Beckettian

Samuel Beckett

The term "Beckettian" is linked with the work of the Irish playwright Samuel Beckett (1906-1989). He specialised in dramas that are bleakly absurd and existentially comic - plays such as "Waiting for Godot", "Endgame", "Happy Days" and "Krapp's Last Tape". I first encountered his work when I was at university in the mid-seventies. Back then, Beckett enjoyed something of a cult following. There was no other dramatist quite like him but of course he's not everybody's cup of tea because he challenges you, makes you think and makes you wonder what it's all about.

And now for something very Beckettian.

It concerns a visit I made today to the residence of an old friend. He lives there with the wife he left forty years ago and one of his grown up sons who has become a full time carer for his parents.  Let's call the old man Frank, his 86 year old wife Betty and their fifty one year old son Peter. Frank is in his ninetieth year.

They live in a small two-bedroomed terraced house three miles from here. I realised I had not seem them in person since February so it was nigh time that I called in again. 

I took them gifts. A large Melton Mowbray pork pie for Frank, a bunch of flowers for Betty and four cans of lager for Peter.

They were very grateful but from the moment I walked in, the absurdity began. It's quite hard to explain but I will try.

Frank was sitting in the front room watching the BBC 24-hour news service with the volume turned up. Peter was still up in bed even though  it was gone midday. Betty was anxiously fussing about because she had a dental appointment at 2pm and Peter would be driving her there.

When all three were in the front room - all talking to me - it was as if I was a tennis player with not one but three competitors on the other side of the net. It's hard enough to return one ball but three balls at once? Not easy I can tell you.

Frank - Losing his memory and in his slightly demented state, believing that Betty and Peter are just after his  money. He can't much remember the pub we both sat in as regulars, nor any of the other customers  or the landlady. The names have evaporated. And he's obsessed with his hands and feeling occasional pains in his arms. And he realises he's lost weight. And he wonders why Betty just turned the TV volume down. And he hates Donald Trump and besides why does Peter drink cans of beer most nights?

Betty - She once lived in the house on her own but Frank and Peter came to live with her. And she has a cat called Simba that all three of them love. They are at least agreed on that. And she has been constipated with occasional bleeding from her back passage and do I like the blue jumper she is wearing? Peter found it in a skip (American: dumpster). And she has got to go to the medical centre next week and Peter is "a good lad" really. He has a "heart of gold" and she still worries about when he was sexually abused by her step father. He was only nine or ten at the time. And do I like liver?

Peter - Now downstairs and looking bleary-eyed. The appointment isn't until two Mum! We don't have to go yet. And he says, "Do you want this flask?" He is holding up a stainless steel flask he found on a wall. And his laptop has malfunctioned and he has lost lots of photos. Mum and Dad do not drink enough. "I'm always telling them".  And how did you feel when McBurnie scored down at Wembley? And do you want this dashcam? I found it in the middle of the road. And yes Mum! I know we're going to the dentist! It takes five minutes to drive there!

⦿

The home environment is tatty, chaotic, in need of a deep clean. There are photos without frames on the mantelpiece and slid into the side of the wall mirror above is a birthday card I sent to Frank last November. In the other downstairs room - the kitchen diner - there are two bulky old easy chairs in the middle of the floor and another television on the dresser.

It is all a mess. Just like the conversational tennis match.

But they are good people. I have known Frank for thirty six years and remember him when he was in robust health and fully compus mentis. If it wasn't for Betty and Peter, he would definitely be in a residential home for the elderly, gradually slipping into the nether world that The President of the USA is currently heading to as he spouts about the awful UFC event and the crashing  Freedom 250 concert. Nobody of note wants to appear. Just like "Waiting for Godot".

Samuel Beckett would have had a field day with all of this. He really would.

June

The first day of June. Suddenly, the weather changed here in South Yorkshire. A period of several sunny, warm, blue sky days  has turned into a cooler more unsettled period with spits and spots of rain. 

Little Margot was poorly on Sunday with some undefined and no doubt temporary sickness. She was like a little ghost clinging to her mother, without her usual verve and curiosity. Consequently, she had the day off nursery school today and spent it with us. She was much perkier but still not quite herself.

At 1.30pm, I called in to see Richard and Jackie Hines. As usual, the conversation flowed like a mountain spring but after two hours I needed to make my apologies and get back to our house to give Shirley some relief from Margot-minding duties.

Like Phoebe before her, Margot likes to sit on my knee and watch "YouTube" videos. To tell you the truth, I am being driven mad by excessive exposure to "The Wheels On The Bus" and Mr Tumble is not far behind. Also like Phoebe, Margot can protest like a fury in Greco-Roman mythology when you try to tear  her away from the computer screen. Even when I think I have negotiated one final video, the protest will often continue unabated. I guess this kind of battle is not uncommon.

At five fifteen we took her home and she walked all the way with a stubborn stop at the garage on Huntingtower Road where she seemed mesmerised by the activity within.  However, she walked all the way home and refused to take me up on my kind offer of a "carry" part of the way.

A couple of weeks ago I spotted a book in a charity shop that I thought I might like. It's by the famous American horror writer - Stephen King - but not one of his novels. It's titled "On Writing" and it attempts to provide readers with some insights into King's processes, prejudices and rules of thumb.

I have only ever read one of his novels - "Misery" because I am not really into that particular genre but you have to pay some heed to a writer who has sold over four hundred million paperbacks - some of which have been translated into blockbusting films. By the way, I remember being impressed with "Misery" when I read it. The writing was not trashy - it had genuine merit and you felt you were under the spell of a master storyteller who was at ease with his craft. I think that that is why I was drawn to "On Writing".

Stephen King was born in 1947

The book is not mechanical - drily explaining writing  techniques. In fact it is rooted in biography as you listen to Stephen King's real voice exposed - not hidden within fiction. It's really him.

Becoming a bestselling writer was a difficult journey for him. There were hard times and many rejections but he stuck with it. With his wife Tabby's crucial support, he managed to complete "Carrie" in the early seventies and passed it to a literary agent called Bill who happened to believe that King really had something.

At that time the Kings lived in a small rented apartment in Maine with their two children and Stephen was still teaching high school. One afternoon the kitchen phone rang. 

It was Bill.

"Are you sitting down?"

"Do I need to?"

"You might," he said. "The paperback rights to 'Carrie' went to Signet Books for four hundred thousand dollars!"

"Did you say it went for forty thousand dollars?"

"Four hundred thousand dollars... Under the rules of the road" (meaning the contract I had signed) "Two hundred k of  it is yours. Congratulations Steve!"

At long last he had broken through and life would never be the same again.

I am only half way though "On Writing" but I have lapped it up. King's early circumstances were far from encouraging and his later dependence on alcohol and drugs did not help his cause. Reading this book inspired me to order one of his lesser-known novels  - "Lisey's Story" (2006). I picked this one because King himself named it when asked which novel he was most proud of writing.

No doubt later this summer I will review it here in "Yorkshire Pudding". 

Statue

The picture shown above was not A.I. generated. It is a real picture of a real statue that was recently erected at the Trump National Doral golf resort in Miami, Florida. It stands twenty two feet tall and was commissioned at large expense by some of Trump's cryptocurrency buddies.

It appears to depict the immediate aftermath of the alleged assassination  attempt that occurred at a rally in Butler County, Pennsylvania on July 13th 2024. You might remember that event and how Trump appeared to bleed from his right ear. For a few days afterwards,he wore a tampon on that ear but miraculously the bullet left no scar whatsoever,

Traditionally, both here and the USA, statues are almost always commissioned to mark and celebrate the  lives and achievements of great human beings who have made a real impact - benefiting their fellow citizens and their countries.

Obviously, such a statue would normally  be installed in the years following the death of a great one but not so in the case of this statue. Looking back what has Donald Trump done to merit such a visible honour? Personally, I can think of nothing, nothing at all.

There has been too much bluster, too much boasting, too much falsehood. The truth of the matter is that Trump is a dead loss. He talks the talk but does not walk the walk.

It is pretty interesting to watch him falling apart from afar, falling asleep with swollen ankles, getting fatter, losing the plot. If he wasn't The President of the USA, you might pity him because dementia lies ahead for a significant number of elderly citizens. It's not something you would wish upon anybody... apart from one!

Trump acolyte Pastor Mark Burns dedicated the statue at a special unveiling ceremony on May 7th. He said, "This statue is a celebration of life. It is a symbol of resilience, freedom, patriotism, strength, and the willpower to keep fighting for the future of America.”

What utter yukky nonsense! Anybody with eyes should be able to see that Trump is a narcissistic grifting fraud of a president rather like the statue itself. It only appears to be golden but really it is merely covered with superficial gold leaf. The image is fake.

One glorious moment in the future, it will be torn down as surely as night follows day.

Yorkshire

I have just finished reading a 450 page tome about the place where I am from - Yorkshire. Written by Yorkshire exile and journalist,  Rick Broadbent, the title of his work is "Now Then", followed by this strapline: "The story of Yorkshire and its people". 

In Yorkshire it is very common to say to people we meet, "Now then". Sometimes that is short for "Now then, how are you going on?" I have used that greeting all my life but I recognise that in other English-speaking regions of the world and indeed this country, "Now then" will be unfamiliar.

Rick Broadbent was not trying to produce a definitive historical and geographical guide to Yorkshire, he was writing about the county from his point of view - in the full knowledge that it would be biased in several ways and omissions would be glaring.

It is rarely acknowledged that the population of Yorkshire is higher than  Wales and Northern Ireland put together. It is also slightly bigger than the population of Scotland - currently 5,547,000. In spite of its size, Yorkshire folk generally think that we are rather overlooked by the London-based government and media and there's no meaningful devolution here - with very little of the extra funding that Wales, Northern Ireland and Scotland enjoy.

I enjoyed "Now Then" but some sections held me better than others. Rick Broadbent had clearly undertaken a lot of research as the foundation for his writing and he had held worthwhile interviews with a range of living Yorkshire people who have made their mark in the world.

Of course I know my county pretty well and after seventy two years of life and travel and rambling and exploration, there are very few significant places I have not been so it occurred to me - what would I have included that Rick Broadbent overlooked or missed out?

For one thing, there'd be more about Sheffield and I would have interviewed the great Arthur Scargill about The Miners' Strike of 1984/85. Football clubs would have figured more significantly and  I would have made a point of highlighting the fact that modern football was born here in Sheffield.

There would be accounts of visits to Spurn Point, Fountains Abbey, Barnsley and Beverley Minster and I would take readers along The Wolds Way. And Captain James Cook would have a chapter all to himself. And I  would visit Yorkshire pubs and residential homes to talk to old timers, gathering true Yorkshire tales before they are lost. And there'd be more focus upon deprivation and social housing and those who eke out existences when they should be living life to the max.

But of course "Now Then" was not my book, it was Rick Broadbent's and though I have a few reservations about it, I am very glad that he wrote it. At times it was provocative and I liked that. Yorkshire needs champions and it needs debate.

Guest

Do you remember where we walked today? As pre-arranged, we met in the little car park just behind Hathersage Church where we each donned our walking boots. Both of us were a little stand-offish at first. I guess that was inevitable as previously we had only ever met each other here in the blogosphere.

I told you that Charlotte Bronte had once stayed in the vicarage adjacent to the churchyard and then we walked amongst the tombstones until we came to the grave I particularly wanted to show you - the grave of Little John, Robin Hood's trusty lieutenant. You said, "Wow! Is this for real?"

Some major repairs were happening inside the church so we were not allowed in but that didn't matter too much as the sunny afternoon was already ageing and we had four miles to walk before driving back to Sheffield for R&R and a nice evening meal at Pudding Towers.

Lane up the hill from Camp Green

We walked up the lane through Camp Green, the site of a medieval ringwork castle - probably dating back to the eleventh century. Though the narrow road beyond there isn't especially steep, the hill is remorseless. Up, up you go. You said "Oh dear, may we stop for a rest?" And because you were my guest, I assented.

Rather than following the farm track to Carr Head we took the woodland path towards Toothill Farm where assorted cows with calves were meandering. I reassured you that they would not trample us to death. Still rising, we made it to Carr Head Lane which runs more or less flat to The Dale.

Arriving at Carr Head Lane

We could see the southern end of Stanage Edge with Overstones Farm in its lee and I told you that I had photographed it numerous times. I thought you yawned with boredom but you said you were just tired after your long journey to Hathersage.

Overstones Farm and Stanage Edge

"What's that?" you gasped as you spotted Higger Tor way above Callow Farm that was for very many years in ruins but is now pretty much rebuilt to make someone a special Peak District home. And I told you about Iron Age hillforts.

Higger Tor above Callow Farm

We descended to the old footbridge by Mitchell Field Farm before rising up the opposite bank and rambling on through open fields  to Scraperlow Farm. By this time we were relaxed in each other's company and I sung you a song by Donovan Leitch, its title being "Catch The Wind" and you shared two of your deepest secrets with me - things you had never told anyone before. I promised not to tell another soul.

Scraperlow

Through majestic beech trees our path took us by a  silvery stream and down the hill to Sheffield Road. Just a little further, passing "The Scotsman's Pack" and up the steep lane to St Michael's Church and the car park where Butch the Juke was waiting for us.

You said, "I'm completely bushed!"

And I laughed before driving you back to Sheffield for lasagne with salad and a cold glass of sauvignon blanc. With humble apologies, you were early to bed and after you had gone up, Shirley said you were "very nice".  Your dinnertime tales were very amusing.

From this computer keyboard, I can hear you sleeping in our front bedroom right now. Not raucous snoring but deep, contented breathing. Tomorrow we will be out again. It is a toss up between Chatsworth House or a tour of Sheffield city centre. We will see how you feel in the morning.

Another view of Higger Tor with a drystone wall in the foreground

Notes

I am now in  the habit of leaving post-it notes on our front door when I know that Phoebe is coming round. It's about encouraging her to read and maybe have a little unexpected fun too.

She is only five and in her first year at primary school so these are very early days in the growth of her literacy.

A couple of weeks ago, I left this note on our front door.

When Phoebe read it she was a little outraged and said that I wasn't the best. There was a bit of play actig going on too.  Then she grabbed the post-it notes and bustled in to the front room where she picked up a pen and crouched in order to write this:-

If you cannot decipher it immediately, let me help you. It says, "Everybody is the best in my family". It was a kind of protest in defence of her entire family. How could Grandpa on his own be "the best"? That was not right and in her little five year old mind she briefly  felt she was standing up for justice.

I love that note.

By the way, Phoebe is left-handed like her father  and left-handedness does not assist in the acquisition and mastery of writing skills in this right-handed world. However, as you can see - she's very much on the road to literacy.

Rape

“Rape is one of the most terrible crimes on earth and it happens every few minutes. 

The problem with groups who deal with rape is that they try to educate women 

about how to defend themselves. What really needs to be done is teaching

 men not to rape. Go to the source and start there.” - Kurt Cobain

Of course rape is a tricky subject and most male bloggers will sensibly stay clear of it. After all, it would be easy to say the wrong thing, to make a thoughtless blunder and it is surely wise to remember that even here in the blogosphere there are rape victims.

Rape is horrible and the legacy of rape is traumatic and long-lasting. Rape is about the assertion of power and the brutal dismissal of victims' feelings.

May I say straight away that I have never been raped and I never raped anybody. When I was a young man I looked for love and sex was a facet of that search. I wanted women with whom I might find love and if we made it into a bed it was a mutual desire. I recognised that the woman I fancied was a human just like me. I wanted equality, a shared experience - not a power game in which I would be an oppressor. My outlook was not at all unusual. It is how the vast majority of young men view the business of dating and mating.

Once or twice I misread the signs. I thought that the kissing and canoodling was leading to a sexual encounter but when I realised that I was mistaken then I ceased my pursuit and apologised profusely. I never wanted a woman to do something that she did not want to do. Assent was vital.

Rape statistics can be problematic but it seems that in Great Britain 7.5% of adult women have suffered rape or attempted rape. In the USA the figure is surprisingly much higher with almost 20% of all women being the victims of rapists  and that figure also includes attempted rape.

With rape, many victims never come forward to report the crime. After all, most rape happens  with known perpetrators - boyfriends, family members or male friends. Reporting procedures themselves can be very traumatic and the legal system is famously male-biased. Reporting rapes will involve reliving the horror of it all.

In this country over the last few days, news of two particularly disgusting rapes has surfaced. It seems that three teenage assailants in Hampshire planned and executed the rape of two very young women  in separate incidents. They were callous and cruel and they even videoed their attacks, laughing as they encouraged each other.

The judge in  their trial focused almost entirely on rehabilitation. He did not wish to "criminalise" the three boys. They have spent very little time in detention and so of course their  victims feel cheated. The leniency shown at sentencing did little to help the two girls who were attacked, making them feel that the legal system had deprived them of the natural justice they richly deserved.

Even our Prime Minister, Sir Keir Starmer, weighed into the debate that followed sentencing - pressurising the courts to refer this case to  formal judicial review. I have a feeling that the initial leniency will be replaced with significant custodial sentences which are of course wholly merited.