Lookalikes #30: Stonehenge & Sacrilege

Stonehenge is a prehistoric monument constructed around 3100 BC and situated in the county of Wiltshire.

Sacrilege is a life-size replica of Stonehenge, made as a fully operational bouncy castle. It's lots of fun. It's been doing a tour of the UK since June and is now in its last week. Try to catch it if you can. Sacrilege is by Turner prize-winning artist Jeremy Deller, who has also done all kinds of other interesting and fun things, such as a documentary about Depeche Mode fans and a reenactment of The Battle of Orgreave, the confrontation between miners and police during the 1984 miners' strike.

sacrilege2012.co.uk

Children of the 1970s

It's partly because kids in the 1970s are now adults waxing lyrical about their now-idealised childhoods; it's partly because modern TV is crap; it's partly because teenagers now are more likely to watch adult TV than specific teenage TV; it's also because we are living in a time of Retromania (thanks in large part to the internet) – Simon Reynolds coined the word and wrote a book about the phenomena.

Whatever the reason (though it's mainly because I never watched any of them first time round, being too young, and have only recently heard of them), I've found myself watching four cult 1970s children's TV programmes/series over the last few months: The Owl Service (1969-1970), Penda's Fen (1974), The Changes (1975) and Children of the Stones (1977). Exploring notions of old England, known as Albion, in a supernatural and lyrical way, together they represent the pinnacle of challenging, thought-provoking and cutting edge children's drama – though to appreciate them fully it helps to be an adult.

Two of the four were adapted from then-recently published books: The Owl Service (1967) by Alan Garner and a trilogy of books (1968-70) by Peter Dickinson became The Changes. Penda's Fen was written by David Rudkin as a TV play and shown as part of BBC's Play for Today series. Children of the Stones was written for TV by Jeremy Burnham and Trevor Ray.

Though the programmes were written and made for children/teenagers and broadcast in the late afternoon/early evening children's time slot, they all deal with fairly heavy, traditionally adult themes such as identity, myth, magic, sexuality, ecology and class (to name just a few!) in an original and often experimental way. (NB: this may be another reason why these now-cult programmes are being rewatched by adults – none of them as kids knew what they were watching at the time; now in their 40s, they can fully understand them). Landscape is paramount in all the programmes: they all have a distinct sense of place, and show the British countryside in an often lyrical way. In Children of the Stones it is Avebury in Wiltshire (called Milbury in the series); in The Owl Service it's rural Wales; Penda's Fen is set in the Malvern Hills and The Changes in Bristol, the Forest of Dean and Sharpness.

The Owl Service, the book, was enigmatic, elliptical, obscure and opaque, whilst dealing pretty realistically with questions of myth, class, national identity and teenage love. The TV series is, well, pretty much the same. In fact, it was only the rather prosaic-sounding recap at the start of each episode which helped me understand the book and the TV series. Beautifully filmed in 16mm colour, it featured the attractive Gillian Hills (who a few years before was in Blowup and a few years later would be in A Clockwork Orange – now she's married to the manager of AC/DC, working as an illustrator) as Alison and the dark, brooding Michael Holden (who would be randomly murdered in a London bar in 1977. I made the mistake of Googling the actors midway through watching it; it cast a dark shadow over the rest of the series) plays Gwyn, the insecure Welsh boy trying to escape his upbringing. The whole series is unsettling and creepy, exploring as it does the story of the mythical Welsh figure of Blodeuwedd and a girl seemingly possessed by owls. I can understand children watching it at the time to be freaked out and confused by it.

Its music (a traditional folk piece) and imagery has been hijacked in recent years by the Hauntological mob, in particular the record label Ghost Box (who I've written about here): above left, still from The Owl Service credits; right, cover for the Ghost Box release by The Advisory Circle, As the Crow Flies.

Penda's Fen is described by Rob Young in his book Electric Eden as a 'complex meditation on the matter of Britain'. The film, directed by an Alan Clarke more famous for his social realist films (such as Scum and Made in Britain) than elegies to lost England, and though still unavailable on DVD (though it can be watched on YouTube), has had a resurgence in recent years, with Time Out last year featuring it in their 100 best British films, calling it a 'unique and important statement' and numerous blogs attesting to its brilliance.

The film centres around teenager Stephen, a somewhat wimpy middle-class pastor's son, as he comes to question his beliefs after a series of visionary encounters with an angel, the composer Elgar and the pagan King Penda. Along the way Stephen finds out he's adopted, is gay, and that England has a religion much older than Christianity, visualising itself in the pagan king. The landscape of the Malvern hills, birthplace of Elgar, is used to dramatic effect, like a character in its own right.

The Changes (also unavailable on DVD) sees England revert to the dark ages when freak weather conditions seem to cause people to turn into Luddites and inexplicably destroy all modern technology. The brilliant first episode features people throwing TVs and fridges out the window, attacking toasters and kettles in their kitchens, bashing cars and bikes in the streets, with cranes and trains ablaze, intercut with schizophrenic, global-warming-style weather: floods, earthquakes, landslides and snowstorms.

The series features Nicky, a teenage girl, who gets separated from her parents in the confusion, as she attempts to find them by walking to the south coast to try and get to France. Along the way she encounters Sikhs, bandits and witch finders. Indeed, it seems to take a matter of days before people resort to barbarism, racism and witch hunting. Any mention of technology is punishable as heresy. It makes Russell Hoban's Riddley Walker, set a few thousand years in the future, seem rather logical and inevitable. The ending, like with Penda's Fen, lies in ancient Albion and another mythical figure: this time, Merlin.

Judging by YouTube comments on The Changes, this one really got to children at the time (and as adults now), especially the fear of pylons, which in the series are referred to as the 'bad wires'. One comment seems to sum up the feeling of most: 'Childhood in the seventies was pretty exciting, then the internet came along and it could all be retrieved.'

Both Penda's Fen and The Changes feature the eerie, atmospheric music of Paddy Kingsland, who worked at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop throughout the 1970s. he was also responsible for music and effects for Doctor Who, the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and other BBC TV and radio science fiction programmes of the time. The power of Penda's Fen and The Changes is partly down to Kingsland, employing spooky electronic effects and memorable theme tunes.

Like The Owl Service, Children of the Stones features the idea of actions played out again and again, ad infinitum. In The Owl Service it was the three children re-enacting the story of the ancient legend of Blodeuwedd; in Children of the Stones it's a time rift within the Avebury (called Milbury in the series) stone circle. The series opens with astrophysicist Adam and his precocious son Matthew arriving in Milbury to research the magnetism of the stones. They soon discover that they hold an ancient power, and the villagers are all held captive by the strange forces of the stones. Raphael Hendrick, played by Iain Cuthbertson (who also starred in two other great 1970s productions: BBC's spooky The Stone Tape, with Jane Asher, and The Railway Children, starring Jenny Agutter), plans to unleash this power.

Again, this was hardly suitable fodder for children (or most adults), featuring as it does temporal paradoxes, black holes and psychic bubbles. Still, it can be viewed on several levels (I saw it being about the difficulty of outsiders fitting into Wiltshire village life), and it's highly atmospheric and riveting TV on any level. Again, music is a key ingredient, with scary wailing and chanting sounding like it's coming from the stones themselves. Again, countless YouTube comments from adults testify to the series having affected them as children.

On another YouTube clip, comedian Stewart Lee reminisces about 1970s children's TV in general (taken from Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe on BBC4), and Children of the Stones and The Changes in particular, remarking how he feels lucky to have been a teenager in the 1970s, as there "there was something really comforting for nerds and weirdos about programmes like Children of the Stones and The Changes." Lee compares them with teenage TV shows today, such as the shallow Skins, which seems mainly to be about sex and drugs.

Who knows, maybe something like The Sparticle Mystery, a CBBC post-apocalyptic TV series filmed in Bristol last year (even I know the city well enough to notice the continuity error in the first episode when they drive past Fopp, then drive past it again a few minutes later. Also, wouldn't the kids naturally stop to nick CDs and DVDs? I certainly would.) is as good as The Changes. I was discussing this sort of thing with a work colleague a while ago. When we were younger, our minds were like sponges and we absorbed all kinds of films, TV shows and music. It was in our teens and twenties when we saw the best films and TV shows and listened to the best music ever. Now we're old, grey and cynical, we don't have the time, energy or inclination to be that impressed by new art – even if it is the best thing ever. Even so, I can't imagine children today in thirty years time waxing lyrical about the currently ubiquitous Tracey Beaker or Justin Fletcher TV shows.

The 1970s were a great time for many, a time when living and interacting with the British landscape on a more fundamental level seemed possible. Music, cinema and TV all seemed to align towards this: Paul McCartney was living in on farm, films such as The Wicker Man (1973) explored pagan religion and even more traditional children's TV adaptations such as 1975's The Secret Garden managed to explore notions of class, friendship, magic and nature in a lyrical way. Then in 1979 Margaret Thatcher got into power, the countryside has been raped and pillaged, and all hope has been lost.

Dr Dee in da house

Damian All Bran posing in front of the site of John Dee's house in Mortlake, now a block of flats.

When I first misheard that Damon Albarn – of Blur and Gorillaz fame – was writing an opera based on the life of rapper and producer Dr Dre, my interest was piqued to say the least. When I heard that it was actually called Dr Dee: An English Opera, and based on the life of John Dee, sixteenth century mathematician, astronomer, alchemist and occasional advisor to Queen Elizabeth I, I was less excited, mostly because I had never heard of the man.

But having heard the opera performed by Albarn et al on a windy, muddy field in the middle of Wiltshire at the Onefest festival last weekend, I am now more than intrigued. John Dee (1527-1608), was by all accounts a visionary yet mysterious man. On the one hand a scientist and brilliant scholar, fascinated with mathematics, astrology and navigation; and on the other hand – though Dee saw no distinction – an alchemist and magician, who studied divination and Hermetic philosophy. He coined the word 'Britannica' (or British Empire) and communed with angels. He had the greatest personal library in England (held at his mother's house in Mortlake), holding some 4,000 books. His skills in navigation were a valuable source of information to explorers of the day such as Raleigh and Drake. Elizabeth I consulted him on astrological and scientific matters, even entrusting him to choose her coronation date. In his later life he turned more towards studying the supernatural. He eventually ended up Warden of Christ's College, Manchester (the city Albarn's opera premiered), and remained so after he returned to London. By this time Elizabeth I was dead and James I wanted nothing to do with the supernatural. The Magus died in poverty in Mortlake, southwest London, his library in ruins, aged 82.

But his popularity, genius and mystery was such that he was a legend in his own lifetime, inspiring literary works including Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene (1596). Just a few years after his death, Shakespeare's the Tempest (1610-11) features the sorcerer Prospero, said to be modelled on John Dee.

The late twentieth century saw a renewed interest in John Dee, including the publication of Peter Ackroyd's The House of Doctor Dee (1993). Derek Jarman's Jubilee, made at the height of punk (and the Queen's Silver Jubilee) in 1977, has John Dee (played by The Rocky Horror Show and Crystal Maze's Richard O'Brien) showing Queen Elizabeth I what England looks like four hundred years in the future – in 1977, with its gangs and punks, ruins and decay, and Queen Elizabeth II dead.

Dr Dee, the opera created by theatre director Rufus Norris and Damon Albarn, was inspired by comic book writer Alan Moore. Post-Blur, Damon Albarn released an album he described as "a song cycle that's also a mystery play about London" in the form of The Good, the Bad and the Queen, in 2007, as well as Journey to the West (2008), a soundtrack to the Chinese opera Monkey, so it almost comes as no surprise that Albarn's latest project is an opera of 'strange pastoral folk'. Though possibly more suited to a concert hall (where it was first heard almost a year ago in Manchester), there was something apt and atmospheric hearing it in an English field. Along with Albarn on vocals, keyboards and guitar, the opera features Renaissance and African instruments and choral music; altogether about ten other musicians were performing with him. Those expecting Parklife last week at Onefest were disappointed; those with a more open frame of mind were pleasantly bemused.

Fans of the ever-experimental Damon Albarn often complain that he should be more famous than he is, and those with less talent have more fame, such as Lady Gaga or Madonna, say. I blame his name. Everyone's heard of Blur and Gorillaz but the name Damon Albarn is an awkward one which just doesn't flow. I can never remember his name and usually call him Damian All Bran (which occasionally makes me think we should collaborate on a project together, you know, and call it something cool like: All Bran vs. Barnflakes, or something).

Dr Dee is released on 7 May 2012

The fall of Fonthill Abbey

Quite literally. Google 'England's Folly' and the second result is Fonthill Abbey – also known as Beckford's Folly. William Thomas Beckford, called by Lord Byron 'England's wealthiest son', inherited a vast fortune after the death of his father in 1770. Precocious yet eccentric and bisexual, he received piano lessons (aged five) from Mozart, aged nine. However, the young Beckford was more interested in art and architecture and would indulge both passions throughout his life, becoming a knowledgeable art dealer and 'builder of follies'. He also wrote a classic Gothic novel, Vathek, in French, aged twenty one, in a couple of days.

As well as inheriting what in today's money would be £110 million, he received an estate at Fonthill in Wiltshire. Beckford developed the land, building grottos, a boathouse and stables as well as Fonthill Abbey (described by Pevsner as 'the most prodigious romantic folly in England'), designed by Gothic architect James Wyatt. Completion of the Abbey became an obsession with Beckford, with his five hundred labourers working day and night shifts to get it finished. By all accounts, Wyatt was largely absent much of the time, leaving Beckford in command. When finally completed it was one of the most extraordinary buildings in England. Beckford lived there like Citizen Kane in his Xanadu, alone for fifteen years with his antiquities and art collection.

By 1825 Beckford had run out of money and was forced to sell the estate. He sold up in good time; two years later the abbey collapsed in a storm, a combination of shoddy, rushed workmanship, Wyatt's neglect and Beckford's grandiose plans. Nothing today remains of the abbey.

If you're in the area, there's a 'delightful' walk around the parkland beside Fonthill Bishop and Fonthill Gifford, which includes walking through this fine (habitable) archway, ascribed to Inigo Jones.

Wiltshire loves and hates

Salisbury is sumptuous
And Devizes, divine
Bradford (on Avon), beautiful
Avebury is ace
Lacock, like a peacock
Shrewton, shrewd
Malmesbury has a malthouse
Pewsey is pleasant
Tisbury 'tis interesting
Mere, sincere
Alton Barnes, beguiling
And Honey Street, real sweet.

But Bishopstrow is boring
And Warminster worse
Trowbridge is terrible
Westbury, a curse
I hate Heytesbury
Stonehenge is stern
Codford is fishy
Chitterne: a shit urn
Chippenham's crap
Swindon, a slum
Marlborough, mundane
And Wilton... waning.

Warminster folk

Welcome to Warminster

It's tempting coming from a cosmopolitan city to look down on country folk as being simple, narrow-minded, boring and lacking culture (except skittles) and sophistication. But I do feel bad being so harsh on Warminster, Wiltshire (like here and here); okay, so it does consist of the elderly, the disabled, the moronic and the terminally dull, but there are still some good people there. Some of them exude a quiet dignity, grace and contentment you don't often see in the city. In other words, they seem happy. They like to tell a funny tale (usually the same one multiple times), and are warm, giving and entirely unpretentious.

Take Arthur. Of gypsy stock, he was literally born in a circus tent some seventy-six years ago. His parents were gypsies and it's said his pregnant mother was actually dancing before she gave birth to him. And when she did it was on a bed of hay. Then she continued dancing. People were tougher back then.

Arthur's had a colourful life. He was a semi-professional football player and was offered a professional position at Crystal Palace but Arthur's wife, Maureen, didn't want to leave Warminster. 'It's always the women who hold us back' (we joked, some time ago). Arthur married Maureen – whose parents had sawdust on the floor of their home – in his early twenties. Since the football he's had a variety of (mainly menial) jobs: driving trucks for the nearby M.O.D; unpacking bananas in supermarkets; working in local factories. He used to swim across Shearwater lake every day, before and after work. Arthur's also been a singer and actor, and still sings and acts, when they let him, for the local theatre. Even in his seventies, a head full of bright white hair, he keeps busy, as a pheasant beater and still doing some driving. Over the years Arthur has seen UFOs, aliens, ghosts and a huge green man straddling a road as he drove between his legs. He's never been abroad and didn't have a passport until a couple of years ago. It's his ambition to go to the States, 'where the cowboys are'. But he can't find anybody to go with.

One of Arthur's favourite stories is about the deadly, tropical spiders that used to be found in the banana boxes when he worked in the supermarket unpacking them. One night in bed he was woken by a noise on the floor in his bedroom: a spider had got in (from his coat?) and was creeping across the carpet. He got up, threw a blanket over it and stamped on it. A variation on the story involved a friend of Arthur's who stuttered. The two men were in Arthur's home and the man with the stutter pointed to a spider on the floor and wasn't quite able to get the words out: 'T-t-t-t-here's a sp-sp-sp-sp-spider o-o-on the f-f-f-f-floor!' I have heard Arthur's spider stories more times than I have met him.

One of his best and oldest friends is Tom. They still play skittles together sometimes. Tom walks like John Wayne with his bow legs. His wife, who actually can't feel her own legs (but apparently walks fine), wants Tom out of the house all day, every day, so he amuses himself by doing odd jobs like removals.

The man who walks around town singing was in a car accident some years ago and has lost much of his memory. Though he seems loopy wandering around singing, whenever I visit Warminster I find his voice reassuring and soothing. I've overheard him talking to people in shops and he seems surprisingly lucid, talking about his daughters and local matters, so I'm not sure exactly what's wrong with him. He's certainly got a good voice.

Small towns have more than their fair share of gossip, intrigue and scandal. Sometimes the locals are a bit too desperate for gossip. We were alerted recently to a rumour about Jane Silbury, old school friend and mother of three, having a nervous breakdown and seen 'wearing strange clothes and talking nonsense' – but it was a false alarm: she's been wearing strange clothes and talking nonsense most of her life.

At my ex-partner's secondary school, Kingdown, back in the mid-1980s, 50-year-old Heather Arnold, head of maths, became obsessed with fellow maths teacher Paul Sutcliffe, 39. In a fit of jealousy, she butchered his wife Jeanne and their eight-month-old daughter Heidi with an axe at their home in Westbury. The next morning she taught her classes as usual, before going on the run and eventually being caught by police. On her way into court in 1987, some 150 people jeered Arnold and threw 'oranges, dog food and coins' at her. The slightly-built and grey-haired woman broke down in court when she was handed a double life sentence. (She has now apparently been released.)

Kingdown school has now cleaned up its act but in the 1980s and 90s it didn't have a lot of luck with its teachers. Besides the maths teacher being a murderer, two other teachers, Mr Lucas and Mr Kirby, were probable paedophiles (Lucas certainly was; Kirby had an affair with a student and used to talk about sex all the time).

There have been several other grisly murders in recent memory which really affect small towns like Warminster or nearby Westbury (or Hungerford – not that far away – the sleepy, pretty, Berkshire town will forever be known as the place where Michael Ryan killed sixteen people with rifles and a pistol in a Rambo-style massacre in 1987), including the death of Billy the homeless man. Billy lost his job, home and wife, eventually becoming a homeless alcoholic. One night, after getting into an argument with another homeless (and mentally ill) man, he was brutally beaten to death. Another homeless man, Rory, was a brilliant mathematician who looked like a big bird and was usually to be found perched on railings or in the cricket pavilion in the park. He couldn't take normal life; he was a tragic character and some thought he just faded away and died (happily, he is actually alive and well).

Former soldier Miles Evans murdered his nine-year-old stepdaughter, Zoe, in 1997. Her disappearance sparked what was then the biggest ever police search for a missing person. Zoe's body was eventually found in a badger sett near her Warminster home.

There has also recently been a spate of middle-aged (or older) men hanging themselves in the area. This sometimes happens in places where there's not much to do. When people retire (or get made redundant or get divorced) they have even less to do. It's no accident that Warminster's premiere website, Warminster Web, has the phone number of the Samaritans directly above its masthead.

Names have been changed – except for the murderers and paedophiles.

Christopher Wood, English Painter

The recent BBC film Page Eight, starring Bill Nighy, was a dismal, boring affair but it did introduce me to the work of Christopher Wood – Nighy's character, Johnny, gives Nancy (Rachel Weisz) one of his paintings before he disappears at the end.

It's a shame the BBC didn't make a biopic about Christopher Wood instead – it would have been far more interesting than Page Eight (though possibly couldn't have starred Bill Nighy). Born near Liverpool in 1901, Wood had an eventful yet tragically short life. He was educated at Marlbourough college in Wiltshire, whose previous alumni include great yet eccentric talents from William Morris to Bruce Chatwin.

Wood dabbled in architecture and medicine before settling on art, persuaded by the painter Augustus John whom he met whilst at Liverpool University. Wood studied painting in Paris, where he met important artists including Picasso and Cocteau, who introduced him to opium, before travelling in Europe and North Africa. Christopher Wood's colourful personal life at this time involved affairs with women and men, including a Chilean diplomat fourteen years older than him, Jean Cocteau and (a few years later) an heiress of the Guinness family.

Back in England he became associated with several art groups, befriending and exhibiting with married painters Ben and Winifred Nicholson. Wood briefly became attached to Cornwell's artistic community, and when in St Ives with Ben Nicholson met fisherman Alfred Wallis, whose 'primitive' paintings (nowadays he would be described as an outsider artist) influenced Wood.

Several successful exhibitions followed until one day in August 1930 when Wood went to meet his mother at Salisbury train station. Suffering from the effects of opium withdrawal, Wood, who had begun to carry a gun around with him, and possibly imagining himself being pursued, jumped underneath the London-bound train and was killed. He was 29.

Christopher Wood is buried in Broad Chalke, near Salisbury. His gravestone was carved by Eric Gill.

The excellent Pallant House Gallery (my new favourite place), currently showing the Edward Burra exhibition, has a number of Christopher Wood paintings, including the lovely Lemons in a Blue Basket (1922), above, which shows a Post-Impressionist influence, though his later paintings are more in the primitive style.

On Silbury Hill

Whenever I hear Peter Gabriel's song Solsbury Hill, about a spiritual experience the singer had on top of the Somerset hill and his leaving the group Genesis, I always imagine he's singing about the Neolithic Silbury Hill in Wiltshire (other people mishear the song as Salisbury Hill, which sounds nearer to Solsbury than Silbury; however, there is no Salisbury Hill but there is a Salisbury Plain). Silbury Hill, standing 40 metres high (similar in size to the smaller Egyptian pyramids) and dating back almost five thousand years (also around the time of the pyramids), is the largest man-made hill in Europe and one of the largest in the world. No one knows its purpose, but its close proximity to both Avebury and Stonehenge indicates a spiritual or cultural reason for the mound.

Since leaving late last year, Wiltshire has become like my spiritual home (not somewhere I'd necessarily want to live, but great to visit). This last bank holiday weekend – which started with a royal wedding and ended in the assassination of the world's most wanted man – I spent in Wiltshire where I managed to 'tick' most things I love about the county (aside from the obvious – my daughter and ex-partner): car boot sales, cheap(ish) charity shops, Avebury, Silbury Hill, Devizes, morris dancers, a Punch and Judy show, great weather, rolling hills… and a crop circle. This is the third one spotted in the UK this year so far (the first in the world was found in a rice field near Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia), and the second in Wiltshire. Situated in a 'magical' area for crop circles – on a hill over-looking Silbury Hill, close to the West Kennet Long Barrow and Avebury, it's not a particularly great example – probably because it was produced in a oilseed rape field which I guess is a more difficult crop to manipulate than wheat. Still, it's not bad and it felt good being in one again and knowing that crop circle season has officially started in Wiltshire.

Overheard #6

Two middle-aged men with Bipolar disorder in a charity shop in Westbury, Wiltshire.

– You got any kids?
– What, being Bipolar? You must be kidding. I had the snip years ago. How often do you get attacks?
– It's with me all the time. It never goes away. How about you?
– I have an attack every couple of months. Sometimes I hear voices. I just ignore them. Especially when they tell me to stab my wife.

The man lets out an evil chuckle. Everyone in the shop has heard him, but is not sure if he is joking. We make our way towards the exit.

All Circles Vanish – Crop Circle Video, 2010

A short video about crop circles seen this summer in Wiltshire and Somerset. I wasn't able to afford a helicopter (though they are only £80 to hire – maybe next year) so no beautiful aerial shots, just ground level and from nearby hills. This year's crop were popping up all over the place; Warminster (home of the first ones in the 1980s) had its first one for thirteen years and there was one near Westbury White Horse for the first time in years too.

The song chosen is from Broadcast and the Focus Group Investigate Witch Cults of the Radio Age, a lovely album (and The Wire's album of the year last year), recalling innocent childhoods and TV theme tunes from the 1970s, tinged with an underlining tension.

POPBITCH: Warminster Special*

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>> Only eat what you can spell <<

Which 'posh' (according to locals, mainly because they charge the extortionate £4.99 a meal) eaterie has a special needs waiter who can't spell? When ordering, be sure not to ask for anything over five letters long, otherwise you will have to spell it for him, letter by letter. Barnflakes ordered a salad nicoise on ciabatta and a cappucino, much to his regret.

This same 'posh' eaterie has a new, modern-ish (for Wiltshire) menu somewhat ahead of its time. Barnflakes' above mentioned 'salad nicoise' was simply, er, tuna salad. After the fiasco of spelling his order, he hadn't the heart or energy to mention the missing eggs, potatoes, green beans and olives.

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It took less time to build the Eiffel Tower than it did to (pointlessly) widen Warminster's two main pavements (having the unfortunate effect of making the town look even more desolate).

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Warminster has no cinema. Or cool people. But it does have an advertising agency currently, er, advertising a "well paid, interesting" job for £14,000. Catch it while you can. Barnflakes enquired about the position and mentioned that £14,000 was, in fact, extremely badly paid. The MD replied, "As to whether it is well-paid or not, actually yes it is. The manager of the former Martins newsagent used to earn £12,000 a year – a job with more responsibility than the one I am recruiting for. I don't know what the WH Smith's [recently taken over from Martin's] manager gets, probably about the same."
So there.

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>> Michael Winner says eat here or else <<

Another cafe/restaurant ('Now serving til 8' – Post Meridian that is) making news is on the same main road as spelling bee but along a bit. And on the other side. Customers here also need to be on their guard. The chef and owner told a customer to 'F**k off' just outside the cafe, and almost beat him up. He has just gotten over a nervous breakdown. If potential customers don't want him to have another, whatever you do, don't complain about the food. And it is pretty good. Even Michael Winner says so. Barnflakes, unsurprisingly, heartily recommends the Full English Breakfast.

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Warminster has six charity shops.
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More people die than live in Warminster.

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>> Parlay voo France say? <<

Warminster's notoriously poor food reached an all-time low when Barnflakes et famille ventured continental in a cafe which translates as 'The Newspaper' (it just doesn't have that Je ne sais quoi in English, does it?). In case you're wondering why: French newspapers adorn the ceiling. In case you're wondering why: don't ask. Settling into the back room which felt more like a cave, it took 15 minutes just to get a menu... which consisted of more (bad) French food cliches than Cafe Rouge. The staff looked flustered with a total of six OAPs in the whole place, so we decided on something basic and easy: coffee and croissants. Our coffee arrived and it was, er, wrong. Our correct beverages arrived a little later, with croissants (and an apple cake – a favourite, apparently). Barnflakes just managed his under-baked croissant but the missus couldn't stomach her apple cake. It wasn't baked at all. The apples were from a tin. And it smelt real bad. C'est la vie? Non – c'est Warminster!

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>> Raves from the Grave <<

Much excitement occurred with the opening of an independent record shop where you can pay £14.99 for a new release instead of £8.99 online. I know, I know... you're paying for the friendly, expert advice from the dedicated staff, such as:

Customer: Have you got the new Deluxe Edition of Disintegration by The Cure?
Staff: Er, The Cure? Are they a new band?

or

Customer: Have you got any John Cale?
Staff: Er, to tell the truth, I've never heard of him.

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++There are more boarded up shops than open ones in the town.
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Barbara Streisand, Liam Neeson and Salvador Dali have all stayed at Bishopstrow House in Warminster – but not at the same time.
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*with apologies to popbitch.com and the good people of Warminster, Wiltshire.

Numerous circles near Mere

Two different types of circle formations on fields can be seen near the little town of Mere in Somerset. Last week at the bottom of Whitesheet hill a stunning crop circle appeared (top). Whitesheet Hill is a beautiful area, consisting of chalky ground and rare flora and fauna, as well as a dozen neolithic burial mounds, a causeway camp and an iron age hill fort (so Wikipedia tells me).

A few miles away is the CD Sea (bottom). Local artist Bruce Munro has created (with help from volunteers) an ocean of 600,000 CDs that shimmer in the sun. Take sunglasses if you're going: it's positively blinding.

Top 10 Salisbury Charity Shops

Please note: I very rarely buy anything other than CDs, records, books, videos and DVDs in charity shops so this is a pretty subjective list which largely ignores clothes, bric-a-brac and jigsaws. Sorry.

1. Oxfam Books & Music
It would be number one: I work there. Aside from that, a good selection of, er, books, music and films. Slightly over-priced CDs, cheap records. Did I mention the great staff?
Barngain: Rolling Stones Rolled Gold 2CD Set, £2.99

2. Barnado's
A surprisingly good branch. Spacious and reasonable priced.
Barngain: Black Uhuru Liberation: The Island Anthology 2CD Set, £2.99

3. Oxfam
Handily located next door to Oxfam Books & Music.

4. British Heart Foundation
Average. Lots of videos.
Barngain: M83 Dead Cities, Red Seas and Lost Ghosts, £1.99

5. The Hospice Shop
Narrow but long, pretty cheap; CDs £1

6. British Red Cross
A recent 'makeover' means there's not much in there at all now.
Barngain: Blue Brothers OST CD, £1

7. Cancer Research
Quite small and not very interesting. Another dreaded makeover.
Barngain: Peppa Pig Train Set, as new, £2

8. Dogs Trust
Seems to specialise in, er, stuff for dogs. Nevertheless, quite good, cheap, if a bit twee.

9. Sue Ryder
A bit smelly.
Barngain: X-Ray Spex Let's Submerge: Anthology 2CD Set, £1

10. Scope
A bit dark and smelly for my liking. Poor book, DVD and CD selection. Never made a purchase.

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Below the Fold: South Wilts Mencap
Most charity shops seem to be going through a makeover nowadays, which usually translates as more space and light (and hiked up prices), but less stuff. If you like your charity shop full of crap, like I sometimes do, this is your place. Unfortunately it looks and smells like a dead old person's jumble sale. I've only been in once; I'm too scared to go in again.

March 2011 Update
There's a new charity shop in town: a YMCA across the road from the British Red Cross shop. It seems pretty good. And Barnado's has had a makeover.

December 2011 Update
The YMCA has gone already. But a few doors down from the regular Barnado's is a new Children's Barnado's. It looks good.

2013 Update
It's difficult keeping up to date with all the charity shops opening and closing in Salisbury. Along from the Dogs Trust on the other side of the road (near the bridge) is a shiny, spacious Children's Society. On the corner of the High Street (if you're heading towards the cathedral) is the Trussel Trust which feels like a boutique with prices to match. Mainly clothes with some bric-a-brac. Opposite the Barnado's for children is one called Alabare (which I haven't been in).

Doom Paintings

A close family friend with terminal cancer has two wishes before she dies: to visit Coney Island in New York and see the Doom paintings of England. Not many still exist but the one nearest me, in Salisbury, Wiltshire, is the largest remaining one in England.

Doom paintings are depictions of the Last Judgement, painted directly on church walls between the 12th and 16th centuries as a stern reminder to church-goers of where they'd be going in the afterlife if they sinned (Hell, on the bottom right hand side; Heaven is on the left).

The one in the Church of St Thomas, Salisbury, covers the Chancel Arch. It was painted around 1475 but white-washed over during the Reformation, and restored in the 19th century. It's a stunningly vivid and macabre painting; not exactly the Sistine Chapel ceiling (painted less than forty years later) but still pretty awe-inspiring.

The Church of St Thomas is where Sue and Phillotson were married in Thomas Hardy's tragic novel Jude the Obscure. Jude himself worked for a while at Salisbury cathedral, which has the tallest spire in England.

Photos by Sheepdog Rex on Flickr; used with kind permission.

Wiltshire Barmaid Eaten by Tiger

In 1703 Hannah Twnnoy, 33, had the dubious honour of being the first (and last?) person in Britain killed by a tiger. Twnnoy, a barmaid in the Wiltshire town of Malmesbury, apparently teased the tiger, who was part of a travelling circus. The tiger wasn't amused. It broke free and ate her.

Her gravestone reads:

In memory of
Hannah Twynnoy
Who died October 23rd 1703
Aged 33 Years.
In bloom of Life
She's snatchd from hence
She had not room
To make defence;
For Tyger fierce
Took Life away
And here she lies
In a bed of Clay.
Until the Resurrection Day.

The films of Jeff Keen

Jeff Keen was born just a few miles away from where I now live, in Trowbridge, Wiltshire, in 1923. He started making films relatively late, aged 37 – the same age as I am now. Unfortunately, that's where the similarities end, as Keen is now an octogenarian experimental film-maker who this year had a bfi boxed-set released of his forty-odd short films. They're an extraordinary experience: seeing them all at once (570 minutes of mayhem!) would be rather akin to being Malcolm McDowell in a Clockwork Orange with his eyelids pinned open, eyeballs bulging, being forced to watch a stream of non-stop sex and violence. Mixing mediums is his mantra: animation and live action, high- and low-art, glamour and war, double exposures and over exposures, they're like an Eduardo Paolozzi collage come to life (on speed). I can't imagine what it was like watching them in the 1950s; even today they feel fresh and imaginative (though sometimes headache inducing), especially compared to the dull drivel we sometimes call narrative cinema.

Apparently unaware of similar contemporary experimental film-makers across the Atlantic (such as Warhol, Jack Smith, Stan Brakhage and Maya Deren) in the 1950s and 60s, Keen pursued his own path, being more influenced by surrealism and abstract expressionist paintings and experiences of war than other film-makers. The Guardian called him 'our very own Kenneth Anger', a comparison of sorts, but Anger lived in Hollywood and had acted in films. Keen had no experience of film-making at all, until he borrowed a super-8 camera. The rest is a small slice of cinematic history.

GAZWRX: The Films of Jeff Keen was released on DVD and Blu-Ray by the bfi in February this year. £25 from Amazon, or even better, £15 from MovieMail. I haven't actually got the boxed-set, but Christmas is just around the corner. Anyone? We can watch a few in between the Queen's speech and Coronation Street. To get a taster of his films, visit his website or watch some on YouTube. There's a better blog than this about him here.

Straight Outta Imber

Poor Imber. The village, mentioned in the Domesday Book and located in the middle of Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire, was requisitioned by the military during World War II for training purposes. The military said they'd give it back after the war, but didn't. The inhabitants were given a month to move out, never to return. The ghost village – not marked on any modern map – is still used to this day for army training. Most of the original buildings have been destroyed; only the church, a pub and one or two others survive. The village now comprises of mainly purpose-built skeleton houses for the army to use.

The road to Imber, from Warminster, started pleasantly and peaceful enough with no traffic on the small road, rolling hills and birds singing in the sky. In fact, it's not until we drove past a wrecked, rusty old tank, and then another, that things started to feel like a war zone. Soon the whole landscape resembled a tank graveyard. Dotted on either side of the road are scaring signs declaring 'DANGER UNEXPLODED MILITARY DEBRIS – DO NOT LEAVE THE CARRIAGEWAY'. We didn't.

There are mixed feelings about the army being on Salisbury Plain (and owning land the size of the Isle of Wight). My partner thinks it's good for the countryside and wildlife – as no development is permitted. My opinion is it scares the hell out of me.

(I've written previously about Imber and the army on Salisbury Plain here.)

Imber village is open to the public a few times a year; usually around Easter, Christmas and the month of August. In the first weekend in September the church, St Giles, is open for services.

Longleat Lion Seeks Soulmate

Reads suspiciously like the one and only Lord Bath searching for possible wifelets who read the Guardian. From last Saturday's Guardian Guide. [Click on image to enlarge]

Crop Circling

It must have been going to see the Banksy exhibition in Bristol and then seeing some crop circles in the same week that made me realise the similarities between the two. Graffiti art and crop circles are both clandestine operations, usually done at night, in pretty awkward places, neither exactly legal, but both very public, and questioning of what art can be. They either fade over time or are destroyed – that is, neither of them are permanent. The artists are either outlaws, folk heroes, criminals, vandals, con men or aliens. There are crop circles 'hoaxes' and there are Banksy 'fakes', but neither of them are really – they're still what they are.

We drove to Milk Hill, Alton Barnes, Wiltshire, on a misty Saturday morning which turned out glorious. From the top of Milk Hill we spotted four crop circles – including a great one being described as "a navigational tool to another world or dimension". When we returned home and checked the web updates, another crop circle had appeared below Milk Hill – since we'd been there. Other strange things happened like when we got home a parcel from my mother had arrived – with a clipping of the crop circle we'd just been in. I'd also been looking for a crop circle book I seemed to have mislaid about a year ago. As soon as we got home – I found it, and saw it was by Michael Glickman.

Look, I don't think it's aliens, but I don't think it's humans either – can we agree on something in between? James got an old Spirograph at Frome car boot on the Sunday – and we exclaimed, "So that's how they're made!"

The Fête of Lord Bath

My London sightings of obscure but (personal favourite) famous people are near legendary (Peter Blake, Jarvis Cocker, Steven Berkoff) – and did I mention I saw Roger Daltrey, Bill Nighy and Anthony Gormley at the Dylan concert at London's Roundhouse the other month? – but my west country celebrity sightings are somewhat lacklustre.

However, with the fête season in full swing last weekend (we managed three), I got a glimpse of one of my favourite West Country people: Lord Bath (unmistakable from at least 100m), The 7th Marquess of Bath, drinking a pint of ale at Horningsham fête in Wiltshire, which is part of the Longleat estate. As famous for his flamboyant, gaudy attire and 'wifelets' as for being the owner of Longleat estate – including its stately home and safari park, at 77 he still cuts a flamboyant figure with his colourful waistcoats, joie de vivre and wild white hair and beard. He looks like the 1960s never went away.

I got a peek into the workings of his mind when I visited his private rooms at Longleat House. Viewable by guided tour only, many of the rooms are coated floor to ceiling with his paintings and murals. Like his waistcoats, they are a garish mish-mash of every art movement of the 20th century, and a few he seems to have invented along the way. Painted mostly in the 1960s when he was in his late thirties, they consist of nothing less than a history of mankind – from Stone Age man and Wessex discos to fantasies and dreams . It almost goes without saying that some of them are quite sexually explicit.

On the tour, I also got a glimpse of one of his wifelet's rooms. Lord Bath's womanising is legendary and to house his extensive female companions – affectionately known as wifelets, he has rooms for them, as well as cottages in the nearby vicinity. At the last count, Lord Bath has had 74 wifelets. That's roughly one a year for every year of his life. He usually has 3 or 4 on the go at a time.

I first encountered Lord Bath – real name Alexander George Thynn – through the BBC's children's series Animal Park, which I used to watch with my daughter. The series followed animals and keepers around the safari park. Many a tear was shed watching the birth of a giraffe or death of an aardvark. Within Longleat there's also Longleat House (where the murals are), Postman Pat village, maze, adventure castle, Old Joe's Mine (with bats), a railway and safari boat ride (complete with sea lions and a look at Nico's – a gorilla – island in the middle of the lake, where you can see a depressed looking ape watching TV – though which came first the depression or the TV, I'm not sure).

Have a look at his fairly confusing web-site (his hyphen) lordbath.co.uk. It looks like it was designed in 1994 but has pictures of his murals and a comprehensive collection of his writings (much of it sexual): autobiography ('Chapter 2.5 – Childhood – Sex: unearthing the erotic mould'), songs (yes, sexual), poems (yes, yes – sexual – with lines like:

I see you on my couch
with legs apart
your pussy preening in my avid gaze

He's clearly not one to go for the delicate sexual metaphor when the actuality will do) and his journal. In fact, the only non-sexual section is his speeches to the House of Lords. When he says his intention is to put on record 'his total identity', you know he's not joking: he's apparently written six million words of his autobiography and he's only up to 1994.

You can purchase his paintings from the site for a cool £10,000 – with an estimated wealth of £157 million, you can see he clearly needs the money.