress I’ve written about before. She, along with her fiancé Rich, were acting as leads for their wedding; my tea and tomorrows was in the chorus line, demonstrating the perfect foot timing required to be a bridesmaid. It was a lovely service, scored with beautiful music from a string quartet. And for a couple that works in the theatre, they’ll be pleased to know I rated the day ‘five stars.’

Then, headlining the Sunday was my friend’s nine-month old son, Joe. The little lamb was being accepted into God’s flock as part of his baptism. So with a wedding on Saturday and a Christening on Sunday, this atheist spent much of his weekend in church. There are lots to church I like: the quiet, the reflection, the community, the old sing songs, dressing up, the over-use of metaphor, the Hip Hop call and response; it’s a tasty soup– if only they didn’t dollop religion’s sour cream on top, I could quite happily eat it up.

At church.

After going to Clare’s garden party on the Sunday, we packed our bags for our holiday. Having had big trips in Easter – me, Sri Lanka; her, Australia – we thought it Gordon Brown financially prudent to head a little less south for our getaway. We were going to Swanage, a place where I spent all my school family holidays, and the Isle of Wight, a place where the good lady spent hers. Here, we would drink in walks, food, books, sites – and well, drink.

Monday 24^th July

The Girl and I enjoy a good night’s rest for the first time in ages. So much so, we think about setting up camp here and holidaying between the sheets – that isn’t a euphemism. But with reservations made and accommodation booked, we eschew the John and Yoko bed-in and head out on our magical mystery tour. (Neither magical or mysterious, but I wanted to keep The Beatles lexis going.) We arrived too late in Swanage to go on the beach, so we headed to the arcades. Given we’ve been going to Swanage for the past few years, we’ve accumulated quite the number of tickets. These tokens, won from playing machines, can be traded in for a prize. It is our aim to one day have the 5000 tickets needed to gain a super-soaker. Neither of us has thought through the ramifications of this though: the tickets will entitle us to only one pump-action water pistol. We have worked in tandem to gain this prize, but there will come a day when one will quite literally turn the gun on the other. It’s the Blair-Brown premiership struggle all over again.

We propped up the seaside economy playing these.

Tuesday 25^th July

The sun is shining so we head down to the beach for the day. I sit on my chair, outside the beach hut, eating a pork pie whilst reading P.G. Woodhouse and consider my surname as something of a misnomer: I’m proud of my Sri Lankan heritage, but fundamentally I’m a tea and saucer Englishman.

Sensing this might be the only day of sun, I convince The Girl to wade into the waters. She is knee-deep before I’m toe-deep. The sun is telling a 25 degree story, but the sea isn’t listening. I’ve never been good in the cold. As a boy, I'd run into the sea one minute and be running out the next. With chattered teeth and bruised lips I’d find solace in my beach towel, vowing never to return again – until, of course, tomorrow. The Girl laughs at my cowardice, her titters a white feather in my ear. Eventually, I’m under and it’s majestic. We throw a ball back and forth at one another. I dive to the left, to the right, affecting Superman actions for the crowd. Then cold, I make my retreat, finding succour in the beach towel. Sometimes children just don’t grow up.

Wednesday 26^th July

What the Lord giveth with one hand, He taketh with the other. It’s raining. Not weeping, but whimpering. It’s a self-indulgent grey that says, “I’m going to be a dick and spoil your day in the sun. Not because I have to but because I want to.” Given the clouds have pissed in our chips, we get in the car and head to Wareham. Wareham is where my mum went to secondary school; it’s double the size of Swanage and boasts a pretty quay. The Girl and I have good pub fare, then make our way to Tyneham.

Now, Tyneham is historically significant. It once was, yet now isn’t. In the village of Tyneham children once went to school, families frequented church, and adults once journeyed to work. Then the war came. With the Purbeck Hills encircling the area, the Ministry of Defence requisitioned the land and used it for military exercises. Much to the chagrin of the people, it was never given back to them. Today, it’s only open as a summer tourist site, with drills and training continuing to this day. It’s an interesting place. The Special’s Ghost Town made manifest. There’s an eeriness to wandering the parish, in seeing what’s succumbed to dilapidation. When people talk of sacrifices, people rightly think of soldiers giving up their lives, yet it’s important we remember communities like these that gave up their homes for the war effort.

School's out for ever in Tyneham.

Thursday 27^th July

The adolescent cloud had got over its bad mood and decided to shine for us today. With that in mind, The Girl and I decided to walk the land – like Cavemen, only with a better sense of deportment. We walked from Swanage to Durlston Castle, which was acquired by some rich geezer in the 19^th century. It’s very nice and home to some rare wildlife that I neither have the knowledge nor the motivation to talk about. (I’ve never been a fan of nature. Blame my parents: we never had so much as a goldfish as children so I find it difficult to summon up the enthusiasm for a mayfly. When it comes to science and nature questions on the pub quiz machines, I go to the bar and get us a drink. Unsurprisingly, The Girl never chooses ‘change category’ when it comes up.)

Having looked around the castle, we made our way along the coastal park to Worth Matravers. I wanted to go to Matravers because I’d been reading about the pub, The Square and Compass. It looked pretty boss and I liked what they were selling. The walk was a tough one. Hard of foot, heavy on leg, I prayed for a lunch break. I’m in many regards like a F1 machine: sleek, cool, super-fast, aerodynamic, but I need regular pit-stops to maintain my top speeds. Unfortunately, The Girl views me as an old Robin Reliant: something that you’re so grateful started, that you daren’t stop for fear it won’t start again. Eventually, we could see the pub on the horizon. By this time I felt like Tom Hanks in Castaway, with the alehouse symbolising my rescue from nature.

Looks like piss; tastes like apples.

The pub is pretty damn special. Get this: there isn’t a bar, but a hatch that you order from. You don’t sit on a chair, but stone. There are crates of books that you can buy from. Round the back was a marque set up where you could try your hand at stone carving. It was like a scaled down Glastonbury. I was pretty effusive about it, telling The Girl that it was the best pub I’d ever been too. Admittedly, I had been on a walk that had tested mind, body and spirit – much like Jesus in the Judaean desert– so you could argue that when I came to the first watering hole I might rate it higher than it deserves. However, I stand by the fact that it was a great pub. Sure, a pub always looks better after a walk; but I don’t think I’m using hyperbole when I say that it could tempt Jesus out of a fast.

Friday 28^{th July}

The weather had stomped up the stairs and slammed its bedroom door on mother again; the result was a right mardy morning. With the skies neither her nor there, we were at a loss on what to do. I wanted to go to the beach one last time but The Girl wasn’t so sure. Using my powers of persuasion (I teach persuasive writing, so I know how to use repetition and alliteration to good effect) I managed to convince her to have lunch on the sand. By the time we got down to the seafront, God had put the sprinklers on and ruined Eden. We sat holed up in the beach hut whilst eating sandwiches. I thought it was dead romantic. Cellophane in hand, ensconced under cheap wood, looking onto a rainswept sea: what could be more romantic than that? Well, I’ll tell you. All of the above plus travel Connect 4. I beat The Girl 3-1, which really added to her misery.

The height of romance.

On the way home we stopped in at The Red Lion pub where we discovered a love for pool. The pair of us are big fans of pub games. Over the years the pub quiz machine has destroyed our potential child’s nest egg. They are worse than a wishing well, taking silver, not copper. In both, money sinks without a trace. Pool is great though. The Girl and I are incompetent enough to play for a good half an hour with neither showing the inclination to win. Unlike the pub quiz machine that punishes inability, the pool table rewards it, letting your 50p last until sundown.

Saturday 29^th July

We drive down to Lymington and board the ferry for the Isle of Wight. I have never been across to the island before, so I was putting this part of the holiday in hands of The Girl. As someone who likes to do the organising, this was an exercise in trust: a falling back into my girlfriend’s itinerary, hoping there’d be a happy landing. I needn’t have worried. The Girl did a great job. She knows the island like her Strictly Come Dancing contestants. (I was going to say ‘like the back of her hand,’ but if quizzed on the Strictly or her hand, I believe that the dancing show would come out on top. I’m not saying she doesn’t watch the back of her hand closely- she does. She’ll look at it for a good few minutes every day. However, she’s a Strictly super-fan and that loves precedes all – even, me. If I was to have a heart scare in the next few years, and she was given the choice between renewing me for another series or Strictly, then I’m well aware where her priorities lie.)

Arriving in the island I was surprised to find it looked just like England. The people even spoke like England too. I threw away my phrasebook and got conversing with the locals. The first place we went to was Alum Bay.  Alum Bay is famous for its different colour sand. Because of the interesting minerals there, the sand comes in all different colours: red, orange, brown – as well as yellow. Due to the sand being original and unique, it’s cordoned off from members of the public. Fear not though because you can purchase it in the gift shop. My mum gave me strict orders do such a thing, which meant I spent the best part of fifteen minutes, alongside young children, scooping the sand into concentric circles. Concluding my play in the sandpit, I looked around to see how my artwork measured up against the other children; my extra years playing in sand hadn’t gone to waste – mine was the far superior design.

Something to do with the minerals.

Next, we went wine tasting in Adgestone.  It transpired our wine tutor was a former primary school teacher; The Girl quipped, “So teaching drove you to wine.” One of my favourite movies is Sideways where two friends go on a tour of the California wine region. Miles, a depressed oenophile, has a meltdown whilst tasting, causing him to snatch the wine from the sommelier and pour his own; this eventually culminates in him tipping a barrel of red right through his gullet. Attributed to the fact I’m on holiday, my mental health is in good working order; consequently, I didn’t feel the need to re-enact the scene. The English wine tasted pretty good: the first white was my favourite. Usually, I’m not a fan of white wine; when it comes to wine I like a fuller body – you know, like Joan from Mad Men. White wine for me is a little Size Zero: its strut and sparkle ultimately has all the depth of constructed reality tv.

The man in pink chose a career in wine after three years of being a teacher.

We then made our way to Shanklin, our home for the next two days. Shanklin seemed to be designed by Tolkien with its thatched roofs, tearooms and inns. If it weren’t for the hills, I could imagine hobbits living there. After dinner, we went to a CAMRA nominated pub which looked like it had been a B&B in a previous life. There were no pub games here, but it didn’t matter: the barmaid was our entertainment. Over the course of the evening, we discovered that her ex-boyfriend was a ‘fucking bastard’ that was responsible for adding to Shanklin’s population. Given the whole island only has a populace of 170,000, men like this should be venerated, not subjected to the kangaroo court of bar room tittle-tattle. If his penis doesn’t keep wandering, then the Isle of Wight will go the way of the Cornish language and become extinct. Keep straying fellar – your island needs you.

Sunday 30^th July

The Girl and I set off early for our walk to Ventnor. I remember the name because it rhymes with former Arsenal striker, Nicklas Bendtner. Bendtner was a centre forward that thought the objective of the game was to put the ball wide of the posts. Until recently he was playing in the top flight of Europe, which means he was either brilliant in training or the equivalent of an undercover journalist, codename Mudraker, able to gather enough dirt on his managers to render them blackmailed.

Ventnor was nothing like the Arsenal striker, possessing class, style and sand. We stopped for lunch at Steephill Cove, a beautiful spot that possessed seafood restaurants built into shacks. On the way home, we had dinner in the Fisherman’s Inn – my favourite pub on the island. With boats moored outside and low ceilings inside, the pub felt like being in a ship’s cabin. The food was great too. I had a crab and lobster burger, which made me think I need to try more seafood: an epiphany that will bring delight to my stomach and cause consternation for the ocean's children.

The Fisherman's Inn.

Monday 31^st July

We left the B&B and headed north to Ryde. Stopping here, we visited the Donald McGill postcard museum. I had heard about this in John Osborne’s seaside tour, Don’t Need the Sunshine, and wanted to see it for myself.

McGill is the purveyor of any dirty seaside postcard you saw in the 90’s. As a child, it was the closest your fingertips could come to pornography. Much of the humour is dated with ‘casual’ sexism, fat shaming and – disturbingly – objectification of children. There are, however, satirical jokes about the church, government and attitudes to sex.

McGill was an atheist and champion of the suffrage movement at a time when many weren’t propagating these views. His work was censored in the 50’s with many of his artwork seized. In response to this, he fought the puritanical, which led to his postcards being re-instated. This was culturally significant because it meant books like Lady Chatterly’s Lover also had their bans lifted.

The museum is great, demonstrating how it’s possible to be a dinosaur and vanguard of comedy. His representation of women as sexual objects is thankfully a thing of the past; unfortunately, his broadsides against religious corruption remain relevant today. We took some silly, surreal, non-sexist postcards home, that will be exhibited in our downstairs loo.

The postcards that were banned.

So on we went to Cowes. Cowes week is the biggest week on the Isle of Wight calendar because it’s where rich people come to show off how much money they’ve got. The seas are bestrewn with ships from far and wide, all competing in races that no one understands. It’s wonderful to look at, but impossible to ascertain what's happening. The Girl and I made our way up to the gin tent, where fifty types were in town. Aware that we had to drive home, we didn't have them all, conscious the fiftieth might set a breathalyser ablaze.

Homeward bound, we stopped off in The Woodvale Hotel for a spot of dinner and a game of pool. The Girl, having never played before the trip, beat me. The apprentice had become the master. Like Victor Frankenstein, I'd created a monster. Be careful in your local pool halls because The Girl is unstoppable. She’ll eat up the table and spit the black ball in the centre pocket. You have been warned.

View from The Woodvale.

After a diversion on the M3, we were home. Our holiday over. Well, I say it's over. The holiday within the holiday is over. There's still four and a half weeks left of the at home holiday. Non-teachers, I’m sensing your rage, so I’ll stop now.