• About

Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Tag Archives: Grayson Perry

Travels To Their Aunt 1

29 Tuesday Oct 2013

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Family, Film, Humour, Literature, Suttonford, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alastair Sim, Grade 8 music exam, Graham Greene, Grayson Perry, Lemon Drizzle cake, Macduff, Marisa Robles, Maxime de Paris, Narnia, Snodland, The Importance of Being Earnest, Wilde

TravelsAuntPoster.jpg

Drusilla Fotheringay-Syylk had dispensed with the second part of her

double-barrelled surname, since discovering that Syylk was not her

biological father.  She was whole-heartedly embracing a new relationship

with her real pater, Mr Augustus Snodbury.  Teaching was clearly in her

genes.

Her mother, Diana, was attempting to clear out her spare room, in order to

create more room for her computer and printer and so she had the inspired

idea of arranging for Drusilla’s harp, on which she had gained Grade 8 once

upon a time, to be transported to St Vitus’ Boarding House, where her

daughter just might take up her musical passion once more.

Diana came across a box file of cuttings and she had to blink back a tear

as she read the faded headline in the local newspaper: Fingers of an Angel-

pluck-y pupil pulls all the heartstrings at local festival.  And there was the

young Drusilla receiving her certificate of commendation from no other than

the famous harpist, Marisa Robles, who had actually played the theme tune

to Narnia on Dru’s instrument.

While her mother valiantly made progress, Dru and her father were heading

towards Kent, to a nursing home in Snodland, to be precise, where Aunt

Augusta, or Great-Aunt Augusta was counting out her days in Premium Bonds.

She has checked herself into a hydro hotel in the first years of her widowhood,

but hadn’t been too keen on taking water in any form, so had decamped to a

gracious mansion with care staff.

Dru was curious to meet this relative after whom her father derived his

forename. She wondered if she would be anything like the Aunt Augusta

in Wilde’s play, or Graham Greene’s novel.  She studied the black and

white photograph of this newly- to-be-introduced relative which Gus had

produced and she could clearly see the family jowls.  In fact, she thought

that  Augusta looked incredibly like Claire, Grayson Perry’s alter-ego.  She

would have made an incredible headmistress, in Dru’s opinion- somewhat

in the style of Alastair Sim, in drag.

Gus explained that she had been richly left, as Portia had been, but although

the well-endowed widow had helpfully paid for his school fees, thus creating

obligation- there was no such thing as a free uniform-his parents had come

under a degree of emotional blackmail over the years. Indeed, she continued

to exert control even now, as she was always threatening to cut him out of

her will, if he did not visit every half term.

Gus had written his aged relative a letter to explain Drusilla and to express

her wish to meet her great-aunt.  He didn’t want to give Augusta a heart

attack. Or did he?  No, he really didn’t.  Not really.

Dru had furnished herself with a box of Maxime de Paris choccies and a bottle

of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.  She thought the authorities

might just let the old lady have a nip or two at aperitif time.  The proprietor of

Pop My Cork! , the Suttonford wine merchant, had assured her- most

unprofessionally thought Dru-, that a female nonagenarian neighbour in High

Street adored the tipple and practically derived her entire nutritional input from

the potent brew and small, but regular, helpings of Lemon Drizzle cake.

Here we are, sighed Gus, putting on the handbrake and girding up his loins.

Oh, is this it?  It’s very grand, isn’t it?

Dru refreshed her nude lip salve and powdered her nose.  She wanted to

make a good impression.

Right! Lead on, Macduff! she said.

Lay on , Drusilla.  Don’t they teach anything correctly any more?

She hoped this wouldn’t be a bad omen.  She so wanted to get it right.

The importance of being earnest and all that..

But unfortunately she had left the bottle in the boot.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Democracy Has Bad Taste

14 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Education, History, Humour, Literature, News, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bentham, Charles Saatchi, Damien HIrst, Dan Snow, Ernest Hemingway, FT, Grayson Perry, List of Reith Lectures, Manet, Nigella Lawson, Olympia, Proust, pushpin, Richard Hoggart, sociology, springer spaniel, transformation, Trinny Woodall, Uses of Literacy

Brassica could hardly hear herself speak for the frothing of the coffee machine

and the screech of a toddler.

Yeah, it’s that bloke in a frock who’s giving The Reith Lectures, she informed

me.

Who?  Grayson Perry?  Suddenly I was interested in what she was saying.

Yip.  I liked his tapestries on class but I admit that I used to think they-

the artists, I mean- actually made the stuff themselves.

What?  You thought that Damien Hirst went out and caught his own shark,

like Ernest Hemingway?  I was somewhat surprised.

Well, I thought they would weave the tapestries, or, say, Henry Moore

would cast his own bronzes in his back yard.

Right.  Before the scrap metal guys nicked them.  Brass, you’ve just got

to understand the difference between craft and art.

Which is?

Some philosophers have described it as the difference between pushpin

and poetry.

Pushpin?

It’s like shove halfpenny. I tried to clarify the analogy.  Look,

I addressed her.  Read the front page of the Life and Arts section of the

FT.

I reached up and took down the pink pages of a grease-stained

newspaper from the wall rack.

You see, I gestured, take a look at the artwork in this cafe.  I think it comes

from The Suttonford Art Society’s Annual Show.  You be the judge.  Is it art?

If it goes by financial value, then I’d say not, she deliberated.

Emmm, yeah.  Not many of them have a reserved sticker.  I suppose that

they could come under therapeutic, or popular art categories.

Some of them could be improved by more sympathetic

presentation, she decided.

Yes.  Proust wrote that we can only see beauty if we look through a

gilded frame, I expanded on the theme.  I wonder what Charles Saatchi

is collecting now..? Certainly not portraits of Nigella!  Maybe Trinny

Woodall woodcuts?  Skinny Trinny as Olympia.  Not a good look!

My granny used to commission oils of sunsets to match the colours in her

swirly carpets, Brassie mused.

(You could never accuse Brass of being a snob.)  She was reading the

front page by now and she came out with:

Are individual works of historical significance, or do they exhibit aesthetic

sophistication?

No, I replied quietly, looking carefully round the room for any paint

stains on clothing.  There is an acrylic over there which shows the oldest

pub in the town, though.  It all comes down to Bentham’s pushpin/ poetry

distinction again.

Jeremy Bentham by Henry William Pickersgill detail.jpg

But, endorsement is surely part of it?  I mean, if we placed a label under that

unconvincing representation of a Springer Spaniel and it announced that it was

by Dan Snow, would it change our perception of it? Brassie probed.

No, but it would change my perception of him, sadly, I replied.

Brassie began to show enthusiasm for this debate.  Didn’t Richard Hoggart,

who incidentally lived not too far from here, discuss some of this in his book

on popular culture, The Uses of Literacy?

Yawn.  Early sociology, I said dismissively.  Mind you, he made some good

points.

Brassie pushed on, paraphrasing as she read: Apparently, what the’ lovely

consensus’ agree on is seriousness.

Mmm, some of these are seriously bad.  I tried to be generous and failed. Okay.

Who is going to validate them?

Brassie brightened up.  I expect their mummies, grannies, aunts, husbands

and wives might rescue them from ignominy.  They’ll probably buy them.

So, laying aside meritocracy, they will be saved for posterity by love? I

ventured.

The greatest ennobler, breathed Brassie.  The Art of Human Understanding.

Compassion. An act of grace.  Love for the unlovely.  Transformation!

 

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Austerity Round Robin

18 Tuesday Dec 2012

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Politics, Suttonford, television

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Artem, Danny Alexander, Duchess of Cambridge, Eminem, Grayson Perry, Harriet Harman, Kirstie Allsopp, Lynne Truss, meggings, nausea, onesie, Portsea Island, Strictly Come Dancing, Tiger, Tracey Emin

Dear Victoria,

Am slightly ‘put oot,’ as they say north of the border, by Lynne Truss, that

witty journalist, nicking my idea for a satirical response to the Round Robin

letter, especially as I was just about to write mine.

We wish you and Andre a healthy and prosperous New Year.  You’ll be glad to

know that Kirstie Allsopp has popularised the de-worming, not only of pets,

but of all kinds of old skip-rescued furniture, so you will be able to continue

shipping your trove of tat over here for some time to come.  Austerity is good

for business.  Or your line of same. Sounds like it should be a proverb.

It’s been a hectic year as usual, with it being Suttonford’s turn to host le

jumelage exchange visit with Bric-a-brac.  The exciting news is that Ola,

Ginevra’s erstwhile carer, –the one who went off for some deeper mutualite

with the widower who had been billeted with your mother- is in a state of

infanticipation and her EDD coincidentally matches that of The

Duchess of Cambridge.  Magda, the replacement carer from the agency,

has gone over to Normandy to visit her compatriot and to help see

her through the period of la nausee – (wasn’t that a book?  I must

look it up on Amazon.) She might just be doing some research on the

the availability of spare widowers.

Gyles is fine.  Working hard to pay all the school fees.  Of course,

Tiger being a scholarship girl helps a bit. (15%)  I hope he likes the meggings

I have purchased for his Xmas.  I also hope he agrees to wear the onesie I

bought him for Brassie’s Strictly party on Saturday Night.    It’s either that or a

bare-chested Artem glitter special for his samba number.  We all have to do a

dance, but he said that he wanted to cover up and wished everyone would.

Spoilsport.

Talking of Tiger: it was an amazing privilege for her to have been

asked to carry the Olympic torch in the summer.  Gyles and I were

annoyed that she refused to wear the uncool white tracksuit.   It

wasn’t so very different from her polar bear onesie, I thought, and she never

takes that off.  Grey onesie, really.

Rollo went on a Parisian parkour programme in the hols and Ming

went wingsuit skydiving.  We did not tell their grandparents, though.

They were very proud of Ferdy winning the Mini Scientist of the Year

Award, all because Mr Milford-Haven had the foresight and nous to send his

essay on recessive genes and hair colour to Danny Alexander and various

government nobs.  Spelling? After the Harriet Harman episode, the Treasury

was only too happy to provide a generous grant for the newly instituted

award.  They seem to have the finances for some things. Of course, Gyles

spent half a term helping Ferd with the wretched thing, bless.

Ming was singled out for his ceramic project and has been making

pots with Grayson Perry.  He has to wear an overall to protect his

school uniform from all the slip clay, but wonders how his mentor

manages in those baby dolls.  He tries to remember to call him Clare.

Of course, Tiger’s heroine is Tracey Emin, or Eminem, as the boys have

dubbed her.  I don’t think Tiger has made her bed for a year now and

she refuses the cleaner entry to her room in case she disturbs her

work-in-progress installation.  I still have to pay the woman the full amount,

though, so no Chrissie bonus for her, since she takes that attitude. She earns

more than Gyles’ PA, in any case.  Or Gyles?-can’t remember which.

Gyles and I fancied island hopping in the summer, but in these times

of austerity, we only managed Portsea Island, Hayling and the Isle of

Wight.  We skipped Lee-on-Solent after remembering Alan Bennet’s portrayal of

it in Talking Heads (First Series) – the one with Julie Walters and the film crew.

More anon,

Have to make my mincemeat!  No suet.

tbc

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

The ‘C’ Word

27 Saturday Oct 2012

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Humour, Suttonford, television

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

007 fragrance, C word, Clanger, Dottling Pauline, Fake or Fortune?, FT, Glenelg, Goya, Grayson Perry, Judith Leibner, Life of Riley, Monica Vinader, Philip Mould, Sarah Brightman, Strictly Come Dancing, Theo Fennell, Visnja, www.howtospendit.com, Zanzan Avida Dollars

Suddenly the temperature has plummeted here in Suttonford.  (Yes, it’s Candia.)

Why have you not been regaling us with the antics of your Suttonford friends and neighbours?  I hear you ask.  Why did you publish all that poetry recently?

Well, dear readers, I had OTHER THINGS TO DO and I thought the poetry would keep you amused till I got back on track.  You see, my geraniums- the ones that didn’t even flower this summer, owing to lack of sun- had to be uprooted and brought indoors before the first frost.  Then I searched in vain for seed from my sweet peas, but they hadn’t flowered either, so there were no pods.

Now I am continually hearing the ‘C’ word bandied around town.  Yes, Christmas will be upon us and I, like my female friends, will be found prostrate over the kitchen table, my head being attacked by Goyaesque, bat-like creatures representing the nightmarish oppression of trying to figure out what to purchase for all the individuals on my festal recipient list.  Our spouses, who take little to do with such trivialities, may be found prostate from other causes, but that’s another story…

What to buy for Sonia, our clairvoyant neighbour…?

The vicar solved this one, as when I attended the Curs in Crisis event at the local church hall, I bought an auction promise of a Bell, Book and Kindle exorcism which he had donated and which our medium might like to activate against her cavalier, in every sense of the word, ghost.  A signed copy of a media-friendly London art dealer’s book: Sleuth: The Awesome Quest for Lost Art Works might be appropriate as a souvenir of her having been featured on the BBC programme, Fake or Fortune (see earlier post.)  Sonia would probably prefer the author himself, but you wouldn’t want Mould in your stocking, would you?

Gyles’ mother Ginevra is easy-peasy:

a bottle of Dewlap’s Gin for Discerning Grandmothers always hits the spot.

Unfortunately one of her family will have to invest in their future by supplying her with a Theo Fennell USA Space Shuttle Tequila shot set. £15-18,000 is somewhat out of my league.

The Husband:

likewise no problem.  Vouchers for Pop My Cork!  and a DVD of Great Cricketing Moments fits the bill.  Maybe a Life of Riley bottle trunk if he is good. (No more ogling at Ola Jordan’s hot pants in Strictly Come Dancing.)

Starstruck Cosmo, who sleeps in his observatory-or that’s his story:

James Bond

James Bond OO7 fragrance and an alibi.  Or maybe a certificate twinning Suttonford with a Martian market town. ( Don’t laugh. It’s already happened in Glenelg.) Cosmo could be registered for a Space Tourist flight with Sarah Brightman and could have a promissory note in a nice envelope. (Come to think of it, SB always sounded a bit like a Clanger.)

But does he wear man perfume?  I think of Tatiana in To Russia with Love: she tried to persuade the spy to dab a little and coaxed, Russian men use scent and James Bond replied tersely: British men bathe.

Gyles:

alligator loafers. Smooth.

Tristram:

Döttling Pauline safe

a Dottling Pauline safe- no, wait a minute!  That’s £90,000. That’s a couple of years’ school fees. I suppose he could rent out the drawers for B&B in the manner of those mortuary file hotel rooms in Tokyo.  No, he can have a set of Grayson Perry The Vanity of Small Distances table mats instead- only £360.  He likes laying the table. Clammie told me.

Carrie:

a Visnja Power brooch.  Oops- no, that is £48,000.  She’ll have to make do with some Zanzan Avida Dollars sunglasses@ £260.  Wasn’t Avida Dollars an anagram of Salvador Dali, dahling?

Brassica:

Okay, she might have sent a note up her chimney to Santa Baby for a Judith Leibner Starfish clutch bag covered in Swarovski crystals, but at £3,125, she might just have to accept a less expensive Monica Vinader Agate-print scarf.

Clammie: Pippa Middleton’s Celebrate book.  Actually, no.  I’m keeping that for myself.  She can have a tube of anti-cellulite cream to assist her in maintaining a rear formidable like the Duchess’ sister.

And so on… You see, all you have to do is visit the FT howtospendit.com– simples!

Now I can concentrate on Clammie’s Guy Fawkes Party…

 

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Closing Time

27 Monday Aug 2012

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Humour, Music, Olympic Games, Politics, Religion, Social Comment

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Annie Lennox, Boris Johnson, Brave New World, Darcey Bussell, David Cameron, Duchess of Cambridge, Eric Idle, Fatboy Slim, Grayson Perry, husband, London 2012, Lord Coe, Olympics, Poor Clares, Prince Harry, Prince William, Ray Davies, Russell Brand, The Queen, The Tempest, Trinity, Vivienne Westwood

The Tenth Sunday after Trinity

Clare of Assisi, Founder of the Minoresses (Poor Clares), 1253.

Maybe she would have something pertinent to say about the economy?

A scorcher with threatening thunder which disappeared after 2pm.

9pm saw my hubby and myself on our starter sofas, ready for action viewing.

A strangely nasal singer commenced the proceedings and a bad Churchill impression did not light my Olympic flame.  Same speech from The Tempest ; different hats.

Prince Harry appeared, instead of The Queen.  A solitary Duchess of Cambridge was there. Probably Wills was hovering overhead in a helicopter, watching in case his brother became too flirty with his wife.  If Harry got too fresh, Wills might have Kate sent to the Tower and could marry Pippa the following day.  They can be like that.

Batman came out of a Robin, but he was American, wasn’t  he?  What’s he got to do with it?

There was too much Our House, or One’s House, as someone joked at the Jubilee.  Probably the Royal version is One’s Hice.

Pet Shop Boys at Olympics closing ceremony

The Ku Klux clan appeared to be cycling past, or was it a belated Semana Santa procession for the Spanish contingent?  No, it was The Pet Shop Boys.  One Direction  had the crowd singing the annoying Na-na-na-na refrain, while the whole of London seemed bent on street sweeping, which isn’t a bad idea.  Cameron wants 100% youth employment, so there’s your answer, Dave.

Ray Davies of The Kinks understood that the crowd were not completely thick and so gave them a variation to join in – namely, Sha-la-la-la, which made a change.  At least it was a catchy tune and distracted you from the bankers committing suicide by hurling themselves out of the Gherkin, which some would have found the best bit.

Russell Brand did his I am the Walrus act and I was glad that that awful mate of his, who only gets  him into trouble, wasn’t there, namely Mr Woss.  Grayson Perry, as Clare seemed to be with him, but, then again, it all happened so quickly that I might have been mistaken.

Fatboy Slim – I recognised the oxymoron, was at the centre of a huge octopus, while Jesse J gave everyone their big chance to sing La la la la confidently, because by now most of them knew the words.

The fashion parade was interesting but the commentators did not elaborate on the designers. I thought that Annie Lennox was probably in Vivienne Westwood for her number, but I failed to recognise the Dracula connection.

The pixels and lighting were stunning throughout. Eric Idle’s skating nuns would not have been out of place on Duddingston Loch .  Idle wasn’t shot out of the cannon, but Russell Brand, no, Russell Grant could have been. He had had plenty of practice on Strictly. Now that he has stopped dancing, he might have put on weight and got stuck, however. Sergei, the meerkat might have done it well, but he is anxious to maintain his dignity, so he might not have been too enthusiastic.

The rap did not appeal to me, even though the audience now had the opportunity to repeat, Ay-oh in response to Baby, let’s go.  I thought that was Teletubbie lingo.

Harry was getting a bit bored and started chewing, even just after the big We will rock you number.  I hoped that the Koreans  or Iranians wouldn’t get any ideas for a We will nuke you number.

The Greek flag was raised and that would have been a good moment for a whip-round, I felt.  The Mods on scooters could have whizzed around, collecting the bags.

From Greeks we fast-forwarded to Georgios Michael, who danced all over Damian’s sprayed flag, singing about Freedom and wearing a miniature For The Love of God skull on his belt buckle.  Again, that song title could have suggested a panty pad advertising jingle. Maybe he was out on bail or had a new release coming soon.  Wake me up before you go-go might have given the crowds a chance to vocalise the double syllables that they had been practising throughout the evening.

The London Eye becoming a baldacchino was a powerful symbol of immanence over a vacuum, I thought.  Maybe Zeus or Boris was meant to bless the gathering, but there was no sense of the divine that I could detect.  Lennon’s Imagine stated that there was no heaven nor hell, but only sky above us.  It was moving, but a profound sense of spiritual emptiness swept over me.  Were we meant to worship Man as Superman?  After the exposure of the clay feet of the Tiger Woods of this world, I could only feel limitation, not exaltation.

Past gods materialised in the shape of Mercury- Freddy, to be precise.  He raised the bar of audience participation by challenging the crowd to replicate fairly complex vowel sequences.  The figures on the screens made me think of Brave New World and the feelies.  Was I to become a pleb?

It must have been difficult to entertain everyone while 204 flags were being brought in and athletes were filling in the stripes, like painting by numbers.  Indian drums created tension and suspense, but the white box set building was a natural point for nipping off to the loo, but not if you were in the crowd, obviously.  I wondered about the facilities.  Basically, it was going on too long for anyone’s bladder capacity.  No wonder Philip had given it a miss.

Darcey Bussell’s Firebird section was dazzling, but then there were speeches and that French guy never seemed to smile, though he recognised that our hosting had been happy and glorious, to coin a phrase-not.  Coe smiled, but then he has a job lined up for the next few years, which is more than the marvellous volunteers probably have. To continue The Tempest references, we might echo Antonio, the usurping King of Milan:

Worthy Sebastian….

…methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should’st be…

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head..

I was relieved when the accident-prone Johnson managed to avoid setting himself alight, by furling his flag too close to the flames.  Maybe that was why the Duke of Cambridge was hovering overhead, ready to unleash gallons of water from on high.  Or was he on standby to douse Boris’ burning bush or to dampen Harry’s passion? Maybe he was trying to persuade his granny to jump.  Coe addressed Your Majesties, so he clearly expected them to drop in. Perhaps they had missed their cue.  As a fallback, the massed pipe bands could have played:

Oh ye cannae shove your granny oot a ‘copter-x2

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Gold Standard

27 Monday Aug 2012

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Humour, Olympic Games, Politics, Social Comment, Sport, Summer 2012

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Andy Murray, badminton, David Cameron, General Burnside, gold medal, Gore Vidal, Grayson Perry, installation, London 2012, Olympics, sideburns, stamps, tapestry, Wiggo

Wednesday, 2nd August.

At last, a golden day for Britain, screamed the headlines.  The favourite words of Gore Vidal: I told you so! must have been uttered by many a coach.

We rowed and we rode.  Bradley admitted that he had been greedy, but no other colour than gold had interested him.  So much for it’s all about taking part!  The papers issued cut out hairy ginger adornments which people stuck to their babies at Hampton Court, unaware of the original General Burnside who had popularised them.  Maybe David Cameron could have sported a pair and might have pretended to be Gladstone, which might have affected party unity.

Brad speaks like Grayson Perry, I observed.  Maybe it had been Grayson in disguise all along and the whole summer had been some kind of cycling installation whose success was going to be woven into a tapestry by weavers in Flanders.  Bradley will, no doubt, have some connections there to aid the spoof, or woof.

The scull girlies were presented with a mock-up stamp which featured their success.  They presumably have to share it.

Well, what can they expect in times of austerity? The badminton baddies were disqualified.  No appeal. No parents’ meetings with all concerned. No re-sits.

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Tour de France

26 Sunday Aug 2012

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Humour, Social Comment, Sport, Summer 2012, television, Tennis

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Ann Widdecombe, Bradley Wiggins, Grayson Perry, Hollande, Jacobins, Kirstie Allsopp, Olympic torch, Olympics, Puritan, Roger Federer, Sarkozy, Tour de France, Wiggo

The Olympic torch had been practically blown out on the South coast today.  I could not understand why all those people, including inmates of old people’s homes had been hurled out in their wheelchairs to wave at people in synthetic, white, untailored suits, who brandished perforated Dunce’s caps, or metallic Cornettos.

I could understand why some drawing pins had been strewn in the path of the Tour de France.  It was just so boring.  I did think that if everything was about positive discrimination, then the collective conquerors could all finish at the same time and have a certificate that said how well they had done to take part.  It had been pretty sporting of Bradley Wiggins to let the others catch up after they’d been stopped in their tracks, or tacks, as the case may be.  But, if everyone slowed down to give others a chance, even those with stabilisers, where would be the glory of a maillot jaune?

The thought of being able to consume 8,000 calories daily and still to look as slim as Wiggo and to have a pert little bum that looked good, even in lycra, made me wonder where the nearest velodrome was.

Yes, the French love their Tour de France, but yesterday I had been reminded of their storming of the Bastille, which put them in a rather poor light.  I debated whether six weeks of rain was preferable to six weeks of Terror. There had been  an opening if ever there had been one for Kirstie Allsopp to have created a nation of tricoteuses, or basket weavers, to contain all those untidy heads.  She could have published a recipe book for brioche since the poor common folk experienced a shortage of pain artisanale. I could just see her on the cover, dressed as a shepherdess and photographed in soft focus in front of Le Petit Trianon.  She could keep Phil in order with her crook.

Sian Williams spoiled my reverie as she couldn’t pronounce Juillet.  However, she is probably Welsh and we find it impossible to pronounce their words, so I suppose I mustforgive her.

Grayson Perry was on the programme and he surprisingly criticised French cuisine.  Their cathedrals he had praised, however. I bet that he would have welcomed a place on Kirstie’s book cover.  He loves the Little Bo Peep look and could have asked for a share of the royalties.

Perhaps if the Jacobins had restricted their protests to scattering a few tacks before tumbril wheels in the modern French spirit, fewer heads would have rolled.  On the other hand, the thought of Sarkozy or Hollande receiving a surprise bath time visit might cheer a few EU refuseniks.  Allons, enfants!

The previous evening there had been a rather silly programme which tried to divide our nation into Cavaliers or Roundheads.  Ann Widdecombe was clearly of the Cromwellian party.  In her Puritan mode she said that she couldn’t understand why her fellow female competitors on Strictly wore so little. (Well, they might have been equally confused as to why she was on the programme at all.)  Weren’t they cold? she’d wondered.  Immodest Ann is not.

However, when it came to the abolition of Christmas by the Parliamentarians, she was- roundly?- on the side of the ringleted Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen.  He loves decoration and probably knows how to pronounce Juillet, even though he is of Welsh extraction somewhere down the line.  As would a scholar such as Ann, I added.  I wouldn’t have fancied Marat’s chances if Widdi had wangled her way up the back stairs with a newly sharpened Sabatier, modestly dressed or not.

I was intrigued as to whether the nation’s favourite  Terpsichorean MP would consider Grayson Perry, as Clare, overdressed.

When the Turner prizewinner does not like one of his pots, he smashes it, but has taken to gathering the little ceramic fragments and places them in reliquaries that he has assembled in workshops in India, so that we can all afford some of his art.  Again, Sian didn’t seem to know what a reliquary was, but Widdi would not have had to phone a friend.  So, gratifyingly, shards are in. Just as well, after what we have spent on that giant example.

And still the stuff comes down!

Some neighbourhoods in Switzerland have joined together to force a farmer to have the Alpine bells removed from his herd of cows.  Maybe the noise was keeping Roger awake.  I thought that they should come to Suttonford, where my neighbours would make the farmer’s bovines seem like Trappist monks.  If Wiggo had been whizzing down a mountain track near Roger’s chalet, -pre-match- he might have had to muffle his clapper if a goat had strayed onto the road.  The reporter was Bethany Bell, which amused me, even if it was an early item and I wasn’t quite awake.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Recent Posts

  • Art Deco House
  • Thames Pillbox
  • Coln St Aldwyn Flooded Field
  • Wedding in Sydney, NSW
  • Vertical Slice from my Previous Painting

Archives

  • February 2023
  • January 2023
  • December 2022
  • November 2022
  • October 2022
  • September 2022
  • August 2022
  • July 2022
  • June 2022
  • May 2022
  • April 2022
  • March 2022
  • February 2022
  • January 2022
  • December 2021
  • November 2021
  • October 2021
  • September 2021
  • August 2021
  • July 2021
  • June 2021
  • May 2021
  • April 2021
  • March 2021
  • February 2021
  • January 2021
  • December 2020
  • November 2020
  • October 2020
  • September 2020
  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • June 2020
  • May 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • February 2020
  • January 2020
  • December 2019
  • November 2019
  • October 2019
  • September 2019
  • August 2019
  • July 2019
  • June 2019
  • May 2019
  • April 2019
  • March 2019
  • February 2019
  • January 2019
  • December 2018
  • November 2018
  • October 2018
  • September 2018
  • August 2018
  • July 2018
  • June 2018
  • May 2018
  • April 2018
  • March 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • December 2017
  • November 2017
  • October 2017
  • September 2017
  • August 2017
  • July 2017
  • June 2017
  • May 2017
  • April 2017
  • March 2017
  • February 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • October 2016
  • September 2016
  • August 2016
  • July 2016
  • June 2016
  • May 2016
  • April 2016
  • March 2016
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • November 2015
  • October 2015
  • September 2015
  • August 2015
  • July 2015
  • June 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • January 2015
  • December 2014
  • November 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014
  • May 2014
  • April 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • January 2014
  • December 2013
  • November 2013
  • October 2013
  • September 2013
  • August 2013
  • July 2013
  • June 2013
  • May 2013
  • April 2013
  • March 2013
  • February 2013
  • January 2013
  • December 2012
  • November 2012
  • October 2012
  • September 2012
  • August 2012

Categories

  • Animals
  • Architecture
  • art
  • Arts
  • Autumn
  • Bible
  • Celebrities
  • Community
  • Crime
  • Education
  • Environment
  • Family
  • Fashion
  • Film
  • gardens
  • History
  • Home
  • Horticulture
  • Hot Wings
  • Humour
  • Industries
  • James Bond films
  • Jane Austen
  • Language
  • Literature
  • Media
  • Music
  • mythology
  • Nature
  • News
  • Nostalgia
  • Olympic Games
  • Parenting
  • Personal
  • Philosophy
  • Photography
  • Poetry
  • Politics
  • Psychology
  • Relationships
  • Religion
  • Romance
  • Satire
  • Sculpture
  • short story
  • short story
  • Social Comment
  • Sociology
  • Sport
  • Spring
  • St Swithun's Day
  • Summer
  • Summer 2012
  • Supernatural
  • Suttonford
  • television
  • Tennis
  • Theatre
  • Travel
  • urban farm
  • White Horse
  • winter
  • Writing

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

acrylic acrylic painting acrylics Alex Salmond Andy Murray Ashmolean Australia Autumn barge black and white photography Blenheim Border Terrier Boris Johnson Bourbon biscuit boussokusekika Bradford on Avon Brassica British Library Buscot Park charcoal Charente choka clerihew Coleshill collage Cotswolds David Cameron dawn epiphany Fairford FT funghi Genji George Osborne Gloucestershire Golden Hour gold leaf Hampshire herbaceous borders Hokusai husband hydrangeas Jane Austen Kelmscott Kirstie Allsopp Lechlade Murasaki Shikibu mushrooms National Trust NSW Olympics Oxford Oxfordshire Pele Tower Pillow Book Prisma reflections Roger Federer Sculpture Shakespeare sheep Spring Spring flowers still life Suttonford Tale of Genji Thames Thames path Theresa May Victoria watercolour William Morris willows Wiltshire Winchester Cathedral

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,569 other subscribers

Blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • Candia Comes Clean
    • Join 1,569 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Candia Comes Clean
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
%d bloggers like this: