This week’s Workshop occurred just too late for American Independence, so an opportunity to delve into the many visiting Statesiders to Pitzhanger Manor over the years has been lost. I know Aubrey was a little put out by the calendrical shenanigans, as he loves to show off his Englishness on “Four-Seven”, as he insists on calling it. In past years, he has Bertied his Wooster to billy-o in his tweeds and Wellingtons (both of which look far too hot for July), but by the Fifth he just looks late-to-the-party. I remember one year he even attempted to dye his moustache with a Union Jack design, but it just looked like he had been eating cupcakes and let his ’tache dip into the buttercream topping. And yes, I did just call the flag a jack. And no, I will not be issuing an apology.
Strangely, both Aubrey and I do not have reliable national days to call on. We both have patron saint, but neither really fills the bill. His George was an Anatolian who had never even heard of the British Isles, and who’s only claim to fame was to hunt down an endangered specie (that’s right, without a final ‘s’), while my Patrick was a Welshman who likewise extirpated the snakes and thus doomed the nation to never produce any decent heavy metal bands. I suppose there is something heartwarming in a former slave returning to forgive his former masters, and his being an immigrant is very on-trend, but it doesn’t bode well that the only thing he can inspire in the modern world is the piss-up. But the biggest problem is that their respective feast days are in the changeable Spring, when organising a barbecue is a dicey affair. The Yankees certainly got this one right – only ever fight for freedom in the Summer.
So, at this week’s not-at-all-American workshop, John Hurley has been grumpy about critics, and who better deserves some harrumphing than those-who-can’t. Owen Gallagher, meanwhile, was imagining an outgrowth of Dorset sycamores beside factory gates, and Michael Harris has been lurking in the nether regions with the dancing chairs. Next up was new member Anna Matyjiw’s mixed emotions on leaving one home for another, to the rhythm of the banging radiators, and the worldly-wise James Day knows all about how life goes, or does he…? More trees from David Hovatter, these ones growing outside the British Museum, so often overlooked by those exiting with their heads still in Ancient Egypt or Mezzo-America, while Martin Choules has been casting his line back into his memory and musing on the poem that got away. We then witnessed Doig Simmonds pleading with an apocalyptic clock for a little more time, and finally Nick Barth calmly transitioned past the Midsummer of his life.
I have suggested to Aubrey that he could pioneer a revival of his wardrobe in modern English society, particularly with global warming making our Summers ever hotter. Perhaps the one-piece Victorian bathing costume could make a comeback ?, particularly for when lying on the beach and in need of protection from the Sun’s rays. Or with music festivals increasingly banning flags and banners, there could be a place for the top hat in the blocking-the-view-of-those-behind-you role. And never underestimate the condescending possibilities of a pair of half-moon spectacles to peer over when disagreeing with somebody in the comments section.
Of course, Americans have long been trailblazers of fashion, and indeed the well-dressed cowboy would never be without a trail-blazer to wear to dinner of jerky and beans around an open fire. Ezra “Ezzy” Pound was particularly sharply-turned out on his visits to the Manor, always with collar and cravat, shoes and cufflinks strictly worn on the correct side. But according to the Archives, on the hot evenings of July he was wont to complain of the humidity, comparing it unceasingly with the thoroughly-modern heat of his homeland. As for celebrating Independence Day, (I know I said we were too late, but what with the time difference and daylight savings we might just squeeze it in) he would insist they all build a bonfire in the now-public park to grill slabs of sirloin and fire off revolvers into the air. Needless to say, the good burgers of Ealing were not impressed, and no number of boozily-shouted haikus could make amends – which the locals rather looked down upon as failed-Limericks without a decent nudge-nudge final line. Why couldn’t those noisy Americans have a nice boring national day like the English did in…March ?…April ?…well, whenever…
The Pitshanger Poets 