Radical Pub Crawl: Loomsday

A pub-crawl is something I associate
With my youth – indeed, I have never ever
Typed ‘pub crawl’, before, but I am surprised
To find a green line advising me to
Hyphenate and create a compound noun.

The word was never hyphenated
When I used to go on a pub crawl:
There was a noun and there was a verb,
The noun was a sort of synecdoche,
Whilst the verb ‘crawl’ said it all:
The evening started vertical
And ended with a slow, meandering
Horizontal, hands and feet slowly,
Gradually, inching along pavement.

And that was a pub crawl, sampling lots of
Different pints, and different pubs,
Different prices, and atmospheres,
Collecting and clocking the pub names,
The different tastes, strengths and breweries,
In a sort of localised and active
Sociological nuanced survey:
It made you observant through the smoke.

Thanks to Deborah Roberts for the above photos.

A pub-crawl is something I associate
With my youth – indeed, I have never ever
Typed ‘pub crawl’, before, but I am surprised
To find a green line advising me to
Hyphenate and create a compound noun.

The word was never hyphenated
When I used to go on a pub crawl:
There was a noun and there was a verb,
The noun was a sort of synecdoche,
Whilst the verb ‘crawl’ said it all:
The evening started vertical
And ended with a slow, meandering
Horizontal, hands and feet slowly,
Gradually, inching along pavement.

And that was a pub crawl, sampling lots of
Different pints, and different pubs,
Different prices, and atmospheres,
Collecting and clocking the pub names,
The different tastes, strengths and breweries,
In a sort of localised and active
Sociological nuanced survey:
It made you observant through the smoke.

But it’s back to the future, this afternoon,
Our inaugural Stroud Loomsday pub crawl:

The day might well turn out to be a dream
Of modernist stream of consciousness,
A right, regular James Joyce Bloomsday,
An odyssey through space, time and language,
Avant-garde as well as avant-bard,
A cyclical Finnegans Wake of a
Self-referential, post-modernist pub crawl,
A Stroud Loomsday interweaving of tales,
Homespun yarns, birthdays, anniversaries:
John Clare Day, Bastille Day, St Swithin’s Day,
Edward Thomas enlisting, and writing
‘For These’: his justificatory poem –

Or we might just chew the cud and ruminate,
Silently studying the life and times,
The sociology and semiology
Of Stroud town pubs on a Thursday in July:
The Fountain, the Greyhound, the Imperial,
The Lord John and the SVA,
Slad Road, Gloucester Street, Russell Street,
Lansdowne, John Street, George Street, King Street,
Reading and reciting, drinking and inciting,

Or we might, I dunno, just have a drink,
And follow Wikepedia’s definition:
A pub crawl (sometimes called a bar tour, bar crawl or bar-hopping) is the act of drinking in multiple pubs or bars in a single night, normally travelling by foot or public transport to each destination and occasionally by cycle …

In the UK, pub crawls are generally unstructured and spontaneous nights-out, in which the participants arrange to meet in a particular location and decide over drinks on where to drink next. Structured routes with regular stops are rare. Most drinking sessions based around a special occasion such as a birthday or a leaving celebration will involve a pub-crawl, often with the group splitting up but agreeing on meeting at the next location. It is a common sight in UK towns to see several groups orbiting the various drinking locations with little apparent coherence or structure …

Discoveries:
1. Sitting outside in the garden at the Fountain is a delight: late Victorian/Edwardian red brick and Cotswold stone surroundings and views. Very atmospheric. Recommended.
2. You can get a beer called Odyssey at the Vic: most suitable indeed for a James Joycean pub crawl. Again, sitting outside is recommended.
3. The Greyhound has astonishing Edwardian urinals – adamantine, as it were.
4. Sitting outside at the Imperial is a great prompt for railway reflections, and ruminations on Stroud’s architectural heritage (See below*). Recommended.
5. The Lord John is enormous and a bit of a theatre of dreams. Again, sitting outside is recommended. You can fit in 10,000 steps just walking around the pub.
6. The SVA is another recommended outside watering hole.

Holloway House and the discovery of the fasces:
I can’t believe no one has noticed this before. We stared at it, noted it, then questioned it, on our inaugural Loomsday pub crawl: the Vic, the Fountain, the Greyhound, the Imperial, Lord John, and finally, the SVA.
Sorry couldn’y join you today. Is it technically a fascisti if no axe?
Mmm. I think you may be right in the sober light of dawn, Paul. Just as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so fascism is in the eye of the pub crawler. We had a great time! Hope you had a great birthday. No hangover!
A little light research on wikkipodium thing reveals that the bundle of sticks symbol (symbolizing strength through unity) does not always contain an axe. However, it is used far more widely than in a fascist context. See attached pic of Lincoln memorial for example. A very popular symbol…
.
* Fasces as an architectural device have a number of nuanced significations. Here it possibly alludes to the collective qualities of Mid-Gloucestershire Working Men’s Benefit Society? Fasces also appear frequently in America’s iconography including on Washington’s memorial. George W had his flaws I believe but was not predominantly fascist.
I’m trying to maintain a generous view of Mr Holloway against the day that I may be asked to declaim his socio/economic thoughts with sincerity and conviction for dramatic purposes. As Stan might have said, you have to wear the character. Of course, you can also wear out a character, besides life is short.
* Thank you Mr Hicks. A little sober research this morning has revealed that the fasces do indeed have a wide use as you say. Have included a pic of the Lincoln Memorial to illustrate.
* You’re right to correct me (implicitly) Bob. I’m conflating Lincoln’s memorial with Washington’s statue. Both have fasces, if anything Washington’s is proportionately bigglier. Probably the biggliest till Trump proves, beyond doubt, he’s mortal.
*Gosh! That’s a big one!
* All good stuff. Thanks Bill and Bob. But after a couple of pints, there’s a distinct Il Duce vibe about it all. What’s the moral?
* Not a moral issue old chum. Delusional insobriety is like a runner’s stitch, you have to drink your way through it. Il Duce was an old hand at the technique.

NEXT LOOMSDAY CRAWL WILL START AT THE LITTLE GEORGE. DATE TO BE CONFIRMED.

A Literary, Self-referential, Post-modernist Pub Crawl

Announcing a Literary, Self-Referential, Post-Modernist Pub Crawl on Thursday – starting at The Fountain at 4.

The Fountain – The Vic – The Greyhound – The Imperial – The Lord John – The Little George.

Announcing a Literary, Self-Referential, Post-Modernist Pub Crawl on Thursday – starting at The Fountain at 4.

The Fountain – The Vic – The Greyhound – The Imperial – The Lord John – The Little George.

NOT ONE DAY MORE: Overton’s Window

I’ve just come across the term ‘Overton’s Window’,
In an article by Owen Jones,
Also called the ‘Window of Discourse’:
The way ideas are viewed by the public,
In a spectrum of judgement that runs from
The Unacceptable, to the Radical, the Acceptable,
The Sensible, the Popular,
And finally: Policy.

It’s obvious that the way this window –
Or Zeitgeist –
Is now defined,
Has been revolutionised
By social media, activists and clicktivists,
While any notion of ‘the public’
Must now accommodate a whole new Generation Y:
The dispossessed millennials are taking the reins –
Paul Dacre and Rupert Murdoch and co.
Can still ride roughshod,
But only in their own heft now.

It’s a weird thing for me,
Someone who first read Marx nearly fifty years ago,
Someone who has been marginalised
By mainstream orthodoxy’s definition of common sense
For nearly half a century,
To see a 2017 Labour party political broadcast,
Where a voice demands the full fruits of her labour:
The revolution will be televised!
So this Saturday’s demonstration:
NOT ONE DAY MORE
#TORIES OUT NO MORE AUSTERITY,
Hosted by The People’s Assembly Against Austerity,

I’ve just come across the term ‘Overton’s Window’,
In an article by Owen Jones,
Also called the ‘Window of Discourse’:
The way ideas are viewed by the public,
In a spectrum of judgement that runs from
The Unacceptable, to the Radical, the Acceptable,
The Sensible, the Popular,
And finally: Policy.

It’s obvious that the way this window –
Or Zeitgeist –
Is now defined,
Has been revolutionised
By social media, activists and clicktivists,
While any notion of ‘the public’
Must now accommodate a whole new Generation Y:
The dispossessed millennials are taking the reins –
Paul Dacre and Rupert Murdoch and co.
Can still ride roughshod,
But only in their own heft now.

It’s a weird thing for me,
Someone who first read Marx nearly fifty years ago,
Someone who has been marginalised
By mainstream orthodoxy’s definition of common sense
For nearly half a century,
To see a 2017 Labour party political broadcast,
Where a voice demands the full fruits of her labour:
The revolution will be televised!
So this Saturday’s demonstration:
NOT ONE DAY MORE
#TORIES OUT NO MORE AUSTERITY,
Hosted by The People’s Assembly Against Austerity,
Feels as though the trip from Stroud to London,
Might, this time, look different from the carriage window:
A left wing journey to the centre of the capital,
Not through moderation, compromise and trimming –
But through redefining ‘common sense’,
Aka ‘the practical wisdom of the ruling class’ –
A journey through the Slough of Despond,
To Old Oak Common,
Past Paddington’s hidden Tyburn Tree,
To Portland Place and the BBC,
To Westminster Bridge, where,
‘Earth has nothing to show more fair’:
‘Rise like lions after slumber,
In unvanquishable number’:
‘From each according to their ability,
To each according to their needs.’

 

And when we got there … it was like something out of William Blake: we wandered through London’s chartered streets, with songs of innocence and experience, with anger and lament for Grenfell Tower, every step along the pavements and the reclaimed chartered streets, a step upon austerity’s mind-forged manacles, a step through a theatre of dreams, possibilities, and practicalities, a kaleidoscope of banners, flags and wit: a new Window of Discourse right there in Parliament Square, where Jeremy Corbyn spoke for nearly half an hour with all the command of the art of the rhetorician, but from the heart, too, with passion and with sincerity – as new spectrums of light danced around the windows of Westminster.

The flags, banners and balloons danced in the air near the chartered river too: Not One Day More; Tories Out; For Health Homes Education JC4PM; Austerity isn’t Working; Austerity Kills Justice for Grenfell; I’m So Fucking Angry; A Theresa May lookalike: We Cut 10,000 Fire-fighters Jobs Because Your Lives Are Worth Less; trade union banners and balloons; Strong and Stable?; Capitalism Kills; Thatcher in the Rye; Rise Like Lions after Slumber; LGBT Rights Human Rights; Kick the Tories Out; Defy Tory Rule; Workers of the World Unite; Austerity is the New Terror Your Country Needs You War on Austerity; Justice for Grenfell; Latinxs con Corbyn; Theresa DisMay; May DUPed the Country; Organise Strike Resist; Cut War not Welfare; No to Islamophobia No to War; Flags of love danced around Big Ben – as new spectrums of light danced around the Overton’s Windows of Westminster.

I carried my banner from Stroud to Westminster with pride, inviting conversations along the way, leaving a trail of old ladies in Stroud lamenting May in Middle Street, discussions of anger and frustration at privatisation and cancelled trains in the packed waiting room at Swindon, thumbs up and car beebs as I ran from Paddington to Oxford Street to march with my parents. As we heard the chants as Corbyn came on stage, I asked my 67 year old dad, have you ever heard another politician have their own song and he said “not in my lifetime” The collective energy on the march was tangible and it’s quite something to be part of this.

Essia Harding

 

Momentum Is The New Chartism

When the Daily Express and the Daily Mail tried to control
The Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, back in the thirties,
He commented in his masculine way:
‘What the proprietorship of these newspapers is aiming at is power,
But power without responsibility,
The prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages.’
In the 2016 referendum,
We had Arron Banks:
‘Facts don’t work, and that’s it …
It just doesn’t work.
You have to connect with the people emotionally.
It’s the Trump success.’
And the General Election of 2017?
The Sun, Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, Daily Express,
With their slew of headlines,
Make it difficult not to think of John Heartfield,
And his Weimar agit-prop:
Big business pulling Hitler’s puppet strings;
What a coincidence that Boris Johnson should speak on the very subject
Of Jeremy Corbyn’s ‘soft on terrorism’ trope,
The very day before The Sun, Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, Daily Express
Splashed their similar views all over their front pages –
I think this means that we now have a new category
Of political system for the text book:
A liberal-democratic 21st century variant of Fascism:
‘Strong and Stable Government’; ‘Coalition of Chaos’; ‘Brexit means Brexit’;
‘We make no apology for drawing attention to the fact that Jeremy Corbyn
has spent a lifetime siding with people who want to do Britain harm,
would weaken our defences and make our country less safe …’.

(The 2017 General Election)

When the Daily Express and the Daily Mail tried to control
The Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, back in the thirties,
He commented in his masculine way:
‘What the proprietorship of these newspapers is aiming at is power,
But power without responsibility,
The prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages.’
In the 2016 referendum,
We had Arron Banks:
‘Facts don’t work, and that’s it …
It just doesn’t work.
You have to connect with the people emotionally.
It’s the Trump success.’
And the General Election of 2017?
The Sun, Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, Daily Express,
With their slew of headlines,
Make it difficult not to think of John Heartfield,
And his Weimar agit-prop:
Big business pulling Hitler’s puppet strings;
What a coincidence that Boris Johnson should speak on the very subject
Of Jeremy Corbyn’s ‘soft on terrorism’ trope,
The very day before The Sun, Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, Daily Express
Splashed their similar views all over their front pages –
I think this means that we now have a new category
Of political system for the text book:
A liberal-democratic 21st century variant of Fascism:
‘Strong and Stable Government’; ‘Coalition of Chaos’; ‘Brexit means Brexit’;
‘We make no apology for drawing attention to the fact that Jeremy Corbyn
has spent a lifetime siding with people who want to do Britain harm,
would weaken our defences and make our country less safe …’.

Nearly two centuries ago,
Five thousand Chartist supporters met on Selsley Common,
Affirming their support for working class political power,
Through the Six Points,
Five of which have become law:
Secret Ballot (1872); Equal Constituencies (1885); Universal Franchise (1928);
Abolition of Property Qualification to stand as an MP (1858);
Payment of MPs (1911);
Annual Parliaments;
It was thought that this would usher in democracy,
But the transgressions of our so called free press
(Remember the Zinoviev Letter forgery in the Daily Mail at the 1924 election?
The Daly Mail has got a long history and a lot of previous),
Mean that those points have been nullified:
The ballot is no longer secret – voters’ heads are full of lies
(Or ‘cultural hegemony’ as Gramsci put it,
Or ‘false consciousness’, as Marx put it);
The next constituency redrawing will favour the Conservatives
In their bid to establish a one party state;
Many people have forgotten the struggles of men and women:
Imprisonment, hunger strikes, death, transportation,
Or they’ve not been taught about it, or listened,
And abstain on principle,
Or vote ‘on principle’,
Or forget to vote …
MPs are unrepresentative of the population,
Even with 51% of the new intake educated at comprehensives …

The Chartists could not imagine a world where money talks so persuasively:
They thought votes for all would mean equality of power,
Where one vote is worth the same as another,
And where the voter was free from coercion, intimidation and control:
But what we have today is not democracy,
It is a liberal-democratic variant of fascism,
A stepping-stone towards a one party state,
Where Brexit might not just mean Brexit,
But also mean a form of totalitarianism;

But Momentum,
With the new wave of young activists in the Labour Party
Are the new Chartists:
The Chartists of the twenty first century,
People who remind us that we can control history,
We can fight back against the lies of the press,
We can prevent a liberal-democratic fascism,
We can establish socialism,
We can fight back,
‘For the many, not the few”,
Carrying the mantle of Shelley’s rage against Peterloo,
And the dictatorial Six Acts:
‘Ye are many – they are few!’

And in tune with this noble democratic tradition…
The Politics Kitchen initiative on Stroud High Street –
The inspiration of Skeena Rathor –
Is centrally about recognising and empowering
The forces of the heart
In our broken political system.
A return to “3-D politics” –
Face-to-face, body-to-body –
Heart-to-heart, relational politics.
A deep democracy that is both
Witness and friend.

Rodborough, Sunday June 11th

Rodborough, Sunday June 11th

A year ago we wandered through the sculptures
And hidden gardens of Rodborough,
Depressed and stupefied after the referendum result,
Lowering clouds gathering over the Severn,
Proving that the notion of a pathetic fallacy is not a fallacy –
But this year, the sun shone on the sculptures,
The flowers were particularly and pleasantly fragrant,
The tea and cake taken in the church graveyard,
Tasted sweetly of the resurrection of Labour,
And the party in the Prince Albert

Rodborough, Sunday June 11th

A year ago we wandered through the sculptures
And hidden gardens of Rodborough,
Depressed and stupefied after the referendum result,
Lowering clouds gathering over the Severn,
Proving that the notion of a pathetic fallacy is not a fallacy –
But this year, the sun shone on the sculptures,
The flowers were particularly and pleasantly fragrant,
The tea and cake taken in the church graveyard,
Tasted sweetly of the resurrection of Labour,
And the party in the Prince Albert
Showed Stroud at its inclusive best:
A complete cross section of society,
In a happy harmony of delight,
A heaven where ambrosia and nectar were shared equally,
By friends, families and strangers,
And where everyone was a comrade:
David Drew and family laid on a spread
To thank all supporters and workers,
People spoke of past elections and struggles,
David’s seven general election results
Were attached to the beer pumps
In a panoply across the bar,
The front door of the pub was garlanded
With a red and white banner:
‘Thank You’,
The chimney breast was covered with the banner
Of the Stroud Constituency Labour Party,
Lottie and Miles served tea and cake,
David ran a tab at the bar,
People spoke of their Thursday tears of joy,
David spoke of his commitment to the manifesto,
Everyone stood to applaud him –
But John Bloxsom reminded us
That there is another election ahead:
So while we celebrate in the carefree present moment,
We know that we prepare for the future:
But time is an illusion on a sun splashed Stroud afternoon,
For this is a new dawn –
This truly is a new dawn.

Bakanalia Border Morris by Deborah Roberts
Labour Party Banner by Deborah Roberts
Rodborough Sculpture by Deborah Roberts

Credit to Deborah Roberts for the above photos.

Rodborough Church by Bob Fry

Credit to Bob Fry for the above photo.

Thirty Something Local Historic Reasons to Vote for David Drew

Thirty Local Historic Reasons to Vote for David Drew and Keep the Tories Out

Remember:

1. The Diggers and their Slimbridge Civil War community and those who supported them in Stroud and the Five Valleys
2. The Parliamentarians imprisoned in Painswick Church
3. The growers of Nicotiana Rustica who defied both King and Cromwell
4. Those who took direct action for a ‘moral economy’ against high food prices in Stroud and the Five Valleys
5. Those cloth-workers who took direct action against low wages and long hours in Stroud and the Five Valleys
6. Those who opposed slavery
7. Those who took direct action against the game laws
8. Those who opposed enclosure
9. Those who took direct action against turnpike tolls
10. Those who were transported

Thirty Local Historic Reasons to Vote for David Drew and Keep the Tories Out

Remember:

1. The Diggers and their Slimbridge Civil War community and those who supported them in Stroud and the Five Valleys
2. The Parliamentarians imprisoned in Painswick Church
3. The growers of Nicotiana Rustica who defied both King and Cromwell
4. Those who took direct action for a ‘moral economy’ against high food prices in Stroud and the Five Valleys
5. Those cloth-workers who took direct action against low wages and long hours in Stroud and the Five Valleys
6. Those who opposed slavery
7. Those who took direct action against the game laws
8. Those who opposed enclosure
9. Those who took direct action against turnpike tolls
10. Those who were transported
11. Those who supported Chartist demands for democracy
12. Those who were forced to emigrate
13. Those who opposed the workhouse
14. Those who opposed the exploitation of children
15. Those who supported the legalization of trade unions
16. Those who supported the cooperative movement
17. Those who, like William Morris, were alert early to environmental degradation
18. Those who opposed imperial aggrandizement
19. Those who opposed wars of aggrandizement
20. Those who supported votes for women
21. Those who supported free education, pensions and healthcare
22. Those who supported the General Strike
23. Those who opposed fascism
24. Those who suffered and made the ultimate sacrifice in two world wars
25. Those who voted for a Welfare State and a planned economy
26. Those who opposed racism
27. Those who supported the Equal Pay Act
28. Those who opposed sexism
29. Those who opposed apartheid
30. Those who opposed Thatcherism n all its guises
31. Those who supported gay rights

Not Bad for a Village Team

Tranmere –
The name suggests a crossing of the waters,
A ferry across the Mersey,
A crossing of the River Rubicon,
Or for us, the River Thames –
On the 9.55 Football Poets Special,
Speeding through the Golden Valley,
Past Swindon’s railway works,
The Vale of the White Horse,
Then on through Sonning Cutting,
Sequestered Berkshire,
Suburban Middlesex,
Old Oak Common,
To Paddington.

Tranmere –
The name suggests a crossing of the waters,
A ferry across the Mersey,
A crossing of the River Rubicon,
Or for us, the River Thames –
On the 9.55 Football Poets Special,
Speeding through the Golden Valley,
Past Swindon’s railway works,
The Vale of the White Horse,
Then on through Sonning Cutting,
Sequestered Berkshire,
Suburban Middlesex,
Old Oak Common,
To Paddington.

We sat in an overcrowded carriage:
Richard, now ready, having scoured Stroud,
And all villages and hamlets of the Five Valleys,
Until at last finally securing an FGR scarf,
Chewing on his bacon and egg sandwich,
But worried that he’d left the gas ring on,
Stuart, with a stone in his shoe from his yesterday walk,
Seeing it as a pilgrim’s scruple,
The retention of which would be necessary for victory,
For only the scrupulous would be triumphant,
After enduring self-flagellation,
Crispin, now ready, after tirelessly badgering
Wembley Stadium about his treasured, magic drum –
More of that later.

But there we were,
At Wembley,
Like a village gawping at the big city,
Just 3,500 souls,
Thirteen charabancs only
(Six from FGR, 4 from Stroud, 3 from Stonehouse),
Like some Laurie Lee
Cider with Rosie day out revisited,
A Last Supper of the Season,
While the massed ranks from Birkenhead and Liverpool
Numbered 15,000 and fifty coaches,
Confident of victory,
Against this rustic outfit.

But Crispin had a plan –
Crispin Thomas, like Oscar,
The clairaudient in The Tin Drum,
Worried that Wembley would ban his drum:
‘the day will come …
oh how I pray
for my white drum’,

Eventually receiving this email from Wembley Stadium:

Hello Crispin,

I hope you are well. This isn’t a problem and the staff are aware of you and your drum.
Please make your way to the accessible entrance at the turnstile and they will check the drum and they will let you in.
Many thanks,

Crispin, now ready,
Crispin,
Now revelling in his clairaudient condition,
Obtaining a ‘singing end’ for FGR,
Joining ranks with the other FGR drummer,
To wave his arms in the air to draw the FGR crowd
From their numbered, specified seats,
And so amplify the support, noise and chants,
With supporters standing en masse behind the goal,
Despite the tickets stating in bold:
Persistent standing is not allowed.

But we were allowed,
Because all fans behaved themselves responsibly –
But many thanks to Wembley’s staff for their dispensation,
For this concentrated noise
Gave succour to the team on the pitch
Throughout the whole ninety minutes:
The support was continuous.

And at the end,
After all the chants of
‘On our way, on our way,
To the football league we’re on our way’,
And,
‘Not bad for a village team,
Not bad for a village team’,
The man from the Met. came up to Crispin,
Congratulated him on his drumming,
Congratulated FGR’s three and a half thousand
For outshouting Tranmere,
Adding,
‘I had a tear in my eye at the end.
I was so pleased for you.’

Not bad for a village team,
A team at the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere.

Save The Sub-Rooms!

‘In short, sir, you have it in a nutshell.
Where would Stroud be without it?’

We live in such divided times that anything that unites us is to be admired,
And just as a nation can be divided, so a town can be divided in so many ways:
Hefts can build up based on social class, or ethnicity, or politics, or education,
Or for so many whatever varied reasons,
As people find and accentuate commonality,
And whilst Stroud and the Five Valleys is not exactly ‘Town and Gown’,
It can feel a bit like Disraeli’s Two Nations at times:

‘Two nations between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are as ignorant of each other’s habits, thoughts, and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different zones, or inhabitants of different planets.’

Stroud Subscription Rooms

Thanks to Deborah Roberts for the above Photo.
www.deborahroberts.biz

 

Stroud Subscription Rooms

Thanks to Mark Hewlett for the above Photo.

 

‘In short, sir, you have it in a nutshell.
Where would Stroud be without it?’

We live in such divided times that anything that unites us is to be admired,
And just as a nation can be divided, so a town can be divided in so many ways:
Hefts can build up based on social class, or ethnicity, or politics, or education,
Or for so many whatever varied reasons,
As people find and accentuate commonality,
And whilst Stroud and the Five Valleys is not exactly ‘Town and Gown’,
It can feel a bit like Disraeli’s Two Nations at times:

‘Two nations between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy; who are as ignorant of each other’s habits, thoughts, and feelings, as if they were dwellers in different zones, or inhabitants of different planets.’

‘You speak of Brexiteer and Remainer?’

‘No, sir.
I speak of people who shop at the Farmers’ Market and not at Iceland
and those who shop at Iceland and not at the Farmers’ Market.
They sometimes pass each other as though the other were invisible.’

‘And is there nowhere, madam, where these differing people meet?
Where the invisible is made manifest?’

‘The Subscription Rooms, sir, for there you find all manner of amusements that appeal to everyone in Stroud.
It is one of the few places that unite rather than divide,
One of the few places where every one can meet, eat and drink together,
Sing together, dance together, listen together, learn together,
Watch together, gaze together,
Walk up and downstairs together,
Find out where to go and how to get there together.
And it is the only place where you can buy a ticket for a National Express bus.’

‘These Subscription Rooms sound an admirable place, madam.
A place where all differing sections of a community can meet.
A place that brings unity and sharing of experience and purpose.
A place that brings a sense of belonging
And strengthening of bonds across a variety of people
Who otherwise might not share much social intercourse.
And the only place where one can obtain a permit for the turnpike toll house.’

‘In short, sir.
You have it in a nutshell.
Where would Stroud be without it?’


Below Photos by James Bee.

Painswick Beacon and Botany Bay

The solstice is a time for wonder and the imagination,
But sometimes you need facts, figures and measurements:
Lines of latitude and longitude – maritime chronometers too,
Were needed for New South Wales and Van Diemen’s Land,
For those weavers, cloth-workers, hatters, labourers and servants,
Transported as convicts, far distant from their Painswick homes,
On ships such as the Emma Eugenia, Florentia, Lady Ridley,
Duncan, Gilmore, Persian, Lord Hungerford, Bengal Merchant;
People such as Ann Alder, Henry Beard and Samuel Beard,
John Birt, Isaac Estcourt, James Green, William Haines, Charles Cook;
And at winter solstice-tide, we gathered at Painswick Beacon,

Thanks to Deborah Roberts for the above Photo.
www.deborahroberts.biz

The solstice is a time for wonder and the imagination,
But sometimes you need facts, figures and measurements:
Lines of latitude and longitude – maritime chronometers too,
Were needed for New South Wales and Van Diemen’s Land,
For those weavers, cloth-workers, hatters, labourers and servants,
Transported as convicts, far distant from their Painswick homes,
On ships such as the Emma Eugenia, Florentia, Lady Ridley,
Duncan, Gilmore, Persian, Lord Hungerford, Bengal Merchant;
People such as Ann Alder, Henry Beard and Samuel Beard,
John Birt, Isaac Estcourt, James Green, William Haines, Charles Cook;
And at winter solstice-tide, we gathered at Painswick Beacon,
Latitude 51°48’27″N and longitude 2°11’44″W; 283m / 928ft.,
SO 86836 12076, ready for sunrise at 8.14, on the 22nd of December,
A dozen of us, to welcome the mid-winter dawn,
Close by an Iron Age hill fort,
The ghosts of our prehistory all around the scarp,
(At a beacon: ‘from the Saxon’,
Meaning a sign, portent, light, lighthouse,
A source of light or inspiration),
Welcoming the first lengthening day of the season,
As it spread its light and inspiration
Over the Malverns, the Cotswolds, the sinuous River Severn,
Over a landscape etched with names and signs and portents
Such as Ongers, Kimsbury, Paradise,
Spoonbed Hill, Kites Hill, Popes Wood, Saltridge Hill, Cud Hill,
Holcombe, Brentlands, Podgewell, Bacchus –
Distant memories for our exiled Painswick ancestors,
Their ghosts gathered to witness farewell
To the longest day of the year,
Near Botany Bay,
33.9930° S, 151.1753° E …
But today,
We reunited them with their landscape,
And their history,
With a toast to their memory and to the sun:
Painswick Beacon, Botany Bay,
New South Wales and Van Dieman’s Land,
Mid-winter and mid-summer conjoined,
With solstitial imagination,
A lighthouse of time and space.

Nailsworth Shoddy

I often walk the cycle track at the bottom of Rodborough Hill,
The old Midland Railway spur from Dudbridge into Stroud,
And I often cycle the track on to Nailsworth through Woodchester,
Musing on the springs and watercourses, the ancient holloways,
The Roman villa, medieval ridge and furrow, the woollen mills,
The occasional mill chimney, still rising high into the Stroudwater sky,
And I have often walked the surrounds of Avening, Minch and Amberley,
Recreating the 1916 tragedy of Dorothy Beard and Archibald Knee,
A young woman and a young new recruit,
Drowning together in a millpond.

In short, my head is usually lost in the clouds of the past,
Where I am entranced rather than perturbed by novelty –
Unlike Scrooge, I see few phantoms that repel –
Until last night, when just before our show
Trenchcoats for Goalposts,
At the Comrades’ Club,
In Nailsworth,
Jon Seagrave mentioned a local radio history programme
About that local branch line and the First World War,
Did I know that? …

I often walk the cycle track at the bottom of Rodborough Hill,
The old Midland Railway spur from Dudbridge into Stroud,
And I often cycle the track on to Nailsworth through Woodchester,
Musing on the springs and watercourses, the ancient holloways,
The Roman villa, medieval ridge and furrow, the woollen mills,
The occasional mill chimney, still rising high into the Stroudwater sky,
And I have often walked the surrounds of Avening, Minch and Amberley,
Recreating the 1916 tragedy of Dorothy Beard and Archibald Knee,
A young woman and a young new recruit,
Drowning together in a millpond.

In short, my head is usually lost in the clouds of the past,
Where I am entranced rather than perturbed by novelty –
Unlike Scrooge, I see few phantoms that repel –
Until last night, when just before our show
Trenchcoats for Goalposts,
At the Comrades’ Club,
In Nailsworth,
Jon Seagrave mentioned a local radio history programme
About that local branch line and the First World War,
Did I know that? …

(Dictionary definition interruption:
Shoddy
Adjective:
Badly made or done.
‘We’re not paying good money for shoddy goods.’
Synonyms:
Poor-quality, inferior, second-rate, third-rate, low-grade, cheap, cheapjack, tawdry rubbishy, trashy, gimcrack, jerry-built, crude,

Lacking moral principle, sordid,

‘A shoddy misuse of the honours system.’

Noun:
An inferior quality yarn or fabric made from the shredded fibre of waste woolen cloth or clippings.)

Did I know that? …
In the First World War, the uniforms of dead soldiers
Were brought from the front, across the Channel, along the railway lines
Of southern England, and so to the Nailsworth branch line,
Where bloodstained and able to tell who knows what tale
Of carnage, confusion and pain,
This timetabled railway conveyor belt
Would deliver its constant supplies to keep alive
The endless supply of shoddy;

Jon said, just before we went on stage,
‘In my innocence I thought the soldiers would have had the dignity of a burial in their uniform, rather than be stripped bare of honour.’

I am sure there was a heartfelt justification for this:
The submarine warfare in the Atlantic,
The destruction of British merchant shipping
The consequent shortages of 1917,
The drowning of our seamen,
The need for cloth to provide uniforms
As the armed forces grew with Kitchener’ appeal,
And then with conscription after 1916,

But there was still something shocking in this tale for me,
Something that I took with me on stage,
That made me mention Robert Graves’ Good-bye to All That
For the first time to an audience in this production:
I think Graves’ image of the Western Front as a ‘sausage machine’
Subliminally affected me –
I thought of his words:
‘It was fed with live men, churned out corpses,
and remained firmly screwed in place’,
As I sang the first verse of ‘Goodbyee’ at the finale…

And what of Lloyd George, Minister for Munitions?
Secretary of State for War, Prime Minister:
‘The Man who won the War’,
Keeping the front lines fed with men and shells,
Keeping the Nailsworth branch line busy with dead men’s uniforms
(‘Finding an arm or a leg still inside wasn’t that uncommon’),
Keeping the Nailsworth mills busy with the production of shoddy,
The production of shoddy for yet more uniforms,
In a Catch 22 search for the perfect uniform:
Made from an infinitely regressive shoddy,
‘Dulce et Decorum est
Pro Patria Mori,
Lloyd George – ‘The man who won the war’,
Friend of ‘the hard-faced men who did well out of the War’,
Flogging them peerages, knighthoods, medals:
The Order of the British Empire
Was conveniently and coincidentally coined in 1917,
Keeping himself in power and profit with the
‘Sale of Honours Scandal’ …

Shoddy
Noun:
An inferior quality yarn or fabric made from the shredded fibre of waste woolen cloth or clippings.

Adjective:
Badly made or done

Synonym:
Lacking moral principle, sordid,

‘A shoddy misuse of the honours system.’

Unbelievable
Adjective:
Unlikely

Synonyms:
Amazing, surprising, astonishing, revelation, shocking, thunderbolt, startling, staggering, turn-up for the book
‘That a part of some poor fellow should end up in the (relative) tranquility
of a Cotswold valley, far from the carnage.’