Music

Wednesday 14th October 2020

When the Queen met Harry Rollo she said, ‘Music is very important.’ Out of horror, even as we suffer now, such wrong and nightmare as who would imagine we would ever suffer, some good comes. The Sunday before last music was given at the Ragged School Museum in London’s East End at 3pm. I heard music once before, as you know, at Glyndebourne out of doors which was frail and wonderful but my attention wandered for no good reason. And also in July. Perhaps then I was not so fully engulfed, so enraged and desperate as now.

This time the soloists were international, of world fame, usually at Carnegie or Aix, now at the Ragged School, which is the original Dr Barnardo’s Home for Orphaned Children and looks it. Bashed up. Floor boards, metal rafters, unforgiving glazed tiles on the walls. Not much else. But there they were, these international stars. Elisabeth Leonskaja on piano, Alina Ibragimova on violin. Pavel Kolesnikov who gave the July concert. Madame Leonskaja played the A for tuning and it was supreme. The Yamaha had been hauled up the side of the building to the former Boys’ room of the home, where those Boys were orphans.  Somehow Bruce McBain’s friend, the Director of the Ragged  School Museum, had raised the funds. Two figures from Yamaha were present. The Brahms late Clarinet sonata was played, then the Brahms Waltzes for piano with four hands, finally the Shostakovich Piano Trio. Leonskaja had known Shostakovich of course. It was shattering. Music. The cellist was Romanian, Andrei Ionita, played the cello in a sexual way as if it were a being he was writhing with or or frankly his own body, merged. Then an additional free concert was announced and we assumed it would pop pieces. But no. Three more massive works – the Beethoven cello sonata, the Mozart and the Brahms violin sonatas, and finally the Schubert. I’d dreamed that they’d play the Schubert, the Fantasie F minor and they did, Pavel and his partner, Samson Tsoy, who had the most gorgeous sockless look with big flat shoes. These two young men, with all before them, played the Schubert Fantasie in F minor which I’ve heard so often before but never like this. I usually sing the opening but it is rarely recognised, a rill of notes, not really a tune. You might think it ethereal or elusive but also a lullaby but incredibly present. In music it goes with Barbarina’s aria about the lost pin and Beethoven’s piano sonata opus 90. Just a moment of pure liquid loveliness yet sad, that won’t come again, so rare. This Schubert though manages to transform from this so delicate and high into a massive sonorous terror. The whole work lasts for 20 minutes. Then, there’s the moment where from vastness it returns to the floating opening rill that perhaps you’d never thought to hear again. In many performances you barely notice it, but the way Pavel and Samson played, playing out of the horror and wrong and crisis of now, it was completely and utterly devastating. Everybody was in floods.

The thing is, you see, the Queen didn’t get it quite right. Not her fault. How was she to know? How were any of us to know? Concerts, often marvellous of course, but always outfits, the dinner after, who’s present and how seated, the concentration never sadly perfect. But now at last we see. Music isn’t merely important, or a civilised extension of life as normally known, music is life itself. These superb international players, they had to play. Maybe they wouldn’t quite have played in a plague pit, but they had to give 4 hours of music. There was no choice. And we had to listen.

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At the Plant Fayre

Monday 12th October 2020

Saturday Robert Nevil and I drove to the Great Dixter October Plant Fayre as usual. The Spring one did not take place, which reminds me of the saddest announcement ever made in The Times, in September 1982. It was headed: ‘Monaco National Day.’ ‘Monaco National Day, usually held on October 25th, will not this year take place.’ The unstated reason being, of course, the awful death of Grace Monaco only weeks before. That was why the announcement was so sad. So terse. Reason not given.

Great Dixter Plant Fayre was packed. Gardeners. Used to viruses. Who should we run into but the Multis, who as usual had bought everything. I think last year, they were seen but not spoken to across the great rift that opened up. This year there was a bit of necessary, preliminary hiss and spit, which led directly to inclusion and invitations. In the first place, a social whirl materialised right there at the Plant Fayre, the Multis’ friends, never seen before by me, encountered by chance. A blond young man and his wife – they’ d got a leak from their London roof terrace into the room below. V. worried their landlord would object to their plants on the terrace. It turns out he works for Tom Stuart Smith, one of our greatest gardeners, and has connections with the Garden Museum and our favourite Museum Director. Both have quite big followings on Insta. There was also a top-level B&B owner and sculptress with friend. In memory they were a matching pair. Floral masking possibly. The whirl whirled some more. Would we come back to the Multis’ nearby residence, known as ‘Kent’, for tea, drinks, snacks, people?

So Robert Nevil and I covered the Plant Fayre first. Several people came up to RN and raved that they’d met him on committees, at luncheons, at trustee meetings. The highlights of the Fayre were a young man with blue hair and a woman in her forties or fifties (the sort who would be photographed with her daughter and everybody would say, ‘Sisters!’) who had come to the Fayre in her school skirt – a tartan mini, the tartan being the Royal Dress Stewart, which is a dirty white ground with green and red stripes. You’d know it if you saw it. It is much worn by those not entitled to it like most of the other tartans.

We went round Great Dixter main garden as well. Robert Nevil hadn’t been for a year. We were ravished. It was even more ravishing than on my last visit in late August. Even more flowers. How do they do it? Great puffs of dahlias, asters, aconite, Helianthus Lemon Queen. The elements aren’t rare although Fergus keeps up to date with the latest and best new plants, flung together with such freedom and boldness. The garden is engulfing, quite literally so, and shocking. Robert Nevil and I were shocked as we always are by the horror of some of the plants – the golden euonymus, for instance. Throughout taste and colour-schemes are of no importance. It’s the massing of the plants in the setting and the contrasts, so even some variegated nightmare has its place, giving rhythm. Now and again, there’s a rarity, making a little solo appearance in a corner.

The other thing was I was comforted re: my own garden being rather over-grown and decaying at this time of year. Dixter taught me that that’s how gardens are in the late season.

On then to the Multis. Through the security gate and into their demesne. I was there the day they bought it when it was utter hell, a slum in a jungle, although the house old, Tudor, beamy. I’ve never seen a bath as filthy. That was eight years ago or so. Now vistas are revealed of all of Kent, landscaping, lawns, terraces, borders, within reclaimed flooring, downstairs cloakroom with basin carved out of a solid block of marble the colour of chocolate creme. They’ve managed to make it look not brand new. So difficult to bring off.  We took tea, drinks and substantial nibbles in the garden. The Insta couple appeared, plus someone who does the recipes for Dixter, plus the Blond Multi’s relations. The Photo Multi said the new garage would have to re-done. He wants it turned round so you can’t see the cars from the house. A shed is being built in the grounds. I can’t remember what it’s for. Maybe apple work. But it’s to have a studio in one section where they can hang surplus paintings.  When I say ‘shed’ you must imagine a substantial building in which you could park several tractors.

I had a marvellous time at tea railing against the present with the Blond Multi’s sister-in-law whose daughter has just gone to university and been told to stay in her room. But Robert Nevil had heard it all before and commanded the car for London where we had a venison casserole waiting. Then Netflix.

 

 

Young Man with Blue Hair at Great Dixter Plant Fayre

Young Man with Blue Hair at Great Dixter Plant Fayre

Bold and Free: Dear Precious Dixter

Bold and Free: Dear Precious Dixter

Shocking: Dixter

Shocking: Dixter

Red Orach: You can't Argue with It

Red Orach: You can’t Argue with It

The Great Border at Dixter

The Great Border at Dixter

Dixter: Words Fail

Dixter: Words Fail

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I’m Looking for an Opening

Friday 9th October 2020

I got the idea as we were coming back from Great Dixter last Saturday. I saw some likely-looking people in the street as we approached Robert Nevil’s. They were free, I was sure of it. Free of the normal restraints. Maybe if one were just to ask…. ‘Are there any openings for someone from a Landed Gentry background?’ I begged Robert Nevil. ‘Please roam your area and enquire.’ I hope he’s made progress by now. It would be better to operate some way from one’s own home. Although when I mentioned my scheme to Laura Malcolm she said, ‘You could go to prison. It would be a great source of material, like the Gilmore boy.’  We’re in prison anyway, so what’s the difference? I thought. Except there you would have no responsibilities, all worries would flee away and it would be cosy.

My idea was to begin with I’d set fire to some yuccas (because they’re awful) then progress to worse… But maybe in a gang there wouldn’t be much freedom of choice. ‘Jobs’ might already be lined up. It’ll be all about joining in, I expect. Not being in society would be such heaven it wouldn’t matter though. All I want is the sheer relief of being underground and lawless.

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Some Life

Thursday 8th October 2020

The Gay Mother is having some life now although she was never completely shut down because of the gardening, the Zoom meetings with the Vicar and the telephoning. Now she’s got trips by car (self-driven) to the post office which is also a shop growing more foodie by the minute, actual masked Church and visits from relations who very nicely assume she will have nothing and bring all the things for tea with them.

Last week we motored to Cotehele, a National Trust property, which is so Tudorbethan and hidden away above the Tamar. Everybody says it’s romantic which can’t have been the original intention because originally it wouldn’t have been old. Inside it’s full of Tudorbethan needlework and bedspreads but not open of course. We had a picnic with some relations who arrived from elsewhere in Cornwall in a bit of the garden. Afterwards the Gay Mother didn’t want to walk far. But later in the week we took a walk from her house to see if the sea-asters are recovering from the terrible scything of the game-keeper.

I mentioned that there was no green vegetable nor salad at lunch or dinner. ‘There aren’t any,’ the Gay Mother said, meaning nothing worth buying in the shops and the garden supply finished. So you just don’t have it. Knowing her for 63 years, I only just worked out her method. It’s the same in the garden. There are parts of the garden still waiting, since 1956, for suitable plants that will thrive. It would be awful to waste plants. If none can be found, then the patch stays bare, waiting.

This year has been one of the best in recent memory for the garden.

The Gay Mother came back from Church. She said the Cherrypans had been there as well as the Cooke-Hirles. Lady Lavinia also.

In July, I gave the Gay Mother a colander from Angus Willis’s shop in Hastings. It arrived by Mail Order. An adorable new but retro white enamel piece with a blue rim. You know the type of ware.  Dog bowls and pie dishes used to come in it, as well as larger basins that were placed in the bedroom in times of crisis. The hope was that this new item would replace the flimsy tinny 50s colander from 1956 that’s still going. On my last visit the new one was out and in use with some garden courgettes laid in it – but so was the old one. ‘Very useful to have two,’ the Gay Mother said.

Church affairs are preoccupying as is Black Lives Matter. ‘Nowadays Bishops are called Libbie or Gail,’ the Gay Mother said.

Cotehele: Thought Romantic

Cotehele: Thought Romantic

The Sea-Asters recovering from the Gamekeeper

The Sea-Asters recovering from the Gamekeeper

The Gay Mother's Garden in 2020, one of the Best Years ever for Gardens

The Gay Mother’s Garden in 2020, one of the Best Years ever for Gardens

The Gay Mother's Garden in 2020

The Gay Mother’s Garden in 2020

The Gay Mother's Garden in 2020

The Gay Mother’s Garden in 2020

 

 

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Art Back

Tuesday 6th October 2020

Eddie Sedgewick brought back art in Bermondsey with a shattering show called CUCKOOLAND. It’s over now unfortunately but it happened.  Eddie has never done anything like this before: raw, devastating, a single brushstroke perhaps, primeval shapes, paint, scrubbed, furious, catastrophe blasting with a new exciting energy. The inspiration was Fahrenheit 451, so right, for what we have seen in this horror is that the arts are not a luxury extra or even in some kind of contrast to ‘life’, but life itself.

The paintings individually have further literary or historical reference but having limited brain resources I’ve fallen back on my own vision of the works in my comments. As Nancy Mitford said when criticised for her biog of Louis XIV: ‘I suppose I could have brought in the peasants and so on more but it’s all a matter of temperament.’

 

This one is called 'Lockdown' and perfectly Catches the Blank Horror of those Days

This one is called ‘Lockdown’ and perfectly Catches the Blank Horror of those Days

I Like this One Very Much: So Rich and Suggestive. Those Planes, for those of Us brought up with War Memories, the Black Shape Looming and That Blob - What could that Be?

I Like this One Very Much: So Rich and Suggestive. Those Planes, for those of Us brought up with War Memories, the Black Shape Looming and That Blob – What could that Be?

A Landscape but Also Items that might be Seen Under a Microscope? The Sun and Atom Bomb cloud, But Zooming into the Distance, on the Move. Some Hope?

A Landscape but Also Items that might be Seen Under a Microscope or Persons as Data? The Sun and Atom Bomb cloud, But Zooming into the Distance, on the Move. Some Hope?

This one Reminded me of that Shell of a Cinema that Survived in Beirut but Eddie had never Heard of it

This one Reminded me of that Shell of a Cinema that Survived in Beirut but Eddie had never Heard of it. It’s Really an Advertising Hoarding by the Road with No Advertising 

More Blobs, Shapes Imprisoned

More Blobs, Shapes Imprisoned, Persons Imprisoned in the Shapes

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I Forgot to Say …

Thursday 1st October 2020

In Deal, Royston King was much in confab with our hostess about the BBC. It seems that anybody that has ever worked for the BBC is traumatised. I’ve seen it again and again. Even at that party Royston gave 20 years ago (Royston very cleverly has only given one party in his life but the point is it was attended by household names from the TV screen, the Heads of all the BBC channels and the Head of another TV station whose car was throbbing at the door: I sat on a bench in the garden and discussed the Aitkens Diet with that person and one of the screen idols, who said, ‘Does it bung you up?’) but even at that party, they all cried that they had no life, only the BBC, the BBC had taken everything. The Head of BBC1 at that time – I can see her now, great but wracked with greatness, in Royston’s conservatory.

Royston also urged our hosts to marry and have a baby. He said they’d better get on with it  – as a way of getting the better of the BBC as much as anything else, perhaps.

Royston laughs a lot, in fact almost all the time, so you might take it for granted: ‘Matt Hancock says he’s going to eliminate a virus…’ Great roll of rich laughter, whole body rocking. ‘We know who lives in Burnley, don’t we? Oh yes, lock them up.’ Another roar. Strange that, after witnessing this for years, I’ve only just come to realise that the remarkable thing about Royston laughing is the incredible boom of complete and utter delight in whatever nonsense or foolishness has set him off. Not contempt or sneering, just pure pleasure.

I had an emergency call from Joshua Baring as an aggendum to my last contribution: Did I know about Nuno Mendez’s new restaurant there? Plus another new restaurant of significance, but I can’t remember the name.

The lesson of this is, when staying at a seaside place in a good house on the front, don’t assume there’s nothing behind.

You might miss Nuno Mendez’s new restaurant that way.

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Actual Musicians

Thursday 24th September 2020

Simply incredible. They were there. It was a brilliant light burnished by clean summer wind. The stage was positioned beside Lake Glyndebourniana and one of the brass players stood in the cow field for the Charles Ives piece. At the opening, the horns and trumpets played the Gabrielle from across the lake. Then it was a battle with the wind to keep the music on the stands during the Siegfried Idyll. As usual my concentration wandered. The Siegfried Idyll has grown longer during the Time of Wrong. I bent under the strain of being good enough for music re-surging. Nothing has changed there. The Time of Wrong has not cleansed my nature. I never knew there were any comic or at least light Mahler songs but there are, sung by a great soprano singer with alarming slit skirts in the gale. There could have been a sudden whipping up and revelation.

The sound carried out of doors but thinned by the air and the music was chosen to be carefully far from triumphant.

I was worried Royston King would kill off the Queen’s former Press Secretary and a granddaughter of Vita Sackville-West who were present. But he didn’t. He’d been in the same TV doc as the  Press Sec. I can’t remember which one. Royston does pieces to camera most days now, even on topics as remote as Princess Grace of Monaco. So there was a lot to tell, plus he throws in the odd bomb to blast information out of these courtiers, such as ‘She’ll step aside once she’s 95…’ Or, ‘The Duke isn’t dying…’

I don’t know whether it worked because I was preoccupied with Robin Ticciati’s frockage. He was seen pre-perf in the most amazing smart casual. I longed to ask him his labels. It was all so outdoors I could have but lost nerve. Sand slacks, blue jacket. I don’t think Zara. Maybe Club Monaco…. A classic ensemble but screaming quality which is so hard to bring off. I suppose I could write in and ask… Then for the actual perf the most amazing shoes.

We went on to Deal, missing the second half which was an opera buffa devised for the occasion with hand sanitiser. I’ve never been to Deal or that part of the country ever. It was rather as I’d imagined it would be – huge. Sky and sand. A string of good houses on the front. We were in one of them. Huge flat sea. Huge beach. The next day we visited Walmer Castle, the residence of the Warden of the Cinque Ports. Quite a charming little Castle, rendered endearingly un-battle-like by the addition of dinky Tudor windows. Her Late Majesty was given a garden there for her 95th Birthday, designed by Penelope Hobhouse. The weather was breaking up and there was a row of rather gloomy beeches shielding the garden. I wouldn’t go round the long way to see it but maybe if sunshine were added…

The Queen Mother was photographed in her Garden in powder blue.

Walmer Castle, where the Queen Mother was in Residence for at least 3 Weeks every Summer as Warden

Walmer Castle, where the Queen Mother was in Residence for at least 3 Weeks every Summer as Warden

The Queen Mother's Garden at Walmer Castle, Designed by Penelope Hobhouse

The Queen Mother’s Garden at Walmer Castle, Designed by Penelope Hobhouse: Gloomy Beech Trees

A Little Italianate Loggia for the Queen Mother in the Queen Mother's Garden at Walmer Castle

A Little Italianate Loggia for the Queen Mother in the Queen Mother’s Garden at Walmer Castle

Long-distance Glyndebourne

Long-distance Glyndebourne

The Audience

The Audience

Robin Ticciati

Robin Ticciati’s Stunning Smart Casual pre-Perf Look. What Labels Though? 

Robin Ticciati: His Shoes

Robin Ticciati: His Shoes for the Perf

Robin Ticciati: The Shoes

Robin Ticciati: The Shoes

 

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Dixter Faileth Never

Sunday 20th September 2020

We came onto Dixter that stormy day late in August. Royston loved how it heaved in the wind, not battered but a wilful force of massed plants in contention. There was some sign of workers having been furloughed but really a triumph as always. Dixter not defeated, the succession of plants maintained. Exuberant and spontaneous as it may look, this appearance requires incredibly complex planning to keep up through the season.

They’d even managed some new trends: Giant Zinnias and Love Lies Ableeding (or Amarinth).

 

Dixter Never Fails

Dixter Never Fails

Immortal Dixter

Immortal Dixter

New Trend: Giant Zinnias

New Trend: Giant Zinnias

Second New Trend: Love Lies Ableeding

Second New Trend: Love Lies Ableeding

Sedum: so Purple

Sedum: so Purple

Dashing Accents:

Dashing Accents:Dahlia and Purple Orach 

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Windsor Castle Found to be Quite Small

Friday 11th September 2020

Three weeks ago I went to Windsor with Royston King on a public ticket for which he paid. The great attraction was that the East Terrace was open for the first time in 40 years. Then you could tour inside.

But actually the best brilliance was the huge numbers of people also touring. Can you think of a better place to catch that thing and die than Windsor Castle? What could bring a person nearer to the Throne? As Royston has always said, to understand the British Royal Family you have to visit Windsor. Not for nothing are they the House of Windsor.

I drove officially to Windsor, but just as with the design of the Royal Train, ‘Bob0 was the client really,’ the Queen’s Dresser, the true driver was Royston, beyond turnings and routes and even as far as speeds. ‘Only 23 miles an hour?’ he whipped at one point, whipping on more towards the full 30. Parking in Windsor town was Hell. I’ve never known such manoeuvrings in the car park cleverly schemed so that all the cars could get in but there if no parking space, couldn’t get out again. Trapped.

I was in a state because we were going to be late for our slot. Maybe there’d be an outbreak or we’d just be shot, not even Royston’s OBE providing a shield to the Royal bullets. One feels that could happen nowadays.

Before the parking phase we had lunch at the Queen’s Farm Shop. Outdoors. Food pushed through a hatch as in suburbia of old. Didn’t dare use the toilets.

So at last into the Castle. From the North Terrace, it might be a grand kind of school or superior asylum with the dirty pink tarmac to be traversed before penetration into the reconstituted Gothic. We raced round to the East Terrace, remaining outdoors, not able to resist the main excitement first – the East Terrace open for the first time in 40 years. Some Gays were there, one in mini-shorts with featured bum. There were rose beds on the East Terrace. Statues, lawn, balustrades, rose beds, so a remarkable uniform green, there being a stubborn lack of blooms. Royston’s jaw was on the floor. Just not trying, he said. The terrace is high up with a view directly to London, so it appears to be a terrace of London itself, the direct link between the Monarch and her Capital. A bare sort of place, chiefly sky and stone, with London 20 miles away. That side of the Castle itself must be where they sit out, on a further grim stone terrace with a sun lounger on it.

We went within, following those Gays and that bum. It has much more charm than I remember from 40 years ago and it really is quite small, like Buckingham Palace. Modest rooms crammed up together with no corridors between and all in different styles. Suddenly there’s a cream and gilt rococo manifestation, then the curious 20th century re-interpretation of 19th century Gothic in St George’s Hall and a very novel anti-chamber rebuilt after the fire of 1992, with a tubular Gothic with no capitals. Superb workmanship.  They didn’t just re-make it exactly as it was. All these badges and knightly insignia, standards and armaments are now in a background of modern English oak work carried out, I like to think, by posh yobs in artisanal roles. Maybe that one met in Normandy a few years ago, the brother-in-law of Alice Temperley, a dream of a craftsman, was one of them.

We couldn’t see the drawing rooms, but the Charles 1 suite was on view – superb.. Grinling Gibbons. V wooden, dark of course, furniture great clumps of swirl, a suite of actual silver furniture including mirrors, massy but the overall effect cosy. You could spend the afternoon in those rooms reading magazines and listening to the Afternoon Play before tea.

Royston homed in on a German guide and got her story, length of time in Britain, reasons for coming and staying, feelings in general and her great loyalty to the Throne although German. He just knows where the story is and gets it. He explained that the last time he had been at Windsor was to receive an OBE. In the Waterloo Chamber it was that he received his OBE and while we were in there he asked the guide to remind him of where he had stood and through which door he had come. She knew it all.

Afterwards we sat in the Round Tower moat garden (cottagey and profuse), talking of Sir Digton Probyn who made it. If you don’t know who Sir Digton Probyn was it’s time you found out. I’m convinced he married Charlotte Knollys in the end, as an upshot of their long confinement together at Sandringham with the widowed Queen Alexandra. But I need to check for sure. Possibly Sir Dig was unmarried on account of his unbelievable service to King Edward V11. Just not a minute to spare for marriage. After that we ventured into an outdoor pub talking of Diana and Royston said how disastrous was her Panorama interview. For her, not anybody else. Such a new and brilliant view. As a result the Queen ordered a divorce. Because she said Charles would never be King. If only she’d taken advice. The Panorama interview lead directly to her death. The big question is: did the BBC fail in their Duty of Care towards her in allowing her to do the interview at all? Royston had so much insider on it all. Martin Bashir also killed off Michael Jackson in the same manner. Incredibly plausible approach, so charming and seductive. Then jaws snap and that’s it.

On the way home we covered the Royal Family with less glaring intensity, more a quiet, unceasing Royal murmur after the terrific spate on Sir Digton and Princess Diana.

Windsor the East Terrace: Rare Opening but a Bit Bare

Windsor the East Terrace: Rare Opening but a Bit Bare

Could this be Her Lounger? The East Terrace Windsor Casle

Could this be Her Lounger? The East Terrace Windsor Castle

Windsor the Quadrangle: Cosy and Intimate. The Private Apartments are on the Right

Windsor the Quadrangle: Cosy and Intimate. The Private Apartments are on the Right

The Round Tower Garden made by Sir Digton Probyn

The Round Tower Garden made by Sir Digton Probyn

 

 

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The Schedule

Friday 11th September

How can we live like this? Certain people – I want their heads on poles on London Bridge. Why not? They’ve brought in a medieval regime. Why should they not meet a medieval end? Oliver Cromwell’s head was on a pole on London Bridge for months, if not years. As a warning. I know he wasn’t Middle Ages. Actually in the Middle Ages they had a better idea of what to do. They never thought to shut down an entire country.

Are the Secret Services watching? You have to be careful. You get shut down on YouTube these days for daring to suggest anything other than the dismal, unimaginative worse-case scenario, safety-ist, dragoon-ed, not thinking, not allowed to think, if thinking likely to be identified as mentally ill, a rogue element, unacceptable.

Despite the agony, I’ve had a schedule which I’ve been pursuing, hence not present here. Many of you will have been thinking that maybe I had passed.

Well, I haven’t. Not yet. Although the Grave would not be unwelcome at times I feel.

Three weeks ago I went to Windsor Castle with Royston King. I’ve been on a schedule ever since. It’s amazing how much of a schedule you can have when the world has been laid waste.

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