Festivals
20/6/2015
It’s the fourth day of Royal Ascot, and I’ve watched every race so far. Aside from a considerable interest in fast horses (though I’m not a betting man), it’s remained obstinately chilly and cloudy here in Durham where I'm writing this: I’m staying at the house of a friend, in his absence.
These bursts of house sitting allow a few days’ grace to get used to the area, shops and countryside – a mini holiday - before getting down to work. Ascot fits in nicely with that. There’s another reason, too, for my watching. It’s fifty three years since my dad died. He was a fan of the gee-gees. My mother used to say that they only got married because Windsor Lad won the Derby – presumably dad had a bet on the decent priced winner back in 1934. My parents have been dead a long time and I have puzzled, with no one to ask, why their wedding (of which I retain the photographs) was such a thinly attended affair. For years I wondered if there had been a falling out or some disapproval of the married couple – neither my mother’s mother or dad’s family seem to be at the wedding. The answer is simple and was provided by a close relative who surfaced recently, via the internet (I hadn’t known of his existence till he contacted me). ‘They wanted to keep the wedding cheap’, he said, convincingly.
One year, when I was seven, my dad said to my mother: ‘You and the lad go on holiday on your own this year.’ He didn’t want to come. My mother was a bit upset but we finally set off for Bridlington together, getting on the train in the wrong direction initially, I remember, heading down to Derby. My Auntie Nelly joined us: she and my mum shared a bed, with me in the same room. Later, I realised the reason for dad’s lack of interest in a holiday that year. We had just got a telly and dad wanted to watch the racing - Goodwood - in glorious 14 inch black and white.
Dad’s funeral took place during Royal Ascot, 20th June 1962, and my Uncle Roy, a publican and dead ringer for John Wayne, switched on the TV during the funeral breakfast. Someone disapproved (probably his wife ‘Connie ‘– real name Violet). Roy said, accurately, ‘Well, Albert (dad’s name) would do the same if it was my funeral.’ And 53 years have passed by since that sunny 1960s Wednesday: 53 Royal Ascots.
So what’s changed? Colour television, obviously. And a new stand. I went to the last meeting at the old Ascot, was invited to a box, and – backstage – it was not unlike a just-about-successful team’s football stand before the Premiership money started making a difference – damp patches in the concrete, bleak corridors and poor toilets. Well, there’s now Gok Wan doing the fashion, and restraining himself to advantage, though he still talks in superlatives which leaves him no room at all for subtleties. And Clare Balding. I liked Clare more when she was ‘undiscovered’ before the Olympics. She runs the (flattering) risk of being over-exposed, and only pops up on Channel 4 racing for these big events. But she’s expert – and ‘openly’ (as they say) gay. It can’t have been easy being the lesbian daughter of a trainer at a predominantly masculine racing stables thirty years ago – but now no one, except her ludicrous former ex-commentator, Willie Carson, bats an eye. She’s brave, she’s quick witted, and the most natural communicator on radio or television – listen to her on ‘Ramblings’. She got married to her partner recently. I have to admit it’s taken me some time to get round to the idea of gay marriage. I used to think what was the point of imitating straights, and that civil partnerships (exclusively gay) had a certain cachet that didn’t need the trappings of marriage. But somewhere along the line in the Blair government, we started moved rapidly – even breathlessly - to ‘equality’. I still can’t believe how attitudes have changed. As late as the Eighties I heard relatives referring to ‘pooftas’, and one of the reasons I moved South to London was to escape those attitudes. The film ‘Pride’ caught that atmosphere perfectly. Some of my plays from that time – the Eighties – have characters who are quietly (but undeclared-ly) gay. The novels of Henry James are full of them. We are creatures of our time.
In the early Nineties I looked after the writer Jonathan Harvey at the National Theatre Studio. He had just written ‘Beautiful Thing’ and didn’t need any help from me – though I remember showing him how to set out a TV script. He’s – what? – fifteen or twenty years younger than me – and was on his way to huge success with his openly gay characters. I couldn’t remotely have written ‘Beautiful Thing’ which I am proud to have read in manuscript. He cured me for many years of writing of a more secret homosexuality. In one of my TV plays from the mid-Eighties the only obvious ‘deviants’ on offer are lads who like betting on the horses in spite of maternal disapproval. This is in contrast to the author: I’ve always been more interested in the majesty of the game, those gleaming thoroughbreds with their pedigrees (my favourite website is Thoroughbred Pedigree Query) and, at best, brilliant bursts of acceleration. I love the silks and colours. I can do without the (human) fashion and now find the big meetings too corporate – for many years the York August meeting had a feel of a country track. But on these disappointingly cloudy North Eastern days I’ve loved the 24 races (in Berkshire sunshine) so far. One more day to go – before life resumes its more normal jig jog. I head into a monastery for a couple of days next week – though that’s a different story. As someone pointed out recently, I parcel my year out - Newmarket, Epsom, Ascot, Goodwood, York - the way Christians do with their Festivals – Advent, Lent. And festival, stupidly high heels, impractically high hats, thousands of bottles of champagne, and, oh yes, half million pound thoroughbreds, is the way that this week has felt. And all at the same time as Pope Francis reminded us in his encyclical to stick to need rather than greed. There may be more of this from the cloister next week..
These bursts of house sitting allow a few days’ grace to get used to the area, shops and countryside – a mini holiday - before getting down to work. Ascot fits in nicely with that. There’s another reason, too, for my watching. It’s fifty three years since my dad died. He was a fan of the gee-gees. My mother used to say that they only got married because Windsor Lad won the Derby – presumably dad had a bet on the decent priced winner back in 1934. My parents have been dead a long time and I have puzzled, with no one to ask, why their wedding (of which I retain the photographs) was such a thinly attended affair. For years I wondered if there had been a falling out or some disapproval of the married couple – neither my mother’s mother or dad’s family seem to be at the wedding. The answer is simple and was provided by a close relative who surfaced recently, via the internet (I hadn’t known of his existence till he contacted me). ‘They wanted to keep the wedding cheap’, he said, convincingly.
One year, when I was seven, my dad said to my mother: ‘You and the lad go on holiday on your own this year.’ He didn’t want to come. My mother was a bit upset but we finally set off for Bridlington together, getting on the train in the wrong direction initially, I remember, heading down to Derby. My Auntie Nelly joined us: she and my mum shared a bed, with me in the same room. Later, I realised the reason for dad’s lack of interest in a holiday that year. We had just got a telly and dad wanted to watch the racing - Goodwood - in glorious 14 inch black and white.
Dad’s funeral took place during Royal Ascot, 20th June 1962, and my Uncle Roy, a publican and dead ringer for John Wayne, switched on the TV during the funeral breakfast. Someone disapproved (probably his wife ‘Connie ‘– real name Violet). Roy said, accurately, ‘Well, Albert (dad’s name) would do the same if it was my funeral.’ And 53 years have passed by since that sunny 1960s Wednesday: 53 Royal Ascots.
So what’s changed? Colour television, obviously. And a new stand. I went to the last meeting at the old Ascot, was invited to a box, and – backstage – it was not unlike a just-about-successful team’s football stand before the Premiership money started making a difference – damp patches in the concrete, bleak corridors and poor toilets. Well, there’s now Gok Wan doing the fashion, and restraining himself to advantage, though he still talks in superlatives which leaves him no room at all for subtleties. And Clare Balding. I liked Clare more when she was ‘undiscovered’ before the Olympics. She runs the (flattering) risk of being over-exposed, and only pops up on Channel 4 racing for these big events. But she’s expert – and ‘openly’ (as they say) gay. It can’t have been easy being the lesbian daughter of a trainer at a predominantly masculine racing stables thirty years ago – but now no one, except her ludicrous former ex-commentator, Willie Carson, bats an eye. She’s brave, she’s quick witted, and the most natural communicator on radio or television – listen to her on ‘Ramblings’. She got married to her partner recently. I have to admit it’s taken me some time to get round to the idea of gay marriage. I used to think what was the point of imitating straights, and that civil partnerships (exclusively gay) had a certain cachet that didn’t need the trappings of marriage. But somewhere along the line in the Blair government, we started moved rapidly – even breathlessly - to ‘equality’. I still can’t believe how attitudes have changed. As late as the Eighties I heard relatives referring to ‘pooftas’, and one of the reasons I moved South to London was to escape those attitudes. The film ‘Pride’ caught that atmosphere perfectly. Some of my plays from that time – the Eighties – have characters who are quietly (but undeclared-ly) gay. The novels of Henry James are full of them. We are creatures of our time.
In the early Nineties I looked after the writer Jonathan Harvey at the National Theatre Studio. He had just written ‘Beautiful Thing’ and didn’t need any help from me – though I remember showing him how to set out a TV script. He’s – what? – fifteen or twenty years younger than me – and was on his way to huge success with his openly gay characters. I couldn’t remotely have written ‘Beautiful Thing’ which I am proud to have read in manuscript. He cured me for many years of writing of a more secret homosexuality. In one of my TV plays from the mid-Eighties the only obvious ‘deviants’ on offer are lads who like betting on the horses in spite of maternal disapproval. This is in contrast to the author: I’ve always been more interested in the majesty of the game, those gleaming thoroughbreds with their pedigrees (my favourite website is Thoroughbred Pedigree Query) and, at best, brilliant bursts of acceleration. I love the silks and colours. I can do without the (human) fashion and now find the big meetings too corporate – for many years the York August meeting had a feel of a country track. But on these disappointingly cloudy North Eastern days I’ve loved the 24 races (in Berkshire sunshine) so far. One more day to go – before life resumes its more normal jig jog. I head into a monastery for a couple of days next week – though that’s a different story. As someone pointed out recently, I parcel my year out - Newmarket, Epsom, Ascot, Goodwood, York - the way Christians do with their Festivals – Advent, Lent. And festival, stupidly high heels, impractically high hats, thousands of bottles of champagne, and, oh yes, half million pound thoroughbreds, is the way that this week has felt. And all at the same time as Pope Francis reminded us in his encyclical to stick to need rather than greed. There may be more of this from the cloister next week..