Poem: The Application

The Application

Dear Sir slash Madam

I write to apply for the

Unadvertised post of

Travel poet.

Unfettered by desk but

With pencil, paper and a suitable hat*

My vocation – a dark and dangerous one

Is to capture the world

One stanza at a time.

And you, my demanding but

Generous employer and patron

Ask only that I go where instructed

And write what is needed:

Epics on the Greensward of Frinton

A sonnet sequence on the Bangkok bath-house experience

A brief affair in Paris – a Limerick perhaps

Or Clerihew.

And, my masterpiece,

Alaska to Tierra Del Fuego

In a haiku. Five syllables

Per continent

And seven for Central America.

*Plus expenses

The Stars Come Out but I Want Writers

So, there's this column I write for The Gloucestershire Echo.

You can read it here.

Or below.

 What sort of place was Cheltenham? I was asked when I was preparing to move here. I dunno, I'd say.

 Horses, Irish people. Umm, angry colonels writing to the Telegraph. (I think I had Cheltenham confused with Tunbridge Wells - Cheltenham, I am so, so sorry.)

 I found out within 10 days it was a place where you met your teenage heroes.

 This is a sad tale, prepare yourself.

 I was living in a bedsit. I was in a new job. I knew nobody. Outside of work hours the only conversations I'd had with living people were the ones that went: "Would you like a bag?' "Yes please." "There you go, here's your receipt."

 On my second Sunday I was wandering the town centre, alone, when I bumped into a work colleague and her friend.

I was obviously so needy and desperate they invited me along to a curry house.

 That's where I met my hero, the man who gave me hope through all the teenage angst - Joseph Heller, the author of Catch 22.

 (That's probably the saddest bit of the story, my bookish nerdy adolescence.)

 My reaction was: that's Joseph Heller. No it can't be. It is, you know, I'd know that face anywhere. But he's a New York writer, why's he eating a lamb bhuna in Bath Road? It can't be.

 It was, and I've got his autograph to prove it.

 Anyway, I love the Literature Festival.

 If, to my shame, I hadn't been totally ignorant of it then, my confusion over Mr Heller's presence might have been lessened.

 I love that my town hosts Seamus Heaney, Heller, Ian Rankin, Sebastian Faulks.

 The names on my shelves visit me, just because I have a GL5 postcode.

And I get to have a curry with them.

 Shut up; he was at the next table. If we'd pushed them together we'd have been a party of seven. We're practically old friends.

 I do have one slight concern.

 I'm looking at the festivals website now; the front-page featured events are: Ray Davies, Amanda Holden, Helen Fielding, Cerys Matthews and Brian May and Midge Ure.

 One writer, and an actress and four musicians who have books out.

 I understand.

 It costs a lot to put on the festival - it doesn't take any council tax money, it brings in a lot to the town, its supported by sponsors and ticket sales and bums on seats really matter.

 But the best events I've ever been to have all been about writers and writing; Adrian Mitchell reading his poems, Steven Pinker on language and the brain, Sam West (an actor, I know) being thrilling about Shakespeare and Simon Armitage holding The Everyman Theatre in his hand as he read his translation of the Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a poem 700 years old.

 Even cantankerous old Will Self who strode on stage, said not a word in introduction, read aloud from his novel Dorian, An Imitation for an hour, nodded and stalked off again was an entertainingly truculent performance.
 And I think his point was made well enough, he's a writer not a talk-show guest.

 So, yes, celebrities by all means.

 But this is still the festival of literature, not people off of the telly.

 And the transforming power of words on the page, and the vital role of the people who put them there, should be front and centre.

It's a serious profession

One of the things I love about the newspaper trade is its high-minded commitment to enlightening the public This was in the Gloucestershire Echo Read it here

Autumn or Spring

This appeared in the Gloucestershire Echo and Gloucester Citizen
Read it here.

The lessons of Lyndon Johnson. Why David Cameron may yet be glad of defeat

The defeat of the coalition government over Thursday’s motion in Parliament has been presented as a humiliation for David Cameron.

 And it’s never good for a Prime Minister not to be able to command a majority in the House of Commons. That way lies the path to the door to No 10, on the way out; one’s own foundation and millions of pounds in speaking engagements.

But it might be that David Cameron will be very grateful indeed for the defeat.

The one thing we know about getting involved militarily in the Middle East is that it’s never as easy as it looks.

When Northern Alliance forces took Kabul behind the BBC’s John Simpson after a few days fighting in 2001, the war in Afghanistan looked done. Five years later British troops were deployed to Helmand and Defence Secretary John Reid hope they wouldn’t have to fire ‘a shot in anger.’ US vice-presidenet Dick Cheney predicted coalition troops would be welcomed in Iraqi towns like liberators, having flowers strewn upon them. The only response to those thoughts is: “How did that work out for you, fellers?”

I’ve no doubt David Cameron wants to engage in action against Assad’s regime in Syria. The case for it is nigh-on compelling. (The only questions the pro-action faction haven’t answered are : “How will it help?” and “How will it end?”; unfortunately we have learned in the last dozen years that they are critical ones.)

But he should learn the lessons of Lyndon Johnson.

Johnson was  a president who inherited a war he didn’t care about. He is on record as describing Vietnam as ‘that bitch of a war.’ Yet it is all he is remembered for.

 The fact that he, a Texas, southern Democrat, remember, enacted, and then enforced sweeping civil rights legislation, and did much to eradicate near-third-world rural poverty in the US is almost totally forgotten.

What is recalled is body counts, naked girls running down roads and “hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?”

My point is, war defines administrations, unless leaders are very lucky.

 It did for Johnson. It does for Tony Blair. The Falklands war is one of two defining moments in Margaret’ Thatcher’s 11 years as PM. It lasted 2 months out of 138 months of her rule, less than 1.5 per cent of her time in office. It is what we remember her for.

David Cameron is free of that. But he is also free of any charge of cowardice; of appeasing dictators; or moral laxity.

He wanted, he wants, to take action. But Parliament has spoken. The British people have spoken. He gets it. His hands are tied.

I’m sure he is disappointed. Possibly furious. But when I hear him say he will listen to parliament, I think I hear unconscious relief. H wanted to make the tough choice, do what perhaps is the right thing, but he can’t.

 His time as PM won’t be defined by the dead children, and the bodybags at Brize Norton, and  funeral parades at Wootton Bassett. If he isn’t relieved, perhaps he should be.

No time for Olympianism?

I had a very pleasant evening at Wembley Stadium yesterday, watching the USA play Japan in the women's football final.

The football was good; creative and attacking and the crowd was excited and very happy to be there.

The organisation at the stadium, and (especially) the transport after the game was a triumph. There were 80,000 people there yet from leaving my seat, to getting on a tube train at no time did I actually have to stop walking - though I was going slowly at times.

It was unfortunate though, that after the match, as the Japanese team  lined up in a very dignified fashion, after their 2-1 defeat, on both side of the pitch to bow to the crowd, that the Stadium announcer chose to play the Queen song 'We are the Champions'.

It might seems fitting for a final, and I'm sure the victorious USA team loved it, but watching the runners up acknowledge the supporters with such grace as the hateful, and totally un-Olympian line: "No time for losers, for we are the Champions" rang out was the worst thing about the whole night.

Women's sport could be the BBC's legacy from these games

Lizzie Armitstead, Etienne Stott, Kristian Thomas, Gemma Gibbons, Sophie Hoskings, and 24 other (currently) are household names in Britain.

They are the country’s Olympic medallists, we’ve watched them yell and sob and answer inane questions on the BBC’s sofas. They are our heroes and heroines.

But within, oh, a couple of months, most will be forgotten. Some we will remember again when they reappear in Rio in four years, while others will slip back to the near total obscurity, whence they have so recently emerged.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

The BBC is a wonderful broadcaster, and it is busy slathering itself in glory like sunscreen during these Olympics. It is a home games, and the organization made an excellent decision to show every minute of every event on two main channels, 24 extra feeds and three radio stations.  And it has proved that the British public love sport; all sport.

We roared Mo Farah home, yes, but we’ve also gone mad for scullers, cyclists following a moped, whitewater canoers and clay pigeon shooters.

The Beeb has come under a lot of flak for not being able to compete with the commercial behemoth of Sky for the rights to premiership football, test cricket, rugby league, Ryder Cup golf and many more.

It shouldn’t try.

It would be an act of wonderful public service broadcasting to commit itself to showing both minority sports and, especially, women’s sport.

The BBC could resurrect its Saturday afternoon sports magazine Grandstand and show us more sailing, kayaking, judo, handball, volleyball; the list is nearly endless.

To be fair, since Britain started to dominate in rowing and track cycling, the corporation’s coverage of those sports has been excellent. And that includes women’s events. But I suspect if Victoria Pendleton was not competing at the same time as Chris Hoy, if Katherine Grainger wasn’t at the same regatta as Andrew Triggs-Hodge, we would barely hear of them.  The BBC can do more for women.

There is an appetite in the British public to watch and learn about minor sports, and particularly women’s sport. The belief that we only care about (men’s) football is not true; it’s just that, pretty much, it is all we are offered, by television and  newspapers.

But half a million people lined the roads of London and Surrey for  the men’s cycling roadrace; a million came out for the Tour de France  in 2007.  The Tour’s organizers were astonished at the numbers and enthusiasm and have promised to return.

More importantly, 300,000 people stood in pouring rain to cheer the women’s road race. There is no bump from the glamour of European pro racing for that event. Nicole Cooke, one of Britain’s truly great athletes of either sex over the last 10 years could walk down unrecognized in any street. But Brits want to watch her, and her colleagues race, and they proved it last Sunday.

The publicly funded BBC should use the example of the judo players Gemma Gibson and Karina Bryant and use its commercial opponents' strength against them. Let Sky have the Premier League, let it have Test cricket, let it have Six Nations rugby if it must.

But the BBC can afford the rights for women’s cycling, for downhill canoeing, for netball, for women’s golf, for women’s football, for archery, for all of it. I suspect that if a free-to-air broadcaster wanted to show, say, archery to the nation on a Saturday afternoon, it could probably get the rights for free.

The BBC could show us a different side to sport, the good stuff; the ordinary people trying their best, aiming for glory, accepting defeat with courage and taking victory with grace.  A contrast to over-pampered millionaires, baby Bentley’s and racial abuse.

More importantly it could inspire all people, and critically, young women and girls to take up sport and a love of physical activity. It could show them that life can be about striving and achievement, not about worrying about their appearance for the approval of others.

Now, that would be a legacy.