Richard Peters -in the Sai Kung Country Park

2 Starry Days -Blush, l'Arpeggiata and Michelle Yeoh!

Well, as weeks go this one is pretty good. Pop, renaissance music and a star-bejewelled film premiere. I'll try to be brief...

Thursday 2nd February

Pop!

It's been a long time since I went to see a pop star (whatever one of those is). I don't know if Kylie the Minogue or a Madonna are real pop stars or whether the title 'King of Pop' should have ever been applied to the late Michael 'I-just-wish-I-could-understand-my-father' Jackson. For me, 'pop' denotes etherial childhood memories of such musical luminaries as the Bay City Rollers and Gary Glitter, but any search through a catalogue of such artistes talentueux now sees them listed under the headings 'Glam' or 'Pervert' (quelle est la différence?). Maybe the identification of 'pop' back in thum days lay more with bizarre titles and lyrics –can someone tell me what Suzi Quattro meant by Can the Can or the point Noddy Holder was on about when he sang the following,

Gudbuy T'Jane, gudbuy T'Jane,

She's a dark horse see if she can.

Gudbuy T'Jane, gudbuy T'Jane,

Painted up like a fancy young man.

'Pop', therefore...surely, must refer to POP-ular –meaning that someone actually likes the stuff (note my powers of deduction). The title of 'Supreme Pop Group', however, must eventually be applied to those Norsk-Dansk types who formed Aqua and famously got rich on Barbie Girl proving along the way that there's no such thing as a bad multi-platinum record!

Blush are a relatively new all-girl 'pop' outfit from this part of Asia. With eye-catching token Filippina, Chinese, Korean, Indian and Japanese, they've been wowing the crowds hither and thither and are promoted well enough to be hitting the big time supporting more established acts such as B.o.B, Far*East Movement, Black Eyed Peas and Justin Bieber –whoever they are. 

The girls and their entourage turned up in front of the un-cool educational edifice of KGV School to serenade da kids during lunchtime –no, that's wrong: to 'whoop' them into a pop-fuelled, teenage frenzy! And this they duly did judging from the numbers of rubbery day-glow wrist bangles and signed posters greedily grasped by the sweaty and impressionable 11- and 12-year olds after the show. I think the industry term for this sort of activity is, 'establishing a fan base'

No matter who you are, a KGV School audience is fickle –even Mozart himself would have to compete with Pokemon card tournaments, boys football on the field, Minecraft computer worlds and nonchalantly half-nibbled chicken legs. They got through... eventually... when the man on the mixing desk pumped up the volume.

Watching them strutting their funky stuff in the full light of day, I warmed to their act –actually, they were quite good, even if I am slightly positively-prejudiced: I taught the delightful Alisha Bushrani a few times over the years and it was really enjoyable to see her doing well (all teachers say that sort of drivel, but it's true). We had a brief chat later on that day: their recent push onto the bigger stages of the world means there's now a chance for them to do even greater things –which I am not at liberty to divulge. You heard it (that is, nothing at all) here first, folks... 

Renaissance Classical!

You might image that all that teeny-bopping perspiration was enough for one day, but I was bored during a holiday afternoon last week and bought a load of concert tickets for the 40th Hong Kong Arts Festival. I wasn't too sure about this particular concert, but it was promoted well and, after all, it's hard to go wrong with music from the renaissance. So in the evening, off me and the Memsahib did trot to the City Hall.

Music from the Renaissance this may well have been, but not like wot I has hearded before. I have listened to Monteverdi's Toccata from Orfeo oh I don't know how many times, often performed with a prim, over-inflated pomposity that would have stretched the corn of cornyness even during the renaissance, but this concert held an improvised and exciting novelty which at times made me wonder whether I was listening to completely new music. L'Arpeggiata brought the renaissance alive –not as museum-pieces, but as the excited breath of a dancer holding your hands as you both speedily twirl around the dancefloor: I could scarcely stay in my seat! The marked difference between the rather polite unflappable concertyness of most classical music performances and these Neopolitan and Italian emotion-filled expressions of life could not be more marked.

The wonderful Lucilla Galeazzi had us all eating out of her hands, such was her capacity to engage –just listen to this Youtube clip. It wasn't all jiggery-pokery and some of the more reflective pieces were mournful and truly Italianate, such as can be demonstrated here.

But you can't win 'em all, as the sleepy soul in the seat in front of us ably demonstrated, awakening only at the conclusion of each piece to join the chorus of clapping. I guess when you're tired then you're tired, but unnerving thoughts about the state of my sanity would enter my mind if I'd paid good money to sit in a room with hundreds of other people to leave two hours later with only the barest recollection about what I was doing there and why everyone around me was applauding...

Friday 3rd February

Film!

We all like being the first one to see a movie. I responded lightning-quick to an email from Amnesty International inviting me to see the Asian premiere of The Lady, Luc Besson's new film about the rise of Aung San Suu Kyi from Oxford Academic's wife to famous stateswoman promoting Burmese democracy upon the world stage. As such, we received Wonka-like Golden Tickets in the mail to the screening at the Grand Cinema in the vast, meandering Elements mall that overlooks Hong Kong harbour.

This is primarily a love story about a married couple, perhaps an unfashionable topic for some –no seedy sex, no devastating dénouements, no unfaithful connivances or earthquake-like betrayals, no Hugh Grant, just the tenderness of a marriage that is threatened and finally overwhelmed by power-hungry generals, the painful needs of a poor country and, eventually, terminal illness. I cried.

Quite simply, Michelle Yeoh is Aung San Suu Kyi, long speeches in Burmese language notwithstanding. A tough role for anybody, particularly when the actress must portray vulnerability and strength, assailability and determination, she crafted a believable character who's endearing morality is miles above that of her opponents. That Suu, as she is tenderly called, survived at all is testament to the work of many others as well as to her resilience. But survive she does receiving a Nobel Peace Prize along the way largely because her husband, played by the great David Thewlis, tirelessly fought for her submission to the Norwegian Nobel Committee.

Michelle Yeoh is perhaps best known for her nature role in martial arts epic Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and as the feisty Chinese Bond Girl in Tomorrow Never Dies. She arrived with Luc Besson and his beautiful current (and third) wife Virginie Silla –a good producer in her own right: there then took place a photographic orgasm, the flash and video lights of every camera in the room erupting to capture the moment without knowing quite what it was they were trying to capture. The usual speeches over, all Golden Ticket holders (the unbearably stylish, the duffel coated worthies and the mundane) poured past the barriers and A.I. yellow t-shirted ushers into each of the cinema houses. As we sat waiting, the same celebrated trio arrived to deliver another pep-talk. Michelle looked the most nervous and inclined the audience to go with the emotions of the film –excellent advice! Go and see this film. I promise you won't be disappointed.

Film over, the stars once again popped in to each cinema to wave and receive warm applause. Miss Yeoh knew several audience members and stopped for kisses and kind words. On our way out a nicely dressed couple stood near the exit –Luc and Virginie. With a handshake I congratulated him on the film and asked whether it was shot in Thailand. He said that the first few minutes and the forested footage and landscape were shot in Myanmar within about a week –that was all the time they were given to get essential footage. (Some of that, such as the massive, iconic, golden Schwedagon Pagoda, must have also been digitized for backgrounds.) He went on to add that most of it was filmed in Thailand. I added that I was moved by the film which he was quite glad to hear: another fan was still crying next to them.

A good end to the week hob-nobbing with the stars (sorry I wasn't brief at all). I should, of course, now conclude with a quippy sign-off such as, I suppose even stars are real people, but I just can't. The point to be made now is that this Amnesty event highlighted the plight of an entire people under brutal dictatorship (what other kind is there?). Although things may seem to be improving, there's still a question mark about what will happen next –it could all go tits-up with recent positive gains all reversed. Please take a look at the Amnesty site. Why not drop them a bob or two: Myanmar Amnesty International.

The Eyes Do Have It!

Top quality! First class! Kept me spellbound for the whole 2 hours! Bravo!

Not mere hyperbole, but perhaps I should start at the beginning -in much the same way as in the most excellent Argentinian film, The Secret in Their Eyes (El secreto de sus ojos). Don't read any spoilers if you're going to see this (only other screenings are Sunday 3rd & Monday 4th Oct).

Tis not often I get to see something of which I know nothing beforehand. More often than not, someone refers a title or I hear a revue on the radio driving home. This one, however, came straight out of the blue, I had no inkling as to what it would be about and was all the better for it.

The basic plot: Federal Justice Agent, the wonderfully reserved Benjamín (Ricardo Darín), is called to examine the body of a brutally raped and murdered young woman. Although the rest of the film is his story regarding the impact of this terrible crime, the real interest lies in his relationships with his boss, the beautiful Irene (Soledad Villamil), and with his boozy aide, Sandoval (Mariano Argento). These relationships keep you interested primarily because the characters are wonderfully real -beautiful! The actors are simply superb and make you want to watch them delve deeper into their parts' lives. The film's director, Juan José Campanella, carefully constructed and lovingly recreated the scenes in the 70s and 90s. The actors are also convincing in their ageing, not just through make-up and hair, but in appropriate posturing and mannerisms. It is no wonder the film received an Oscar last year for best Foreign Language Film. One of the best scenes is the 5-minute continuous take of the football stadium -from above, among the players, in the crowd and on the chase for the elusive suspect: a technical marvel.

The film is an adaptation of Eduardo Sacheri's book, La Pregunta de Sus Ojos (The Question in Their Eyes). Lots of films lose the essence of the books that inspired them, but I'm pretty certain this is not one of them. Don't take my word for it; Metacritic gave it 81/100 which means 'Universal Acclaim'!

All this and a trip to the Broadway Cinematheque in Mongkok too -can't be all that bad living in HK...

Three Countries, Three Hotels, Three Stars

Sometimes strange patterns emerge from seemingly random occurrences; I get the feeling you’ve had déjà vu, and we've all had thoughts about people only to have them immediately phone you, and autistic people know all about the obvious causal links between three red cars in a row and ‘Bad Days’! But I think I’ve spied a nice little pattern which, of course –according to the Law of Sod (and perhaps more pertinently because I’ve mentioned it), will now probably never happen again. This is checking into a hotel and seeing a superb and unplanned concert that night. Let me explain by listing these occasions in order.

1) About five years ago I thought I’d treat Brenda to a dirty Birthday weekend at the Mandarin Oriental in Macau. To top it all, I knew that a lovely New Joysey jazz singer, Stacey Kent, was also singing that night at the ski-jump designed Macau Cultural Centre. So, after a long day’s pampering in the overpriced spa and a superb dinner in the hotel, we tottered over the road to the wintry wind-swept concert hall complex and took in a wonderful jazz evening. (This one I had planned so perhaps for those stickers for detail amongst you the spontaneous nature of the trend is automatically negated, but Brenda didn’t know anything about it, so for me it counts as 50%.)

2) Last year Bren and I took the kids (and their boyfriends) to the beautiful mountainous region of the Picos de Europos in northern Spain for our last family holiday (where we pay for bloody everything). We drove to the beautiful old Galician city of Santiago de Compostella and stayed in a rustic converted mill house beside a rushing stream a mere stone’s throw from the centre of town. (For those stickler’s for detail amongst you I concede that it was not strictly a hotel, but we paid hotel prices so that’s also a 50%.) On the first evening we wandered up to the main Praza do Obradoiro (lit. Workshop Square) outside the enormous baroque cathedral and saw a concert stage being erected. At the other end of the magnificent  square a ticket booth advertised, ‘Lou Reed in Concert’ and indeed he, along with Laurie Anderson, played in the square under a cloudy Galician night sky. An expensive evening for me (buying six tickets!), the performance was nevertheless a greatest fusion of Lou Reed’s romantic poeticism and Laurie Anderson’s astounding intellectual exercises.

3) This week Brenda is attending a conference in Belfast and we have arrived early to spend a couple of days exploring the city. Booking the hotel over the phone, the receptionist told me that I’d be lucky to get a room “because of Rod Stewart”. Now, I have always assumed him a bit of a lothario, but wondered how even he would get around to performing in all those rooms! We got in early in the day at The Hilton, wandered over to the Odyssey Arena and purchased our tickets. It was pissing down so we took in Toy Story 3 before the show –what a great little movie and perhaps worthy of its’ own weight in blog entries. From 8 until 10.15 a sterling Rod and the excellent band wowed the 20,000 Ulstermen and women in the packed arena with a top show, the consummate showman clearly enjoying doing what he does best –singing a career’s-worth of the last 40 years with an accomplished and infectious enthusiasm. Such were the number of hits, he inevitably had to leave out, more's the pity, but it was certainly worth the £65. (And for those stickler's for detail amongst you this one meets all categories.)

So there you have it, three shows and three hotels. Anyone else have a pattern as good as that?

 

La Comparaison Française Passionnante de Café

'Sacred Blue' et 'Mon Dieu' all 'ta Mere est Belge' all rolled into one: What a Gallic week!

First I had my first meeting with my Morocco Atlas Adventure team: Crazy French speaking snail scoffers, one-and-all. I think I'm going to have to brush up on the old parlez a bit or this school trip will consist of me barking l'instructions en Anglais to a bunch of quizzical shrugging Gauloise-smoking non-commitals.

Perhaps I'd better explain. I have foolishly volunteered to organize a school trip in October to my niece's High Atlas homestay some distance from Marrakech, Morocco. She married a Berber, ya know! Me not being fluent in Arabic or the local ancient Berber languages, Tachelhiyt or Tamazigt, I thus thought it prudent to bring une bande de Française parlez-ing henchmen to corral the sweetest of sweet Hong Kong children there and back again and chat amicably with the locals in the ex-colonial patois. We'll see in October if my trans-marche judgement was misplaced.

I must say that research into the local Moroccan tongues has been fascinating. The Berber folk have had a separate identity that pre-dates Arab, Christian and Roman invasions and possibly even the ancient Egyptians. They have had their script since the grand old Punic times of ancient Carthage and Hannibal. Theirs is a proud culture which appears to centre around sweeping down from the hills, setting fire to things and then carrying slaves back up into thum thar hills. I've looked around, but it appears local bookshops are out of stock of Cantonese-Tamazight dictionaries, so if anyone knows how to say, "Stop kidnapping me, I'm an ESF teacher!" in any Hamito-semitic dialects, please let me know.

*

Yesterday I did a foolish thing. Actually, it began a while ago when Brenda (quite rightly) complained that I had been away with the choir to concerts in Bangkok and Manila and had a jolly good time, whereas we have not been away together (without the girls) for as long as we could remember. That will, of course, change and we'll go away somewhere exciting soon. So, despite keen invites to dinners and friendly cajolings to see bands and other social events, I decided to stick with Plan A and take Bren to the pictures last night - in lieu of future outings! I turned to the Broadway Cinematheque webpages to book something. And I duly did, rushed out with Brenda from school at 5-ish, got angry being lost behind slow moving vehicles in Yau Ma Tei (not so difficult -have you tried the one-way system lately?), finally parked at the cinema and ran upstairs to quickly present my credit card -no tickets! It appears I had booked the right film at the right time, but in all my haste had booked the wrong bloody cinema. (By the way, there's a season of French Cinema coming up in June -see link below)

The choix du jour, then, was between "I Love You Phillip Morris", a humourous gay film starring Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor or some French award-winning filme, Le Refuge. Not feeling particularly humourous (not particularly gay for that matter) I plumped for the latter. Hmmm...

I have a cool-headed admiration for French cinema. Some of the best cinematic moments I can recall have emerged from the froggies; They seem to be able to take matters very seriously indeed with not a smile in sight (a very mature attitude set quite apart from the English schoolboy sniggering when, for example, we see exposed lady parts) and also seem to be very amicable again and again (in joyous romps like Taxi, Taxi 2, Taxi 3, etc). But I digress...

The Refuge, or Le Refuge, concerns a Parisienne addict called 'Mousse' who, after her lover takes an overdose, awakens to find herself pregnant. The rest of the film concerns her trying to come to terms (or not) with this overwhelming fact whilst accompanied by her dead lover's gay adopted brother and his boyfiend who is also her housekeeper. Are you with me still?

I'm not a big sympathiser of smack-heads. I'm sure there are desperate reasons for their plight and better ones for their re-integration and re-introduction into societé, but the portrayal of this vache égoïste left me cold. I realise the point of the film was to let me in on her world, the life from death, the escape from addiction, the building of something new, etc, etc, but her self-obsession angered me. Maybe, as I'm sure the Director François Ozon would be only too keen to point out, that's the point: her life is turned around. Both Brenda and I left feeling a bit empty. We didn't much enjoy (even with les popcorn et dogs chaud) watching the protagonists shoot up. From then on it went from bad to worse. The holiday home in Normandy, on the other hand, was to die for. But that got me thinking more about me holidays than Mousse's upcoming delivery. The denoument was a bit of a disappointment, réalisme notwithstanding, and left me caring even less for her character. I know, I know, Monsieur Hulot's Holiday this certainly was not, but could he not have had a positive message, any kind of hint that it was a story worth telling and which might arouse some sort of interest. Ah well, back to my Gauloise (puff, puff...)

The Broadway has a fantastic DVD shop, unlike any other in HK. I picked up another couple of titles, including one in the second category I earlier mentioned. L'événement le plus important depuis que l'homme a marché sur la Lune, or A Slightly Pregnant Man, by Jacques Demy, is a gentle comedic outing from a simpler era. This 1973 film co-starring Catherine Deneuve concerns a Parisian driving instructor who manages to become pregnant. Following the surprise, fame and fortune beckons much to his bewilderment. It is a charming window on a France I grew up knowing was on the other side of the Channel -Renaults and tabacs, magasins et moustaches. This is no great masterpiece, but it makes you smile. C'est un film heureux!

One thing struck me. In both films the breakfasting French did not use les demitasses for their morning coffees. Instead, they used bloody great cornflake bowls! This is something I've not seen before. Tell me, please, is this a 'normal' activity over there? Do all of our Gallic cousins take their early caffeine hits thus?

A Bad Hair Day for Olympus

Well, you know how it is –a rainy afternoon with not much to do (plenty to do, actually, but would rather not do it) and an hour at the pictures beckons…

Clash of the Titans is a another predictable (perhaps a little too predictable) Hollywood/British remake of that title. Not having witnessed the 1981 Larry Olivier wonder, and aware that Greek myths have rarely made the grade in any Tinseltown production, we nevertheless made our way somewhat open-mindedly to the Broadway Cinematheque. The BC is a great treasure in Hong Kong. As cinema complexes go it’s none-too fancy, but the two shops (bookshop and cafe, the other DVDs and mags) always adds spice and interest to the day, no matter what's on.

Sam Worthington, as the hero Perseus, has recently popped up here and there, mostly as a convincing but inveterate scowler (think of his howling angst-ridden half-Terminator and paraplegic blue Avatar outings). He recently performed in a domestic Australian setting of Macbeth in Melbourne which, by all accounts, was truly one to miss. Based on those performances alone I think I would rather welcome back Russell Crowe, the tender-happy-chappy he must truly be. Put it this way, I preferred him scowling rather than the cringe-worthy half-smile forced at the very end. I didn't really care for his performance and didn't care for Perseus -we knew all along, don't we, that there's never any real danger that the demi-god wouldn't scrape by somehow.

 Liam Neeson needs no introduction, but he clearly put his four pence-worth into the proceedings as a Zeus much troubled by naughty human insouciance: apparently they have stopped worshipping him and have begun tearing down his statues. 

He allows his brother Hades (Ralph Fiennes) to wreak wevengeful havoc by weleasing the kwakken on the next solar eclipse –that’s just eight days away, oh no! This wonderful theme could have been much developed, if the writers had had the courage to discuss even briefly Man vs God.

I must say that the most watchful character is Fiennes, who seems to relish any role in anything he does, his appearances a little over-theatrical, but hey, this ain’t no historical docu-drama!

A word or two about the myths. We often today use the word incorrectly, akin to ‘lying’. Myths in the ancient world, like the story of Perseus, were common and well-known. As the secret love child of a lustful Zeus, Perseus was famous for killing Medusa and defeating the Kraken. But his was really a moral story connected with hubris, accepting one’s fate and overcoming adversity. Rather than being held aloof from human affairs, the Greek gods epitomised human foibles. It is true they were set up as set examples of role models, but they also fought, had sordid love affairs, chased, raped and murdered (with both/either sexes). They demanded a certain respect and decorum and an almost over-religious piety in their devotees which they duly received and reciprocated the worshipful relationship with their boons and astonishing answers to prayer the like of which would amaze attendees at Lourdes. For example, the biggest shrine to the healing god Asclepius in Epidaurus, contained hundreds of little wooden legs, arms, eyes –thankful offerings of just about any part of the body given by those healed at the shrine. Myths may be just stories about the gods, but the Greeks took it all very seriously and were clearly as devoted as any Roman Catholic or Muslim today.

Of course, the real Titans were the sons of Gaia and Uranus who themselves were overthrown by the youngsters on Mount Olympus. These stories stagger out of the Bronze Age, imbued with an archaic mysticism hard for us today to comprehend. War in Heaven? Patricide and cannibalism? Now THESE are great stories which should be in motion pictures!

There is one little appearance of the mechanical owl, Bubo, which apparently appears in the 1981 film. A gift from Athena it leads Perseus towards the Stygian Witches. However, in this version Perseus  merely picks it up on his way to begin his quest and is simply told to 'leave it', perhaps the only nod to the aforementioned film.

Clash of the Titans is not a serious movie, but it tries to be in its’ own meta-world. I think I might have enjoyed the 3D aspect more if I was 10, but the most impressive aspect were the Chinese subtitles -which really stuck out!

*

After which, and as a complete contrast, I popped in a cab and made my way to the Cultural Centre for a rehearsal of Handel's Messiah (due for performance on Thursday Night). The Hong Kong Welsh Male Voice Choir are holding sway for the first half and then many are staying to help out with the Oratorio in the second. Tickets still available, etc, etc.

*

After which, and as another complete contrast, I thence proceeded to Ned Kelly's in Ashley Road, Tsim Sha Tsui whereupon to chew fat with said choristers whilst listening to the excellent live trad jazz on offer there. Poor Brenda, awaiting in a public bar in Sai Kung for me to finish, swing past, pick up and whisk her off home, when mein host Mike Brown (larger the life proprietor) insisted we have another: an offer impossible to refuse. We return for Round #2 on Thursday...

The winter night is in and I got dem Sunday night blues...

We all have them, I suppose, but I got dem blues bad. Weekends aint long enough...

Of course, once I am busy at work tomorrow these thoughts will all be rather wasted. But I thought I'd share these miserable emotions with you anyway.

Talking of misery, I saw The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford on Saturday night. A grand film, if perhaps not quite 'epic' and the cinematography some of the finest North America has to offer. The good production gave it a really believable sense of time and place (1880s midwest). Perhaps it also has to do with the a very credible 1983 book of the same name which, by all accounts, is rather good. I will, however, most likely never read it!

 

Ultimately I found the whole film not a little tedious and couldn't wait for Brad Pitt, no matter how well he played the unlikeable character of Jesse James, to finally get shot to death. I would have pulled the trigger myself just to get all the psychological angst over and done with. Perhaps, ironically, the plot was hampered by some over-emphasis on that damned mighty fincy-fancy cinematography getting in the way of a fairly simple story of betrayal and murder.

But having said all that, this is, perhaps, one of those films that will proabably stay with me, not least because of all the above.

People from Hull (Hullites?)

"Err nerr, doo ya nerr..?"

Some years ago I had the great pleasure of living in Hull. I say that, of course, with a little satirical inflection. Hull was, quite simply, an experience. Perhaps it's all about self-awareness and the remote location -a deliberate focus on the idea of social solitude and meditation. What is 'Hull'?

 

Maybe we should begin with the pronunciation. Most think it should be said in much the same way as 'a ship's hull'. But I remember hitch-hiking to Hull one wintry night on th'M62 Motorway and was getting no-where. At a transport caff, uncomfortably looking for a lift from truckers in the car park, I came upon a Dutch/German trucker poring over an enormous map. He looked puzzled at the name, then his face changed and he let out a loud "HÜÜL!!"

 

The Memsahib was in her second year of her degree at the lovely Hull College of Higher Education. I had just begun a two year catering course at North Devon College and was desperately missing her by the week/day/hour/minute. I put in for a transfer and was grateful that I got it. Grateful to leave North Devon College on Sticklepath Hill. Grateful to leave home in Lynton. Grateful, I tell you..! At last we could be together.

 

You have to understand I was young, deeply in love, my head full of nothing but the Memsahib, Memsahib, Memsahib. I would have stoically gone through fire and water merely to be with her. It was in her second year that she shared college digs with three other young 80s females a full 1 1/2 miles from the Howarth Arms on the lovely Cottingham Road (pronounced "rerr'd") . I hitched up there sometime in the summer and stayed for a few days. So loved up, I thought it all charming and the heady cloud of female pheromones made my stay one massive non-stop-24-hour-turn-on! 

 

For her first year the Memsahib and her friend Jackie shared a room in a little terrace house, 10 Ash Grove, just off the Beverley Road, complete with a marvellously stocky and widowed Hull landlady, Joan (pronounced "Jern") . In her third year the situation changed. Her new flatmates in Cottingham Road were unsocial misfits. So she and her flatmate Jackie moved back in with Joan. In January 1986 I rolled up from Devon to be near the Memsahib. Joan had an adult daughter, Suzie, brain damaged at birth. She was often sat upon the floor of the dining room enjoying "What Kind of an Animal are You?" by Burl Ives. Meanwhile, the Memsahib and meself had to make sure we weren't caught kissing and canoodling in the bedrooms. So we went out a lot in the car

 

Let me say now that Hull was a cheap place to live. I think my rent with Joan was ten quid per week and that included dinner and breakfast! Joan obviously enjoyed having young people around. For her last year the Memsahib was promised her own college flat, but it was not ready in time. I found a free flat in the centre of Hull (which I shared with a couple of Botswanans!) and the Memsahib lived again with Joan for a short while. I remember traipsing through the snow to her house and throwing little stones at her window so she would let me in...

We also both lived for a while with the Memsahib's aunt on the 18th floor in the lovely Sutton Park. Then we looked for and found a one-bedroom hovel in Ella Street which cost us £11 per week. It was freezing, had a big draughty bay window and holes in the skirting through which one of our poor hamsters departed -never to be seen again. The 50p slot for heating the bath water in the shared bathroom devoured all our cash, so I only remember quick tepid dunks (Brenda first, of course). We bought a telly and sofa bed and spent our evenings shivering under the duvet. Before it all became too much the Memsahib's brand-new flat was ready: Bliss!

Up until my move to Hull, my only exposure to anything remotely Yorkshire-like had been a part in a school play Thunder, which first surfaced at the Ilkley Lit Fest and Edinburgh festival in 1973. I played the Parson Patrick Brontë, the Brontë sisters' thundery father. Some of the dialogue mentioned place names like Cleckheaton and Heckmondwyke:

"4 villager: T'whole congregation quit service -

1 villager: -wi' clatterin' and clumpin' o' clogs!"

Quite unintelligible to a schoolboy in Harrow!

The first thing to strike me was that these Hull people were like no other. Yes, it was in 'Humberside', whatever that was, but there was clearly a distance thing from the rest of the world. There were a lot of red-haired folk -a remnant from happy Viking days? The Housemartins had just made it big time and were keen on still popping back for a bit of local kudos. London 0 Hull 4 had just come out and everyone was humming along to Happy Hour and the video on Top of the Pops was essential viewing. Hull had, and still has, it's own telephone system with white phone boxes and local calls that cost 5p for all day. It snowed a lot (being a bit closer to Scandinavia) and there was not much to do unless you had a bob or two for a beer (which we didn't). When we did go out it was to the local student union bar, The Oasis (pronounced "o-wear-sis") and seemed to get trolleyed for about £2. Local people had a sense of humour that took me a little while to get used to and then adopt: It seems to revolve around personal insults and ridicule. 

Hull's most famous son, William Wilberforce, the abolitionist, is the reason I am writing all this Hull-based tosh. At work I am showing the recently-made film of his life, Amazing Grace, with the growling Ioan Gruffudd as lead, to year 8 students. This is all part of an attempt to inculcate the kids that religion is something not all that bad, citing the religious Wilberforce as a positive agent of change. Peering out over the entire city of Hull from the rooftop library at the Hull College of Further Education I was not to know that Wilberforce on his magnificent columned statue in front of the massive and decaying, wind-beaten 1960s building would later feature in my career.

 

Which brings me to my point: did William Wilberforce have a "Hull" accent?