Category: General

The Madness of Painters

Vincent van Gogh will be getting the Book of the Week treatment next week on Radio 4. The book is unimaginatively called Van Gogh’s Ear. Poor Vincent, all those sunflowers and wheat fields stem into insignificance next to his self-mutilation that fascinates us to this day. Not even the subsequent self-portrait with bandaged ear could get him noticed in the art world. Only in death would VVG  become famous.

My first impression of this painter was in a negative light and my post-impressions haven’t changed. Canvases smudged with more paint than a courtesan’s make-up. Unrealistic facial portraits and inaccuracies in anatomy. Then there’s all those flowers. He should have cut them up.

I’ve avoided the temptation to put this painter in the Overrated series because all painters are off their head. Hours puzzling over light and shade. Mixing oils and cleaning brushes. All this painstaking preparation when the landscape or sitter could be captured with the click of a camera.

My ears have heard many pronunciations of the painter’s last name. Obviously, I use the popular Goff but other versions include Go and the guttural Hock. Maybe, it’s Hoff or Ho, who knows?

Lastly, it was in 1888 that Vincent took the razor to his ear. What a terrible year was MDCCCLXXXVIII. Jack the Ripper was serial killing in Whitechapel and the seed was planted that birthed an Austrian monster.

A Fest of Lit.

As an aspiring writer, my big breakthrough piece of fiction is still unwritten, I have always wanted to visit the Cheltenham Literature Festival. The chance to hob-nob with fellow unpublished sorts and to see in the flesh real authors would be happiness unbound.

Mingling at social gatherings with the lit-set I would forgo the glasses of bubbly on the trays and demand a beer from the Jeeves-like waiter. After all, With Faulks’ powers faltering, I’m the next big thing in town. I’d also ask Jeeves for the big daddy of vol-au-vents, a scotch pie. And I’d tell him to drown the pastry with Bertie Worcester sauce. Continue reading “A Fest of Lit.”

May We Start?

Our beloved Sceptred Isle now has a new PM and her cabinet is coming together. Philip Hammond is a sensible choice to be Chancellor. He is nothing terribly exciting. Nor, frankly, is Theresa may, but he’s a stable, reliable figure that inspires quiet confidence. I was somewhat taken aback by the Blond Bombshell’s appointment as foreign minister. He ably managed London for many years so it’s unlikely to be beyond his capabilities, but it’s a strikingly elevated position for someone with no ministerial experience. Perhaps it is her name, the fact that her name rhymes with “dud” and that she shares it with a former Australian PM who was just that, but I developed a distinct disdain for the good lady (bless her heart!) during the Campaign to Liberate Britain. Davis and Fox’s appointments are brilliant. Davis is no fool and no delicate flower. I have confidence in his ability to manage Britain’s independence. Fox, likewise, has the intellectual heft and the right mindset to prevent Britain from getting into a rut. Fallon has not been the worst in his position and it’s doubtful that replacing him would have led to any improvements.

A Most Humble Offer

I went to training school today to print B&B reservations, train schedules, my Caledonian Sleeper ticket and make a copy of an assignment for a student. I was asked where I was going by a directrix and responded “the UK, as usual”. She, a Scouser-turned-Wog of the worst sort, sneered and started to rant incoherently. Apparently, I have “let the side down” terribly and should be ashamed of myself for travelling to the United Kingdom. Her opinion is shared by many. So, may I make a most humble offer? I will trade my position in Spain to any poor Bremainer. In exchange I will settle in blighted Blighty and drink copious amounts of tea as penance.

A Humble Prediction

One of the more unfortunate aspects of living in Spain is that I’m surrounded by among the most pretentious of expatriates. Earlier this week I was thoroughly eviscerated by a mob of Yanks convinced in their typically insufferable manner that the EU represents the very best of Europe. I was the only Brexit supporter in this Septic-dominated “group” with a vocal minority of self-loathing Britons, not that it is much of a group as they have made a point of marginalising me as I don’t fit their mould. Not that I really mind, drinking heavily, watching football and jumping into bed with strangers isn’t my idea of a “good time”. Continue reading “A Humble Prediction”